A Little Cold
It was one of those mornings – the type that make you want to roll over in bed and stay there.
The neighborhood with grey trees lining the sidewalks felt eerily abandoned. This was partly in thanks to the heavy, foggy atmosphere and the lack of inhabitants – all of whom were dutifully hidden inside of their homes, attempting to escape the cold.
Christmas hadn't quite come yet, but the feeling of fall hadn't quite ended either. Children eagerly awaited the sight of first snow – just one flake so that they could declare they were the first to see it. Teenagers eagerly waited for the holidays, impatient for their break from the torturous, brainwashing prisons otherwise known was school. Adults, too, were excited for both vacation and the chance to make happy memories with their families.
However, there was one man who wasn't particularly excited for the holidays, and most certainly didn't care for Christmas. He wasn't the Grinch, or even Ebenezer Scrooge, for that matter. His name was Draco Malfoy, and with the fever he was suffering from, anyone would be muttering, "Bah, humbug!"
He'd been at 103 degrees for the past three days, and was plagued by an overwhelmingly restless feeling, as the dryness in his throat and fits of cold sweat also tortured him. What's worst is that, for those three days, Harry Potter absolutely refused to touch him.
"You're lucky I'm even coming so close to you," Potter had told him spitefully. But, from his current condition, Malfoy came to the bitter conclusion that he really wasn't so lucky after all.
On that particular morning, he woke up far too early for his liking. It was a Sunday morning, and he'd spent most of the night before choking and dying and dunking his head into tea and Tylenol. He rolled over on the spacious bed, came too close to the edge of the bed – went in the other direction, and promptly rolled into another warm body.
"If you're finished," Potter pushed Malfoy away from him.
Annoyed, he turned over onto his stomach and tugged on the sheets, forcing most of it from Potter's grip.
"That's mature," Potter muttered sarcastically.
"I'm sick," Malfoy replied – and boy, did he ever sound sick, too. He sounded like a scratchy record – or perhaps that his nose had a clothespin clipped on. His eyes were watery, too, and pink – like his rogue cheeks and nose. He was an obsessive compulsive man's worst nightmare.
Potter wasn't compassionate, though. Instead of frowning worriedly and lovingly giving Malfoy all of his attention, he ignored the man sharing the bed with him and turned his back to him, obviously ready to return to sleep.
However, as the moments passed, it became too obvious that sleep was scornfully eluding them. There was no point in lying around, Potter decided as he forced his way out of bed and shuffled across the almost annoyingly neat and orderly bedroom. The room was average sized: not at all like a college dorm room, but not exactly a bedroom that belonged in a penthouse suite either. The bed bundled with blankets and sheets was pushed against the wall, well out of the way. It left enough space for the work desk that was piled with books such as The Ultimate Anatomy Guide, Perception, and The Difference between Japanese and European Art. Slightly segregated from the art books was Obscure Latin Roots, The Complete Book of Shakespearian Sonnets, and Literature's New Name. The closet was opposite of the bed; clothes were coded by size and color – Potter be damned if he so much as mixed up a light blue shirt with the place of a dark blue one.
Potter left the bedroom – perhaps to go to the showers – and Malfoy spread out, taking up the space that Potter had previously taken. Body heat and his musky scent still lingered. He groaned and buried his face into the sheets and the pillow before yelling after Potter – as though continuing a persistent argument – "I'm not a fucking nun, Potter!"
There was a muffled yell that sounded very much like, "Sod off, Malfoy!"
Oh, Potter was so ridiculous. Malfoy had to wonder why he was still with the man – in a mundane neighborhood that was daily attacked by fog – in an overly humble flat, of all things.
The showers started just as the coldest of all cold drafts slid into the room, forcing Malfoy to hide under the covers pathetically. Suddenly, his body racked as he sneezed once, twice, and – pause – three times.
He sniffed, "Disgusting," and pushed himself out of the bed to wander to the bathroom for tissue. He hissed as his bare feet hit the freezing white tiles and hurried out, already missing the warm covers. (Though, of course, it was his own fault for never wearing any bloody clothes – Potter always told him that himself.)
The room was quiet, save for the echoing sound of the shower. Sunlight poured in through the window. The wrinkled sheets seemed quite lonely. The shower water turned off suddenly. There was an angry yell and, within the next few moments, a soaked Potter marched blindly back into the room, still putting on his glasses. His brows were furrowed into a furious glare.
Malfoy followed in suit, tissue in hand. "Potter, what the hell has been wrong with you lately?!"
"I already told you! I do not want to get sick too!"
Malfoy rolled his eyes as he went to the closet and grabbed a pair of boxers and his embarrassing "A Proud Worker of the People's Public Library!" t-shirt. "You're such a wanker, Potter," he muttered angrily as he pulled on clothes.
"Forgive me for wanting to stay healthy so that I can go to my job and earn us money," he yelled.
Malfoy scowled and turned on his heel, intent on leaving Potter alone, in the room, so that he could rant to himself – but before he could leave, Potter stood up and thrust a hand against Malfoy's shoulder, pushing him violently. "I'm sick of your blasted immaturity! It's time you grew up, damn it!"
Malfoy shoved both hands against Potter's shoulders, forcing him away. "Don't push me! Damn it, Potter, I'm sick! I just want a little sympathy, if that's fucking all right with you."
He clearly had enough. Turning on his heel, he went straight to the closet and pulled himself out some clothes. Without even bothering to put on boxers, he tugged on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt – before purposely picking up a dark blue shirt and sticking it in the middle of the light blue shirts. Sending one last icy look at Malfoy for good measure, he stalked out of the room; Malfoy heard the apartment door open and slam shut.
God, he really, truly, absolutely hated Harry fucking Potter.
Later that evening, Potter returned from wherever he had been. His cheeks were flushed – his eyes, tired – his hair, messy.
Malfoy, still suffering from his fever of 103 degrees, glanced at him from the living room sofa. He almost welcomed him back before he remembered the terms the two had last parted on. Instead, he decided to coldly ignore Potter – even as he sat down on the couch and rested his head in Malfoy's lap.
"I thought you didn't want to catch my cold."
He shrugged. "I'll probably be getting a cold soon anyway. You still have a fever," Potter said carelessly, feeling the other's hands.
"Oh, yeah?" Malfoy felt his own forehead.
"Yeah. I guess that means we're not going out tonight."
"We weren't going anywhere anyway."
"Yes we were. Ron and Hermione invited us to dinner when I was with them earlier today. But now we can't go."
"Damn," Malfoy said with utmost sarcasm.
Potter smirked. "It wouldn't kill you to be nicer to them, would it?"
Malfoy shrugged.
"I'm nice to your friends."
"So what? My friends are bearable."
"No they're not. They're almost as arrogant as you."
Malfoy stared down at Potter haughtily. "They have reason to be. I have reason to be."
Potter rolled his eyes.
"I'm good-looking, for starters," Malfoy began to explain instantly. "I have good blood running through my veins."
"And you're a complete dick."
"That too," he smirked. "You're no better, though."
"Maybe so."
They were enveloped with a silence. Potter suddenly sat up, and made to stand up from the couch – but Malfoy grabbed his arm.
"Where're you going?"
"To make us some tea."
"I don't want tea."
"Fine. But I do."
"Just stay here."
Potter hesitated before shrugging and sitting on the edge of the sofa; he began to eye Malfoy warily as he pulled him closer.
"You aren't going to try anything, are you?" Potter asked suspiciously as Malfoy buried his face in the hollow of Potter's neck, causing Potter to instantly shrug him off.
"God, Potter, it's been three days."
"You'll survive."
"Barely," Malfoy whined.
"We've already been through this," Potter mumbled. "It's stupid to still be fighting over it. When you're better, I'll do whatever you want – but until then, you have to wait."
"Christ, Potter, it's only a little cold. You won't die, even if you get sick."
"You could have an incurable disease."
"Then we'll suffer together, won't we?"
Malfoy leaned in lecherously, clearly intent on getting something by the end of the evening – but Potter shoved him away in disgust and stood up from the couch, leaving him. "Do you want lemon or green tea?"
Malfoy sighed and rolled his eyes. "I don't want any tea."
After being left alone, Malfoy rubbed the sore marks where he'd been shoved earlier absentmindedly, thinking vaguely about how much he really hated Potter. He was annoying, stubborn, messy, and was just so hard to live with.
And yet he was still there. Potter hadn't left either. So – surely – that meant something… right?
Malfoy was sure he could pick up his book of Shakespearian sonnets and find the perfect one that described their relationship: full of petty fights, constantly on the verge of falling apart, brimming with rivalry… And teetering with a lust neither had felt for anyone else. Plus there was the unspoken understanding – the unspoken agreement – that to be together, to live with each other, love wasn't necessary.
No one else understood it, but they did: love truly wasn't necessary.
Malfoy wasn't trying to fool himself or anyone else. He didn't love Potter, and Potter didn't love him. It was as simple as that. He liked him well enough, sure; he was a friend now, although they'd been childhood enemies – that was true enough.
But, even though they didn't really love each other, he wanted to stay with him – the sex was just too bloody good to leave. (Though he really wished that Potter would stop being so damned stubborn and give him what he wanted.) And besides, their relationship had developed a truce of sorts, somewhere along the lines. The fighting wasn't nearly as bad as it used to be. They used to try to kill each other; daily wresting matches and punching each other – oh, you should have seen the bruises and scratches and gashes they used to give each other. Once, Potter even sent Malfoy to the hospital. But, you know how men can be: the fights never lasted more than a day. They were always annoyed with each other, sure – but they would never stay furious at each other for long – that is, until another reason to fight came up.
They were happy. They hated each other's guts, but they were happy.
Potter sat down on the couch beside him. He was prodding Malfoy's shoulder. "Here, Draco. I brought some tea for you."
Malfoy had fallen asleep without realizing it. Potter had undressed again and was holding two white mugs. "Green tea?" Malfoy sat up slowly.
"For me, yes. You have lemon."
Malfoy frowned. "Lemon?"
"Yes. Zesty lemon. It'll help you get over your cold."
Malfoy took the mug, staring down at it in disgust. "But I told you: I don't want tea."
"You'll drink that and, in an hour, I'll give you some cold medicine," Potter smiled to himself as he sipped the tea. Malfoy looked up at Potter in protest.
"I can bloody well take care of myself, thank you very much – and I refuse to take cold medicine!"
"And you claim you're mature," Potter sipped some more of his tea.
"I don't have to be mature to like that putrid liquid," his nose actually twisted up into a snarl of disgust. He always hated cold-medicine, even as a boy.
Potter's smile grew. "But Draco, you have to do all you can to get better. We're leaving for Lupo's at six, after all."
"I thought we agreed that we weren't going anywhere!"
"If you're healthy enough to have sex, Draco, then I'm sure you're healthy enough to go on a little outing. With this tea and the medicine you'll take – and a touch of rest – I'm sure your fever will be gone. You can come with Ron, Hermione, and I."
"Wait – what?"
"I said – "
"I know what you said, Harry – but what are you saying?"
Potter smirked. "If you come with me tonight, then that will mean you're healthy enough to have sex."
"Harry… are you bribing me?"
"Not really," Potter shrugged. "It's your choice – whether you want to go or not."
Oh, he truly, honestly, absolutely and completely hated Harry Potter.
(He went, by the way, and had a right good time with Potter in the restaurant bathroom, on the way back to the apartment, and – of course – in the flat itself. I guess Sunday's aren't so bad after all.)
AN: I edited the original, which was embarrassingly horrible. This version is, hopefully, a little better.