NOTES. Main characters are OCs, some mentioned characters belong to J. K. Rowling (related by family, anyway). All OCs can be found on CASUISTRY*. All characters with names you don't recognise belong to me. Rose Weasley is owned by J.K. and characterised by Cassie, I'm only borrowing. Whatever you do recognise probably doesn't belong to me.

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Last time we talked, the night that I walked
Burns like an iron in the back of my mind
I must've been high to say you and I
Weren't meant to be and just wasting my time
Oh, why did I ever doubt you?
You know I would die here without you

- Life After You by Daughtry

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They don't talk, not really. They're both too caught up in memories, their blank eyes reflecting the firelight, their long fingers flexed around warm cups of coffee, because of course he'd never drink something as girly as hot chocolate.

He'd come home from Cerridwen's to find the fire lit and all of the electric lights off, being replaced by dozens of candles. He'd growled at that, unhappy at the prospect of dried wax everywhere, but she'd assured him that she'd clean up after herself. In the face of her quiet, sombre voice, and that look on her face that she might break if he pushed her any further, he'd retreated, grumbling nothing more than a quick, "You'd better."

He wasn't really used to all this emo crap – he guessed it was something single girls did, although he'd hoped that it was limited only to her, because that just ruined his fun imagination of what exactly single girls did during such days as these – so he'd sat in his usual armchair by the fireplace, and wasn't he just so lucky that she followed him there, perching herself across from him. But she hadn't want to talk, just curled her legs underneath her and stared into the fire, already lost in thoughts. The mug of coffee she'd placed on the small wooden coffee table in between them was still steaming.

So of course, what could he do but also be dragged into his past. He cursed her for forcing him to do this, when he should be out doing something completely different, like visiting a strip club, because that's what normal single men did. Not idling away in front of a fireplace thinking about things he avoided thinking about. He needed teasing and insults and catcalls and seductresses – anything to get away from that armchair and that fire and that girl sitting in front of him, because he'd be damned if he ever turned out like her.

But that was the problem, see, he was already so much like her, and that scared the living shite out of him. He hated the fact that he was trapped in this flat, stuck to his past like a fly on a spider's web; the more he struggled, the further trapped he became, until it came to points in time where he couldn't move. He couldn't move forward without dragging along his entire closet with all its damn skeletons, because god damn he liked to live in it, traipsing back in every other day or so (those were the days when the skeletons weren't moaning at him, tearing at his clothes to drag him back into the closet).

Sure, he'd tried all the usual advice he'd been given: find another girl, get laid, go to a strip club, find a hobby. He'd tried, damn it.

There'd been multiple girls, multiple dates, multiple bases covered, all ending rather disastrously.

The first had been a pretty blonde Muggle named Charlotte. (Probably, he's not really sure on their names.) She'd been all smiles and dimples, with the brightest green eyes that he'd seen in a while. She'd definitely focused her attention on him, dropping hints and flirting and secret gazes. He'd plucked up the courage to ask her on a date (on the anniversary of when he'd asked her out on a date – he remembered these things) and she'd been delighted to come with him to a club. They'd danced, drank whiskey, and talked a little, but then she'd caught him dancing drunkenly and very suggestively with a redhead on the dance floor while she'd gone to the bathroom. Oops.

The redhead in question – whose name was blatantly missing from his memory – had looked nothing like the original redhead, and acted even less like her, but she'd been what he'd needed at the time. He'd brought her home, let her have his way with him, and the next thing he knew, he was awoken by an atomic bomb with the face of his irate blonde flat mate. He'd said yes to everything she said just so she would go away, his head splitting with a migraine and his cheek stinging from his night guest's slap.

He'd always deliberately sought out girls who were nothing like her, but in sifting through the options and comparing them to that one, of course he ended up thinking about her and damn it all to hell, he always ended up thinking about her.

There had been one other redhead, before he'd sworn off that hair colour, who also shared no common traits with – oh shite, he might as well use her name – Weaselette. That one had been off to a good start, like most others, but had actually lasted the longest. That was, until he'd gotten so comfortable with her that he'd called her Rose by accident, which of course prompted questions from the other girl. (He thinks her name might have been Trudy, he's not actually sure.) She had been sympathetic, to a point, but told him point blank that he couldn't be in a relationship while he was still stuck in an old one. That forced him to realize that he was carrying quite the tonne of baggage, but it also made him realize that he wasn't willing to let go. Because Trudy had looked at him with hope in her eyes, that maybe she could fix him, or that he could at least try. But he'd shut down, gave her a small apologetic smile, before taking off without a backward glance.

He couldn't let go of his past. And sitting on the roof of the flat, he'd finally figured out why.

He'd had hope.

Of all bloody things in the world, he'd hoped. He'd hoped that one day, Weaselette would see that ponce for what he truly was. He'd hoped that maybe one of them would mess up, and he'd be able to steal another chance with her. He'd hoped that maybe she'd get jealous, or see him in a new light, or something... Anything.

Because truly, he was still in love with her.

He took a sip of his coffee mechanically, his eyes never straying from the flickering flames in the hearth. He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't give it any attention. That was, until the girl sitting opposite him, who'd stood up, had taken a few hesitant steps toward him. She hovered above him uncertainly until he tore his gaze from the fire to look into her eyes.

She was biting her lip, clearly uncertain, before she carefully extended a hand to his face, her thumb rubbing at a stray tear that had dropped without his noticing. Her hand was warm, heated by the coffee and the fire, and he couldn't help leaning his face into it involuntarily. He closed his eyes, not wanting her to see his weakness. Maybe he shouldn't have, because apparently she took it as permission that touching was okay and proceeded to wrap another hand around his head and just softly massage his scalp with her fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't realize it would be..."

"Of course it would be," he replied tiredly, not whispering but keeping his voice low. "Why in the hell would you think it would be any different? You set the mood from the moment I entered the flat. What the hell did you think would happen?"

He heard a soft sniff. "I didn't think you'd stay."

He knew it wasn't normal for single men to be sitting on armchairs in front of the fire drinking coffee on days like this! Honestly, he had no idea why he'd stayed.

"I had to look after the furniture," he snorted. "Might set it on fire by accident or leave wax drippings or coffee stains."

A small gust of breath. She didn't want to laugh, but she let out a tiny "huh" escape in amusement. "That's sweet."

He cracked his eyes open to glare at her briefly, before closing his eyes again. He enjoyed the gentle movement of her fingers on his head. It was quiet after that, broken only by the slight rustling of his hair when she moved her hands to another spot on his head.

It was a peaceful moment, and for a while he wished he could pretend that the girl in front of him wasn't blonde, wasn't sad, wasn't broken as he was. He wished he could pretend that she was lively and full of spark, teasing him about having head lice, her fingers deft and a little forceful in places. He wished he could pretend that the girl in front of him was who he hoped it would be.

He'd gotten so lost in the moment that without warning, his heated hands reached out for the smooth legs in front of him, sliding his skin on hers until they rested behind her knees. The fingers in his hair stilled.

He frowned and sighed, but didn't remove his hands. "Brianna, could you please just..."

"I'm not her, Kayce," she replied, voice still soft but a little sharper. "And you damn well know that I can't replace her. I don't want to."

He groaned, finally removing his hands from her legs and pleading, "Can we please not have this conversation? Not now, not ever? I didn't mean to..."

Didn't mean to what? Touch her? Even if that hadn't been his original intention, he couldn't lie and say that it didn't feel comforting. He didn't replace her, had never intended to, and certainly could never convince himself that she was someone she wasn't. He just... he needed something more than coffee and firelight tonight, after that trip down memory lane, and this fucked up emotionally draining room with its emotionally fucked up blonde room keeper.

Abruptly, he stood up, pushing her away in the process. In her haste to get out of his way, she stumbled back and nearly fell. "Where are you going?"

"Out." He grabbed his coat and pulled it on, wanting to get away from all this shit in his house and this room and his head and heart. He stalked to the door, before wheeling around to deliver one last hit at the girl still standing dazedly in the middle of the room. "And don't pretend to be all righteous, McLaggen. You're even more fucked up than I am, stewing in that shit pile in your head and drowning in it,. You fucking drag me into it and pretend you're so damn righteous? Pot, meet kettle, and look in the fucking mirror."

He stormed out before she could reply, slamming the door behind him. She wouldn't follow him out in this cold, and he could finally get away from her and her and that fucking room. It just was not normal to spend a day like this inside, pondering life's mistakes. No, on this day, he was practically entitled to do something that had something to do with sex. He made a beeline for the nearest pub, his feet taking him in that direction without even having to think about it, he'd been there so many times.

But the Muggle pub turned out to be worse. Aside from the couples cosying up to each other, most other patrons were old men reminiscing their various women and / or pursuits, groups of women – definitely single; see, McLaggen, this is what you are supposed to be doing! – chatting amongst themselves, some eyeing up the men near the dartboards, and the said group of men congregated around the one dartboard.

He raised his eyebrows, casually surveying the group of women, but they all seemed lackluster. One black haired girl with too much make-up caught his eye and winked flirtatiously at him, and he smirked back. Unfortunately, he also happened to catch the eye of one of the men near the dartboard, and had a similar response. He quickly backed out before either of them could make a move.

He wondered around the streets of London aimlessly, guilt slowly trickling in at how he'd treated Brianna. He knew she hadn't meant to hurt him, and certainly hadn't meant to drag him down with her into their pasts. He'd been the one to step in the deeper waters and allow the current to take him where it may. Swallowing his guilt, he ducked into a nearby florist's to grab a single yellow rose in full bloom. Making his way back to the flat, he wasn't watching where he was going and collided with a soft body, sending it stumbling across the side-walk. He automatically reached out his free hand to steady the person, mumbling, "Shit, sorry, I..."

His words died in his throat as recognition alighted on his features. A single word croaked out of his mouth. "Rose."

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