- - -
"People are tricky, you can't afford to show
Anything risky, anything they don't know
The moment you try, well kiss it goodbye…"
- - -
Chapter Eight: The Dream of the Astronaut
- Seventh Year -
Slanting sun rays make me blink against the morning.
My eyes hurt. Ache, even. Feel as though they're seconds away from just rolling out of my head in search of a more comfortable environment. My tongue is sandpaper against the itchy roof of my mouth. My ears are ringing, body, tense. I'm drowning in a headache that is surely going to lead to my demise.
I am so hung-over.
My arms feel strangely limp and detached from my body. I swing an arm out to grab the clock off the bedside table. I miss. My wrist angrily collides with the corner, sending shockwaves racing up and down my arm. I curse under my breath.
My head's so fuzzy. I still don't know what time it is. And I can't remember climbing into bed last night. Come to think of it, I don't remember any of last night. At all.
I apparently drank a little too much, though.
Dazed, I lay there. Staring at the ceiling. Searching for clues to last night.
My shoulder's sore. I can feel the pain pulsing there. I pull the neck of my shirt down a little, taking note that it is most definitely not my pajama top, and am met by the black and blue and purple burst of color there. Looks worse than it feels.
The wall. I ran into a wall. And he was there. We were coming back from the kitchen.
The pieces immediately reassemble themselves in my mind. Malfoy on the Quidditch pitch. Umbridge kicking them off the team. Me being angry, and he apologizing. The kitchen. The drink. The walk back.
The conversation…
Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I told him I loved him. I actually went and said those bloody words out loud. And he was all shocked and scared and…
Oh, Merlin. I puked on him.
I am so embarrassed and so humiliated and all I can think of doing right now is hanging myself with the bed sheets.
What have I done? What the fuck have I done? How exactly am I supposed to get myself out of this mess? What can I possibly say to him now?
I sit up. A mixture of panic and bile rising in my chest.
And I hear it. The little voice in the back of my head: You lie. You deny it all. Pretend it never happened. Pretend you can't remember anything.
"Fuck." I say it to the empty bedroom, not expecting a response.
I hug my knees to my chest, knowing I have to do it. Lie, that is. Lie and deny. A typical day in the life of Angelina Johnson: terrible drunk, apparent schizoid and fake amnesiac.
I'm going to be late for breakfast.
- - -
I look like hell. And I feel like it too. I have dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes. My clothes feel like they're sticking to my clammy skin, trying to suffocate me in the middle of the hallway. And I'm so nervous and I'm scared and I honestly don't have a fucking clue as to how I'll be able to ever face him.
I force myself to keep moving. Towards the table. Full of Gryffindors and pancakes. And him.
Left. Right. Left. Right. One step closer. I swallow down the fear rising in my throat.
And suddenly I'm there. Standing there, at my usual spot at the table. Katie's there and George is there. Alicia is talking to Lee.
He isn't here.
And I'm far from relieved.
- - -
I finally spot him on the way to Potions. He looks just as shitty as I do.
I'm worried.
He doesn't acknowledge me the way he usually does, shouting "Oi! Angelina!" from across the way. He just walks. Rather, shuffles. Looking lost in an eternity of thoughts.
I'm beyond worried now. What the fuck have I done?
He's coming closer. Still not looking at me.
Lie and deny. Lie and deny. Lie deny lie deny lie deny lie deny make it all better again.
"Hey. Fred." I hear the tentativeness in my voice. The slight quake. The nervous hitch. Betraying the front I'm putting up. I pray he doesn't pick up on that.
He finally raises his head. And I wish he'd put it back down again. He's pale and tired and looks like he hasn't slept in years. My stomach clenches. "Oh. Um. Hi. Ange." Now, Fred Weasley has never been the most eloquent of speakers, peppering his phrases with words that would make Molly Weasley drop into a dead faint, but one thing is for certain: He never stammers. He never pauses. He always knows what he's saying. Even if it is a load of bullshit. And he's never nervous, never anxious. But here he is, standing there in front of me. Avoiding eye contact and shifting his weight. Playing with the sides of his robes and without his usual smile.
I need to fix this. I have to fix this. Now. But I'm so scared. Afraid I'll open my mouth and all the wrong things will spill out, ruining everything we have ever had.
Lie and deny. At least he'll still be there. Cocky. Arrogant. Confident. Mine. But only in the sense that he'll be there to fuck me in between his shifts with the others.
No.Yes. No. The time is ticking. And he's still standing there. Silent.
So this is what the truth does, is it? Fucks things up beyond belief?
But I need him. In my life. And not like this.
"Um, Fred? What exactly, um, happened last night?" He studies me carefully. I wonder if he can tell it's a lie that's tumbling from my lips. "I mean, all I remember is going to the kitchen and, uh, somehow I just woke up in my bed. And, yeah, really don't remember the eight-or-so hours in between." I am such a shitty, terrible actress.
"You really don't remember anything?" Maybe I'm better than I thought. He arches an eyebrow. Looking at me incredulously. Like he just found out he has a chance to actually win the bloody lottery.
And I know then.
He wants last night not to have happened. He doesn't want it to be real, wants it to be just a huge drunken mistake.
He doesn't want me. He doesn't want me to love him.
"No." I don't know how I managed to choke that syllable out.
"Oh. Well. You-we got drunk. You passed out." I did? The surprise evidently shows itself on my face because he smiles a little.
Funny. He omitted half the story.
More like the whole story. The reason why he looks so down-trodden. The reason I'm such a crazed mess, about to fall to pieces at his feet.
I feel hysteria coursing itself through my veins. I need to get out of here. But we have Potions and we're still talking and lunch isn't for a few more hours and, fuck. I can't do this.
I start laughing. I really need to stop reacting this way. "Well! That's me. A terrible drunk. A few sips, and I'm gone!" I'm going to start crying. Merlin, I'm about to cry. I can't let him see me cry. Not now, not ever. "So, I'm really sorry about the whole passing out thing. And-and-and if I've, um, said, or-or done anything to offend you, I'm really, truly sorry." I pause to breathe. I hate him so fucking much. I lock eyes with him. And in the calmest tone I can muster, I whisper. "I'm sure I didn't mean it."
And he smiles. The relief spelled out across his wide grin. The burden lifted up off of his shoulders and placed back on mine.
I think I'll cave beneath the weight. And I know he won't be there to pick me back up again.
- - -
I'm in the Owlery. Sending a letter to Oliver Wood. He wanted me to keep him in the loop. About the team. So here I am. Informing him of our latest Quidditch debacle. I know he'll be disappointed. In me. And frankly I don't care.
I hear footsteps behind me. I turn. It's him. Of course. He always manages to find me when I'm alone.
I don't want to see him right now. I can't bring myself to look at him or talk to him. Knowing he doesn't want me.
"Hey." Owls flutter to the top, reacting to his voice. I flutter too. Just not noticeably.
"Hey." Why do I do this? Play these silly games. But this is what you wanted. Him back with you. Yes. It was what I wanted. To be with him. Make things all better again.
He looks at me curiously. "Are things all good now?" He looks much better than he did this morning. Refreshed. Invigorated. I know I still look like I've been run over by the Knight Bus. And that's saying something.
"Of course."
He smiles. The predator leering over his prey. I know what comes next. We've done this dance so many times my shoes have memorized the footsteps. I could sing the tune. This is what you wanted. And I have it. Him in my arms. Him leaning towards me.
He kisses me. Roughly. Tongue immediately sweeping in. His teeth nick mine, and his hands feel too tight, stretched across my back. I feel clammy and gross and I don't want him touching me. Yes, I do. No, I don't. I'm fighting with myself while he's trying to take my bra off.
And we're in the fucking Owlery. It just seems wrong. Too wrong. Everything seems wrong. Disgustingly wrong.
I need him to stop. I can't breathe. I can't do this.
"Fred…Fred…Stop…" He slows down a little. A prick he may be, but a gentleman nonetheless. "We can't do this here…"
He gazes at me under hooded eyes. "We've done it in far more public places before. Shall I name them for you?"
I stop him. "Just not here. Later." He kisses me. Apparently agreeing. He winks, and walks away. Swaggers away.
What just happened here?
Normally his kisses turn me into a blabbering pile of mush. But this time…It felt so generic. The magic was gone, the chemistry was missing. Maybe it was just this one time.
I promised him later. It better be better later.
- - -
Nine hours later, he's there next to me. My sheets covering his body. His head resting on my pillow.
I feel like I need a shower.
I listen to his breathing and feel my temper rise and my patience fall with each heavy exhalation.
I feel dirty. Used. Disgusting.
I let him use me. And it makes me sick.
It sickens me that I'm lying to keep this going. Keeping things light for him. Just so he can shag me and I can pretend that I mean something more to him. Pretend there's meaning behind his kisses, and more than desire behind his caresses.
I just feel empty. I felt empty, hollow the entire time. Disgusted with myself for letting him do this to me. Disgusted with him for not feeling the same.
I should have known better. Sex doesn't equal love. It doesn't create love. It has nothing to do with love.
But I let myself believe that it did. Believed that maybe he wanted me in more ways than one.
Believed that he could love me.
I'm so ashamed…
I thought denying it would bring him back and I'd have him here with me and that would be all I'd need from him and just having him next to me, touching me, kissing me would be enough to make everything alright again.
But here he is. Asleep in my bed. And it's not working. Nothing feels alright.
His relieved smile won't leave my mind. Won't leave me alone. How relieved he was that I don't love him.
But I do…
A strangled sob escapes my mouth, echoing across the quiet canopy the curtains create. I can feel my heart pounding, my chest about to break. I can't breathe. I can't breathe…
I take in a shallow breath, trying not to hyperventilate. But I can't catch it. My breath. I realize my face is wet. My pillow drenched. I roll to my side. Gaze at the closed curtain. Can't tell it's there. A black hole opening before me. I'm shaking. Tears rolling down my cheeks. I can taste the salt.
And for the first time in years, I cry myself to sleep.
He slept through the entire night.
- - -
"So, baby, kiss me like a drug
Like a respirator
And let me fall into the dream of the astronaut
Where I get lost in space that goes on forever
And you make all the rest just an afterthought
And I believe it's you who can make it better
But it's not…No, it's not…"
- - -
A/N: Song lyrics from It's Not- Aimee Mann
Yeah, I know. Somehow this story became super angst-y. I'm a sucker for angst. Can't help it. But please, read and review, let me know what you think. The more reviews I get, the faster I may update…