Title: Small and Stupid Arguments.
Rating: R/M. Very definitely.
Warnings: Kink, foul language, and mentions of very wrong use of magic.
Length: About 1150 words.
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling owns the characters mentioned in this story. I am writing this for fun and not for profit.
This is a (much belated) birthday ficlet for angylsmuse over on LJ.
Small and Stupid Arguments
"Um, well, we will." Harry gave Draco a smile so wide and brilliant that Draco knew he was lying in an instant. It was the same smile Harry tended to give the Daily Prophet photographers. "Just not right now. A half-hour, all right?"
And then he ducked past Draco and into the spare bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Draco didn't even have to listen very hard to hear the click of the locking spell.
He shut his eyes and sat down hard on the sofa in the drawing room, putting his hands over his eyes. He tried to breathe calmly and think rationally, but it was rather hard when Harry had behaved like this for a solid fucking week.
Well, is it really a fucking week when there's been no fucking?
Draco's own humor didn't cheer him up this time. That was how serious matters had become.
Harry didn't want to have sex. He didn't want to spend much time in Draco's company; he kept ducking out of promises he'd made to visit Malfoy Manor or Draco's Ministry colleagues or the experts who were supposed to remove the curses stuck like trapped and dying spiders in their wards. (Even now, five years after the war, there were still many people who didn't like the Boy-Who-Lived, or who were less than impressed that he'd taken up with a man). And he kept the spare bedroom locked all the time, whether he was in it or not.
Three years of happiness they'd had, without the explosive disagreements Harry's friends had been sure would rip them apart; they expended their energy on small and stupid but vociferous arguments instead. Draco had somehow become convinced that the honeymoon period would last forever. But this wasn't small and this wasn't stupid, and it was about time that he faced up to the likely explanation for Harry's behavior.
He had another lover.
That Draco had seen no physical evidence to prove this meant nothing. After all, he hadn't seen any proof of Harry's attraction to him before Harry showed up outside his office in the Ministry with a faint half-smile and asked if he'd like to go for a drink, either. Draco had finally had to accept, when Harry came back even after that curse that caused his balls to turn upside-down, that the attraction was real, because it was the only thing that made sense. And that Harry was cheating on him was the only thing that made sense this time.
Now that he had finally sat down, thought it all out, and accepted it, Draco felt a surge of righteous anger. What in the world did Harry mean, sneaking about like this? Why didn't he have the courage to come right out and say that he was tired of Draco? Draco wouldn't have, of course, but he wasn't meant to. Harry was a hero, and should have.
Draco didn't have to patiently sit by and turn his eyes away any longer. He was a wizard, after all.
Standing, he aimed his wand at the door of the spare bedroom and shouted, "Alohomora!"
Harry's alarmed voice overrode the sound of the door clicking open, though Draco knew it had because he could see a slightly larger chink of light from beyond it. "Draco, don't come in here!"
"I'll go wherever I please, it's half my house too," Draco snapped, and then flung open the door, grandly sure that he was about to catch Harry and his new lover in flagrante delicto. Perhaps he would even shout that, right ahead of the other choice bit of Latin he had poised on his lips. It would give him pleasure to see Harry's confused face (because the prat never would get himself an education) contort into a mask of agony.
He charged in—and then he knew that he was the one whose jaw dropped open, a sensation he did not like at all. But he thought he could be excused some surprise in coming upon his half-naked lover holding a saddle and—was that a halter?
And if there was no other man in the room, there was certainly no horse, either.
Harry hunched his shoulders a bit, then straightened and gave Draco a defiant look. His hair had been tossed enthusiastically about, his glasses were off, and altogether there was a windblown look to his face that Draco found appealing. And by glancing down just a bit, Draco could see that he was very definitely interested.
The way he hadn't been all week.
"I can do what I want in the privacy of my own room—" Harry began.
Draco cut him off. Whatever excuses Harry offered would be stupid anyway, they always were. "Harry," he said. "You have a kink."
Harry's face grew redder—though, given that he was flushing already, it was hard to tell.
"A fetish," Draco said. "A sexual indiscretion." He took a step into the room, not sure if he was about to start laughing in the next moment or not. "The love of a practice not shared by the common man."
"I know what the damn dictionary definition is, Draco!" Harry drew himself up and looked as if he were attempting to regain his dignity. Given what he held, this was approximately impossible.
"And you were afraid to share it with me, weren't you?" Draco continued, half-crooning now. No, he wasn't about to laugh; he was simply grinning like a fool.
"Yes," Harry said, and appeared almost relieved to launch into an argument. "You always glare at me so distastefully whenever I want to try anything new in bed, as if there wasn't anything to sex but quiet chaste fucking with our eyes closed, in the proper hands-and-knees position only—"
"And if you hadn't laughed at every one of my fetishes, and had some bloody awful ideas yourself, then perhaps my reaction would be different," Draco snapped. "Remember the tomatoes?" Then he smiled again. Harry was now glancing sideways at the small bed in the room, as if he thought he could hide beneath it. "As it happens," Draco said, sharply enough to pull Harry's eyes back, "you may have hit on something this time."
Harry's mouth hung slightly open. Then he said, "No. You cannot possibly share—"
Draco managed what he had reason to know was an excellent mimicry of a horse's whinny.
Harry licked his lips. His eyes were glazed. Yet he still wouldn't stop arguing. "I bet you want to be one who does the saddling."
Draco glanced at him, lowered his eyelids, and then let his body drop smoothly to hands and knees.
Harry crossed the room in two seconds flat. And the honeymoon period started again.