A/N: [Warning:coarse language, sex, alcohol consumption]
Though she beta'd this, I would like to dedicate this to TamariChan, because she introduced me to this pairing and because we are beta-soulmates and because she's amazing. (Also, this is a formal apology for ripping her OTP apart.)
With or without me, you will go on,
Go on, you were better off without me and you knew it all along
- Time Travelling, Orla Gartland
When other people ask about the age difference, you stand puffed-up and pretty like a proud peacock and politely ask them to please piss off.
You know that he's older than you. You know that you're younger than him. You know that the numbers that people think define you are very different.
But it doesn't seem to matter when you lie beside him and your legs fit together snugly and perfectly and he's warm against your back, and his whispers into the fading light are for you and only you.
It doesn't seem to matter when he tells you that he loves you, or when you tell him you couldn't live without him.
And then you go and ruin it all because you're just as young and stupid as you pretend you're not.
When you see him, he wears the skin of a man who's been betrayed one too many times. You feel your stomach drop when you look at him.
He avoids your eyes and his movements are shaky and wrong. He used to be so confident (overconfident, you think) but now he's a shattered shell of a man who hides away from others.
You call out to him.
" Zacharias! Zach!" you pant as you run towards him, ignoring everyone else around you.
"Zach, I'm sorry," you say as you reach him. "It probably doesn't mean that much to you but I just need you to know that I'm sorry, okay? If I could- if I could take it back I would. If I could go back in time I wouldn't even think about- I wouldn't do it, I wouldn't. I promise."
"You can't go back though, can you, Luce?" he asks. His voice is low and empty and your heart squeezes. It's been too long.
And you can't. You can't go back; you can't change the past, can you?
"You know I can't. But I would. I would."
"I loved you, you know. Everything was so easy with you. So simple," he says, voice steady and eyes burning into yours and you don't think you'll be able to breathe if he keeps looking at you like that. "I thought I'd found it, thought I'd found my happy ever after."
"But, Za-"
"I wish you could take it back, Lucy. I really do. Goodbye."
And he leaves you there, alone.
His name is Marshal Davis and he's broad-shouldered and strong, loud and brash and clumsy, dark-skinned and dark-eyed and he's just everything that Zacharias is not and so, really, what did you expect?
You only realise this after you've fucked everything up.
You hear the whispers. They fly past your shoulders like deadly snitches but you hear them nonetheless.
("It was bound to happen. I mean, look at her…")
You've seen thousands of films and read hundreds of books about this; the attractive older man and his young, beautiful girlfriend with their perfect, happy life. Until she goes and finds someone else because perfection is just so mind-numbingly boring and she's too young to appreciate it, and you're left screaming at the screen or the page, telling that stupid bitch she deserves it.
("She was never going to be happy with Smith, was she? He's old enough to be her father…")
And then it becomes your life.
You come home from work on those rainy days in winter and Zacharias has made you dinner. Something hot and spicy because he knows that makes you happy after a hard day. He lays the table and you both sit to eat and you kick off your shoes and rub your toes against his ankle as wordless thanks.
After dinner you clear the table with a flick of your wand. Zacharias collapses on the sofa and calls you to him. You curl up like a comma along his edges and tell him all about your day and the horrible customers you had to deal with and what Sandra said about Roxie and how you forgot your Muggle money and so you had to go to Diagon Alley for lunch and he tells you you're ridiculous and that you always forget your Muggle money and you laugh and tell him that Cauldron Cakes are worth it anyway.
Maybe you kiss him. Maybe you run your fingers along his collarbone and trail kisses down his neck, and maybe you make love to him right there.
Maybe you don't. Maybe you fall asleep in his arms and he carries you to bed and tucks you in with a kiss.
Either way, it's perfect.
(Too perfect.)
You meet Marshal at work. He's a Muggle, as far as you know, and he's so delightfully charming when he asks if he can take you to lunch that you find yourself nodding and smiling and momentarily forgetting about your wonderful Zacharias.
You've forgotten your Muggle money anyway.
You eat sushi at a small Japanese restaurant a few streets away from the shop and you love it. You've never had sushi before. Marshal can name every item on every plate on display, and he makes all these crappy fish jokes that make you laugh and roll your eyes, and he tells you about how he's spent the last year travelling Europe with just a backpack and a credit card.
You don't know what it is with Marshal, but he makes you feel like you're back at school, joking over butterbeers in the Three Broomsticks and flirting with all the boys. He makes you feel like a girl again, whereas with Zach, you are a working woman with a live-in partner and bills to pay, and maybe you just like the idea of escape.
When Marshal kisses you, after he pays for your lunch, you don't think of anything but his lips on yours and the way he smiles against your mouth. And when he whispers in your ear and asks if you're free tomorrow, the yes that slips from your lips is only a little guilt tainted.
He's just a friend, you think. Just a friend.
But you don't kiss friends, do you, Lucy?
You meet Zacharias for the first time at Harry's fortieth birthday party. You are twenty years old and wearing a floor length dark blue gown that tickles your toes and threatens to trip you with every step. Your hair is short, cut close to your face, and though you permit Victoire to slick a little lip gloss across your lips, you refuse any other form of makeup.
"I don't want that shit on my face!" you whisper furiously.
Victoire stomps of with a frustrated sigh and a shake of her (perfectly made-up) head.
"You don't need it, you know," he says with a soft chuckle.
You turn to look at him. He has an air of haughtiness about him. His hair is still bright and blond even in his late thirties (you assume), and his tight little curls are, quite frankly, adorable.
You smirk. "I know."
And that's that.
You spend the rest of the night with him topping up your drinks and pulling you up to dance. He holds the end of your dress when you're too drunk to navigate your feet without slicing through the fabric. You straighten his tie and smooth down his hair after your hasty kisses in the broom closet under the stairs. He holds your shoes as he walks you home because the balls of your feet are numb and your ankles aren't steady enough to support you. You rub his back as he vomits on the path ten minutes from your flat.
It's not the most romantic night you've ever had, but it's certainly the most memorable.
And from then on, you're inseparable. He unofficially moves in less than a month later, and you find yourself spending all your time with him and everything is just as wonderful as you dreamed your future would be when you were a little girl.
Even from that very first night, you ignored the strange looks and not-so-quiet mutterings of strangers, friends, even family.
No one says anything outright and so you don't care.
Zach proposes within three months.
You meet Marshal after work the day after your first meeting, when you're off later than usual, and he takes you to a Muggle club. You're wearing jeans and a t-shirt and your hair sticks up in odd angles from when you pulled off your uniform, but he says they'd be mad to turn away someone as beautiful as you. So you give in. You go with him. And they let you in.
You've never really done this before. You're not a loud-music-shot-drinking-stranger-kissing kind of girl.
Usually. (Right?)
Marshal's hands are on you, his palms warm on your hips, your back, your arms. You dance blindly to the beat, your feet stamping, hips grinding, hands roaming and you're so bloody hot that you're sweating all over him and you can feel your slick skin touch his and the sweat is mingling and so when he kisses you, you grab a fistful of his t-shirt and pull him closer to you so that he doesn't slip away.
There's more than a little vodka in your bloodstream and you'll forever blame yourself for drinking so much that you pull Marshal by the wrist into the Ladies. You shove him into a stall with a playful smile and you step in behind him, quickly and quietly.
You bolt the door.
The stall is small. It should be uncomfortably small. But it's not. It's deliciously, tantalisingly small, so that you're forced to stand as close to Marshal as you possibly can. Your breasts are squashed against his chest and his hands are firm on your hips and you're kissing again, furiously, passionately. He pulls your t-shirt over your head as fast as he can so that he doesn't have to wait more than a breathless moment to bruise your lips with his. You pull his off the same way, and before you know it you're undressing each other, clothes flying, lips brushing, skin touching, and it's all too much to keep track of.
It's different to Zacharias. Marshal fucks you painfully slowly, as if he's afraid of breaking you, as if you're too fragile for him. You find yourself moaning things like harder and faster and fuck me which are things you don't have to say with Zach because he knows what you want and he knows how you like it and he knows how to make you scream.
But Marshal doesn't and it hits you, as he's buried deep inside you, that you're a cheating fucking whore.
And then you vomit all over your own chest.
You get home at four am, smelling of your own sick, vodka and another man.
Zacharias is furious.
"Where the fuck have you been?" he all but screams as you walk in the door.
"What? Out, out, I've been out," you say, throwing your bag to the ground and heading to the sink to wash the taste of vomit from your tongue. Your head feels heavy and clouded, and your limbs feel strangely far away.
"Just out?Out where, Lucy? With who?" he asks, and his voice is full of (right) accusations and allegations.
"Out, okay? Why do you care who I was with anyway?" you snap. You sound like a child. You're pathetic, you know. He can see right through you.
"What's his name?" he asks quietly. He doesn't shout or scream or cry, he just…asks. He sounds defeated, tired, weary. Ready. He expected this,you think, and your eyes fill with tears.
"Marshal," you manage to say, but your voice is miniscule. The tears begin to run down your face and you can see that Zach isn't happy that you're crying, not at all. He looks outraged.
"Why are you crying? You're not the one who's been waiting here, alone, since nine o'clock, ringing everyone in the family and asking if they'd heard from you and then worrying that something had happened and having to lie to make sure no one else worried, when all this time you were out fucking some random man? I was so close to calling Harry, Lucy! I was this close to phoning up the Auror office and then I thought, no, no, it's Lucy. She'll be home soon, she'll have a great reason, and she'll be fine. And then you come home and tell me you spent the night moaning someone else's name? Stop. Bloody. Crying."
"Zach, please, don't," you hiccup. "It didn't happen like that. I d-didn't mean-"
"Oh, you didn't mean it? Well, that makes it all fucking better, doesn't it?" he spits.
But you have no words to make it better and so you just hope that your tears speak for you.
They don't.
He storms past you with a disgusted scowl and a bitter goodbye and you drop to the floor and cry yourself sick.
You wake up the next morning, in a pool of your own vomit, to an antsy owl and the realisation that you never did apologise.
The note on the owl's leg says:
Please don't contact me. I need time.
Z
So you don't.
You curl up in Zacharias' arms and run your fingers through the light curls on his chest. Your head rests above his heart, and you listen to it beating. It's almost in time with your own.
Zacharias looks down at you.
"Why are you smiling?" he asks. You can hear the sleep creeping into his voice.
"It's nothing," you say, and bring the arm that isn't around you up to your lips so that you can kiss his wrist. "Just because I have you."
He smiles serenely and graces your forehead with a tender kiss.
"Don't ever leave me, Luce, yeah?"
"I don't know. I have a tendency to fuck up every good thing that happens to me."
He stares you down. His eyes are serious and there's something more in his stare, something beautiful.
"I won't let you then."
"It'll happen anyway," you mutter, and smile playfully. "Or you'll leave me."
"Never," he whispers.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Marry me, Lucy. Then you'll be as sure as I am."
Your heart quickens and tears spring to your eyes.
"Okay," you promise, and lean up to kiss him goodnight.
You never hear from Marshal again.
Seven months down the line and Zach still avoids your eyes. But this time it's not because of what you did. It's because he doesn't care anymore, he's move on, and the smiling (older) woman on his arm is evidence of that.
You've gone past the stage where looking at him hurts, where seeing him with her rips your heart out. You're too far gone for that.
When you see them together, all happy families and boomerang smiles, you're just numb. You know it should hurt you, and you know that seeing her hand on his arm used to make you retch, used to make you livid.
But now all you have is this empty, hollow numbness and a vague notion that you're nothing but a silly little girl.
"Lucy," the woman nods, and you can't help but wonder if he chose her because she is your opposite, all long, black hair and big eyes and fine Indian silks wrapped around her dark skin.
"Parvati," you say civilly, because you are mature, you are an adult and it doesn't hurt anymore, not even a little.
"How have you been?" she asks, and the worst part is you know she actually cares. She is genuinely interested, or worried, or maybe she pities you, and so you put on your happy-mask and reply with false cheer.
"Oh, fine, fine, everything's been fine! How have you two been? How was the wedding? I'm really sorry I couldn't make it, I was – um – busy."
Parvati looks at Zacharias with puppy-dog eyes and that stupid, sappy grin and whispers, "Perfect," as if she were speaking to him and you weren't even there.
"Yes," he says, curt and without a hint of a smile. "Come on, love, we must be going."
He drops her hand from his and walks away.
It's like a slap in the face, the love and the leaving and the not-even-looking-at-you, and you blink back tears, suddenly furious. He shouldn't get to do this to you.
Parvati shoots you an apologetic look.
"Tell the family I was asking after them, yeah, Lucy? I'll see your mum soon, I think, at the office Christmas party, but," she says hurriedly, stumbling over her words, already slowly backing away from you, "I really should go after him. Goodbye."
And she leaves and you're alone (so, so alone).
The hardest part is understanding the pity she threw at you and the goodbye that Zach didn't, and you wonder how you're going to sleep tonight knowing that he has his arms around her instead.
But no matter how you fall asleep, it will be dreams of Zacharias and promises kept, mistakes forgiven and kisses under the winter sky, that plague you.
And the worst part is that, given the choice, you would never, ever wake up from his smiling face.