Disclaimer: I own not a single thing outside of the ramblings.
A/N: I watched a movie, the title song morphed into a bunny that jumped out of the screen, across the room, and began to nibble on my toe. This is the result.
Summary: Some fights aren't worth it; others show you what IS worth it.
Such a ridiculous argument. Such a ridiculous fight.
"Why must you always kick the covers off? I'm forever picking them up from the floor! Just once, don't you think you could keep them on the bed?"
"I was sleeping… it wasn't on purpose."
And it never was.
Stumbling up staircases, clothing littering the floor – a trail leading from the front door to the door of our bedroom – tripping over and around each other, laughter intermingled with sighs, moans, and groans. The most amazing, mind blowing, soul wrenching sex ever told. No movie, no story, no words, no recitation could encompass that feeling, those moments.
His hand would slip through me, gliding past the boundaries of skin and muscle and bone till my heart was cupped in his palm, till the essence of my existence rested wound 'round his wrist, till his blood ran through my veins and we ceased being separate entities but became one for a moment, just a second in time.
We would always fall back to ourselves. Two people, bodies married as intimately as flesh allowed, breathing hot and gasping over sweat slicked skin, yet sated and content and loved, loved, loved… But the blankets were always shoved to the floor. They always fell in untidy disarray. And even with that warm, beautiful body wrapped around my own I would feel the chill as we settled down and settled in and it was always me that climbed down and fetched the blankets, wanted the blankets, needed the blankets.
And it was always me that started the arguments. And it was always him that ended them.
Sleep would come, snuggled beneath retrieved covers. Night would pass and daybreak would find me pushing myself desperately against his body – sheets once more ripped away, bed mussed.
"You always mess up the bed. Why? I just don't see how you manage to do it every night."
And he would shrug, run a hand through his hair, apologize, and offer to help me right the bed. I would wave him off and wrap myself up in a pretentious snit and waltz about with my nose in the air till some time come midday when I couldn't be there, be that close to him, and not be snuggled against him, plastered to his side.
I thought that was enough. That feeling, the one that overrode my need to have the bed just so, the one that ate away my self importance enough to allow me to wrap myself around him once more. But the fights were there waiting each morning and each night and no turn of time came and passed us by when I didn't at least murmur a complaint.
Had he not destroyed them all I swear on Merlin's most fancy dancy knickers that I would steal a time-turner, go find the me I was then, and hex myself stupid. But it's too late for even that because I was stupid and there's nothing to do for it now. One fight too many, one dig too deep, and his version of ending the fight wasn't to disappear into the bathroom or down to the kitchen.
It was to pack his trunk and disappear out the door.
My bed remained neat for a week. I made it that night, after he left, and sat night after night in the chair by the fireplace, staring at the bed. Blaming it. Accusing it. And it just sat there, silent, impassive, uncaring. A week was my limit. I mussed the bed up myself.
The first time I simply jerked the covers off and threw them to the floor in a fit, screaming and cursing and kicking them. They didn't care. They crumpled and tumbled and bunched and collapsed from the blows I dealt them but they fell all the same and waited until I was ready to rearrange them again.
Which I did.
I made the bed up and it lasted a full day before I threw myself atop it, twisting and turning and wiggling and jiggling until I lay exhausted, panting and sweating, with tracks streaking down my face and not having had a lick of fun in the process of gaining my debauched state.
I made the bed up immediately.
It lasted twelve hours.
I climbed up and tucked myself in. I scissor kicked my legs. I rolled over. Twice. I scooted up; I shoved myself down. I hugged my pillow and buried my face in his. It still smelled like his shampoo. Sandalwood and vanilla. I turned diagonal and flopped my way over till I lay diagonal the other way. I slept in our bed for the first time since he left, for half an hour at most, before dragging myself from the catacomb of covers I'd created and promptly straightening them once more.
After two weeks my bed was mocking me; whispering whenever I moved about the rest of the room making just enough noise to disguise its exact message and going silent whenever I froze in my tasks. Two weeks was also about the time I ran out of firewhiskey. The butterbeer hadn't made it past the second night.
I opened the closet and the bed giggled at me. I froze and it stopped. I pulled on a set of casual robes and it teased me, poked fun at me. The fabric settled and the bed resumed its state of silence. I walked to the door and the bed spoke of memories, the heat of flesh, and everything I most missed. I shut the door behind of me and I could hear it no more.
The Leaky was too full, too plebian, and too full of smoke. The press of bodies made me claustrophobic and it was only my urge for escape from my mocking bed that kept me within the pub. It straddled the worlds in which I lived – muggle London for him, the Wizarding World for my own preferences. What better place to be?
I could name at least a dozen.
I procured a table near the back by the bribery of a jingling bag. I could see the world within the Leaky and very few of them could see me. Still, I felt him before I saw him. Some slide of hand, some parlor trick like the muggles prefer for their magic. Or maybe it was just where he had held my heart in his so many times before.
I was on my feet, my remaining coins scattering over the tabletop to roll nilly willy in payment, before I'd ever seen his face. That wasn't the important part. The important part was proving my bed wrong and making things right. I could do that. There was nothing I couldn't do.
He saw me seconds after I saw him. My chest ached and my feet considered failing me for a moment. Lucky for them they didn't. His eyes widened before almost-narrowing, a look I'd seen enough time to label as concern. I didn't know what he had to be concerned about with my approaching him until I reached his side.
His back was to the bar, the space between us was the width of my hand, and the mirror over his shoulder must have been related to our bed at home. It mocked me, too, you see. The crown in the pub was loud enough that its whispers weren't just whispers but nearly spoken words. I tilted my head away from the reflection of lank hair and deadened eyes to look at messy locks and brilliant passion. Much better.
"What are you…" he tried. I shook my head and his words trailed off. I reached out slowly, wrapping my fingers through, around, with his.
"Mess up my bed with me," I whispered. Hope flared like flames in his eyes. It warmed me. Made me a little more alive.
"Are you sure? I've been trying, I looked up spells and everything, and the covers are still in the floor when I wake up."
"Mess up my bed with me," I repeated, speaking no louder. His eyes watched my lips move, watched the words form and take life. Read their meaning rather than just heard them.
"I can't take the fights any more. Not over something so petty. I'm sorry for running out like that but it was… I can't do it. You have to be sure. Don't tease me on this, please."
"Mess up my bed with me."
"Because, I've missed you like mad. I stood on the porch so many nights. I wrote over two dozen owls…"
"Mess up my bed with me."
"Draco…"
"Harry. Mess up our bed with me."
And he did.