Quirks
Harry awoke to the sharp prickle of claws kneading his shoulder.
Damn it, not again.
Slitting an eye open, he spied a wall of fluffy grey fur. Save for a pair of baleful green eyes and a feline smirk, the color was universal. Then the weight on top of him shifted, edging higher, and a thin sliver of ceiling came into view. It was striped with early morning sunlight.
The claws flexed again, jabbing the juncture at which shoulder met neck.
"Get off me, you little monster," he hissed, worming his arm out from beneath Marcus's considerable bulk to swat at the cat. A rush of pins and needles signified the return of circulation, but by then his assailant had retreated beyond easy reach. The damn thing knew exactly where to go - it had settled behind Marcus's shoulder, and even now it watched him, tail flickering in and out of his peripheral vision.
Please, for the love of Merlin, stay there.
He closed his eyes and huddled against Marcus, trying to get back to sleep. Within moments, however, his attacker returned. The damn beast was far too observant.
Small paws marched across his hip, and sharp claw tips irritated the bare skin of his stomach. His eyes snapped open and he directed a vicious glare at the cat. "Quit it!"
The only response was another set of painful jabs, followed by a steady, rather unnerving stare. Cats did need to blink occasionally, didn't they? This one didn't seem to, monstrous creation that it was.
He tried to shove the furry menace off the edge of the bed, but to no avail. The motion served to rouse Marcus, however, and he squinted at Harry's contorted form: twisted a full ninety degrees, one arm outstretched in the cat's direction, the other clutching at the sheets.
"Leave 'im alone," Marcus mumbled, nudging Harry's ribs with a lazy elbow. "He just wants to cuddle."
Harry subsided with reluctance, tugging the sheet higher as he lay down again. "He's being a right bastard about it. Those claws are vicious."
The cat settled onto the pillow between them, draping its long plume of a tail over Harry's forehead. He brushed it away, and it immediately returned – lower this time, near his chin. It was a tremendous sneeze waiting to happen; he was sure of it.
Luminous eyes locked on him again, unblinking. If he didn't know better, he'd say the damn thing was gloating.
"He's a pest," Harry grumbled, pressing his face against Marcus's chest. Firm pecs were infinitely less unnerving than that creepy Cheshire grin.
Marcus laid a sleepy, open-mouthed kiss on his jaw, rasping against dark stubble. "I've known Brisva just as long as I've known you. He's spent the last eight years sleeping on my bed, and he'll throw a fit if I demote him. Besides, I put up with that bloody devil-bird of yours."
"Yeah, well at least she doesn't use you as a scratching post!" Harry retorted, wriggling his red-scored shoulder for inspection. "And he sheds something awful. Look at this!" He plucked a strand of long grey fur from the pillowcase and dangled it in front of Marcus's face as evidence.
All it earned him was an exasperated sigh. "He just wants some affection. You of all people should know how he feels, Harry." Marcus's eyes narrowed as he spoke. "Is it really so much to ask for?"
Harry sensed more than viewed Marcus's flash of regret; it was a low blow bringing up Harry's childhood, especially over such a meaningless disagreement, and Marcus knew it.
"No, of course not." The fight drained out of the younger man. "I didn't think about it like that," he said quietly, tugging the sheets up over his shoulders. He swallowed, the motion tight, and his grip on the sheets intensified.
Marcus sighed, but the sound lacked its previous irritation. "I shouldn't've said that." It wasn't an apology, but at seven a.m. it was as close as he was going to get.
They lay in tense silence for a beat, neither willing to make the leap necessary to fix the situation. Before long, though, Brisva deemed anything less than his master's full attention unacceptable. He hopped up, padded across Harry's thighs, and formed a tightly curled ball in the crook of space behind Marcus's knees.
Marcus tracked his progress and watched the cat settle in; Harry didn't have to see to know it. He plucked at a loose thread, determined not to look up and let Marcus see the hurt in his eyes. Boyfriend of six years, fiancè of one, and still upstaged by a bloody cat.
A large hand touched his hip, the pressure soft and hesitant. When he didn't brush it away, it was followed by the rest of Marcus's body - thighs to thighs, stomach to back, a firm arm draped over his side, fingertips splayed across his belly.
"Forgive me?" Marcus's low, gruff voice murmured.
He released a slow breath. "Yeah. Yeah, you're forgiven."
"Good." Marcus kissed the side of his neck and then rested his forehead there, his lashes and breath tickling the bare skin.
Five, four, three, two . . . yep, out like a light. The conflict had melted away for the time being, and Marcus, as always, was able to drop right back into his third favorite past-time (after sex and Quidditch, of course).
As Marcus began to snore, Harry tilted his head a fraction. Sly green eyes met his own, their shade not unlike glancing in a mirror.
He shifted his gaze from first himself, to the cat, and then to Marcus, whose sleeping form separated the mattress like a barbed-wire fence at a border crossing. You stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine. He willed the cat to understand.
A pause. Then, unless he was very much mistaken, Brisva inclined his head in a minute nod.
Good enough, I suppose.
He shut his eyes and relaxed into the curve of Marcus's body, letting sleep claim him. It was impossible to like everything about a person. He put up with the unpredictable temper, the cranky morning moods, even the odd fondness for rare-rare steak - why should this be any different?
He may not understand or enjoy Brisva's presence, but it was one of Marcus's quirks, and that made it bearable no matter the circumstances.