Title: Nails
Disclaimer: I don't own them. J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. do.
Author's Note: It's short, I know. I have been quiet on the writing/posting front, what with school and such after me. I hope this is an acceptable little piece for the moment. I am rating this M just in case somebody gets their knickers in a twist over the tiny bit of sexual stuff…sorry if you were expecting smut – it's not much. If you need a visual for this, I'll share mine with you: Find Matt Bomer in GQ sitting on a bench. Matt Bomer will always be my adult Harry, and is a constant inspiration for my Drarry thoughts. Tell me what you think!
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
"Potter." He didn't bother to look up. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he lost his privacy in the yard.
"I'm busy." Thunk. Thunk.
"Yes, I can see that."
He glanced up for a moment before returning his eyes to the next nail. He looked much the same as he had the day before. "So leave me be."
"You're almost out of nails. Then your attention will be lacking direction."
"Direction?" He let the word hang there for a moment. "I doubt it. I've got to pull them out, haven't I?" Thunk. He sat on one end of the bench, straddling the weathered cypress that had been imported from he-had-no-clue-where. Rows and rows of nails dotted half of the expensive bench in perfectly parallel lines. The last nail went in without much resistence. Thunk.
"I suppose that destroying expensive outdoor furniture is just one of the many ways you've thought up to get your revenge?" He twisted the hammer in his hands, tasting his answer before spitting out a half-witted response.
"If I wanted revenge, I don't think destroying property is an efficient way to go."
"So this is merely an act of boredom? Or perhaps you've decided to modernize the furniture?" He tapped the hammer against his thigh, agitated.
"For once, can you just spit out what you want instead of turning the tables around so that I have to ask?" He lifted his gaze to the haughty face above him. Everything he saw was typical. Arms crossed, silver eyes bright, lips tight, and long legs parted just enough to make him seem a bit more threatening. In other words, a farce.
"I came to see what you were doing. Of the things I imagined you were up to, destroying property was high on the list. It's comforting to know you are sticking with the old stand-bys."
"I could say the same about you." He noted the slightly reddened cheeks.
"Are you referring to my inability to be faithful or my annoying you while you sit around seething?"
"I guess both."
"Well let's have it then. Throw things. Hex me. Leave for a few weeks. What will it be this time?"
"Nothing. None of that." He examined his thumb nail. It had cracked down the middle after a miscalculated swing of the hammer on Nail #57. He heard him roll his eyes.
"By all means, continue to destroy my furniture." As soon as the words registered through the haze of nails and numbers, he was up, powerful thighs launching him toward the bane of his existence, dirty hands reaching and sticky cotton shirt clinging to every muscle in his back.
"Our." He stopped before he lost control, dangerously close to touching him.
"Our what?"
"It's our furniture."
"Semantics, Potter. Would you like the bill for that particular bench? I paid for that. It will have to be replaced after your little grade school anger management." The close proximity did little to intimidate. He stepped back, taking away the temptation to touch less than gently. He watched his eyebrows arc mockingly, daring him to move closer.
"And there it is."
"What?"
"The problem. Right there." He wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, dirtying the skin there. He took satisfaction in seeing gray eyes flicker there.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Exactly." He thought a moment, turning back to the bench to sit. He settled his elbows on his knees, twisting his hands together to control them. "It's not ours. All of this is yours, and you know it, and you remind me all the time. I don't want to be here. If it's yours, you are strictly you. You aren't us. Not ours."
"Potter, you picked this place. You handed me a key and said I was to fill it and make it livable. I don't see what this has to do with anything."
"No, you wouldn't. These are just things. You don't know what a home is. You parade men through here carelessly and pretend that I don't know. If this was your home, our home, you wouldn't do that. If you loved me, this would be our home and I wouldn't come here to find you with others. I would be the only one." He glanced up again to see the effect of his words. All he saw was confusion.
"I told you how I was. You have never had a problem with it before."
"Haven't I?"
"No. You get mad because you're jealous. Then you get over it."
"I'm not sure what to say to that." He stood. After a moment, he crossed the space between them quickly, taking the other man in his arms. He buried his nose in his shoulder, inhaling his scent.
"Say you forgive me. Say it doesn't matter."
"Even if it's a lie?"
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Say it anyway." Lips met lips and the world dropped away. He knew the feeling well. It didn't matter that others had been where only he should be. It didn't matter that he was a man without a home, without love. He had this, and it was worth everything. It was asking too much, really, to expect any more than the heat, the fire, the searing touch.
"I forgive you. It doesn't matter." And they pushed away from everything else. They melded together into one, no need to dwell on the rest. They moved without thinking, touched without asking, moaned without embarrassment or shame. He tasted everything his mouth could find, touched everything he could reach while staring into stormy eyes.
Bare flesh met nail on both men. One held the other, raking nails from shoulder to hip, leaving angry red in their wake. The other felt ridges of one hundred nail heads as his body moved over them impatiently. Clothes were discarded.
He watched as the other man straddled him. The nails he spent so much time pounding into the resisting wood bit into his back as he writhed against the touch. The other man took pleasure in giving. So much so that he couldn't control who he gave it to. He watched himself disappear into the other man, unable to look into the dark eyes above him. He had to remind himself that this was what he got, what he deserved. It was enough. Bodies slid together effortlessly. He rose to meet every shift of hips. They were them. They were together. They were one.
When he pulled each nail from the wood, he dropped them carefully into the box by his feet, methodically returning them all.
"I'll pay for a new bench."
"I don't want a new bench."
He smiled a small smile. All he had to do was pull them all out, one nail at a time.