A headache + a mushy song =
Title: Silence
Word Count: 1,155
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Harry and Draco have stopped fighting. This means things are really bad.
This is a quiet, odd little something.
The Floo flares. You hear his voice calling for you. You stay in the bedroom, willing him to give up. His knees must be getting sore.
I’ll be late he shouts. Does he know you’re sitting on the bed in the dark and wondering why you didn’t move into the next room? Your head hurts. There was a time you would have run for the glimpse of his face amongst the flames.
He isn’t late. He doesn’t even come home until the next day, and you don’t ask and he doesn’t explain. You wonder why you don’t ask. You don’t want it to be because you’re afraid of the answer. Of course he’s having an affair says the voice in your head. He’s halfway out the door already. You wonder what will finally push him through. Will it be your silence?
That night you reach for him between the body-warm sheets. He turns away. You know he is awake. You can hear his silent thoughts. Where were you last night? you ask the pillow. Neither he nor it replies.
You close your eyes against the not-quite-black of night, with the far off dragon roar of cars encircling the house, letting you know that you are safe and all is normal. It is too quiet. You remember your cries, his gasps, the sound of skin over skin and teeth and lips. He often laughed afterwards. You loved that about him. Love that about him.
Next morning you pad slipper-soft into the morn-lit kitchen, screwing your eyes against the light pulsing through the curtains. There’s a croissant left on the table. You pick it up; smile; take a bite. It is dry. His side of the bed was cold.
You remember a breakfast in bed. He’d made it, coming into the room with a wobbling tray and a precarious pile of dishes. He’d smiled at you as you’d sat up in bed, a big look how clever I am smile and you have loved that too, even as you’d kissed it from his face. You’d both discovered crumbs for days after that.
That night there is no floo call, even though you wait in the bedroom, listening for it painfully as you read but do not see the floating words of your book. Later you cannot remember its title. You tell yourself that you would have answered, had he called.
Hermione looks tiredly at you from over her cup of tea. Her house is warm, with the sounds of children playing underfoot like tweeting birds.
If you two give up I’ll have to take sides she says. And you know which of you I’d choose. But I would hate doing it.
You try to smile at her, but you don’t win any lifting of expression. We’re not fighting any more you say. Defiant. Stubborn.
She looks sorry for you. You think of how certain you were, even two months ago, even through the fights and thrown books and plates and nights when one or both of you ended up on the sofa. Are you certain that this is just another obstacle your relationship would overcome? You had always assumed that loving him was enough.
Thanks you say. She shrugs and sends you away with a pudding lurking ominously in its dish and a scribbled crayon drawing to join the collection on the fridge.
This evening he pauses, arm stretching to the fridge. This new? he asks, gesturing to the fluttering paper pinned to the door. He used to say that one scribble looked like another.
I saw Hermione. She thinks we’re giving up.
He chooses a beer. Closes the door. Doesn’t turn around. Are we?
You don’t know. We haven’t spoken for days.
He presses the can against his forehead. No one speaks.
He makes you feel like a child afraid of being left. He makes you speechless with fear and loss and love. All your lives you have had words between you: biting, cutting, sneering, flirting, teasing, loving. Without them there is nothing left.
One night you were awake while he slept. He had curled on his side towards you like a flower seeking light. His face and been slate-clean with sleep. You had stared, chocked by sensation in your throat, a welling aching ball of feeling which you, slowly - almost reluctantly, were forced to name as love.
One night he peered over your shoulder at a photograph - the both of you waving back at yourselves, brooms slung on the grass at your feet. His breath against you cheek, against your lips as you’d turned your head to catch his mouth, an easy slide of tongue. The familiar slow build of passion. He’d pulled back and looked you in the eye. You’d tried to look away. I love you he’d said, his voice heavy.
Did you mean it? you ask now, staring at his back. When you said you loved me? You hate yourself for asking, but at least it makes him turn around. He looks at the coffee mug in your hands, not at your face.
Of course I meant it. His voice is scorching. I said it and I meant it.
You have felt it, meant it, but somehow never said it - not to anyone. You get up, place the mug gently on the table, walk to where he is still. He watches as you touch his check, skin hardened with the day’s stubble.
Have we screwed up?
That’s all we ever do.
His hands are hot - you’ve always envied his circulation - his touches burn. You walk backwards, stumble, lead, are dragged, and then are tumbling, kissing, hands reaching for beneath the clothes, for the heated hidden patches of skin. Arousal is a cat-tense coil in your stomach. Neither of you are talking, but when quick hands move and he stifles a moan you don’t care.
Next morning he is kitten-curled and soft and warm in sleep. You think of empty mornings and nights and, satisfied and self-hating, you bundle your clothes into your arms and leave.
When you’re both home again you silently dare him to mention the night before. You picture him waking, stretching, reaching, fist clenching on empty sheets. Was he disappointed?
Is there nothing left besides two people looking for quiet ways to hurt each other?
We don’t make each other happy he says. His sectumsempra words hang in the air.
We used to you say.
We did.
You want to pummel your fists. You don’t know what to do. Your past together looks spindly in memory. Insubstantial words. Kisses which left no impressions on each others’ lips.
This is it. This is when the knife blade falls.
You look at each other. His face is twisted with emotions. Anger and sadness and irritation and defeat and flickering behind them the face of the man who’d said I love you.
You feel his eyes on you. Wonder what he sees. Wonder if it’s enough.
I love you.
Word Count: 1,155
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Harry and Draco have stopped fighting. This means things are really bad.
This is a quiet, odd little something.
The Floo flares. You hear his voice calling for you. You stay in the bedroom, willing him to give up. His knees must be getting sore.
I’ll be late he shouts. Does he know you’re sitting on the bed in the dark and wondering why you didn’t move into the next room? Your head hurts. There was a time you would have run for the glimpse of his face amongst the flames.
He isn’t late. He doesn’t even come home until the next day, and you don’t ask and he doesn’t explain. You wonder why you don’t ask. You don’t want it to be because you’re afraid of the answer. Of course he’s having an affair says the voice in your head. He’s halfway out the door already. You wonder what will finally push him through. Will it be your silence?
That night you reach for him between the body-warm sheets. He turns away. You know he is awake. You can hear his silent thoughts. Where were you last night? you ask the pillow. Neither he nor it replies.
You close your eyes against the not-quite-black of night, with the far off dragon roar of cars encircling the house, letting you know that you are safe and all is normal. It is too quiet. You remember your cries, his gasps, the sound of skin over skin and teeth and lips. He often laughed afterwards. You loved that about him. Love that about him.
Next morning you pad slipper-soft into the morn-lit kitchen, screwing your eyes against the light pulsing through the curtains. There’s a croissant left on the table. You pick it up; smile; take a bite. It is dry. His side of the bed was cold.
You remember a breakfast in bed. He’d made it, coming into the room with a wobbling tray and a precarious pile of dishes. He’d smiled at you as you’d sat up in bed, a big look how clever I am smile and you have loved that too, even as you’d kissed it from his face. You’d both discovered crumbs for days after that.
That night there is no floo call, even though you wait in the bedroom, listening for it painfully as you read but do not see the floating words of your book. Later you cannot remember its title. You tell yourself that you would have answered, had he called.
Hermione looks tiredly at you from over her cup of tea. Her house is warm, with the sounds of children playing underfoot like tweeting birds.
If you two give up I’ll have to take sides she says. And you know which of you I’d choose. But I would hate doing it.
You try to smile at her, but you don’t win any lifting of expression. We’re not fighting any more you say. Defiant. Stubborn.
She looks sorry for you. You think of how certain you were, even two months ago, even through the fights and thrown books and plates and nights when one or both of you ended up on the sofa. Are you certain that this is just another obstacle your relationship would overcome? You had always assumed that loving him was enough.
Thanks you say. She shrugs and sends you away with a pudding lurking ominously in its dish and a scribbled crayon drawing to join the collection on the fridge.
This evening he pauses, arm stretching to the fridge. This new? he asks, gesturing to the fluttering paper pinned to the door. He used to say that one scribble looked like another.
I saw Hermione. She thinks we’re giving up.
He chooses a beer. Closes the door. Doesn’t turn around. Are we?
You don’t know. We haven’t spoken for days.
He presses the can against his forehead. No one speaks.
He makes you feel like a child afraid of being left. He makes you speechless with fear and loss and love. All your lives you have had words between you: biting, cutting, sneering, flirting, teasing, loving. Without them there is nothing left.
One night you were awake while he slept. He had curled on his side towards you like a flower seeking light. His face and been slate-clean with sleep. You had stared, chocked by sensation in your throat, a welling aching ball of feeling which you, slowly - almost reluctantly, were forced to name as love.
One night he peered over your shoulder at a photograph - the both of you waving back at yourselves, brooms slung on the grass at your feet. His breath against you cheek, against your lips as you’d turned your head to catch his mouth, an easy slide of tongue. The familiar slow build of passion. He’d pulled back and looked you in the eye. You’d tried to look away. I love you he’d said, his voice heavy.
Did you mean it? you ask now, staring at his back. When you said you loved me? You hate yourself for asking, but at least it makes him turn around. He looks at the coffee mug in your hands, not at your face.
Of course I meant it. His voice is scorching. I said it and I meant it.
You have felt it, meant it, but somehow never said it - not to anyone. You get up, place the mug gently on the table, walk to where he is still. He watches as you touch his check, skin hardened with the day’s stubble.
Have we screwed up?
That’s all we ever do.
His hands are hot - you’ve always envied his circulation - his touches burn. You walk backwards, stumble, lead, are dragged, and then are tumbling, kissing, hands reaching for beneath the clothes, for the heated hidden patches of skin. Arousal is a cat-tense coil in your stomach. Neither of you are talking, but when quick hands move and he stifles a moan you don’t care.
Next morning he is kitten-curled and soft and warm in sleep. You think of empty mornings and nights and, satisfied and self-hating, you bundle your clothes into your arms and leave.
When you’re both home again you silently dare him to mention the night before. You picture him waking, stretching, reaching, fist clenching on empty sheets. Was he disappointed?
Is there nothing left besides two people looking for quiet ways to hurt each other?
We don’t make each other happy he says. His sectumsempra words hang in the air.
We used to you say.
We did.
You want to pummel your fists. You don’t know what to do. Your past together looks spindly in memory. Insubstantial words. Kisses which left no impressions on each others’ lips.
This is it. This is when the knife blade falls.
You look at each other. His face is twisted with emotions. Anger and sadness and irritation and defeat and flickering behind them the face of the man who’d said I love you.
You feel his eyes on you. Wonder what he sees. Wonder if it’s enough.
I love you.