Hello again!
I'd like to start off by thanking everyone one more time for all your support and encouragement in writing my Twisted trilogy. (If you have yet to read it, please have a read?)
I'll continue by noting that it's been less than a week since I've posted - and put Twisted to bed - which must be a record, or something. Now that school's over for the summer I have a whole lot more time on my hands, which means I can post more stories sooner! I have a bunch alread written up in my documents folder too (this one was one of them) which will also mean less time between posts.
Anyway, I'll warn that this one's a little sad/angsty from beginning to end. It's pretty good, but sad.
Either way it should still be enjoyable!
Have a read and leave me a thought or two :)
Expiry Date
He knew, before it even started, that it wouldn't last. He knew he was only her escape, that all they were was temporary. Their relationship had an expiry date. He just hadn't thought it would come so quickly.
X
"Hermione. He's awake."
Three words.
His heart stops. His blood runs cold.
She blinks. She opens her mouth and then closes it again, not knowing what to say. She repeats this process four times before she thanks her best friend and turns away from the fireplace.
He watches her.
She avoids his gaze.
He tries to say something-anything, to rid them of this silence but words are lost to him.
She starts to pace. Runs her hands through her messy, knotty curls. Chews on her bottom lip. Rubs at the goose bumps in her bare arms.
He watches her. Wants to reach out to her. Wants to hold her. Wants to kiss her and pull back into her bed and make love to her until she forgets. Wants to keep her. Forever.
She starts to redress. Throws her shirt back on over her bra. Pulls her skirt back up over her knickers. Slips her flats back onto her feet and grabs her cardigan.
He sits on the bed. Watches her. Begs her, silently, to stay. He knows she won't. But he wishes she would.
She looks at him, finally. Her brown eyes are wide. Sad. Hopeful. Apologetic. "I have to..." she trails off, losing her voice.
"I know."
It takes just three words to bring his world crashing down around him.
Just three words to piece her world back together.
X
She's drunk.
He's drunk too, but she's more drunk. He can smell the tequila on her breath. Can smell the cigarette smoke in her hair.
One minute they were sitting at the bar-discussing work and alcohol and ignoring the reasons they were both here. [He almost never leaves and so that's why he's here. She, like him, is looking for an escape-but only tonight, she tells him.] One minute they're bickering and bantering "just like old times", and he's telling her how sexy she looks and she's saying something like: "what are the odds of me coming to a muggle bar and running into you", which he responds to by saying that it must be fate and she's nodding sloppily, and smiling drunkenly and leaning in oh...so...closely.
And then in the next moment they're stumbling through his flat, tripping over carpets and bumping into walls and knocking vases and picture frames to the floor. She's kissing him and he's kissing back, despite the only sober little voice in back of his head left telling him it's wrong. [This is wrong. (But this is so right.) She's drunk. (But you're drunk too.) You're taking advantage of her. (Perhaps she's taking advantage of me.) She'll regret this in the morning.]
But he can't bring himself to stop. She's intoxicating-and not just because they are both, in fact, intoxicated. He's drunk on her-and it has nothing to do with the alcohol.
He's tearing at her clothes, pulling them off her body, trying oh-so-desperately to set her free. She's pulling his hair and moaning into his mouth and pressing her hips against his-and fuck, he just wants to fuck her. To feel her. To have her.
Then he does-have her, feel her, fuck her. And she feels so fucking good. It's wild and crazy and feral. It's hard and it's passionate and it's frenzied. His hips snap wildly against her, with reckless abandon and the sounds coming out of her mouth are fucking heavenly.
They fuck three times that night. Once on the living room floor. Once against the wall outside his bedroom. And then once in his actual bed.
She's gone the following day. The only evidence that she was ever even there is the evidence on his sheets.
X
He doesn't know why he waits, but he waits for her return.
He knows that he should be here for when she does return; he wantsto be here when she returns. He just doesn't know why.
Nevertheless, he makes himself at home-he lives here five out of seven days a week anyway. [He has a designated drawer in her dresser, and his tooth brush is beside the sink. He doesn't have a key because he has magic, but if he needed a key, he's sure she would give him one.] He spends a few hours reading. A few playing video games on that console she bought him for Christmas-which he keeps here. He spends a good chunk of the time flipping through channels on the television. Dozes off a few times, considering he never did get any sleep before (or after) they'd been interrupted by Potter's voice calling her name through the fireplace.
He'd had half a mind to tell the raven haired wizard to sod off, but shut his mouth when he caught Granger's firm glare. [Her friends don't know, despite the fact that it's been two years, three months and 21 days. Not that he's been counting.] She'd crawled out of the bed and knelt in front of the fire place to talk to him. Those three words that followed, in the form of Potter's voice, had nearly broken him.
Hermione. He's awake.
It was everything that was wrong with them, and nothing that they talked about. Ever. She never mentioned it-him, and he'd never asked. It was like a large cloud, looming over them all this time, providing shadows and dark crevices in their relationship. But still, he knew.
He just tried his best to ignore it. He focused on the fact that it was him, occupying her bed. Him, kissing her and tasting her and savouring her, remembering her. Him, hugging her and holding and touching her, giving her pleasure. Him, telling her stories when she couldn't sleep. Him, protecting her from her demons.
It was him.
And yet, in the back of his mind he knew it wasn't him.
But he stayed. And he waited. Because maybe it could be.
Thirty-one hours later, she walks through the front door.
Five minutes after that, he walks out.
X
Slick with sweat. Sticky with fluids. Tired and exhausted. Hot and absolutely satisfied.
Today marks one year. One year, to the day, in which they've been pursuing their secret trysts. Having a secret affair. Acting polite and courteous in public, while being passionate and lustful behind closed doors.
In his office. In hers.
In broom cupboards and board offices.
In bathroom stalls and back alleys.
In his flat. In hers.
Nobody knows, which is exactly how they like it.
One year, they've been seeing each other. And not once-save for the very first time-have either of them spent the night. Until, he hopes, tonight.
They're laying side-by-side, backs sticking to the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Panting. Smiling. Giggling like horny teenagers. He glances sideways at her.
Her hair is a mess; curls all over the place, sticking to her face, to the pillow drenched in sweat. Her skin is slick with it, shiny. [He reckons he doesn't look much better.] Her chest is rising and falling rapidly. Her naked, curvy body is covered only by his black, silk sheets.
She looks good, he decides, lying amongst his sheets. And oh, how good she would look tomorrow morning. How warm and soft she would feel in the night-her body tucked into his arms, their hearts beating and lungs breathing as one. How nice it would be to not be alone in the morning. To see her beautiful, angelic face looking back at him-smiling and giggling and teasing him about morning breath.
Or perhaps he'll tease her.
She begins to leave, pushing herself to sit up in the bed. She swings her legs over the edge of the mattress and suddenly he can't help himself any longer. He reaches his arm out, curling his fingers around her wrist softly, cautiously.
She looks back at him questioningly. Curiously.
He tilts his head to side, smiling softly. Hopefully. "Stay," he murmurs, his voice just above a whisper.
She blinks. "W-What?"
"Stay," he repeats. "Spend the night."
She continues to look at him, her gaze searching his eyes and his face. And then she smiles. And she nods. And she sinks back onto the bed, into his warm protective embrace.
He pulls her against him, his left arm wrapped around her waist, his right tucked under her pillow. Their legs are intertwined, their fingers clasped together.
This is the first time either of them has ever spent the night-save for the very first time, which doesn't count.
He stops himself from wondering when will be the last...
X
He knew, before it even started, that it wouldn't last. It couldn't. Not only are they completely different, but they're from two different worlds.
And besides that, it wasn't thatkind of relationship. It wasn't built on love or like or admiration or even friendship. It was built on lust and need and desperation. Built on convenience.
They were a giant mess. An escape.
She, an escape from the world he no longer belonged in.
He, an escape from the fact that her boyfriend, the love of her life, was in a coma in St. Mungo's.
She wasn't in love with him. She was attracted, sure, but not in love. Not that he, himself, was in love with her. [Although he's sure he could've been.] No. He was just...mildly disappointed that while he occupied her bed and her flat, he couldn't occupy her heart.
She would shut down whenever he tried.
X
He watches her from the doorway to their living room, holding his cup of tea in both hands with his shoulder against the frame. She's sitting cross-legged on the couch, a book in one hand and her own cup of tea in the other. Her hair is thrown into a sloppy bun on the top of her head. She's wearing leggings and a large t-shirt hanging off her right shoulder.
Beautiful.
He walks into the room, sitting down on the couch next to her. She smiles at him and he smiles back, lifting his legs onto the coffee table as he slouches back against the cushions. "We should do something," he suggests casually, looking sideways at her.
"You can turn on the TV if you want," she tells him absentmindedly.
He shakes his head, shifting his torso only slightly to look at her. "I mean, we should go out somewhere. You know, do something..."
She looks at him, placing her index finger between the pages of her book as she closes it and places it in her lap. "Something like what?"
He shrugs, reaching his free hand out to play with her toes. "Anything-lunch, a movie, lunch and a movie. We could go to the art museum-"
"I thought we agreed no dates," she whispers.
He nods, once. You agreed no dates, he wants to say. "Yeah. It doesn't have to be a date, we can go as friends. We're friends, right?"
She closes her eyes, pushing herself to her feet. "Draco-"
"C'mon Granger, you go out all the time with Potter and Finnegan. What's the difference?"
"The difference is that they aren't-"
"Aren't sharing your bed every night? I'd hope not," he mutters, sitting up. He places his bare feet back on the floor and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He looks up at her through blond eyelashes.
She looks back, sternly at first, but then her expression softens slightly. She smiles softly, sitting back down on the couch beside him with her legs tucked underneath her. She folds both arms over his shoulder, resting her chin on top of her wrists. "I know what you're trying to say. And I understand where you're coming from. I'm just...I'm not ready."
He looks at her over his shoulder, his nose grazing hers. "Not ready, or never will be ready?"
She shrugs sadly. "I wish I was." She leans forward, then, and kisses him. Her lips are soft and velvety against his chapped ones. They taste like vanilla lip gloss and Earl Grey Tea. "I like the way we are, now," she whispers softly. "I truly am content, with this. Us."
"And what, exactly, do you call us?"
She shrugs again, but this time with a mysterious look in her beautiful brown eyes. "I don't know. But perhaps that's how it's supposed to be."
X
He knows he was only her escape. Her temporary fix. A distraction. Their relationship was of the temporary variety. The "rebound", sort of relationship. The rebellion before the life-long commitment.
Their relationship has an expiry date. He can see it now, just around the corner. It's always been there, of course. Hanging over his head. Floating around in the back of his mind. A constant reminder that he isn't that guy for her, even if she is thatgirl for him. It didn't come in the form of a date, or even a warning. It was in the form of a redheaded man named Ronald Weasley.
And so when he doesn't see her or hear from her the following day, it doesn't surprise him.
When she ignores his owls and his phone calls, he knows he should've expected it.
And then, naturally, when she shows up at his flat two weeks later, he knows. He knows.
This is the goodbye. This is the inevitable.
Everything about her is the same. She doesn't look any different, except, perhaps, younger. Her soft, curly brown hair is only slightly longer than he remembers it. Her skin is just as pale and just as perfect and flawless. She's wearing her favourite pair of black skinny jeans and one of her muggle band t-shirts with those old Converse shoes that she loves.
And then there's him. He reckons he looks (because he feels) like a right mess compared to her. Sweat pants. And old, faded green t-shirt.
He looks at himself and then looks at her. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting visitors," he murmurs casually. "I'll go change-"
"No, it's okay. I can't stay," she replies.
He blinks. Nods. [What she means to say is: I won't stay.] "Okay..."
"I'm sorry I haven't come sooner," she apologizes softly. It's a vain attempt, but at least the effort is there, he thinks. "It's just that everything's been really crazy since Ron-"
"Right, yeah," he interrupts quickly. The less he actually has to hear about himright now, the better. [Does it make him a terrible person to wish he were to slip back into a coma? How many years do you think he'd get in Azkaban for forcing him back into one?]
They look at each other. Stare.
The air is thick. Awkward. Uncomfortable. He wants her to leave but at the same time he doesn't ever.
He swallows the lump in his throat, crossing his arms over his chest protectively. "Just say it, Granger."
And then she's crying. A tear slips down her cheek. She looks, legitimately, sad. "I'm sorry…"
He nods, turning his back on her. He can't look at her. He doesn't even want to speak to her. Despite knowing that this day would come, he isn't at all prepared for this. His chest is tight. His eyes are burning. He wants to hit something-destroy something. Weasley sounds like a good idea...
"Draco, I just...I know it's been two years, but he's still my boyfriend," she whispers, her voice hoarse with tears. "I still love him."
It's like a knife to the chest, hearing her say the "L" word for someone other than him. He closes his eyes. "Yeah," he mutters. It's all he can muster.
"I want to thank you. For being there for me. For making me feel safe and...loved. You were there for me when I needed you and I will always be grateful for that."
"Great," he replies bitterly.
"I don't...I don't know how to do this," she admits softly.
He turns back to her, staring at her firmly. "Nor do I."
That's when he notices the bag in her hands. It's similar to the one she always puts an extension charm on. He knows exactly what's inside.
"I brought you your stuff-most of it, anyway. I just want to wash the rest of your clothes before I give them back-"
"Keep them," he tells her, shaking his head. "Or burn them, whichever you prefer."
She frowns, handing him the bag which he takes out of her fingers roughly. "Please don't be like this. You knew-"
"That the second he woke up you'd go running? Yeah, I knew," he snaps bitterly. "But maybe I thought you might've had the class to wait until I wasn't around."
"I'm sorry, that was rude of me," she whispers.
He snorts loudly, rolling his eyes.
" I didn't know what to do-"
"Makes two of us."
They're staring at one another again. It's like a competition, to see who gives up first. This time it's him, because it's breaking him to look at her. "Just go, Granger."
She nods, turning to leave back through the Floo. She grabs a handful of powder, positioning herself inside before looking at him. "I really am sorry, Draco."
He hears her leave, reciting quite clearly, The Burrow's address before the fireplace rumbles. And then it stops. And when he turns back around, she's gone.
He knew she'd be gone. He knew she wasn't going to stick around any longer than she had to-she had a boyfriend to tend to, after all. But he had still hoped. And the disappointment swelling in his chest is unlike anything he's ever felt before.
He knew they were only temporary. He knew their relationship had an expiry date attached to it. He just hadn't thought it'd come so bloody quickly.
Yes, he knew. And that, he thinks, above all else, makes him a fool for trying to believe otherwise.