I started this over Winter Break figuring I wouldn't be able to finish it on account of the whole graduating-college-thing, but I'm tired, I just got rejected by my dream job, I had two shitty interviews today, and I'm not going to get anything productive done tonight. So enjoy the fruits of my sadness.

Mood Music Recommendation: "The Valley Below" by The Family Crest

After

Maybe I think too much. Not during the act itself, that is. During our time together, all I can feel is the crisp white sheets beneath me. His heat seeping through my skin, his sweat meeting mine every time he moves, his hands working their way from chest to stomach while every nerve in my body itches to move closer, closer. Wishing there was a way to meld our flesh.

After, though. That's when I get caught up in the details. Like when he threaded his fingers through my hair and the ring tangled in a couple of strands. It was less than a second, but still.

And that moment of almost-tenderness, when he placed his hands softly on my hips and realized they weren't nearly as wide or as soft as his wife's. What could have been a moment of intimacy turned into a ghosting across my skin. The cold metal of that damn ring left more of an impression than his fingertips.

And when he pulled away immediately after it was over; no touch wasted on my used skin.

And at the end when he almost placed an i between the D and the r while saying my name.

He stands in the doorway to the bathroom, using a towel to shake the water from his hair. "Shower's all yours."

I can't move. My body feels frozen in that final moment.

"Are you okay?"

It's funny how quickly I've adjusted to muggle hotels. The starchy sheets, the flamboyant colors, the giant tellies attached to the wall, the imposing isolation. This one seems to be in love with warm colors. The bedspread has a nauseating pattern of pink pomegranates and yellow narcissuses. The curtains share the garish pattern; the walls are white against a maroon carpet. It was like being stuck in a fruit juice commercial.

"Why did you wear the ring?"

"What are you talking about? I always wear my ring."

"You could have taken it off before starting."

He bites his lip. "I don't want to lose it."

I chuckle.

"What's so funny about that?"

"You could have thought of that before you started fucking a man, Potter."

He looks down, presumably just now noticing how completely naked he is. "I should get dressed."

He begins looking around for his underwear. Not really sure what happened to them. Entering the room is always a whirlwind of biting and pulling. Afterwards the fragments of clothing must be pulled out of the woodwork.

"Why don't you just tell her you're going bowling? The ring doesn't sit well on your hand when you throw the ball." I secretly hope he'll notice my knowledge about a muggle sport. But that would probably give away how much I think about him.

"I already told her that I like walking around muggle cities at night. Don't you think taking off my ring before I do so will look doubly suspicious?"

His wife must keep him on a shorter leash than mine. I try to suppress my jealousy.

I curl to the side of the bed, staring at the garish curtain. There's probably a window beyond it. Perhaps a balcony. I can hear his footsteps as he approaches the bed and sits down, the mattress sighing beneath him. But those pomegranates are an eyesore.

"Hey. Are you okay?" My feet are now dipping slightly from his sitting next to me, but I can't stand to look at him right now. "Maybe I could get a box that I never remove from my bag. I could put the ring in it while we're together. You'd just have to remind me to put it back on."

"And if I don't?" When normal lovers talk, do they touch at all? I can feel how close he is, but he still hasn't made a move to even brush against me.

He sighs. "What do you want from me?" I want nothing more than to touch him right now.

"What are we even doing here, Potter?"

The silence grows while he stays on his side of the bed, never once looking at me. I can feel when he looks at me. There are only two types of looks he gives me: I want to kill you now and I want to fuck you hard. Sometimes the two mix.

"Would you ever leave her for me?"

"You have a wife, too, you know."

"But I have enough decency to take off my ring before I rake my fingers down your back."

"I didn't thin-,"

"You never think, Potter. That's your problem." I sit up, finally able to think about cleaning myself off.

"Harry."

"I know who you are, Potter."

"Then call me Harry. How long have we been intimate and you still can't call me by my first name?"

"I can't."

"Why not? Hadn't thought about it, had you?" He looks so smug right now. As if, for once, he out-thought me on something.

"It implies an intimacy we lack." He should know that, given that he refuses to touch me outside of sex.

I stand up and walk to the shower.

"Same time next week?" I ask evenly. I don't turn around. I can't let him see how much energy my last statement took. He usually leaves as I'm showering anyway.

"No."

"What?"

"Draco, I can't do this any more. It isn't fair."

"You really should have thought of that before you started fucking a man." I keep saying that as if it has the power to change the situation.

I close the door to the bathroom.

How did I get here? How did I get to this moment?

I'm just staring at the ugly curtain in a nameless hotel room. Hoping that it isn't over but knowing that it must be.

It started a couple of months ago. I was walking around a muggle city (I can't remember the name; they all sound the same after a while), entering a pub to properly indulge in the experience. He was sitting at the counter for some reason and I attempted to leave before he saw me. It was too late, though.

There was laughter, alcohol. And then. I left before he had a chance to hold the night against me.

It turned into a ritual on Tuesdays and Thursdays. What should have been a one-night stand became a habit. How did it happen once, much less twice a week? Everything's so fuzzy.

I usually leave while he showers. I don't know why. Maybe I just don't know how to handle this relationship.

I think we began in the spring. Maybe summer. Autumn? It hadn't started snowing yet, I know that much. For all I know it could have started five years ago. Everything blurs together between the dark forays in cheap hotel rooms. If I open the curtain, I'll probably face a wall of snow.

I can't move. Why can't I move? This is when I'm supposed to leave. I have to get off the bed now. I know he's expecting me to be gone once he re-enters the room.

I manage to stand up, but the water hasn't started running yet. What is he doing in there?

Before I know what I'm doing, I knock on the door.

"Draco? Are you okay?"

"Go away Potter," he replies, his voice quavering.

"Call me Harry," I say, attempting to open the door. He locked it; of course. "Draco, let me in."

"Go home to your wife, Potter." I can't though, for G-d knows what reason. He clearly doesn't want me here, but I'm planted to the spot.

"I'm not leaving." His side of the door is silent for a while. "I won't leave until you open the door."

The door clicks and opens. Draco stares blankly at me, cool and composed despite the fact that he's buck naked and his eyes are slightly inflamed. Perhaps because he's buck naked with inflamed eyes.

"What do you want, P-"

I pull him into a hug before he can finish the word. His arms hang loosely at his sides. I should have known it was useless. I just-.

"Call me Harry, Dammit." I'm squeezing for dear life, the smooth flesh of his back slipping away from me no matter how firmly I grasp. He pushes against the sides of my chest slightly, forcing me to pull back slightly. His face moves towards mine, brushing his lips against my own so lightly I can't tell if it actually happened.

"P-." He pauses and starts again, staring right into my eyes. "Harry."

I return to the death-hug from before, a smile crawling across my lips. His arms slide across my torso and I shiver unconsciously.

"I love you, Potter."

"Har—what?"

"I've been in love with you since I was fifteen. I thought I just wanted to know how it felt to smile the way you did around Granger and Weasely, but then I started noticing the length and grace of your fingers as you held your quill, the way you lightly scuffed your sneakers a little too hard as you walked down the corridor, the way your cheeks reddened when I insulted you. You're so beautiful. I thought it was only lust, but… I just couldn't keep you out of my thoughts. Whenever you entered a room, I knew. I-I knew."

"Oh."

"The more I see you, the more I'm reminded of it."

"…"

"We have to end this…whatever this is."

I think about the ring on my finger. Can he feel it on his back right now?

"I can't leave my wife."

He snorts. "I'm aware."

"And you can't leave yours."

"I would."

"What? No!"

"Say the word and I will."

"I won't let you leave your wife for me."

"So we have to end it."

I pause for a minute. This can't be the only option, can it? I love my wife, but Draco… Draco is completely different. I can't just allow whatever this is to dissipate. He has an unmatchable elegance, an exasperating amount of narcissism, a sensual eloquence in his words. I can't just give up all that.

"Or we could tell them."

"Oh for the love of-"

"Ayn Rand did it-"

"Who?"

"Ayn Rand. She's a—it's not important. Our wives might go for it if we lay out why we're having an affair and how we don't want this to change our lives."

"Potter, listen to yourself."

"I just-" His fingers clench against my back, then relax slightly.

"Harry, I will do anything for you, but please don't make me."

"Is that what love is? Allowing someone to control your emotions and trusting they won't do you wrong?"

"…Yes."

"Then I think I could love you too."

He hiccups. "But you don't." I can hear the tears just behind his words.

"I love my wife. I can't do that to her."

"So that's it then. You can't love me because you love her and loving her means not causing her the emotional anguish you're causing me. But you're already causing her emotional anguish because you're cheating on her with me."

"A regular catch-22."

He pulls away and starts moving around the room, picking his socks off the ground, the black undershirt off the chair, the pants crumpled by the curtain. "Call me if things change."

Having dressed, he touches the door handle and says, "I do love you Harry," staring at the white paneling.

When the door closes, I realize that I'm still completely naked. I wonder if he'll realize that he's changed everything.

But that changes nothing.

The springs shift on the bed and he places his arm over my shoulder. I think I'm going to be sick.

He thinks I don't know. He's so thick sometimes.

"Harry? Did you have fun bowling?" That's his usual excuse, but I can't remember whether it was what he claimed to night.

"You're awake."

"Mhm. It took longer than usual to get the kids to bed."

"Oh. I'm sorry I wasn't here to help."

Me too. Does he know how much it hurts to feel this kind of rejection from the one who vowed to love you forever? Does he still love me?

"Harry?" I turn to face him in the darkness.

"Mmm?" He's already falling asleep; I can hear it.

"Do you love me?"

"Mmhmm."

That's reassuring.

"Well, I love you."

"Love you too," he says drowsily. I can feel the syrup of sleep coating his words in slower vowels and consonants mysteriously becoming m's. I wonder if he actually meant "two."

So that's it. I'm at an impasse. I could tell him I know and prepare for the worst, or I could lie and stay with him.

I don't know which option's more painful.

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