Episode VIII: The Husband Whose Wife Insists On Meeting His Boyfriend
Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. This week, a Sacred Twenty-Eight heir struggles to let go of the past: 27, male, discreetly in the closet, married.
DAY ONE
8:30 a.m.: I wake up to my wife stirring beside me, commencing her usual morning stretch. Everything she does is insanely sensual, from the catlike way she arches her back to the little moan that slips from between her perfectly rose-tinted lips, and she turns her head with a contented sigh, smiling at me. She is perfect. She is the perfect woman, and it never becomes any easier that I have neither the will nor the ability to give her the fairytale she so badly (and so obviously) wants.
8:35 a.m.: "Good morning," she says, and I wish she had some sort of flaw—anything, really, to make me feel better about what I'm doing today, and tomorrow, and most of the time, if I'm being honest—but even her morning breath is like a fucking mist of ambrosia from the heavens. "Good morning," I reply, and ask her if she has any plans for the day. "Do you want to have dinner before the party tonight?" she asks me, sounding hopeful, and I turn away so that she doesn't see my look of paralyzing disinterest. "Sure," I say, feigning as much enthusiasm as I can muster.
10:00 a.m.: I'll call my wife Alexandria, after a region in Scotland from which a former lover used to imbibe quite generously in whisky. As for the lover himself—yes, you heard me correctly—I'll call him Skye. He was unapologetically, unrepentantly (disgustingly) Scottish, and now I can't help but identify everything and everyone as some extension of him and that entire ridiculous country. This morning Alexandria hums something to herself; nothing recognizable, and I probably wouldn't have noticed the little inclination she has for it, either, if Skye hadn't used to do the same thing. He used to whistle the song "Loch Lomond" to himself in the mornings, actually, which is a Scottish muggle song I always thought had something of a jaunty melody until I looked up the words. Spoiler: it was disturbingly prophetic.
11:00 a.m.: Alexandria tells me she's going shopping with her best friend, which is fine with me. In case you haven't put it together yet, our marriage is one of convenience (read: forced jointure by our families). With reparations after the war, our Voldemort-sympathizing families were hit with ferocity by the Ministry's financial might, and my fortune in particular was dwindling to begin with. Hazards of being such an old name, I guess—but Alexandria's family somehow managed to hold onto the majority of their wealth. Not sure how, really, seeing as her name's theoretically as 'pure' as mine, but make no mistake: between the two of us, she (and her sister, I suppose) is the one with money. I'd have been happy to play quidditch professionally, but my father made it inescapably clear that shaming my family by declining my right to their swollen, overindulgent aristocracy was not an option. Presumably it would have also shamed them that I was fucking a Scottish half-blood and toying with the idea of throwing my fortune and my future away for him, too. Astoundingly, I never asked.
11:15 a.m.: "Enjoy your game," Alexandria tells me warmly, slipping out through the Floo. Her kindness exhausts me; her intentions are so well-meaning that she makes me feel incurably dirty (particularly because she's six years my junior, and thus still unwisely overflowing with optimism) and it's about to get worse. I'm about to betray her again, even with what little she asks from me, but at this point I can't produce much except a continuing ache of guilt. The sharp pains have mostly subsided.
12:00 p.m.: Part of my birth means never having to work, outside of occasional ceremonial positions. I spend today playing with my recreational quidditch league, which I have to admit is filled with some remarkable former players. I myself was a chaser on my house's team. The keeper on our club team played at Hogwarts, too—sort of. Technically he played one spectacularly terrible game for a rival house a few years after I'd left, but he seems to have grown up a bit since then. Much to my relief, frankly. I don't care about much (true, I had some prejudicial issues in the past; Skye changed them) but still, quidditch remains important to me, and nothing stops me from winning; not a seeker that's relentlessly showing off (a problem I had while I was captain of my house's team); not the rules, nor the opinions of the officials; not the loss of the only person I ever loved, and certainly not a peacocking player. This one in particular has his moments of vanity, but I don't let him get away with much. I'll call him Angus. "Keep your head in the game," I snap, watching him get a little too showy with his blocks. He winks at me. "Aye aye, Captain," he says.
12:35 p.m.: I'd say there are approximately two times a day when I feel sane. One of them is here on the pitch. It's strange that I can do this without thinking of Skye, but I think the fact that we were both so focused on the game actually makes it the one place I feel like I can breathe. We never fooled around on the pitch; we took the game seriously. It was ruthless competition between him and me, and we never let ourselves get distracted.
1:45 p.m.: Of course, after the game was always another story, and welcome to the second time a day that I feel less like the world is going to spontaneously fall around me. "Hey," Angus says in the locker room, slipping the towel from around my waist, and though I'm not going to do anything with him yet, I let him run his thumb over the jut of my hip. "Tonight," I tell him, and he looks up from visibly eye-fucking (eye-licking, eye-fellating, eye-devouring) my dick. "Again?" he asks, surprised, because by now I've gotten him mostly used to twenty furtive minutes in the showers. "Yes," I reply curtly, stepping out of his reach.
2:01 p.m.: I guess you can add Angus to the list of people who've begun causing me further swells of guilt over the last couple of months. I'm extremely aware that he's more invested in me than I am in him, despite his attempts thus far to hide it. I know he recently slept with someone else in an effort to punish me, or possibly forget me—it was plastered on the Daily Prophet's front page after he fucked the English National Team's only female chaser, so there was no missing it—but it obviously didn't work. I don't think he understands yet that this, this thing between us that's mostly sex, isn't remotely about my wife. It's not about anything, really. I feel less numb when he's touching me, but that doesn't mean I want anything out of it. I'm fucking married, and even that's a mess. There's no room here for whatever Angus wants from me, but I think we both take what we can get.
5:30 p.m.: After the game I walk into my kitchen, accidentally interrupting Alexandria's process of setting the vegetables about slicing themselves mid-air. She's the only pureblooded heiress I've ever known to dismiss her elves and do all the cooking herself (granted, I haven't known many all that well, but still), and I consider again how little I really understand her. For the record, it's not that I don't like her—I do, actually. I like her quite a bit. She's witty, she's endearing, she's the sort of beautiful that most women want to hate and end up desperately envying instead—but there's something about her. Some level of expectation, I think. She wants me to be as good a husband as she is a wife, and I can't help but feel pressured by her very existence.
5:32 p.m.: "Oh, hi," Alexandria says, brushing hair out of her eyes, and I think she's wearing a new dress. "Hi," I offer in return, and give her a perfunctory kiss on the lips. She smiles, and I instantly regret it. Give her an inch, she'll mistakenly think me worthy of a mile.
6:15 p.m.: Alexandria chatters a bit while we sit down to an outrageously perfect meal; it's a venison ragout served over tagliatelle with roasted vegetables on the side, and she must have been cooking for hours. I'm positive I'm going straight to hell for what I'm doing later, but I shove it aside. "How was the game?" she asks brightly, and I tell her we won. She smiles, dabbing delicately at her lips with her napkin, and tells me some anecdote about her younger sister and a little gossip about her best friend—who's being audited, if the Daily Prophet is to be believed, though Alexandria is more interested in her ongoing fixation with someone they went to school with, calling it 'romantic' and 'hilariously ironic'—and I nod along, feigning interest.
6:28 p.m.: Alexandria reaches out, covering my hand with hers, and I pause with my fork hovering in front of my mouth. "Are you sure you're okay with doing this again?" she asks me, and she's referring to the party we're going to tonight. "Yes," I tell her, "if you're okay, I'm okay." She nods, chewing her lip. "Mm," she murmurs, removing her hand and picking at her food.
7:00 p.m.: There were no perfect meals with Skye. He couldn't cook for shit. Neither can I. We ate horribly and never slept and always drank too much. Sex was rough and angry, and both of us always came out bruised. We fought constantly, we broke things; I hated him most of the time I was with him. Certainly hated what he did to me, coming into my life like a storm and leaving just as quickly. I miss him so much my stomach churns through the entirety of the perfect dinner I'm eating with my perfect wife.
8:15 p.m.: Eventually Alexandria and I pick up our respective Wandr devices, and she takes a breath. "If it's the same as last time," she begins, and I shake my head, pausing her. "It's fine if you like him," I tell her, and she swallows hard, nodding apprehensively. "I don't," she tells me, definitely lying. Honestly, I'm just relieved she has the capacity for something flawed, but it doesn't last long. "You're my husband," she says earnestly, flashing me a hopeful look, and I hate myself anew.
8:20 p.m.: The party is in an unplottable location, though I'd wager it's a charmed version of some pureblood's house. We're all deviants, really, but there's a difference between reprehensible love and immoral sex, and the former is far more shocking than the latter. The first time we did one of these I was expecting to have to use polyjuice, or possibly wear a mask, but now I think there's something about seeing everyone's faces that serves as an insurance policy of sorts. Nobody's going to rat you out once they've looked you in the eye and established that they're just as carnally perverse as you.
8:25 p.m.: Across the room I see the couple we were matched with last time; a redheaded pureblood (albeit a blood traitor, though it's not really en vogue to use that phrase anymore) and a very blonde, very French transplant who's almost certainly part Veela. She's the only woman my wife has any competition with in this room, and once again, I'm aware how lucky I appear to the other men in this house—which is precisely how I learned to escape my prejudices, to be honest. After enough time with Skye, I gradually figured out that nobody's ever how they appear.
8:27 p.m.: I can see Alexandria's eyes light up when she sees the man, whom I'll call Moray, though she tries to temper it by glancing down at her champagne glass. He's watching her, too, and I know she feels guilty for enjoying his attention, but I'm genuinely glad she's otherwise occupied. There's a fruitlessness to what she's doing with him, considering that both of them are married, but that feels right. It feels apt, more accurately, as fruitlessness abounds in this fucking extravagant house.
8:30 p.m.: Now's the time in the evening when we turn to Wandr to match us. "See you at home," Alexandria says nervously, and I lean down, giving her another kiss. "See you at home," I confirm, and she smiles gratefully, squeezing my arm lightly before we wave our wands over the little Wandr rectangles.
8:31 p.m.: I'm transported into an upstairs bedroom, which is sparsely decorated; probably stripped of any recognizably gaudy flourishes for the evening. My partner is waiting for me, perched non-sexually on the bed. "Oh good, it's you," says Moray's wife, the part-Veela blonde I'll call Eden. I nod curtly. "Same arrangement?" I ask. "Yes," she says firmly, and we turn to the fireplace. "After you," I offer, gesturing her to the flames.
8:32 p.m.: Eden is fucking someone. I don't know who. I don't care, either, but this is what happened last time; I told her that I had no interest in sleeping with her, and she agreed that there was someone else she preferred to see. "What do you say we let our spouses believe whatever they like," she suggested, "and we seek greener pastures elsewhere?" "Fine by me," I replied. Seems strange that we have such indulgent spouses and still feel the need to lie to them, but I know Alexandria likes Moray, and I'm glad she's being romanced somewhere. Meanwhile, Eden and I get what we want.
8:35 p.m.: Angus rises to his feet from his sofa. "Don't talk," I warn him. His lips quirk up and he strides forward, unbuttoning my shirt and kissing the jut of my clavicle. He's tall, like me, and unlike Skye. He's handsome, too. Objectively better looking than me, probably better looking than Skye and me combined (Skye once told me he thought I had some troll blood in me, though I'm pretty sure he was just looking for a fight) but the fact that Angus is so horribly aware of his own attractiveness detracts from the overall effect. He's only a year older than Alexandria, and I'm extremely aware that I need to rid myself of such juvenile pursuits—they're so fucking earnest—but he's got a magnificent cock. Well, he has a cock, firstly, and he's forward and aggressive and I can do the things with him I can't do with my wife—pull his hair, throw him around a bit, leave marks. Angus and I might not be anything worth remarking together, but I'm not opposed to admitting that I always look forward to sex with him.
8:45 p.m.: Angus shoves my trousers down, dropping to his knees, and stares at my dick. "Missed you," he says, either to me or to it, and I grab the back of his head, yanking it back to make him look at me. "I said don't talk," I mutter, and a slow, smarmy grin spreads over his lips. "Shut me up, then," Angus suggests, and I take my time sliding my thumb gently along his lower lip, luring his mouth open. His lips are bitten and red, and his tongue darts promisingly between them; I groan and give his jaw an inelegant yank. Angus rolls his eyes but obediently takes my cock in his mouth, and I close my eyes.
9:15 p.m.: It's good with Angus. I won't lie. It has moments when, from a purely physical perspective—in terms of sensations, of intensity and thrill—he's far and away better than anyone I've ever been with. If sex were purely physical, I doubt I'd need much more than this. But, of course, it isn't. It never is.
10:04 p.m.: I think I'm dominant with Angus because I was so fully at Skye's mercy. The first time anything happened with Skye we were fighting; naturally. It was in the locker rooms off the pitch and it was about something stupid, something almost certainly my fault—Skye follows the rules like religion, so I doubt it was him—and he punched me directly in the mouth. I paused, shocked, and he stared at his hands in wonderment, like he couldn't believe he'd done it. "Fucker," I said furiously, spitting that salt-ridden copper taste from my mouth, and he lunged forward, kissing me so firmly and so clumsily it has to be the worst kiss either of us has ever had. Angus, unlike Skye, is never clumsy, even when he's fumbling. There's a deliberation to him, an undeniable enjoyment, a smile that's like an absurdly present reflex, like he's having the time of his life licking sweat from my abs. It makes me want to fuck him harder, to make him hurt like I hurt, but he just smiles. He laughs. He revels, he preens, he luxuriates. And maybe if I'd never met Skye, I would love him.
10:30 p.m.: Angus knows I'm not staying over, but he yanks me back before I head through the Floo and kisses me hard. I go rigid, because a goodbye kiss feels like more than what this is, but he doesn't let go. "Tell your wife I say hi," he says, and he's joking—I think he likes how it feels when he digs his arrogant fingers into the crevices of my guilt—but I say nothing. I walk back through the Floo and go home to Alexandria.
11:04 p.m.: She comes in through the Floo when I'm already in bed, sketching out some quidditch drills for later this week. I look up and she's mussed and glowing—happy—and I pat the spot beside me on the bed. She looks both grateful for the invitation and inhumanly lovely in her post-sex haze, falling beside me with a sigh. "Tomorrow," she suggests, "just you and me, okay?" I know that she needs to say that for her conscience, so I nod. "Goodnight," she says, not even bothering to get under the covers. Looks like Moray tired her out; good for him. Good for her. We're all good here. "Goodnight," I reply.
11:35 p.m.: O ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road, and I'll be in Scotland a'fore ye—
11:37 p.m.: "Shut up," I grumble under my breath, admonishing my brain and hating my memory; wishing I didn't hear the sound of Skye whistling, or recall the feel of his lips against the back of my neck as I bent my head over a plate of his runny scrambled eggs.
11:38 p.m.: —but me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
DAY TWO
9:15 a.m.: Alexandria sleeps in, so I take coffee by myself downstairs. I don't have many friends these days outside of the people on my team and I haven't forgiven my family for pressuring me into this marriage, so I really don't do a whole lot. I have coffee and read a little bit of last week's newspaper that I haven't put away. I'm not quite ready to relinquish this one yet; it's an announcement of the World Cup teams, and Skye's name swims to the surface in a tiny article beneath the promo shots for the English team.
10:07 a.m.: Skye's a reserve Keeper for the Scottish National Team. I, on the other hand, am a married man who's still reading last week's newspaper. I'd wonder what he's doing now that his season is over, but it probably isn't worth delving into; no matter what, we are worlds away.
10:30 a.m.: "Sorry I got up so late," Alexandria says, looking as lovely as ever. I set the paper down, looking up at her. "You look beautiful," I tell her, because she does and there's no point keeping that to myself, and pleasure floods her cheeks. "Did you have a good time last night?" I ask, and she chews her lip, not wanting to admit it. "We don't have to keep doing that," she says, "it was always just supposed to be temporary, you know? To help us get out of our rut." Ah yes, our rut. She's speaking of my secret preference for cock. "If you're enjoying it," I begin to say, but she cuts me off with a shake of her head, letting her robe fall to the floor. She's wearing new lingerie; emerald green with tiny pearls sewn into the lace, glinting in the light that pours in from the window. She climbs into my lap, straddling me, and takes my face in her hands, giving me a very serious, very intensely childlike look of concern. "You're my husband," she whispers, and she's grinding on my cock, but I don't know if I can do this. "You're my husband," she says again, "and I just want things to work between us."
10:40 a.m.: She kisses me and slides her hand down my stomach, slipping it into my trousers. Her face goes slightly blank as she realizes I'm half hard at best and I swallow hard, thinking of something, anything. Skye's name still stares up at me from the table and I shut my eyes, imagining his voice; the way he said my name, raspy and low. He only ever used my first name when we were fucking, and even then it fought its way off his tongue. I groan a little into Alexandria's mouth and her grip tightens on my cock, stroking it.
10:47 a.m.: I pick her up and lay her back on the table, watching her hastily remove her knickers. I stroke her clit; she holds her breath. Her fingers press against the newspaper, digging into the print of Skye's name and I fuck her slowly, carefully. She moans, writhes. If this were Skye, or even Angus, I'd slam into her, spread her legs wide, leave bruises where my fingers pressed into her hips, but this is Alexandria. This is my wife—my perfect, beautiful wife—and I don't deserve to touch her, much less mar her perfect skin with my teeth.
10:55 a.m.: "Is it—" She grits her teeth, like she's holding something back. "Is it good?" she asks, half-whispering with insecurity, and fuck, this is awful. "It's so good," I tell her, though I'm struggling to stay hard. "It's perfect, you're perfect," I promise her, and she nods uncertainly, her fingers spreading across my chest. I close my eyes and think about Skye again, about Angus.
11:20 a.m.: After a while, Alexandria sits up slowly. "It's okay," she says, "it's early. We can try again later." I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. "Yeah," I agree. "Let's do that." She smiles, hopping down from the table and picking up her discarded knickers. "Are you hungry?" she asks, pulling her robe back on, and I force a smile. "Sure," I say, and she turns to make me something to eat as I drown in putrefying guilt, the paper with Skye's name floating down to the floor. Deliver my wretched soul from the kind, considerate monster I married.
3:30 p.m.: We spend most of the afternoon having an awkward cup of tea in the gardens, staring into space while we both pretend we're not fully disappointed with me. Eventually, though, Alexandria asks me if I would mind if she goes out to see her best friend again. Of course I don't mind, though I wonder briefly if that's who she's actually seeing, because she seems to be avoiding eye contact. "Have fun," I say.
4:45 p.m.: I'm polishing my broom when the Floo roars to life behind me. I turn, expecting Alexandria, but it's Angus. "What are you doing here?" I hiss, though I recall that this is my fault, because I forgot to change my wards after he came over the first time Eden and I played our little game of spousal pretend. He smirks at me. "Saw your wife in Diagon," he says, and I consider asking who she was with, but by then he's shoving me back on my sofa. "Knew you'd be free," he adds, bending over me, and I shake my head, glancing warily at the Floo. "You can't do this," I warn him; not just because Alexandria could be home any second, but also because I'm not about to let this get to a place where he can freely come and go. He ignores me, dragging my lips to his and kissing me firmly, leaving me no escape. I give it a minute, hoping my dick will do me the favor of being as disinterested as it was earlier, but it's no use. I grab him and throw him down, holding his arms down as I straddle him on the sofa.
5:15 p.m.: Angus gets to work stroking my cock and damn, I wish it were magically possible to take the attraction I feel for him and somehow implant it in Alexandria. I'd have so many fewer problems. I sputter loudly, coming on his chest like we're teenagers, and he grins, sitting upright. "Your turn," he tells me, pointedly unbuttoning his trousers.
5:48 p.m.: I blow him as he leans against the arm of the sofa, facing the Floo. I'm starting to wonder if getting caught is some kind of kink he has or if he's just obsessively opposed to my having a wife, but I'd rather not know anything personal about him, kinks and/or obsessions included. He pulls out before he comes and I flick my wand, coolly cleaning us both before stepping away.
6:04 p.m.: "Time to leave," I tell him. He tucks his dick back into his trousers, taking his time. "You know, your wife is gorgeous," he says tangentially, arching a brow to indicate that he's impressed. "I know," I retort, displeased that he's brought her up. "But of course," he adds leisurely, stepping closer to cup my cock through my trousers, slowly grinding his palm against it until my breath quickens, "you are—"
6:10 p.m.: "I'm home," Alexandria announces, and Angus takes a hasty step back, turning to face her. He gives her something of a playful bow, explaining that he was just leaving; she frowns, confused and clearly a little suspicious, and I cough, trying to obscure the erection that's throbbing in my pants. "See you at practice," I tell Angus curtly, and he gives me a wink before he turns to leave, licking his lips so deliberately that my pulsing cock very quickly becomes genuinely concerning.
6:16 p.m.: Alexandria turns to me, frowning. "What was he—" "Thank fuck you're home," I interrupt, and yank her towards me, kissing her. She freezes for a second, surprised, then slides her hand down, wrapping her fingers around the outline of my cock through my trousers. "Did you miss me?" she asks flirtatiously, and I give some incoherent answer. I fumble with her dress, dragging her underwear down, and give it a decent effort, diving my fingers in and out of her until she's wet and panting; in another couple of minutes, I'm pulling her on top of me in the sofa.
6:36 p.m.: I finish fairly quickly, and I think a combination of my enthusiasm and sufficient friction gets her off a couple of times. For me, the guilt sets in immediately afterwards, but Alexandria babbles something about getting dinner together and I try to look as happy (or possibly relieved) as she is.
10:04 p.m.: Another evening passes as uneventfully as it usually does, and Alexandria falls asleep before I do, as she usually does. I'm awake for a long time, thinking again about Skye. We parted on somewhat terrible terms, though that was probably better for us. His career was taking off and he was being traded to a team in—guess where?—Scotland, and with my marriage looming, Skye was starting to make unreasonable demands; specifically, the demand that I give up the sham of heterosexual pureblooded aristocracy and run off with him instead. "Who cares if they cut you off?" he demanded, because he was always braver than I was, and more foolish, too. I couldn't give him a satisfactory answer.
10:36 p.m.: "Is the money more important than me?" he'd asked me. "Would you really rather have some sort of meaningless status than me?"
10:47 p.m.: He never fucking understood. Good for him, honestly. I hope he hates me.
12:32 a.m.: —but me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
DAY THREE
10:15 a.m.: "Should we, um," Alexandria attempts over tea, cocking her head thoughtfully, "should we talk about yesterday?" I immediately knock my cup over, spilling it all over the table and fumbling for something to mop it up when she sighs, flicking her wand. "Nevermind," she says, and I open my mouth to say something (no idea yet what it will be) and she shakes her head, pausing me. "I just want to know if there's something you want me to do," she begins slowly. "You know, if there's something you like that I can sort of—help with," she adds, and the truth is sizzling painfully on my tongue, but she continues. "I know this is arranged and all that and sure, maybe there's nothing between us yet, but—"
10:34 a.m.: Thankfully we're cut off by an owl arriving, and I hastily take the note and tear it open without bothering to look too closely at it. Of course, once it's open, there's no mistaking who it's from; the handwriting is hastily scrawled and smudged and like I'm trapped in an ongoing nightmare, I know it the moment I see it.
10:35 a.m.: 'In town for a couple of days; need to talk to you. I'm staying at the Leaky Cauldron, room 3. Around noon if you can.'
10:36 a.m.: I shove my chair back so sharply I nearly fall out of it, prompting Alexandria to look up in alarm. "Are you okay?" she asks, reaching for me, and part of me wants to tell her that no, under no circumstances am I okay, but obviously this is neither the time nor the place to relay to her that my ex-boyfriend's shown up after a year of complete silence—and oh yeah, by the way, I'm mostly gay.
11:15 a.m.: I go to my study and pace the floor for a bit, wondering what I want to do about Skye's letter. I've been wondering for nearly a week what he was doing now that his season was over, and apparently now I know—clearly, he's arrived to torture me. I obviously can't go see him; that would be insane. That would be disastrous for my mental health, for my overall well-being. It would be destructive to my psyche. On the other hand, I want to see him. Naturally. I want to know what the fuck has possessed him to send me a letter like this; so carelessly, so nonchalant, as though inviting me to his room like this is nothing. Like he didn't leave me—like he didn't walk out on me without looking back before I had a chance to leave him—and then casually drop a time and a place for some kind of inexplicable rendezvous without so much as an 'I'm sorry' or 'I missed you.' He's selfish, demanding, insensitive, toxic. He's about as good for me as poison, and just as the thought occurs to me, I decide there's no way I'm going. I can't, and I shouldn't. Let him suffer my silence.
11:56 a.m.: No, wait. Maybe I should show up. Maybe I should go, throw something in his face, and leave. No—maybe I should frame him for murder, and then leave. Yes. There's definitely something to that idea.
11:57 a.m.: I can't go. This is ridiculous.
11:58 a.m.: What about this: I go, keep my wits about me, say nothing, and then leave as though he means nothing, never did. I wear my wedding ring, after all. I'm married, aren't I? It's not much of a stretch to prove to him I'm doing fine, if only by virtue of not being alone.
11:59 a.m.: I would just have to—no. I can't fucking see him. I'm not going.
12:00 p.m.: I'm glad I'm not going, honestly. I think the worst thing I could do to him is not show up, so if I'm in this game to win it—which I am, obviously, just like with everything—then clearly, the best option is to not show up. He was probably just going to ask for closure or something. He's the kind of person who likes things neatly tied up, like a game of quidditch. Catch the snitch, game over, clean cut, move on. I don't know what the snitch is in this metaphor, true, but it doesn't matter—I'm not here to play this game.
12:05 p.m.: Why do people always need closure? What's the point of knowing why someone left? How does understanding someone's motives and 'feelings' make their absence any better? Yes, I've missed him. I've missed him terribly, and not just the sex. I miss his humor—more specifically, his lack of it. He's terribly unfunny, and it makes me laugh, because he's so fucking serious; it's like the gravity of every situation is enough to prompt him straight to anxiety, and it's hard not to find humor in the way he's incredibly neurotic, entirely manic. Impossible to control or predict, unlike anyone I've ever known. I've missed him, but that doesn't mean I need to see him. That doesn't mean I need him.
12:10 p.m.: Fucking hell, I need him.
12:15 p.m.: "I'll be back in a bit," I tell Alexandria, hurrying to the Floo. I tell some flimsy lie about needing to do something for my quidditch team, and before she has much time to do anything other than shout goodbye, I'm heading to Diagon Alley.
12:21 p.m.: I hate myself the entire time I walk to the Leaky Cauldron, ducking my head to avoid the unusually busy crowd and climbing up the unsteady stairs. Of course, once I get there, I pause again, still torn, outside the door marked with the number 3.
12:23 p.m.: I wait, trying to think of what to say, when Skye pulls the door open, eyeing me in the frame. He's wearing a fucking Scotland t-shirt, the bastard, and his hair's damp, like he just showered. He's got sort of an oaky, clean smell to him and I'm only mildly distracted as he folds his arms over his chest.
12:25 p.m.: "You're late," he says. Leave it to Skye to fault my punctuality with the first words he says to me after a year.
12:26 p.m.: "Do you want to talk in the hallway like animals," I mutter gruffly, "or do you plan to invite me in?"
12:27 p.m.: Skye waits a moment and then takes a step back, gesturing inside. I step into the room (which is a very normal room, with nothing remarkable except that I know Skye has been naked in here very recently) and I turn to him as he closes the door. "So," he says, clearing his throat, "how've you been?"
12:28 p.m.: I gawk at him for a second and then, before I realize what I'm doing, I've punched him square in the nose, almost certainly breaking it. "Fuck," we say in unison, both because I've broken his nose and because his skull has cracked the shit out of my knuckles, and he glares at me, grabbing what looks like a lace doily from the chest by the door and pressing it to his face. "What the fuck?" he mumbles incoherently into the lace, tilting his head back, and I pull out my wand. "Episkey," I say, fixing his nose, and I pause to revel in another one of Skye's grunts of pain as his nose snaps cruelly back into place.
12:30 p.m.: "That's your opening line?" I demand. "'How've you been,' really?" I mimic, and he glares at me. "What do you want me to say?" he retorts, wiping away the remnants of blood from his face, and I wish I'd thought this through. "Is it so fucking out of your realm of comprehension that maybe I wanted—" I hesitate. "That maybe," I attempt again, "the first words out of your mouth might be—"
12:31 p.m.: Skye stares at me, waiting, but I can't do it. I can't tell him what I came here to hear, because maybe he doesn't feel it. Maybe he doesn't want it, and maybe this was about something else entirely. Maybe he wants quidditch advice; Salazar knows he could use a few pointers. I force my eyes shut, swallowing the words, and turn to the door. "If that's all," I say crisply, "then—" He blocks my access to the frame, shaking his head. "Nope," he says flatly, and I hold my breath as he takes a step towards me.
12:34 p.m.: "Did you want me to tell you I miss you?" he asks. "Would you have preferred if the first thing I said had been that I've thought about you every day for a year and now that my season is over, I took the first chance I had to come see you? To come back and tell you I'm so bloody sorry about what happened with us that I want another chance? Is that it?" he presses, taking another step towards me, and I do not falter. "Yes," I say firmly, "shockingly, that's what I fucking wanted to hear."
12:37 p.m.: "Well. That was all theoretical," he says, his mouth twitching at the corners.
12:38 p.m.: I punch him again, in the stomach this time, for having the fucking goddamn nerve to fuck with me right now, and I've never been more positive he deserves it. He doubles over, choking, and then he grabs my leg, yanking me to the ground. I hit my back against the wood with a hiss of pain, kicking out of his reach, and we wrestle on the floorboards for maybe a minute or two before I find myself face to face with him, staring at him, and he kisses me. I hate him, I hate this, I'm an idiot—but I kiss back. He tastes the same in all my sweetest daydreams, in all my most terrible nightmares, and I am fumbling with his clothes.
12:50 p.m.: I'll say this much: if all closure means is getting the other person naked on the hardwood floor, I fully understand why people do this now.
1:47 p.m.: "I missed you," he says in my ear, his canines scraping my jaw while I'm on my knees on the mattress. "I've thought about you every day for a year, and the moment I could, I came to see you. I'm sorry," he grits out, his nails firmly clawing into my waist. "I'm sorry," he repeats gruffly, "and I want another chance, and—" "Shut up," I force out, "I'm coming." He shifts to touch my cock, stroking it, and it's absolutely brutal how good this feels. "You motherfucker," I choke furiously, forcing back sunspots of mania behind my eyes as I come.
2:34 p.m.: We're naked and panting and lying on his bed when we finally look at each other; really look, like we're counting the lines that have changed since we parted. His hair is a little bit longer now, his facial hair grown in a little more than usual, and for my part, I know I look tired. I know I look vacant and probably older than I did before, my hair slicked back now as part of a continued effort not to recognize myself in the mirror.
3:26 p.m.: We lie in silence for a long time, drifting in and out of sleep, and then I clear my throat, looking at him. "I'm married," I remind him. He lets out something of a sigh, rubbing his eyelids, and turns away. "Not yet," he says, and what he means is that he doesn't want to talk about this yet, but we have to. We have to. "You don't get to just come back here like this," I say firmly; patronizingly, too, as though I didn't just fuck him. "We had problems before, if you recall, and now I'm married, so you don't get to just show up and—"
3:38 p.m.: He shuts me up by straddling me, forcing my wrists up beside my head, and stares at me. "I fucking said not yet," he growls, and before I really process what's happening, his lips are on my neck, my chest, dripping down my abdomen to where my cock is already hard again. He wraps his lips around my tip and I jerk my hips up, thrusting roughly into his mouth. He glares at me, not thrilled. "You deserved that," I tell him. He rolls his eyes, releasing me with a pop. "I could bite your dick, you know," he warns. "You like it too much," I say, and I hate how easy this is, hate how so little has changed between us, especially when he ignores me and starts sucking me off. I close my eyes, trying not to think about my wife waiting at home, which isn't as hard as I'd like it to be. In truth, Alexandria's face fades from my thoughts the moment Skye's tongue drifts up the underside of my shaft.
5:45 p.m.: "Seriously," I say again, this time in the shower, and he turns the water off. "I know you're married," he tells me, "but if the last year's been as hard for you as it's been for me, then I think we both know we can't do this."
5:51 p.m.: I shut my eyes and he drags my forehead to his, locking me in place with his fingers around the back of my neck. "I'm training with the Scottish World Cup team," he says, as if I didn't already know this—as if I haven't spent the last year searching every article in the newspaper where either he or his team might be covered—"and our practices begin next week. You could come with me to Edinburgh," he adds. "Wait for things to blow over with your family, and we can make things work." For a second I'm stunned, assuming he skipped a step, and then slowly it processes. "You want me to leave my wife for you, then," I clarify, and it's a mad thing to say, but he nods. "Can you be with someone else?" he asks me, taking a step back and reaching for a towel. "Can you stand being with someone else? Because I know I can't," he says simply. "I kept waiting for it to get better, but it never did. It never did."
6:01 p.m.: He's right that I can't stand being without him, but still—this isn't all that different from the fight we had before. He wanted me to break off my engagement back then, to defy my family back then, but what could be different now? The only difference is that we're more desperate than we were before, because we know exactly how much it hurts and it's worse than we imagined.
6:15 p.m.: "I have to go," I say, and he shakes his head. "Don't," he says, half-pleading, and I shut my eyes for a second, steadying myself. "She makes dinner for me," I say, "and I can't miss it." "Please," he says, "please miss it tonight."
6:20 p.m.: He doesn't understand. He's never understood. "I have to go," I say, and I pull the door open, and like he once did to me, I don't look back when I leave.
6:30 p.m.: I make it all the way downstairs before I pause, sickened, and can't bring myself to go any further. I ask for parchment and a pen and send an owl before taking a breath and letting it out, deciding what to do.
6:45 p.m.: Skye's holding a half-empty bottle of scotch when he opens the door and I immediately take it from his hand, indulging a long swig and shuddering the smoky aftertaste away. As usual, it's a muggle whisky that he stupidly prefers, so the burn isn't minimized at all as I swallow. "You came back," he notes, as I'm choking on his awful beverage of choice. "Unlike you," I rasp, coughing, and he grimaces. "I came back," he corrects me. "I just took my time about it, didn't I?"
6:50 p.m.: "Don't make me regret lying to my wife," I tell him, and he asks me what I told her. I tell him I wrote that I'd lost track of time; that I was so busy with the team that I might need to stay the night. "The night, hm?" Skye asks, lifting a brow, "That's ambitious." "Yeah, well, don't make me regret it," I growl, and he draws me in for a bitter, burning kiss, pulling me back to bed.
11:43 p.m.: So apparently this isn't closure. Is it the beginning of something? I don't know. I don't know anything anymore; my world as it existed this morning is hardly the same as it is now, and I'm faced once again with a choice that nearly destroyed me the first time.
11:47 p.m.: I don't know what I'm going to do. But fuck, I've missed him, and even while lying beside him, I hear the words of that fucking song; like a past version of him came back to warn me, murmuring it in my ear while I watch him sleep.
12:03 a.m.: —but me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
DAY FOUR
8:30 a.m.: When I wake up, Skye's just getting back from a run. "I take it you've just let yourself go, then," he jokes, falling into bed beside me, and he's cold with sweat, so I shove him away. "Something like that," I say, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious, because yes, I've stopped working out every morning—something I used to do with him—and because my angel of a wife makes extravagant meals for no other reason aside from pleasing me. All at once, my stomach churns with dread, and I clear my throat, rising to my feet. "I should go," I say, and Skye takes my arm, pulling me towards him. "I didn't mean it," he says, and lures me back, running his hand down my abs. "You're still hot," he says, sliding his hand down to my cock, but I can't do this right now. "That's not why," I force out, pulling away from him.
8:45 a.m.: His grip tightens. "What is it?"
8:46 a.m.: Will this ever hurt less? I shut my eyes. "Same as last time."
8:47 a.m.: He opens his mouth and closes it, a storm brewing warningly in his furrowed brow. "I don't understand how you can live a lie like this," he begins to rant, and I cut him off. "You don't understand what it's like for us," I say, meaning Alexandria and me, and I can see instantly how much it bothers him that I've chosen to align myself with my wife, even in something as unpleasant as this. "There are rules, traditions, customs," I explain. "If I leave her, especially for you, she'll be humiliated; ostracized. The engagement was about my family," I add, "and not letting them down, but this is about her. I can't do this to her." "Do you really think she enjoys being married to a man who wants someone else?" Skye demands, and it hurts, and I flinch, but I remain firm. "Her parents had an arranged marriage," I remind him, "as did mine, and as will her sister. This is just what life is for us." "Stop acting like because I'm not a fucking pureblood I don't understand things," Skye snaps, his eyes flashing.
9:01 a.m.: "Last time, you didn't give me a chance to make a choice," I remind him. "You left me, remember?" I prompt angrily, but he doesn't have the decency to back down. "And what would your choice have been then?" he snarls, and I don't answer; I can't answer. I don't know what the answer would have been because I never decided back then, and I still don't know now. "It was more than just this," I remind him defensively. "You were traveling all the time, you were hardly ever here—and you don't get to decide it's fair that just because you changed your mind, I should too," I deliver flatly, and I can see that it stings.
9:15 a.m.: "Why am I always such a hard choice for you to make?" he asks me, and then he calls me by my name, and it about tears the fucking air from my lungs.
9:20 a.m.: I let a few breaths pass in silence, because nothing I can say right now will make any sense to him. Eventually Skye leans back, closing his eyes; like he's sleeping, or dead. "Just go," he says. I hesitate. "I'll come back," I offer. He doesn't move. "Do that," he replies stiffly.
9:30 a.m.: I get home and Alexandria's still upstairs, so I decide to make her something for breakfast. It doesn't go all that well; Skye never enjoyed my cooking and I doubt she will either, but I arrange some eggs and toast on a plate and levitate it up the stairs, quietly turning the knob.
10:01 a.m.: She's awake. She's sitting up, staring straight ahead, and her head turns slightly when I enter. She looks cold. She looks angry, I realize, and it occurs to me that I've never witnessed Alexandria angry before. "You lied to me," she says steadily. I forget about the plate I'm levitating and it crashes to the floor.
10:05 a.m.: She tells me a group of her friends met at the Leaky Cauldron last night and saw me come downstairs, and then watched me go back up and stay the night there. "You lied to me," she repeats, and I can see that this is the part she hates the most.
10:06 a..m.: "Who is she?" Alexandria asks blankly, and she looks devastated. "I was trying to make this work," she rambles, wringing her hands. "I've been trying so hard to be a good wife, and—" "Stop," I say, taking a breath, and immediately wonder if anything will ever be worse than this moment.
10:15 a.m.: "I prefer men," I tell my wife slowly, and her eyes widen, stunned. "I want our marriage to work," I rush to add, which even I'm aware is a meaningless phrase after what I've just said, "and I'm sorry I haven't told you the truth, but I was hoping you'd never have to know." She stares at me for a second. "What?!" she blurts out, blinking rapidly. "How could I possibly just not know something like that?" she demands. "I don't know," I confess, feeling trapped, "but—" "Is it the guy from your quidditch team?" she asks, and she's talking about Angus. "Have you been—" she swallows. "Have you been seeing him?"
10:25 a.m.: I'm not ready to tell her about Skye yet. "Yes," I say, and she nods slowly, thinking about something. I start to wonder if by some strange twist of fate she's going to offer me an out from our marriage—or if maybe her time with Moray has been enough to prove that she wants something other than a husband who can't give her what she wants—but she seems determined, somehow, and she turns to me with a firm deliberation.
10:30 a.m.: "Invite Angus to dinner tomorrow night," she says, and I'm positively floored. "What?" I ask, gawking at her, and she shrugs. "If he's in your life, then I want to be in his life, too. This is marriage," she tells me, gesturing between us, "for better or worse, and I want it to be an honest one. I want it to be the kind of marriage where we're part of each other's lives, even if we want—" Her cheeks burn. "Even if we want different things," she finishes, and yes, I've always known she was essentially perfect, but this seems unpredictably generous.
10:40 a.m.: I sit on the bed beside her, taking one of her hands. "Are you sure?" I ask her, hoping she can feel the out I'm giving her, and she nods definitively. "I was in love with someone else when my parents arranged this marriage," she tells me, exhaling it on a breath, and I can't believe I never asked her about this before; about whether it was painful for her to marry me. "I gave up a future with someone I loved, but I don't want to give up the possibility of a partnership," she explains, and it makes a strange sort of sense, even if it does seem a bit insane. "I like you," she adds, and I tell her I like her too—very, very much, and I do. I mean it. I don't want her to be unhappy. I don't want to be the person who disappoints her, even if this isn't technically what either of us wants.
10:59 a.m.: She smiles gratefully. "So invite him to dinner, would you?" she asks me, sliding her thumb sweetly against my cheek.
1:57 p.m.: Well, this is a mess, but I do as she asks. Angus agrees, and then it's official. I'm having dinner with my wife and my sometimes-hook up tomorrow night, and Alexandria's absolutely blossoming with excitement.
4:37 p.m.: "I feel so much better," she tells me, looking up from whatever she's reading beside me on the sofa. It looks like a rough mock-up for a magazine, though I don't recognize the title The Human Interest. "Really?" I ask, and she nods. "All this time I thought it was my fault," she says, and I feel terrible that she's felt this way, but I persist internally that there was no way I could have predicted she would react so favorably to the truth. After all, what woman wants to learn her marriage is pointless? Of course, it occurs to me that perhaps Alexandria's true romantic attention, like mine, is elsewhere.
4:58 p.m.: "What about Moray?" I ask her, since I've now told her the truth about my arrangement with Eden. She frowns. "I don't know," she admits, frowning, and I'm even more positive she likes him. I wonder if she isn't starting to turn the option of him over in her mind more seriously. After all, clearly his marriage isn't exactly stable either. "Well, nevermind," she says, and flips a page of the mock-up. I kiss the top of her head and she relaxes, burrowing into my chest.
10:15 p.m.: The rest of the night passes as it normally does; I want desperately to be with Skye, but I can't bring myself to disappoint Alexandria by disappearing on her again. Instead I lay awake, thinking about the feel of him; the taste.
10:20 p.m.: "Hey," I say, turning to Alexandria, "I need to run some errands tomorrow morning, okay?" She nods sleepily. "Okay," she agrees, enduringly perfect. My brain, unfortunately, is no source of relief; I almost wish she'd stayed awake and babbled more about what she's cooking, if only so that I wouldn't be trapped in an endless cycle of the past.
10:35 p.m.: —on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.
DAY FIVE
6:30 a.m.: "What time is it?" Alexandria asks blearily, but I nudge her back as she sits up. "I'm going for a run," I tell her, tucking her back in. "Go back to sleep."
6:45 a.m.: Well, running is harder than I remember, but there's a purpose to this—I think. I apparate to Diagon and take off, following the route Skye and I ran when we spent our nights at a dingy flat I used to rent here. I catch up to him after a few minutes, my chest burning, and wish I'd opted for something less grand of a gesture. "Fuck, this is hard," I wheeze, and Skye glances over his shoulder as I approach. He's expressionless for a moment, and he doesn't slow down. I wonder if this is working as I intended.
6:53 a.m.: "You need the workout," Skye eventually says, even-toned, and I take that as a positive sign.
7:15 a.m.: We run in silence for a long time; something I would have been used to a year ago, much like Skye's presence, and now can't manage to stomach. I try to ignore the cramp that's evolving beneath my ribs and fail, pausing to take a breath. Gratifyingly, he slows, turning to look at me.
7:17 a.m.: "I'm good for you," he tells me evenly, and I have flashes of the life I could have with him. Granted, it's a life in Scotland, which is already not ideal, but it's a life filled with freedom. A life with Skye means a life with the person I love most; the person I can't spend an hour without thinking about. But my rose-tinted vision of having breakfast with him every morning abruptly sours when I remember his career, and the many, many times I was without him. I remember, too, just how selfish I would be to choose him, because while I'd be off being free with Skye, Alexandria would be left alone. I'd be written off my family tree, too—blasted off, more likely—and left with nothing, forced to rely on Skye, who had his career to think about, and then I would just—I would—
7:25 a.m.: "You okay?" Skye asks, frowning, and I shake my head, gasping for air. "I can't breathe," I choke out, and maybe I'm out of shape, sure, or maybe I'm terrified, I'm drowning, and I know he's never understood what it's like to feel this fear. I wish I were braver. I wish I were better. I wish I'd never met Skye, never learned what it was to feel like this, so that I wouldn't look for pieces of him everywhere. Will I ever be whole without him? And at this point, with the sacrifices I would have to make, could I even be whole with him? I don't know. I really don't know.
7:30 a.m.: "I think that's far enough," Skye suggests quietly, and I nod without a word, taking hold of his shoulder as he apparates us into his room at the Leaky Cauldron. I notice there are two plates set out. "You knew I was coming," I comment, and Skye turns to me, a smile flickering on his lips. "You said you'd come back," he reminds me.
7:45 a.m.: He slips out of his clothes, pausing to glance warily at me. "You coming?" he asks, and I nod, following. He whistles Loch Lomond to himself as he goes, and I sigh. "That song is fucking tragic," I remind him, and he shrugs. "It's about a man dying in a foreign land and being transported back to his homeland," Skye says alternatively, and I shake my head. "Oh good," I say wryly, "so it's about death, then." Skye laughs, rolling his eyes. "It's a song about coming home," he corrects me, and tugs me into the shower, kissing me as we duck under the too-hot water.
9:30 a.m.: I'm exhausted and I definitely don't want to move, but I know I'll have to soon. I turn to Skye, resting my chin on his bare chest. "What made you come back?" I ask him quietly, and he shrugs. "I told you," he says, and I shake my head, disagreeing. "Your season is over, I know," I permit, "but what was it that really made you come back?" He tilts his head, considering it. "It's lonely, you know," he says, "being on the road all the time. Too much time to think. Too much time to remember. And then suddenly I couldn't sort out what had possibly mattered enough to make me walk out."
10:05 a.m.: I kiss him and rise to my feet, ready to head back. "I'm only here a couple more days," Skye warns me, gripping my arm roughly, and I nod. "You can wait, can't you?" I prompt, and remind him that I've waited an entire year. He scoffs. "You didn't wait," he retorts, and I shrug. "Depends what you consider waiting," I say.
10:16 a.m.: When I get home, Alexandria's up and cleaning the house. I can't decide if her eagerness is adorable or alarming, but either way, she seems happy to have a cause. "Wear something nice," she tells me briskly, as though I wouldn't already do that, or as if Angus would care. I kiss her cheek, shaking my head, and head upstairs. I'm pretty sure I'll need at least two more showers to be ready for tonight.
6:01 p.m.: Alexandria has taken the effort to make herself effervescently breathtaking this evening, though I'm not sure it matters short of giving her something to do. Angus arrives through the Floo quite promptly, also looking highly attractive, and I start to feel like I am chaperoning them on their first date. They know each other from Hogwarts, so there's hardly need for a complex introduction. "Shall we?" I prompt, clearing my throat, and Alexandria excitedly gestures to the dining room.
6:10 p.m.: "Well," Angus says, after we've discussed the weather for nearly seven entire minutes, "should we have some wine?" "Oh for the love of god, yes," I say, and Alexandria rises to her feet, picking up a slim bottle of caramel-colored liquid. "I actually prefer whisky," she says, pouring us each a glass of a rare vintage from a wizarding scotch distillery I'm only somewhat familiar with. "I didn't know that," I accidentally say aloud, and she smiles at me. "Well, it's nice that we're still learning each other," she replies with a wink, and Angus laughs.
6:30 p.m.: Dinner begins with a roast bone marrow and parsley salad, but by the time the plates are cleared, Angus and Alexandria are chatting away like old friends. "So, you're straight," Angus says, and Alexandria nods, "but you're okay with him having—" "Other interests, yes," she supplies delicately, and I'm inclined to give into the awkwardness of the situation and melt into my chair, but Angus is positively delighted. "That's very forward of you," he says, and adds, "It's highly fashionable to be so sexually nuanced." He looks up, grinning at me, and though part of me does still want to stab myself in the eye, I'm also inhumanly fascinated by how smoothly this is going. I wait for the inevitable crash.
7:04 p.m.: "So do you sleep with women?" Alexandria asks Angus, and I choke on my lamb. "I do, actually," Angus confirms, nodding. "Are you asking for a friend?" he adds teasingly, turning his arrogant little grin on her, and her cheeks flush. "I was just wondering," she says, glancing down at her lap, and then Angus looks up at me. "You sleep with women, don't you?" he asks, and I pull a face of discomfort. "One woman," I say, threading my fingers through Alexandria's despite how flimsy a statement that is, and Angus delicately takes a bite, chewing slowly. "Would you want to share?" he asks neutrally, and Alexandria's fork clatters to the floor.
7:15 p.m.: "That's not what this is about," I say hastily, glancing at my wife, whose mouth has fallen open. "Oh, I know," Angus agrees, still frustratingly unfazed, "but it does beg the question, doesn't it? You clearly care about her, you obviously enjoy fucking me," he says, and I wince, "and I think she's probably the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. That can't be new information for you," he adds to Alexandria, who still hasn't spoken. "I just think it seems like a possibility," Angus says, "if both of you were equally inclined, that is."
7:27 p.m.: Angus cuts another piece of lamb, cheerfully surveying his plate in the aftermath of the explosion he might have just caused, and I look at Alexandria. "He's like this," I tell her, shooting him a glare across the table. "If you're uncomfortable, we can just—" "I'll do it," she interrupts, and it's my turn to upend something, knocking over my whisky and letting it bleed into the table runner. This, I admit, is not the crash I was expecting.
7:30 p.m.: "I want to," Alexandria says, and sure, sexual nuance is one thing, but this seems needlessly progressive. "Oh, don't be such a square," she tells me, as though suddenly I, the man whose sidepiece is currently admiring my wife's rack of lamb, am the one who is so wildly conservative in this situation. "We were just swinging, weren't we?" she reminds me, and Angus laughs. "Is that why you were—" "Yes, okay? Yes," I say flatly, not enjoying the way the other two are suddenly far too relaxed. "Look, this isn't any worse than that," Alexandria assures me, and I roll my eyes. "You just want to fuck him," I say, and she shrugs. "And you," she clarifies, "because honestly, what woman doesn't want two handsome men?"
7:45 p.m.: "Well, shall we just hop into the bedroom, then?" I mock, flailing a little in my discomfort. "Shall we just forget about dessert," I suggest manically, "and proceed right to fellating one another?" "It's called cunnilingus on a woman," Angus corrects me, and I let out a groan. "Regardless—" "No, not tonight," Alexandria cuts in firmly, and I glance at her, wondering if she's changed her mind. "Tomorrow night," she suggests, and adds, "I need to, you know. Digest this excessively heavy dinner. Do my research. Figure out the logistics first." "The logistics of sex?" I echo, more squeakily than I would like to. "No," she says drily, "of scheduling." "Well, I'm free tomorrow," Angus supplies, toasting her with his scotch. "Lovely," Alexandria replies, "we are, too."
8:21 p.m.: The evening of insanity doesn't end with dinner. We process into the living room, sipping our digestifs as Angus and Alexandria reminisce about their years at Hogwarts, and I do have to admit that the two of them have chemistry, even while Angus' hand is lasciviously settled on my upper thigh and on my other side, Alexandria's half-seated on my lap, her arm wound around my neck. I think we're all a bit drunk, and I'm considerably less mortified, though it clangs around in the back of my mind that Skye's not terribly far away.
8:49 p.m.: "Frankly, this is ideal," Angus says, his words slightly slurred, "because I love his cock, and I think I'd give my right arm to see you naked." "Aw, that's sweet," croons Alexandria, reaching over to tap his nose, and Angus catches her hand, pulling her towards him. "Shall we try a little now?" he asks, and kisses her from where she's seated on my lap. I think my grip on her waist gets tighter because she squirms, taking Angus' face with both hands for a second, and then she turns to me, squinting for a moment before catching my lips with hers. I'm startled, but I kiss her back, enjoying it a bit more than normal.
9:04 p.m.: She leans back slowly, smiling, but Angus lets out a scoff. "I see he's gentle with you," Angus remarks. She frowns. "What does that mean?" she asks, and he glances warily at me. "Do you want to show her?" he asks me, grinning again, as if he thinks I'll say no. I slide my thumb along his lip and tug him towards me, gripping the back of his neck as he leans forward, sliding his tongue along mine. We part after a few seconds and Alexandria gapes at me. "I didn't know you were like that," she says, and then, blinking rapidly, "I want that."
9:15 p.m.: "I should go," Angus says to Alexandria, licking his lips, "before we get carried away and ruin all your advanced preparation." He kisses her again before he tosses me a wink, heading for the Floo. "All in all, one of my better dinner parties," he declares, laughing as he steps through the flames.
10:14 p.m.: "Well, are you happy you asked for this dinner?" I demand of Alexandria as she falls into bed, looking flushed and thrilled. "Yes," she replies smugly, "I am."
10:27 p.m.: Alexandria curls towards me while she sleeps, and I'm thinking about Skye again, though it's comforting to feel her breathing beside me. I guess I'm the lucky one after all; I've never had to be alone. Skye is alone tonight, presumably, and likely has been for hundreds of other nights, biding his time on the road. I think I saw myself as a tragedy, but maybe I've been wrong.
11:01 p.m.: Still, his existence in my mind persists.
11:35 p.m.: —on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.
DAY SIX
6:30 a.m.: "Going for a run," I tell Alexandria, and she squints at me. "Before your game?" she asks, and I groan, remembering that I do have a quidditch game this afternoon. Just what I need, really, to see Angus before he and I both fuck my wife. "My goodness, someone's worried about his threesome bod," Alexandria murmurs, drifting back to sleep.
7:15 a.m.: "Go easy on me," I tell Skye, "I have a club game today." He considers this and then apparently discards it, running faster. "What the hell," I shout after him, but he shrugs. "You need to be pushed," he tells me, and I would wonder if that means something else, but I can't think about much other than how sore my legs are right now.
8:30 a.m.: I make it through the morning workout without needing to be apparated back this time, which feels like a victory. "Shower?" Skye prompts, slapping my arse, and I hesitate. "I need to take it easy this morning," I tell him, and he goes rigid, turning to frown at me. "What does that mean?" he asks. "For the game," I hastily lie, because explaining to him that I need my dick to be in top form for its threesome debut doesn't seem like a comforting explanation.
9:26 a.m.: "I want to watch you play," Skye says, and I really, really don't want him to, but there's no stopping him when he sets his mind to something. "Fine," I say, "but I don't know that I'll be worth watching." "I normally enjoy beating you," he says, "so watching you flounder around will be just as satisfying, I imagine." I smack him hard in the gut. "Fucker," I reply, taking a gruff bite of bacon.
10:15 a.m.: I make it back home to lie to Alexandria about my morning for what is hopefully the last (one of the last?) time and fall into bed, immediately succumbing to an ill-advised nap.
11:25 a.m.: "Hey," Alexandria says, shoving me. "You alive?"
12:00 p.m.: I barely make it to the pitch, already sore, and Angus is giving me his usual cheeky stare. "Can you just try to focus on the game?" I ask him, ironically becoming distracted the second I realize Skye's sitting in the stands not far from Alexandria. "Going to be difficult," Angus says, his gaze flicking over me appreciatively, and I sigh. "Let's just get through this," I say wearily.
1:45 p.m.: Astonishingly, I am still able to focus, despite the presence of: 1) the man who owns me completely and wants me to run away with him, 2) the man whose lips and tongue and cock I genuinely crave, and 3) the woman I probably do love in some aggressively unconventional way.
3:34 p.m.: We win the game, although it's somewhat close, and Angus is off his broom and throwing himself at me the moment I land. He's sweaty and disgusting and he tears his helmet off to smile at me like a spoiled, golden prince, throwing his arm over my shoulders. "And to think that's only my first win for the day," he says in my ear, probably too close, and I want to laugh, but I'm pretty sure I only manage a shiver. "See you tonight," he murmurs, and if a few days ago he was the only thing keeping me sane, there's certainly nothing to keep me from plunging over the precipice now.
4:45 p.m.: I tell Alexandria I'll meet her at home and I take my time getting out of the showers, not entirely sure I want to face reality yet. Of course, reality manifests regardless. "You're fucking him," Skye remarks flatly, leaning against one of the lockers. "Who?" I ask, feigning ignorance, but Skye shakes his head. "I know you," he reminds me. "And we've done this a thousand times, haven't we?" he asks, gesturing around the locker room. I can't help a nod. "At least," I admit in agreement, and for me it's a charmed memory, tinted with longing to think of, but he seems more than a little betrayed. "So you're fucking him," Skye says, meaning Angus, and I sigh. "Actually, he's fucking me and my wife," I say, and explain the threesome situation, hoping Skye will laugh.
5:04 p.m.: Spoiler: he doesn't.
5:10 p.m.: "I asked you to think about us," he rants angrily, "and instead you arrange a threesome with your boyfriend and your wife?" "Hey," I snap, "you showed up here without warning. Both of them have been in my life since you left me, and they weren't going to go away just because you decided you were ready to want me again."
5:15 p.m.: "I shouldn't have left," he snarls, and I'm about to agree with him, of course, but he stops me with a look of pure venom. "I should have just waited for you to leave me—because you would have," he accuses painfully, "and if you had, you wouldn't have this ridiculous fucking excuse that this is somehow my fault."
5:17 p.m.: It's a good time to punch him, really, and I would, except I finally figure out the thing that's been stuck in my head like a thorn since he told me yesterday why he came back. "Do you know why I'm even considering this at all? Why I'm even thinking about running away with you?" I ask him, and he opens his mouth, but surely the look on my face is what silences him. "Because for the last year, every waking breath has been for you, about you. Everything I've done has been an act of missing you, of longing for you, of trying to fill the void you left behind. And I don't want to do this, what you're asking from me," I add furiously, "at all, and you know that. I don't want to leave my wife. I don't want to go to Scotland. I don't want to come second to your job for the rest of your career. But I want you," I say, forcing the words out, "and if I didn't, I wouldn't even be here. But you—" I take a breath, and I didn't know what my decision was before, but I do now. "But this isn't about me for you," I tell him definitively. "You're just lonely, Skye."
5:25 p.m.: "That's—" he blinks. "That's not—" "You said it yourself," I remind him. "Your life is lonely," I tell him sadly, "and believe me, I wish it weren't. And I wish I could be the one to fix it for you, and I wish it were easier for us, but it isn't—and to be honest, I don't think this will work out quite as cleanly as you want it to, even if we're together."
5:31 p.m.: "You're afraid," he accuses me bluntly, challenging me, and fuck, I want to sob, because if I'd been any less afraid, I would have gone with him three days ago. I would have dropped everything for him and not bothered to look back.
5:32 p.m.: "Yes," I agree, "I'm afraid, and you deserve better than to love a coward."
5:33 p.m.: He stares at me, stunned; I don't think we've ever thrown the word 'love' around before, and this, the beginning of what is clearly the end, is a terrible time to start, but I drive the point home anyway. "I love you," I tell Skye, compelling my voice not to shake, and take a step towards him. "I love you, and it's hard to imagine that anyone could ever mean or matter or be as much as you are to me." He glares at me, like he wishes I had just punched him instead. "I love you," he replies, forcing a swallow, "and if I had just done things differently—" "Stop," I say, pulling him into me, because I don't want to end on a crescendo of impossible hypotheticals. "I love you," he repeats, shutting his eyes. "I love you too," I say, and it's over. I know it's over.
6:01 p.m.: I get home to find Alexandria waiting for me, looking nervous. "He's coming in an hour," she says, wringing her hands, "but I still haven't figured out exactly how I'm supposed to do this, any of this, and—"
6:02 p.m.: I cut her off, taking her face in my hands, and I kiss her as passionately as I know how, translating the gratitude I haven't been able to express into something I hope she can feel. "What was that for?" she asks hazily. "It doesn't have to be perfect," I tell her, and I suddenly understand that I have done her a disservice by repeatedly presuming her to be the perfect wife, because I never bothered to look beneath the surface. There's pain here that I was missing while I was distracted by my own.
6:03 p.m.: "I love you," I tell her, because I don't think that telling her so detracts in any way from when I said it to Skye minutes ago; in fact, it heightens it, because this time I know I won't waste a moment. "I love you too," she says; part wonderment, part relief. Maybe we don't mean it yet, but maybe someday we will. Or maybe we do mean it, and love doesn't always have to empty you out, drain you. Maybe it can ignite you, too. Maybe it burns over time.
7:01 p.m.: "Libation?" Alexandria asks coolly, handing Angus a glass as he steps through the Floo. I start to learn this about her: that maybe she herself isn't perfect, but her showmanship is flawless. "Don't mind if I do," he says, his fingers pointedly brushing hers.
7:25 p.m.: We chat for a bit, sipping scotch—most likely out of discomfort—but more than a small part of me wants this to work on some grander scheme, so I'd rather alcohol not be the driving force between us. "Come on," I say, reaching for Alexandria's hand, and I gesture to Angus to follow as I take her into our bedroom.
7:30 p.m.: I kiss her briefly, a steadying, reassuring kiss, and sit her down on the bed before turning to Angus. "Come here," I say, beckoning him, and he steps closer to me, that cocky grin on his face. Angus I kiss more roughly, pulling the hair at the back of his head, and then I nudge him down next to Alexandria, sitting myself on her other side. I have no idea what I'm doing, but it doesn't seem like anyone else is any more informed. I slide the dress up Alexandria's legs and she shifts back on the bed, lying flat as Angus bends to kiss her inner thigh. This is an area I'm happy to let him dominate; he grinds his palm against the fabric of her knickers and I catch her moan in my mouth.
7:40 p.m.: When I pull away, deciding I have entirely too many clothes on, Angus leans over and kisses Alexandria in my place, his fingers sliding under her knickers now. She gasps, and he pauses to pull me closer, kissing me as he parts her legs. I draw her thighs wider, stroking the inner curve as Angus' tongue flicks over mine, and Alexandria looks enraptured. Personally, I'm a little rapt myself. "Be rough with me," she whispers to me, and I do to her what I often do to Angus; I draw her mouth open and she sucks the tip of my finger hard, prompting a twitch in my cock that neither Angus nor Alexandria misses.
8:17 p.m.: Before long, my ability to draw lines between who's doing what becomes increasingly hazy; Alexandria sucks me off while Angus goes down on her. We shift, too, and often, and at times I'm stroking Angus' cock, reveling in the feel of it; at others, I bend in worship, licking Alexandria's cunt from behind as she spends some time on Angus. By the time things progress to sex, motions are hazy, but one thing is clear: however deviant this whole thing might be, having Angus here is a piece that's been missing.
9:30 p.m.: "Holy shit," Angus says, lying with his shoulders against my chest as Alexandria curls into him, her legs threaded through both of ours. "Yeah," she exhales, "that was—" They both turn, glancing at me for approval. "What?" I ask, and Alexandria looks sheepish, though Angus doesn't drop his gaze. "You know, people do this," he comments over his shoulder to me before turning back to Alexandria, brushing his lips against her forehead. "What," I ask, "sex?" He chuckles. "That, and this," he says, gesturing to where he's holding Alexandria and being held by me. "I'm not much of a conventional guy," he adds, "and I don't need the monogamy thing." "You had a problem with me being married," I remind him, and he shrugs. "I want to be wanted," he clarifies. "But this," he says, winking over his shoulder at me, "feels pretty fucking wanted, don't you think?"
9:45 p.m.: "Stay the night," Alexandria tells Angus, yawning sleepily, and he nods, already drifting off. "You two are a handful," I tell them fondly (because while I hadn't wanted to feel much for Angus when I thought he would be catastrophic to my marriage, I now find he's really rather endearing) and slip away, needing a moment to myself.
10:15 p.m.: "Come to the World Cup games," Skye had said to me before we parted. "I'll have a ticket reserved for you, and if anything changes by then—" "I can't promise anything," I told him, because I can't, and he nodded. "I won't hold you to anything," he said, "but I'm going to leave the door open this time."
10:57 p.m.: When my thoughts have quieted I go back to my bedroom, where Angus and Alexandria are sprawled out next to each other. I nudge Angus over, lying on my back, and stare at the ceiling.
11:05 p.m.: "O ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland a'fore ye," I sing quietly to myself, and neither Angus nor Alexandria stir. "But me and my true love will never meet again—" I take a breath, swallowing hard. "On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."
DAY SEVEN
6:30 a.m.: "Where are you going?" Angus grumbles, and I glance over my shoulder. "For a run," I say, and he groans. "This is like a terrible recurring nightmare," he mutters, and I have no idea what he's talking about, but I rise to my feet. "I'm just trying to be better," I tell him.
8:15 a.m.: By the time I get back from a workout that takes me far longer than it should have (this whole 'improving' thing will clearly be a long process) both Angus and Alexandria are awake, making breakfast together in the kitchen. Angus pours me a cup of coffee, humming to himself, and before I can process what he's humming, Alexandria comments on it. "Loch Lomond!" she says, looking delighted, and I freeze, the coffee cup halfway to my lips.
8:20 a.m.: "I've had it stuck in my head all morning," Angus laments in explanation, and I frown. "You know the song?" I ask, and he scoffs. "Of course I know it," he tells me, just as Alexandria says something indignantly similar. "By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes," she sings, Angus joining in, and I hold up a hand. "How do you both know the words to this song?" I ask them, and they laugh. "My mum's Scottish," Angus explains, and Alexandria nods. "My grandmother's Scottish," she agrees, "and my family owns a whisky distillery there. Didn't you know that?" she asks me, quirking a brow, and now I understand where her money comes from.
8:35 a.m.: "Still, it's hardly an appropriate song for breakfast, considering it's about death," Angus remarks, handing me a plate of bacon that he promptly eats a piece of, and Alexandria slaps his hand. "Wait until we're all sitting," she instructs him firmly, and then she adds, "and anyway, it's about more than just death." "Yes, it is," I agree without thinking, and they turn to look at me.
8:36 a.m.: I look from the plate of food—burnt, which is probably Angus' contribution to Alexandria's normally flawless meals, but who doesn't prefer bacon a bit crispy anyway?—to the two people who've suddenly made my world make a bit of sense, pondering how to explain myself.
8:37 a.m.: "The song's not about death," I clarify slowly, and Alexandria and Angus both smile, exchanging a knowing glance. "What's it about, then?" Alexandria prompts, brushing her lips against my cheek, and I feel something that I suspect might be contentment—or, at the very least, some pleasing form of sanity.
8:38 a.m.: "It's about coming home," I say, fighting the onslaught of a smile.
a/n: Sorry that updates are so unpredictable on this fic, but the word counts really get away from me and my weekends have been shot with my schedule changing. This one was a little more confusing if you don't normally read my work, so some explanations: the theme here was of course Scotland (the characters were named after regions that contain whisky distilleries) and if you didn't recognize these characters, some additional hints: the narrator is a Slytherin who wears some gnarly fake teeth in the films (which I obviously choose to ignore), his wife is named after a Greek nymph, his main love interest is the world's biggest quidditch fan, and the threesome all-star is best known for being confunded by Hermione Granger.
Dedicated to rebelsaurus29, anonwhohadtopee, and ShayaLonnie!