Rest In The Bed
This is the last night I will sleep in our flat. I have spent sixty-nine nights here without you, and I can only manage one more. And no, I am not so pathetic as to have counted them as they passed me by. Instead, I chose to put a number on them last night, after I stumbled home from the bar Louis had taken me to.
It was supposed to be fun. Just us, laughing and drinking together. I've been spending more time with Louis recently because he doesn't bang on about it in the same way everyone else does. They either tell me I should get out and keep myself busy or want me to talk about it, as if that would help.
But Louis talks about other things, without making an effort to avoid the subject of Scorpius Malfoy, and so I enjoy chatting with him. However, in the time it took me to nip to the loo, Louis’ ex had emerged and planted himself firmly next to the poor, besotted boy. Perhaps if I was a better friend, or maybe, more accurately, one who was not wishing it was my ex sitting between us, then I would have got him out of there.
It didn't take long before they were snogging, and I felt more and more out of place. This feeling of displacement had been a common one of late, but now it was different. I was very drunk, and seeing Louis all entwined with his ex-boyfriend made me yearn to be touched, to be kissed, to be fucked, in a way I hadn't, and certainly would not have articulated as such back then, since I was a teenager.
I had only felt it for a brief few months, when everyone else around me seemed to be letting their hormones run wild and I wanted to know what that felt like, what all the fuss was about. There was one boy. I struggle to recall his name now. He liked me, and was a shy, sweet Slytherin, in the year above me. We went to Hogsmeade together, but that was all.
After that, there was you. And since then, my desire had always been directed towards you. Of course, there have been friends, Quidditch players, celebrities, who I half joked about wanting to choose over you, but never really. After all, you were perfect. Maybe that was the problem.
From the age of fifteen until sixty-nine days ago, we can't have been apart for more than a week. There was that time you went to visit your grandparents in France, and though I had been invited and I am sure they would have been welcoming (no, I’m not just saying that), I knew it would be more relaxing for you were I not there. And I had a mild illness, and so you went away.
I missed you so much. The first day it was rather fun, being in our flat alone. It suddenly seemed much bigger and I whistled as loud as I wanted, without fear of you barking at me to stop. I think I went to the pub that night, though with whom I can't remember, and we ended up in our sitting room. There were a few of us, including someone who smoked, because I remember thinking how you would be torn between wanting to be a good host and not wanting the room to smell of tobacco.
When they left, I couldn't sleep. I kept on expecting you to hug me, to soothe me, or for you to be there for me to hug and soothe you, and was angry with you for not being there. And for the last sixty nine nights, I have also felt angry and wanted you to be here, while at the same time not quite knowing how I would react if you came back.
You fell in love while I thought you were still in love with me. How can I forgive that?
When, for me, last night was the first night I thought that anyone would do; tall, short, male, female, hell, straight or gay--I wasn't fussed. I just wanted to be touched. Wanted someone else to make me feel amazing, the way you had time and time again.
I must have looked it as well, because Aaron Goldstein came over and began talking to me, both of us observing as Louis and Michael's making out became increasingly horizontal. And yet, when Aaron decided to mimic their actions and kissed me, my body revolted at his touch and I recoiled.
I woke up this morning and stripped the bed. I emptied the fridge and cupboards, packing their contents into boxes. Tomorrow evening I am staying at The Burrow and then after that, I'm going to visit Luna and Rolf in New Zealand.
We missed New Zealand on our travels. For the three years after I left Hogwarts, we travelled around the world, criss-crossing ourselves several times, but somehow we missed most of the Antipodes. Perhaps intentionally. You thinking that if I met someone I knew I'd get upset, and me subconsciously perhaps directing our route so as to avoid the Scamanders.
You only came with me because I promised to come back. I needed to escape Britain; I needed to get away from my family and you came with me. You had a glittering career ahead of you, but you put that on hold in order to take care of me. Like I said, you were perfect.
While we were away, we bought things, were given things, on one occasion stole a thing, and sent them back to Malfoy Manor to be stored. And then, when we started renting our flat together, we filled it with these objects. There's a skull, a dagger, several tapestries, carved pieces of wood, photographs, books, spice jars and all sorts of paraphernalia that we bought together.
All of that is packed away now, some stored with the ghost in my grandparents' attic and the rest in Malfoy Manor once again. You came round sixty days ago to 'pick up your stuff.' I was surprised. I mean, of course, this was stuff which your money had gone towards, and you were entitled to a good chunk of it, but how were we supposed to divide up things we had chosen together?
We're not the first couple to ask that question, and we certainly won't be the last. My response was to let you do it all, once I realised that was what you had come for. You had written, of course, and asked a few of our mutual friends to ask me what time would be suitable to come round. Being the gentleman you are, you hated the idea of showing up unannounced, and yet that was what you had to do. I wonder if you came a few times before, when I was not in, and whether you didn't want to be alone in our flat. Can't say I blame you. I don't want to be alone in our flat.
When I opened the door, for a moment, and just a very small moment, I thought you'd come back to me for a joyful reconciliation. But soon I decided to just let you divvy up our possessions, and sat on the sofa. Occasionally you would ask me if you could have a particular item, and I just sipped my tea and said, "Take what you want," never quite meeting your eyes.
Joyful reconciliation. I wanted you back. I want you back, even though I know that if I had you again, it would never be the same. And for that, and only that, I want to hate you. We can never be together again because I can't imagine forgetting that this happened
I should hate you. What is it that Muggles say--hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? But I was never furious. I was too upset and angry with myself to be furious with you. I know that I failed you. The last few months, I must have not been paying enough attention, and I certainly didn't help you with the wedding arrangements as much as I should have.
How handy for you that Tanya was desperate to get married and that you could have exactly the same wedding, but with a different bride.
I’m sorry. That's unfair. After all, I'm sure you don't like that. However practical it might be, I know that it was her idea. If I liked her, then perhaps that would explain why I’m not angry with you. But I don't like Tanya Evergreen. I don't like her one bit.
I first met her two years ago, at the Christmas party we had. We'd never thrown a party for that many people, with formal invitations and everything. It felt good to write on the invitations: RVSP Scorpius Malfoy and Lily Potter. You were panicking and I was calmly getting on with everything to ensure it was ready. You are so efficient at work, but quite often, in circumstances when you will be judged as a person and not for your services, you want to be the perfect host so much that you get into quite a tiz. Does Tanya know that about you? She will, come your wedding day.
She was your secretary and so you invited her, of course. If I'd had a secretary, I would have invited her too. You know I disliked her from the second we met. Your mother would call it a 'woman's instinct' but I don't think that's what it was, since you felt the same way about her. She had a brashness and transparency about her which I just couldn't quite believe, and when someone is pretending to be candid, and isn't, they are dangerous.
Like when you went to Geneva together with the department and she booked you into the same hotel room. You swapped, of course, and then told me about it. I laughed. Her crush on you was so obvious, and I disliked her, but didn't hate her. I'm still not jealous. I've never been jealous over you.
But that first party, she did not stick in my mind. How could she, when my memory of that night is of laughter, music, wine flowing, and your hands on my waist as we danced together. I hooked a hand around your neck and pressed my lips to your ear and said, "I love you."
You're not one for public displays of emotion, but at that moment, you forgot we were in public and kissed me. Then I grabbed your hand, pushed through the crowd, and into our bedroom. But the bed was covered in other people's coats, and we couldn't do it there, so we went to the bathroom. As we closed the door behind us, I slid and you caught me.
We were laughing in each other's arms, and then you picked up a piece of plastic.
"What's this?" you asked, frowning at the curved, red object.
I laughed. "It's a shoehorn," I said, prising it from your grip and remembering one of my best friends laughingly presenting me one for Christmas in first year.
"What's it for?" you said, staring at it.
"I--I don't know." You looked like you were about to ask another question, and so I kissed you, and then you pressed me against the door and ran your fingers up my thigh. We'd had sex in the shower before, but not in the bathroom. Although we could hear people outside, they didn't matter. There was no frisson from the idea of being interrupted; we were just so wrapped up in being with one another that we had forgotten the world outside this room existed.
I think people would be surprised at how good you are in bed. I mean, you are gorgeous, even if you behave as if you don't really know that. But there can be something stilted and formal about you--did you know you remind Molly and Lucy of their father? Not what you'd want to know, hence the fact I never told you, and it was something that I didn't really want to think about.
Of course, I have nothing to compare you with, other than that one sloppy kiss of Aaron's. But I can't imagine how anyone can make me feel more amazing than you have. Should I thank you for that? I know I made you feel good as well. Does she make you feel as good as I could? Is she better than me?
Or have your standards just changed? Not been raised, but shifted to a different standard of beauty, for someone who--I don't know. I feel as though we should have talked about what went wrong, but we never did.
You had said that I was working too hard. You were always better at that than I am. You worked nine to five, and work didn’t come home with you. I wasn't so good at that. But that day, I had come home early, wanting to surprise you, and to find you kissing her, on that sofa--
You were so upset. You never said you couldn't help yourself, which I think many men and women have said when caught with their hand on the crotch of someone that beautiful. Of course, you wouldn't say that.
Neither were you annoyed that you'd been caught. Relieved, more like.
What was it you said? Once she was gone and I was just staring at you, incapable of understanding what I had just witnessed?
"I can't remember falling out of love with you. I've just--I've just fallen in love with someone else, so maybe what we had wasn't love in the first place."
You said other things as well, mainly that you were sorry and that you seemed as confused as to how this had happened as I was. But those words stuck with me.
I thought we'd be together for the rest of our lives. Maybe that's childish, but we'd been together since I was fifteen, been living together since I was eighteen, pretty much.
Can you remember our first night in this flat? There were boxes everywhere, much like there were here a few hours ago. We'd only really unpacked a few items of clothing, but Dominique and her girlfriend lived just down the road and had come round with tea, a bottle of wine and a CD player. You were rather bemused by this, saying we had a wireless and why should we need something like that?
Dominique just laughed, gave me some CDs and then left. So after we'd had our take away and drank our alcohol, I decided to put the music on. The song was beautiful, and I kissed your forehead and said how happy I was, and you said you wanted to dance.
That night felt blessed. One arm hooked around my waist, the fingers of your other hand threaded through mine, the space between our bodies burning with how much we felt for each other. And when the song, a beautiful love song, ended, we kissed and went to the bedroom.
I thought we'd die in this flat. No, that's not quite true. I had some notion of us moving when we wanted a family, but those were very vague. Perhaps if they had been more solid, you wouldn't have left. I hear Tanya is already pregnant, after all. I hope the child was conceived in the last sixty-nine days. That's a silly desire, isn't it? But one I think is actually fulfilled. You looked so sad, when I caught you with her. Your lips were pressed together and your hand up her skirt, but I still think you had not yet had sex. You would have waited until you had officially broken with me before screwing her.
Were you thinking of her the last time we had sex in a shower? That was completely different to the time at the Christmas party. It was eight months ago, and I forget whose house it was at. That doesn't matter, except for the fact it was hosting a party to which Tanya was also invited. We had been engaged six months, and had set the date for the wedding, which you were planning with Tanya.
And I noticed that you were distracted. By work, I assumed. How could you be distracted by another woman? The thought was absurd. Yes, of course I'd noticed you staring at beautiful women, you're a man after all, but not with the long, far away gaze that you were bestowing that night. I assumed the gaze had no focus, but it did.
Her.
And that night we came home, I went to shower, and you joined me five minutes later, and it was rougher than usual, quicker, more primal and less sensuous, and when it was over, you said you didn't know what came over you, and I laughed and said I had enjoyed it. Which I had.
Thinking back, you didn't say my name. You usually do. Do people usually cry out their partner's names? I have no idea. I think so.
It will be strange, navigating the world without you. You are the first person to have cheated on me, the first person to have left me, the first to have loved me, the first person, and in many cases, the only person I have done so many things with, so it's going to be more than strange. It's going to be hard.
I hope we're friends again, one day. Maybe, once I have recovered, if I ever do, once I have seen the world and stopped thinking about you every day, maybe then--I don't know. We'll have coffee together? Go to the pub together?
Maybe I'll babysit your children while you take Tanya out to celebrate your anniversary. I wonder whether you'll date it from the night you broke up with me, or from your wedding day. She'll probably choose that night, and you that day.
I don't think I will sleep here tonight, actually. There's no reason too, and I'll be happier at my grandparents. I should leave. I should leave now. But I can't take my eyes off the sofa.
No, that's it. I'm done.
Rest In The Bed by welshdevondragon
Story Notes:
Thank you to Sophie/the owl for betaing excellently.
Chapter Endnotes: Reviews are greatly appreciated--whether you loved or hated it, please let me know! Also it is Soraya's birthday. Whether you are reading this on her birthday, or after, she is an excellent writer, so swing along to her author's page and read and review her stories! Alex