fic dump
pretty little liars | emily/hanna. do you still keep pictures of old girlfriends (g)
They graduate tomorrow and instead of a quiet night at Spencer's eating popcorn and watching lame but cute romantic comedies Hanna has dragged them all to a party. Boys are playing pool in the next room, the cues hitting the balls and the balls bumping together, the sounds coming scattered and fading, mixing with the thump of the bass and people's feet on the hardwood, swaying and grinding together another room over. Everything is too loud, the streamers hanging down the ceiling and the Congratulations Graduate balloons seem too bright and obvious.
Emily's nervous. Messages from A still haven't stopped--an A who isn't Mona--threats about tomorrow delivered to Hanna on cupcakes that they smeared before tossing in the trash. Emily doesn't want to be here but Hanna had rolled her eyes, said "If tomorrow sucks we might as well enjoy tonight."
If you ask Emily, and no one does and no one will, there's something ominous about this being coined The Last Bash.
"Emily!" Hanna calls, voice high and chipper. Emily turns her head, red solo cup crumpling slightly in her grip, the beer inside cheap and oddly sweet, as though someone poured sugar into it to make it taste better. It didn't work.
Hanna's making her way through the crowd, blonde hair swinging around her head, calls again, "Hey Emily!"
"Yeah?" Emily shifts her weight, leans back against the wall. "Where'd Aria ago?"
"How should I know? I'm not her babysitter. And Spencer's trying to eat Toby alive." Hanna reaches out and grabs Emily's hand, tugging lightly. "Come on."
"Where?" Emily eyes her wearily, worried Hanna's going to make her dance or play beer bong or something equally as awful. All she wanted to do was lay in a heap on the couch with her friends and pretend life had happy endings like it does in movies.
"You'll see."
Emily pushes off the wall and lets Hanna pull her through the crowd of people, some of them swaying, most of them huddled in groups, gossiping. Only a few glance their way before ducking their heads, moving in closer and lowering their voices. Emily's a bit paranoid since the disaster that was prom, but she doesn't like to think about it, doesn't like to think about what these people might think she's done, what they might think of her.
"Ta-da!" Hanna drops Emily's hands and waves dramatically at the photobooth.
"Ta-da?" Emily raises her eyebrows, bites her lip in an attempt no to smile but can already feel the corners of mouth pulling up.
"Get in. We have memories to make." Hanna pushes on the small of Emily's back and Emily complies, sliding over as Hanna gets in after her and closes the curtain. "Do you have quarters?"
Shaking her head, Emily finally lets herself smile, reaching into her bag and fishing for some change. "You know, the first time I kissed Maya we were in a photobooth."
"Oh," Hanna says. "Em, I'm so sorry. I, I forgot. If you don't want to-"
"No, It's- it's okay." She pulls a few quarters from her purse and gives them to Hanna, dropping them into Hanna's palm one by one, counting, 25, 50 , 75, a dollar. "We didn't have to pay then."
"Well Cassidy...whatever he last name is, is cheaper than Noel Kahn." Hanna scrunches her noise in disgust. "Do you think she's pocketing this money? She already charged us for beer."
"I have no idea."
"I bet she is. She always seemed like a greedy little bitch."
Emily laughs, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and says, "Hanna, it's okay. I don't mind if she gets my dollar."
"Do you still have the pictures? With Maya?" Hanna's jiggling the change in her palm and Emily realizes how it's quieter in here, she can still hear the people talking outside and make out the melody of the music, but it's softer, nicer.
"Uh, yeah. Yeah I do."
"That's good." Hanna smiles, grabs Emily's hand and squeezes, bites her lip and then blinks before letting go. She shakes her head as she says, "Right. Pictures. Memories. Goodbye senior year, goodbye Rosewood high, goodbye Rosewood."
Emily knows Hanna wants to say goodbye to A too, but none of them know what happens next, if the messages will continue over the summer and stop when they go to college or if they'll be haunted for the rest of their lives. They talked about it once, but Emily knows it's not a topic for tonight. She says, "But not goodbye to each other."
"You couldn't get rid of me even if you wanted to. But you don't want to."
"No, I don't."
Hanna grins at her and there's a flash. They both jump, laugh, and turn to the camera. Emily smiles as it goes off again and then Hanna's yelling, "Funny face!" and Emily complies, puffing up her cheeks and pulling on her ears. Before the next flash Emily feels Hanna's mouth on her cheek and she can't help but grin, teeth and all, happy to be here, at the party and in the photobooth and with Hanna. When the camera flashes again and Emily turns to kiss Hanna on the cheek Hanna's hasn't turned away, instead she moves in, her hand fluttering over Emily's arm before resting there. The last picture is taken before Hanna kisses her, and when she does her mouth is soft. She tastes like chapstick and Emily moves her hand to tangle in Hanna's hair.
Emily would be lying if she said she's never thought about kissing Hanna before, and she's tired of lying. When they shared a room she'd lie awake and wonder if Hanna would make the little whimpering sounds she made sometimes, tossing under the sheets. She'd wonder if the gloss Hanna was wearing was sticky or slippery, if her hair was as soft as it looked or clumped together with hairspray. She thought about it, but not a lot, didn't see the point.
Hanna reaches up, cradles Emily's cheek in her hand and brushes her thumb along Emily's cheekbone when she breaks away, tilting so their foreheads are touching. She says, voice rough and low, "Sometimes I like girls."
It sounds like a confession.
Emily's mouth bends into a smile. "Me too."
"You like girls more than sometimes," Hanna corrects.
Emily rolls her eyes, finds Hanna's hand. Hanna's the one who laces their fingers together. "Yeah. More than sometimes."
revenge | emily/amanda. the beast you've made of me (g)
There's a bruise swelling on Amanda cheek, a cut on her forehead, blood drying on her skin. She can only see through the tiniest slit of her right eye. She knocks on the door and quickly opens her palm to slap it a few times instead, the cuts on her knuckles stinging. Her bones ache and she's sure she'll be covered in purples and blues and blacks tomorrow.
Emily swings open the door, the confusion and annoyance on her face flitting away, replaced by concern and worry. Amanda's not sure if it's for her or for the mission or for Emily herself. "Amanda, what are you doing here? What happened?"
"Just doing your bidding. Like the good old days." She attempts a smirk but it hurts, pain shooting through her jaw.
"C-come in." Emily opens the door wider and steps aside, leaning against it and sighing, shaking her head as though this is typical, as though Amanda is purposely trying to cause problems.
Amanda makes her way into the kitchen, stands against the counter and feels the sharp dig of it into her back, likes the way it hurts. "I took care of it for you. I just wanted you to know."
Recognition lights in Emily's eyes, brightening her entire face the way Amanda loves. Emily tries to hide it, purses her lips, says, "Thank you."
"Anything for you, Em."
Amanda used to wonder if there'd ever be a day she wouldn't mean that, wouldn't willingly give her life for Emily. She could feel it looming on the horizon with Jack and the baby, with the splay of his hands over her belly, his mouth presses too gently on hers. She thought she did, when she came back, thought she could say it and make the venom in her voice imply the opposite. She was wrong. Amanda hates being wrong.
"Let me get you something for," Emily bites her lips, gestures vaguely to Amanda, "that."
She opens her freezer and Amanda follows the line of her spine as she bends over, wants to count the knobs, slot her fingers between them and press and press and press until Emily squirms under the touch. When Emily straightens and shuts the freezer she's brandishing a cold compress. "Here, let me see."
Amanda licks her lip, the coppery taste of blood lingering. Emily reaches out and brushes Amanda's bangs to the side, fingers barely ghosting over the skin underneath. She's close now, so close Amanda can smell her fruity shampoo, the sharp clean of soap, feel the warm of her breath. She tries her best not to shiver. She thinks she's a pretty good actress.
Emily presses the ice pack to her cheek and it spreads over her bruised eye so Amanda closes them, swallowed by darkness, watching the shadows dance over her lids she can't help the twist of her lips. She says, "It's cold."
Emily chuckles lightly and it tickles over Amanda's nose, her mouth, makes her feel stupid but warm. That's how she always feels around Emily. She feels Emily's hair against her ear and she inhales sharply when lips press softly against her temple, lingering too long. She leans back harder against the counter, clutching it tightly and locking her legs, unsteady and unsure.
"You can stay. Sleep in the guest bedroom until you heal. I'll think of something to tell Jack." Emily's lips brush against the curve of her ear.
"R-right."
And then all the air around her is cool and Emily has replaced her hand on the compress with Amanda's, backed away, eyeing her carefully. "There's aspirin in the bathroom."
Amanda nods, knowing her cue to leave, her cue to sleep. She's exhausted, wants to believe Emily could tell, see it through the cuts and the bruises, wants to believe her concern is genuine, real, but she can't make herself. Instead she thinks Emily just wants her out of the way for the night.
Amanda knows Emily too well, has seen the cracks in her story, the wobble of her heels and fidgeting of her hands, has seen how forced her smile when she looks at Amanda. Amanda likes her anyway--loves her anyway. That's the problem.
"Right. Thank you."
Emily's responding, "You're welcome," is cold. But her lips were warm. Amanda will remember that.
parks and recreation | andy/april. looking for something dumb to do (pg-13)
They're in Burly's house, curled up on the couch, April pressed warm and soft into Andy's side. (Later, when he's lying in bed alone--for the last time, he'll remind himself--he'll think of this moment and how tiny she seems, how she slots into him and he instinctively wraps his arm around her, over her shoulder. He will think about how he wants to protect her and keep her safe and be wrapped around her forever. This is what he'll base his vows around, not putting too much thought into it.) She laces their fingers together, playing with them absently, running her thumb over the back of his hand. April is quiet and Andy wants to fill the silence, wants to tell her how pretty she is and that he loves her more than he's ever loved anything, even his old G.I. Joe that his mom backed over when he was eight and he cried for half an hour.
Instead he says, "I'm hungry."
April rolls her eyes, pulls his arm tighter around her shoulders as if she's afraid he's going to get up and leave her there. "No."
He laughs, bending his head to place a kiss on her neck, feels her shiver against him. "Then what do you want to do."
"I don't know." She shrugs, lets her other hand trace patterns into his jeans, pressing down so lightly Andy can barely feel it. "I'm bored."
"Wanna play X-box?" Andy asks, hopeful. He can never tell when April wants to play, will smile softly and leap for the controller, elbowing him hard in the ribs, or when she'll just frown at him, unimpressed.
"No." She presses her lips together, squeezing his fingers tightly to show that she's not angry with him.
"Wanna watch a movie?"
April hums a little in the back of her throat, so quietly Andy can only hear it because Burly's out and the house is silent. "What do you have?"
"Um," Andy says, trying to remember. "Transformers and 101 Dalmatians and Rocky and Taxi Driver."
April tilts her head. "Maybe."
Andy thinks that means she'll probably decide on one of them in a few minutes. He pulls her even closer so she's laying half on his chest. He's still learning a lot about April, about how she likes her coffee--not black, some milk and lots of sugars--and what depressing songs make her exhale slowly, close her eyes and lean her head against the windshield while they’re driving around town, the sound she makes when he presses his thumb into her hipbone versus the whimper in the back of her throat when he sucks a mark into the inside of her thigh. He wants to know everything about her, wants to know her like the back of his hand and the front of his hand and the side of his hand and better than everyone's hands (he never really understood the saying).
"What if we got married tomorrow?"
April's eyes go wide and her mouth turns up at the corners, but Andy can see her trying to hold it down, keep everything in. She says, "Fine."
But then she's smiling wide against his mouth before kissing him, hard and prying, biting his lip open and sweeping her tongue into his mouth, pushing his back against the arm of the couch, hands everywhere. Andy learns that April likes it when he scrapes his teeth over her collarbone, learns that she laughs loudly, saying his name in what is meant to sound like a protest but isn't when he blows a raspberry into her stomach, learns that she finds Robert DeNiro really attractive in Taxi Driver.
Andy figures he has forever to learn about April.
He thinks he can be okay with forever.
parks and recreation | leslie and ann. room beneath your bed for me (g)
“Ann, Ann, Ann, please, Ann,” Leslie begs over the phone, insistent and quick. She pauses and then she says, “Ann, please.”
“Fine, Leslie, we can have a sleepover.”
“Yay! I’ll be at your house at seven, okay? Thanks Ann, beautiful nurse and best friend in the whole entire universe.” Leslie hangs up before Ann has time to process, but Ann figures it’s better to have Leslie over than the other way around. She’s sure she’d be sleeping on a pile of stuffed puppies and newspaper from the 70’s and various arts and crafts supplies.
Leslie shows up at 6:45 with a pillow and sleeping bag under one arm, her purse slug over the other, some romantic comedies and Sweetums candy peeking out. She smiles wide and says, “I’ve only ever been to one other sleepover before and the girls froze my bra. Don’t freeze my bra, Ann.”
“I won’t.” Ann smiles and opens the door wide, letting Leslie in.
She drops her sleeping bag and pillow on the floor by the couch and flops down, pulling out the candy and setting it on the table. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls on some DVDs she’s brought, lining those up, too. “Are you ordering a pizza?”
“Yeah, I can. Do you want to go to J.J’s tomorrow for waffles?”
“Ann,” Leslie says, looking at her seriously, tilting her head and raising her eyebrows.
“Right. Pizza tonight, waffles tomorrow.” Anna picks up the phone and sits down next to Leslie. “How are we going to make the s’mores?” She points to the bag of marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers she can see in Leslie’s bag.
Leslie shakes her head. “Ann you beautiful tiny panda, I know you were a terrible Pawnee Goddess but I will make a bonfire and help you roast your marshmallow.”
“Thanks?” Ann blinks a few times, twists her mouth to the side, contemplates bringing up the fact that she was great at fishing but then Leslie is toeing off her shoes, folding her legs like a pretzel and smiling the way that always makes Ann smile too.
“I wouldn’t leave you s’more-less Ann.”
This time when Ann says, “Thanks,” it’s not a question. She orders pizza-pepperoni with extra cheese, Leslie’s favorite-and when she hangs up Leslie has taken the bobby pins out of her hair and reaches over, unclipping Ann’s.
“Do you want to braid hair before we start a movie? Or after? Should we wait to start the movie until the pizza gets here? If we do that we could braid each other’s hair to pass the time? Do you want to go first Ann? I can braid your hair first if you want. Do you have hair bows?” Leslie takes a breath and starts riffling through her purse again. “Because I brought some and-”
“Leslie, breathe.” Ann touches Leslie’s arm lightly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just made a list of sleepover activities and if we want to get through them all we should get started. I was thinking we could play truth or dare later but we can start now if you want?” Leslie pulls out a notepad, her messy, loopy handwriting scrawled all over it. Her eyes run over it before she’s flipping through a couple more pages.
“We don’t have to do everything tonight. There will be other sleepovers.” Ann turns towards Leslie, tucking her feet the same way Leslie has. “Turn around; I’ll braid your hair first.”
Leslie bites the inside of her lip but she’s smiling again, wide and genuine, her eyes shining. Ann says, “Tell me if it hurts.”
When the pizza arrives both of their hair is braided and Leslie has given Ann a shoulder massage, telling her she’s too tense and needs to relax. Ann thinks Leslie would probably benefit from her own advice and is trying to figure out how to broach the subject. They’ve got slices on their plates, a stack of napkins on the coffee table, and Leslie is chewing with determination. “Leslie, is something going on at work? With Ben?” Ann sets her pizza down, eyes focused on Leslie’s.
Leslie shakes her head quickly, but her smile falters a bit.
Ann sighs, “Leslie.”
Leslie lets her pizza slip out of her hands, sliding onto her plate. “No one at City Council is listening to my ideas and I keep arguing with the other council people and I want to do something, Ann. I want to help.”
Ann grabs Leslie’s hands, squeezing them tight. “You’re going to help.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Ann smiles and laces their fingers together. “You’re Leslie Knope. You filled in the pit next to my house, you gave Andy a job, you helped Ben get to Washington, you’ve helped a lot of people. You’ve already made a difference and you will help. You don’t know how not to.” Ann squeezes Leslie’s hands again, feels the stickiness of their fingers all tangled up, hopes it’s as reassuring to Leslie as it is to Ann.
Leslie’s eyes are shining again and she says, “I love you, Ann.”
“I love you, too.”
Leslie pulls Ann into a hug, and if they both get grease stains on their clothes Ann doesn’t mind. They change into their pajamas-“it is a sleepover, Ann, we probably should have done this sooner”-and Leslie helps Ann try to clean the stains before they throw the clothes in the wash.
After they go out to start a bonfire and make s’mores. Leslie lets Ann toast one marshmallow which catches on fire and then drops in into the flames when Ann tries to blow it out. Leslie toasts another for Ann and it’s the most delicious s’more she thinks she’s ever had.
Leslie has the DVDs she’s deemed “sleepover worthy” laid out on the coffee table: While You Were Sleeping, Phantom of the Opera, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and Casablanca. Ann looks them over. “Casablanca or While You Were Sleeping.”
“Not Phantom of the Opera?” Leslie asks, running her finger over the case, flipping it over and reading the back of the box.
(In the kitchen, the popcorn popping in the microwave, Ann looks at the camera, says, “I can’t watch Phantom of the Opera ever again.
Later that night Leslie tells the camera that the phantom is almost dreamier than Joe Biden, but Joe still has the edge.)
They’re curled up on Ann’s bed, Leslie’s sleeping bed unzipped and serving as a blanket. She tried to argue that it wasn’t a real sleepover if they didn’t sleep on the floor, their heads together so they could drift asleep after gabbing for hours, but Ann insisted the bed was better and Leslie let her win. There are mugs on the nightstand, rims stained with hot chocolate remains, an entire bottle of whipped cream empty on Ann’s kitchen counter. Ann’s comfortable, content. She says, “This was really fun.”
“It was,” Leslie says. She’s quiet for a long time and Ann thinks maybe she’s fallen asleep when she says, voice barely above a whisper, “Thanks Ann, I really needed this.”
“I know.” Ann turns so she’s not looking at the ceiling anymore, but at Leslie’s profile. “I know you miss Ben.”
“So much my bones and fingernails and hair hurt.” Leslie’s words are slower and softer than usual and it makes Ann’s heart clench.
“He misses you too. He’ll be back soon.” Ann tucks her fingers under her pillow, it’s cool and she spread her hand out.
Leslie looks at her, smiles softly. “I’m glad you’re my best friend.”
“Me, too.”
harry potter | harry/hermione. clumsy hands in a dark room (pg-13)
Hermione's hands shake, causing the teacup to rattle against the plate. The tea sloshes around, some of it falls over the edge, drips down the side. She thinks the china will be sticky when she picks it up again, a reminder of the nerves, of how she should not be here.
No, that's not quite right. This is her house, this is her sofa with the plain beige fabric, her coffee table covered in scratches and rings from Ron's tea when he forgets to use a coaster, her lamp, a gift from Molly, the light too dim to read by at night when she can't sleep, those nights when death and decay wait for her whenever she blinks her eyes closed. This is her house and she belongs here.
(A secret: sometimes she feels off-balance here, feels like someone has wrapped their hands around her lungs and is squeezing, is digging their nails into her wrist.
A secret: Hermione does not think she belongs here.)
Harry sits across from her, the teacup small in his large hand, his hair falling in his eyes when he looks down. He does not belong here. He belongs at his own house with the floral loveseat, the coffee table covered in protective glass, the ceiling light that's soft and warm, with his wife and his children and not with her. He does not belong with her.
They sit in her living room and she watches him take a large sip of tea, watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat. He is nervous, too. Hermione thinks this should make her feel steady because she is not alone, because she has spent her life being steady when Harry is nervous, when Harry requires it of her. But instead it makes this worse. The teacup clanks against the plate as she set it down, a wave of now cold tea spilling over and the cup sits in it.
She says, "You need a haircut."
He laughs and it sounds forced. "I've been told."
Hermione blinks and looks beyond Harry, to the clock that hangs crooked on the wall, the hands ticking away. She thinks her time is almost up, their time is almost up. She does not know who is included in this elusive their. "How's work?"
Each time he comes over--her husband visiting family, reminding her that her parents don't remember her name, the first word she ever spoke, that she exists, her children gone at Hogwarts, learning about a war she fought in with her best friends, a war that showed her many things: the lifeless corpse of someone she knew, how dirt clots under fingernails, how her hands shake in the cold when the fire flickers down and darkness encroaches--they do not talk about how empty her house is, they do not mention their spouses, their children, instead they live in these quiet spaces, in the beats between words, the stuttering of her breath when he quirks his mouth, in the shadows the lamplight casts, the places it does not reach.
Harry says, "Good." He does not elaborate. Hermione does not ask him to.
The stairs creak under their footsteps, hers too light, as though she does not want to leave a print, does not want anyone to ever know she was here, his too slow, as if he is going to turn back. But Hermione knows Harry does not know how to go back, not really. She doesn't either.
Her hand shakes when she twists the doorknob, but it is steady when it wraps around his wrist, his pulse thumping fast under her fingertips, uneven, and she presses down, tries to get it to calm down. His hand feels too large when it splays over her back, when he ruts up her shirt. His hand is soft now. Hermione remembers when it was rough and calloused.
(More secrets: she tries to forgot. During nights when she can close her eyes, when a warm body is lying next to her, she thinks about time-turners and the obliteration charm, but some things she can't ever forget, no matter how hard she tries.
A real secret, one Hermione keeps from herself: she does not want to forget. )
Her body is softer now, worn, she molds herself around him--she always has, hasn't she?--arches her hips into his, lets her gasp catch in her throat, scratches her nails down his back knowing she will have to magic any marks away, knowing he will leave having left something intangible with her, he will leave taking something of hers that maybe has belonged with him all these years, but there will be no physical evidence.
They are good at hiding.
She kisses Harry on the cheek, lingers there too long, the smell of sweat and the faint smell of her perfume mixing with his cologne. She could flick her wand and it would be gone. She wonders if Harry does, before he opens the door to his own home, his faithful wife waiting. She does not ask. They both know the rules.
"Bye, Hermione." He says it like it is the last time.
She knows better. "Bye Harry."
She watches his back as he leaves, arched, body huddled together as though he is trying to make himself small, wishes to be invisible again. The clouds overhead threaten to open up, threaten downpour. She keeps looking long after he's gone, staring at the spot he stood in before he disappeared. Hermione exhales, shuts the door softly, hears the lock click. Then, she cleans.
She gets down on her hands and knees and scrubs the floor, washes the dishes, elbow-deep in suds, collects the laundry in a basket. Hermione does not use magic to fix up the house, does not use it when she stands in the shower, hot water raining down painfully on her skin, leaving her red and raw.
She does not forget and she cannot fix this.
She's gotten good at pretending.
(But her hands still shake.)
one direction rpf | harry/louis and louis/eleanor. open happiness (pg)
Harry's scrolling through the apps. on his phone, tired and bored, wondering if Zayn or Niall want to see if they can somehow sneak drinks at the bar (he's pretty sure they could. Bartenders here get confused when they see their IDs.) when there's a loud knock on his door. "Go away," he mumbles, mostly to himself. If it's one of the boys they'll start shouting at him, if it's Paul he'll knock a few times before telling Harry he needs to open the door or he's coming in, and if it's a fan they'll think he's not in or they have the wrong room and actually go away.
He looks up when the door opens and Louis pops his head in (Harry can't remember if he gave Louis his extra key this time--one time Louis lost it after Harry lost his and Paul shook his head, half frustrated because they woke him up at was 3 in the morning and half amused--or if Louis stole his key earlier or if he stole his extra from whoever he did give it to. It's hard to keep track of these things when they're somewhere new every few days). He asks, "What?"
Louis smiles before stepping into the room, wearing a stupid, matching pair of coca-cola pyjama tops and bottoms. "We need you."
"Clearly." Harry locks his phone and tosses it to the other side of the bed, not getting up. "No one will want to fuck you if you wear that to bed."
Louis gasps and slaps his hand over his heart. "You lie. You totally want to fuck me right now."
Harry rolls his eyes. "If only to get you out of that ridiculous outfit."
"I know you think it's cute, Haz." Louis twirls around and proceeds to walk towards him as though he's on a runway.
"You're stupid."
"You love me."
Harry's mouth bends into a smile and he says, "Maybe a little."
Louis beams at him. "Good. Because we need you."
And then there's a light, slow, almost hesitant knock on the door. "Are you two making out or is it safe?" Eleanor calls.
"It's never safe," Harry says. He can practically see Eleanor rolling her eyes even if she's still on the other side of the door. Louis walks over and opens it. Harry can't help but laugh when he sees her wearing the same stupid pyjamas as Louis. "Are you two going to start matching all the time now?"
"No, I have a much more sophisticated fashion sense," Louis says, his mouth twitching into a smirk.
This time when Eleanor rolls her eyes Harry can see it. "He wishes. Can you take pictures, please?" Eleanor holds her phone out to Harry.
Harry sighs and scoots himself off the bed, standing up and tugging his shirt down. "Only because you said please." He takes her phone and holds it up.
"In the hallway, Harry." Louis says, letting Eleanor grab his hand and pull him out of the room.
"Right." Harry follows, realizing for what feels like the ten millionth time in their lives, that everything they do and post will be analyzed and speculated on. It sucks for a lot of reasons. Like how he's not allowed to hold Louis' hand in public the way Eleanor is, and he can't tweet about how much he misses Louis when they're apart for a few days, and he sure as hell can't wear stupid matching outfits and have someone take pictures so they can keep them and post them on the internet.
He takes a few pictures with Eleanor's phone as she and Louis smile brightly and do different poses, sometimes making faces that Harry would laugh at if he wasn't so tired and suddenly annoyed by this entire situation. And okay, Harry knows he gets jealous of Eleanor more than Eleanor gets jealous of him, and Louis mostly finds that hilarious. And Harry knows he's a twat a lot of the time, but he figures sometimes he earns the right to be. Because he has Louis and Eleanor has Louis but not in the same way, and maybe he's not ready to have Louis like Eleanor does. And maybe if he and Eleanor both did it would be even more complicated because there relationship is so different. He shakes his head, it's too late to be thinking about this, makes himself laugh so his smile looks more genuine than it is. "Are we done yet?"
"Yeah," Eleanor says and Harry hands her back her phone. "I'll go post a few of these. You two do your," she makes a motion with her hand, "thing. You can him tomorrow night, Harry."
"Hey!" Louis says, "I am not a child of your divorce."
"Whatever," Eleanor sighs. She starts down the hall before turning around. She says, "We bought you a pair, too."
Harry laughs for real this time, a loud cackle spilling past his lips. "Thanks."
Then Eleanor's turning the corner and Louis is sticking the keycard Harry is pretty sure he stole from Lou into the door, opening it and grabbing Harry's wrist, pulling him inside. "We can take a family picture tomorrow."
"You, me and Eleanor or just you and me?" Harry asks.
"Both." And then Louis is pushing Harry against the door, hands on Harry's shoulder, sweeping his tongue into Harry's mouth.
Harry groans a little, surprised, but he slips his hand under Louis' (still really dumb) shirt and rests the other at the nape of his neck, running his fingers through the hair there. It's like every other time he's kissed Louis, comfortable but a tingle in his spine telling him it'll never be enough, a pounding of more more more running through his veins.
Harry's not even bothered when Eleanor comes back, handing him a bag with his matching pyjamas, and Louis lacing his fingers with hers as they stand in the doorway, Louis leaning against the Jam as he says, "I will see you tomorrow," with a waggle of his eyebrows.
"I promise not to wear him out too much," Eleanor says, winking.
Harry pretends to gag, closing the door behind them as they leave his room. He flops down on his bed, reaches over and grabs his phone, sees that Louis has sent him a text, go to sleep u look tired, and so has Niall, beer!!!. Harry smiles, decides to get the beer from Niall. Alcohol helps you fall asleep anyway.
They graduate tomorrow and instead of a quiet night at Spencer's eating popcorn and watching lame but cute romantic comedies Hanna has dragged them all to a party. Boys are playing pool in the next room, the cues hitting the balls and the balls bumping together, the sounds coming scattered and fading, mixing with the thump of the bass and people's feet on the hardwood, swaying and grinding together another room over. Everything is too loud, the streamers hanging down the ceiling and the Congratulations Graduate balloons seem too bright and obvious.
Emily's nervous. Messages from A still haven't stopped--an A who isn't Mona--threats about tomorrow delivered to Hanna on cupcakes that they smeared before tossing in the trash. Emily doesn't want to be here but Hanna had rolled her eyes, said "If tomorrow sucks we might as well enjoy tonight."
If you ask Emily, and no one does and no one will, there's something ominous about this being coined The Last Bash.
"Emily!" Hanna calls, voice high and chipper. Emily turns her head, red solo cup crumpling slightly in her grip, the beer inside cheap and oddly sweet, as though someone poured sugar into it to make it taste better. It didn't work.
Hanna's making her way through the crowd, blonde hair swinging around her head, calls again, "Hey Emily!"
"Yeah?" Emily shifts her weight, leans back against the wall. "Where'd Aria ago?"
"How should I know? I'm not her babysitter. And Spencer's trying to eat Toby alive." Hanna reaches out and grabs Emily's hand, tugging lightly. "Come on."
"Where?" Emily eyes her wearily, worried Hanna's going to make her dance or play beer bong or something equally as awful. All she wanted to do was lay in a heap on the couch with her friends and pretend life had happy endings like it does in movies.
"You'll see."
Emily pushes off the wall and lets Hanna pull her through the crowd of people, some of them swaying, most of them huddled in groups, gossiping. Only a few glance their way before ducking their heads, moving in closer and lowering their voices. Emily's a bit paranoid since the disaster that was prom, but she doesn't like to think about it, doesn't like to think about what these people might think she's done, what they might think of her.
"Ta-da!" Hanna drops Emily's hands and waves dramatically at the photobooth.
"Ta-da?" Emily raises her eyebrows, bites her lip in an attempt no to smile but can already feel the corners of mouth pulling up.
"Get in. We have memories to make." Hanna pushes on the small of Emily's back and Emily complies, sliding over as Hanna gets in after her and closes the curtain. "Do you have quarters?"
Shaking her head, Emily finally lets herself smile, reaching into her bag and fishing for some change. "You know, the first time I kissed Maya we were in a photobooth."
"Oh," Hanna says. "Em, I'm so sorry. I, I forgot. If you don't want to-"
"No, It's- it's okay." She pulls a few quarters from her purse and gives them to Hanna, dropping them into Hanna's palm one by one, counting, 25, 50 , 75, a dollar. "We didn't have to pay then."
"Well Cassidy...whatever he last name is, is cheaper than Noel Kahn." Hanna scrunches her noise in disgust. "Do you think she's pocketing this money? She already charged us for beer."
"I have no idea."
"I bet she is. She always seemed like a greedy little bitch."
Emily laughs, tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and says, "Hanna, it's okay. I don't mind if she gets my dollar."
"Do you still have the pictures? With Maya?" Hanna's jiggling the change in her palm and Emily realizes how it's quieter in here, she can still hear the people talking outside and make out the melody of the music, but it's softer, nicer.
"Uh, yeah. Yeah I do."
"That's good." Hanna smiles, grabs Emily's hand and squeezes, bites her lip and then blinks before letting go. She shakes her head as she says, "Right. Pictures. Memories. Goodbye senior year, goodbye Rosewood high, goodbye Rosewood."
Emily knows Hanna wants to say goodbye to A too, but none of them know what happens next, if the messages will continue over the summer and stop when they go to college or if they'll be haunted for the rest of their lives. They talked about it once, but Emily knows it's not a topic for tonight. She says, "But not goodbye to each other."
"You couldn't get rid of me even if you wanted to. But you don't want to."
"No, I don't."
Hanna grins at her and there's a flash. They both jump, laugh, and turn to the camera. Emily smiles as it goes off again and then Hanna's yelling, "Funny face!" and Emily complies, puffing up her cheeks and pulling on her ears. Before the next flash Emily feels Hanna's mouth on her cheek and she can't help but grin, teeth and all, happy to be here, at the party and in the photobooth and with Hanna. When the camera flashes again and Emily turns to kiss Hanna on the cheek Hanna's hasn't turned away, instead she moves in, her hand fluttering over Emily's arm before resting there. The last picture is taken before Hanna kisses her, and when she does her mouth is soft. She tastes like chapstick and Emily moves her hand to tangle in Hanna's hair.
Emily would be lying if she said she's never thought about kissing Hanna before, and she's tired of lying. When they shared a room she'd lie awake and wonder if Hanna would make the little whimpering sounds she made sometimes, tossing under the sheets. She'd wonder if the gloss Hanna was wearing was sticky or slippery, if her hair was as soft as it looked or clumped together with hairspray. She thought about it, but not a lot, didn't see the point.
Hanna reaches up, cradles Emily's cheek in her hand and brushes her thumb along Emily's cheekbone when she breaks away, tilting so their foreheads are touching. She says, voice rough and low, "Sometimes I like girls."
It sounds like a confession.
Emily's mouth bends into a smile. "Me too."
"You like girls more than sometimes," Hanna corrects.
Emily rolls her eyes, finds Hanna's hand. Hanna's the one who laces their fingers together. "Yeah. More than sometimes."
revenge | emily/amanda. the beast you've made of me (g)
There's a bruise swelling on Amanda cheek, a cut on her forehead, blood drying on her skin. She can only see through the tiniest slit of her right eye. She knocks on the door and quickly opens her palm to slap it a few times instead, the cuts on her knuckles stinging. Her bones ache and she's sure she'll be covered in purples and blues and blacks tomorrow.
Emily swings open the door, the confusion and annoyance on her face flitting away, replaced by concern and worry. Amanda's not sure if it's for her or for the mission or for Emily herself. "Amanda, what are you doing here? What happened?"
"Just doing your bidding. Like the good old days." She attempts a smirk but it hurts, pain shooting through her jaw.
"C-come in." Emily opens the door wider and steps aside, leaning against it and sighing, shaking her head as though this is typical, as though Amanda is purposely trying to cause problems.
Amanda makes her way into the kitchen, stands against the counter and feels the sharp dig of it into her back, likes the way it hurts. "I took care of it for you. I just wanted you to know."
Recognition lights in Emily's eyes, brightening her entire face the way Amanda loves. Emily tries to hide it, purses her lips, says, "Thank you."
"Anything for you, Em."
Amanda used to wonder if there'd ever be a day she wouldn't mean that, wouldn't willingly give her life for Emily. She could feel it looming on the horizon with Jack and the baby, with the splay of his hands over her belly, his mouth presses too gently on hers. She thought she did, when she came back, thought she could say it and make the venom in her voice imply the opposite. She was wrong. Amanda hates being wrong.
"Let me get you something for," Emily bites her lips, gestures vaguely to Amanda, "that."
She opens her freezer and Amanda follows the line of her spine as she bends over, wants to count the knobs, slot her fingers between them and press and press and press until Emily squirms under the touch. When Emily straightens and shuts the freezer she's brandishing a cold compress. "Here, let me see."
Amanda licks her lip, the coppery taste of blood lingering. Emily reaches out and brushes Amanda's bangs to the side, fingers barely ghosting over the skin underneath. She's close now, so close Amanda can smell her fruity shampoo, the sharp clean of soap, feel the warm of her breath. She tries her best not to shiver. She thinks she's a pretty good actress.
Emily presses the ice pack to her cheek and it spreads over her bruised eye so Amanda closes them, swallowed by darkness, watching the shadows dance over her lids she can't help the twist of her lips. She says, "It's cold."
Emily chuckles lightly and it tickles over Amanda's nose, her mouth, makes her feel stupid but warm. That's how she always feels around Emily. She feels Emily's hair against her ear and she inhales sharply when lips press softly against her temple, lingering too long. She leans back harder against the counter, clutching it tightly and locking her legs, unsteady and unsure.
"You can stay. Sleep in the guest bedroom until you heal. I'll think of something to tell Jack." Emily's lips brush against the curve of her ear.
"R-right."
And then all the air around her is cool and Emily has replaced her hand on the compress with Amanda's, backed away, eyeing her carefully. "There's aspirin in the bathroom."
Amanda nods, knowing her cue to leave, her cue to sleep. She's exhausted, wants to believe Emily could tell, see it through the cuts and the bruises, wants to believe her concern is genuine, real, but she can't make herself. Instead she thinks Emily just wants her out of the way for the night.
Amanda knows Emily too well, has seen the cracks in her story, the wobble of her heels and fidgeting of her hands, has seen how forced her smile when she looks at Amanda. Amanda likes her anyway--loves her anyway. That's the problem.
"Right. Thank you."
Emily's responding, "You're welcome," is cold. But her lips were warm. Amanda will remember that.
parks and recreation | andy/april. looking for something dumb to do (pg-13)
They're in Burly's house, curled up on the couch, April pressed warm and soft into Andy's side. (Later, when he's lying in bed alone--for the last time, he'll remind himself--he'll think of this moment and how tiny she seems, how she slots into him and he instinctively wraps his arm around her, over her shoulder. He will think about how he wants to protect her and keep her safe and be wrapped around her forever. This is what he'll base his vows around, not putting too much thought into it.) She laces their fingers together, playing with them absently, running her thumb over the back of his hand. April is quiet and Andy wants to fill the silence, wants to tell her how pretty she is and that he loves her more than he's ever loved anything, even his old G.I. Joe that his mom backed over when he was eight and he cried for half an hour.
Instead he says, "I'm hungry."
April rolls her eyes, pulls his arm tighter around her shoulders as if she's afraid he's going to get up and leave her there. "No."
He laughs, bending his head to place a kiss on her neck, feels her shiver against him. "Then what do you want to do."
"I don't know." She shrugs, lets her other hand trace patterns into his jeans, pressing down so lightly Andy can barely feel it. "I'm bored."
"Wanna play X-box?" Andy asks, hopeful. He can never tell when April wants to play, will smile softly and leap for the controller, elbowing him hard in the ribs, or when she'll just frown at him, unimpressed.
"No." She presses her lips together, squeezing his fingers tightly to show that she's not angry with him.
"Wanna watch a movie?"
April hums a little in the back of her throat, so quietly Andy can only hear it because Burly's out and the house is silent. "What do you have?"
"Um," Andy says, trying to remember. "Transformers and 101 Dalmatians and Rocky and Taxi Driver."
April tilts her head. "Maybe."
Andy thinks that means she'll probably decide on one of them in a few minutes. He pulls her even closer so she's laying half on his chest. He's still learning a lot about April, about how she likes her coffee--not black, some milk and lots of sugars--and what depressing songs make her exhale slowly, close her eyes and lean her head against the windshield while they’re driving around town, the sound she makes when he presses his thumb into her hipbone versus the whimper in the back of her throat when he sucks a mark into the inside of her thigh. He wants to know everything about her, wants to know her like the back of his hand and the front of his hand and the side of his hand and better than everyone's hands (he never really understood the saying).
"What if we got married tomorrow?"
April's eyes go wide and her mouth turns up at the corners, but Andy can see her trying to hold it down, keep everything in. She says, "Fine."
But then she's smiling wide against his mouth before kissing him, hard and prying, biting his lip open and sweeping her tongue into his mouth, pushing his back against the arm of the couch, hands everywhere. Andy learns that April likes it when he scrapes his teeth over her collarbone, learns that she laughs loudly, saying his name in what is meant to sound like a protest but isn't when he blows a raspberry into her stomach, learns that she finds Robert DeNiro really attractive in Taxi Driver.
Andy figures he has forever to learn about April.
He thinks he can be okay with forever.
parks and recreation | leslie and ann. room beneath your bed for me (g)
“Ann, Ann, Ann, please, Ann,” Leslie begs over the phone, insistent and quick. She pauses and then she says, “Ann, please.”
“Fine, Leslie, we can have a sleepover.”
“Yay! I’ll be at your house at seven, okay? Thanks Ann, beautiful nurse and best friend in the whole entire universe.” Leslie hangs up before Ann has time to process, but Ann figures it’s better to have Leslie over than the other way around. She’s sure she’d be sleeping on a pile of stuffed puppies and newspaper from the 70’s and various arts and crafts supplies.
Leslie shows up at 6:45 with a pillow and sleeping bag under one arm, her purse slug over the other, some romantic comedies and Sweetums candy peeking out. She smiles wide and says, “I’ve only ever been to one other sleepover before and the girls froze my bra. Don’t freeze my bra, Ann.”
“I won’t.” Ann smiles and opens the door wide, letting Leslie in.
She drops her sleeping bag and pillow on the floor by the couch and flops down, pulling out the candy and setting it on the table. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls on some DVDs she’s brought, lining those up, too. “Are you ordering a pizza?”
“Yeah, I can. Do you want to go to J.J’s tomorrow for waffles?”
“Ann,” Leslie says, looking at her seriously, tilting her head and raising her eyebrows.
“Right. Pizza tonight, waffles tomorrow.” Anna picks up the phone and sits down next to Leslie. “How are we going to make the s’mores?” She points to the bag of marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers she can see in Leslie’s bag.
Leslie shakes her head. “Ann you beautiful tiny panda, I know you were a terrible Pawnee Goddess but I will make a bonfire and help you roast your marshmallow.”
“Thanks?” Ann blinks a few times, twists her mouth to the side, contemplates bringing up the fact that she was great at fishing but then Leslie is toeing off her shoes, folding her legs like a pretzel and smiling the way that always makes Ann smile too.
“I wouldn’t leave you s’more-less Ann.”
This time when Ann says, “Thanks,” it’s not a question. She orders pizza-pepperoni with extra cheese, Leslie’s favorite-and when she hangs up Leslie has taken the bobby pins out of her hair and reaches over, unclipping Ann’s.
“Do you want to braid hair before we start a movie? Or after? Should we wait to start the movie until the pizza gets here? If we do that we could braid each other’s hair to pass the time? Do you want to go first Ann? I can braid your hair first if you want. Do you have hair bows?” Leslie takes a breath and starts riffling through her purse again. “Because I brought some and-”
“Leslie, breathe.” Ann touches Leslie’s arm lightly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just made a list of sleepover activities and if we want to get through them all we should get started. I was thinking we could play truth or dare later but we can start now if you want?” Leslie pulls out a notepad, her messy, loopy handwriting scrawled all over it. Her eyes run over it before she’s flipping through a couple more pages.
“We don’t have to do everything tonight. There will be other sleepovers.” Ann turns towards Leslie, tucking her feet the same way Leslie has. “Turn around; I’ll braid your hair first.”
Leslie bites the inside of her lip but she’s smiling again, wide and genuine, her eyes shining. Ann says, “Tell me if it hurts.”
When the pizza arrives both of their hair is braided and Leslie has given Ann a shoulder massage, telling her she’s too tense and needs to relax. Ann thinks Leslie would probably benefit from her own advice and is trying to figure out how to broach the subject. They’ve got slices on their plates, a stack of napkins on the coffee table, and Leslie is chewing with determination. “Leslie, is something going on at work? With Ben?” Ann sets her pizza down, eyes focused on Leslie’s.
Leslie shakes her head quickly, but her smile falters a bit.
Ann sighs, “Leslie.”
Leslie lets her pizza slip out of her hands, sliding onto her plate. “No one at City Council is listening to my ideas and I keep arguing with the other council people and I want to do something, Ann. I want to help.”
Ann grabs Leslie’s hands, squeezing them tight. “You’re going to help.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Ann smiles and laces their fingers together. “You’re Leslie Knope. You filled in the pit next to my house, you gave Andy a job, you helped Ben get to Washington, you’ve helped a lot of people. You’ve already made a difference and you will help. You don’t know how not to.” Ann squeezes Leslie’s hands again, feels the stickiness of their fingers all tangled up, hopes it’s as reassuring to Leslie as it is to Ann.
Leslie’s eyes are shining again and she says, “I love you, Ann.”
“I love you, too.”
Leslie pulls Ann into a hug, and if they both get grease stains on their clothes Ann doesn’t mind. They change into their pajamas-“it is a sleepover, Ann, we probably should have done this sooner”-and Leslie helps Ann try to clean the stains before they throw the clothes in the wash.
After they go out to start a bonfire and make s’mores. Leslie lets Ann toast one marshmallow which catches on fire and then drops in into the flames when Ann tries to blow it out. Leslie toasts another for Ann and it’s the most delicious s’more she thinks she’s ever had.
Leslie has the DVDs she’s deemed “sleepover worthy” laid out on the coffee table: While You Were Sleeping, Phantom of the Opera, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and Casablanca. Ann looks them over. “Casablanca or While You Were Sleeping.”
“Not Phantom of the Opera?” Leslie asks, running her finger over the case, flipping it over and reading the back of the box.
(In the kitchen, the popcorn popping in the microwave, Ann looks at the camera, says, “I can’t watch Phantom of the Opera ever again.
Later that night Leslie tells the camera that the phantom is almost dreamier than Joe Biden, but Joe still has the edge.)
They’re curled up on Ann’s bed, Leslie’s sleeping bed unzipped and serving as a blanket. She tried to argue that it wasn’t a real sleepover if they didn’t sleep on the floor, their heads together so they could drift asleep after gabbing for hours, but Ann insisted the bed was better and Leslie let her win. There are mugs on the nightstand, rims stained with hot chocolate remains, an entire bottle of whipped cream empty on Ann’s kitchen counter. Ann’s comfortable, content. She says, “This was really fun.”
“It was,” Leslie says. She’s quiet for a long time and Ann thinks maybe she’s fallen asleep when she says, voice barely above a whisper, “Thanks Ann, I really needed this.”
“I know.” Ann turns so she’s not looking at the ceiling anymore, but at Leslie’s profile. “I know you miss Ben.”
“So much my bones and fingernails and hair hurt.” Leslie’s words are slower and softer than usual and it makes Ann’s heart clench.
“He misses you too. He’ll be back soon.” Ann tucks her fingers under her pillow, it’s cool and she spread her hand out.
Leslie looks at her, smiles softly. “I’m glad you’re my best friend.”
“Me, too.”
harry potter | harry/hermione. clumsy hands in a dark room (pg-13)
Hermione's hands shake, causing the teacup to rattle against the plate. The tea sloshes around, some of it falls over the edge, drips down the side. She thinks the china will be sticky when she picks it up again, a reminder of the nerves, of how she should not be here.
No, that's not quite right. This is her house, this is her sofa with the plain beige fabric, her coffee table covered in scratches and rings from Ron's tea when he forgets to use a coaster, her lamp, a gift from Molly, the light too dim to read by at night when she can't sleep, those nights when death and decay wait for her whenever she blinks her eyes closed. This is her house and she belongs here.
(A secret: sometimes she feels off-balance here, feels like someone has wrapped their hands around her lungs and is squeezing, is digging their nails into her wrist.
A secret: Hermione does not think she belongs here.)
Harry sits across from her, the teacup small in his large hand, his hair falling in his eyes when he looks down. He does not belong here. He belongs at his own house with the floral loveseat, the coffee table covered in protective glass, the ceiling light that's soft and warm, with his wife and his children and not with her. He does not belong with her.
They sit in her living room and she watches him take a large sip of tea, watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat. He is nervous, too. Hermione thinks this should make her feel steady because she is not alone, because she has spent her life being steady when Harry is nervous, when Harry requires it of her. But instead it makes this worse. The teacup clanks against the plate as she set it down, a wave of now cold tea spilling over and the cup sits in it.
She says, "You need a haircut."
He laughs and it sounds forced. "I've been told."
Hermione blinks and looks beyond Harry, to the clock that hangs crooked on the wall, the hands ticking away. She thinks her time is almost up, their time is almost up. She does not know who is included in this elusive their. "How's work?"
Each time he comes over--her husband visiting family, reminding her that her parents don't remember her name, the first word she ever spoke, that she exists, her children gone at Hogwarts, learning about a war she fought in with her best friends, a war that showed her many things: the lifeless corpse of someone she knew, how dirt clots under fingernails, how her hands shake in the cold when the fire flickers down and darkness encroaches--they do not talk about how empty her house is, they do not mention their spouses, their children, instead they live in these quiet spaces, in the beats between words, the stuttering of her breath when he quirks his mouth, in the shadows the lamplight casts, the places it does not reach.
Harry says, "Good." He does not elaborate. Hermione does not ask him to.
The stairs creak under their footsteps, hers too light, as though she does not want to leave a print, does not want anyone to ever know she was here, his too slow, as if he is going to turn back. But Hermione knows Harry does not know how to go back, not really. She doesn't either.
Her hand shakes when she twists the doorknob, but it is steady when it wraps around his wrist, his pulse thumping fast under her fingertips, uneven, and she presses down, tries to get it to calm down. His hand feels too large when it splays over her back, when he ruts up her shirt. His hand is soft now. Hermione remembers when it was rough and calloused.
(More secrets: she tries to forgot. During nights when she can close her eyes, when a warm body is lying next to her, she thinks about time-turners and the obliteration charm, but some things she can't ever forget, no matter how hard she tries.
A real secret, one Hermione keeps from herself: she does not want to forget. )
Her body is softer now, worn, she molds herself around him--she always has, hasn't she?--arches her hips into his, lets her gasp catch in her throat, scratches her nails down his back knowing she will have to magic any marks away, knowing he will leave having left something intangible with her, he will leave taking something of hers that maybe has belonged with him all these years, but there will be no physical evidence.
They are good at hiding.
She kisses Harry on the cheek, lingers there too long, the smell of sweat and the faint smell of her perfume mixing with his cologne. She could flick her wand and it would be gone. She wonders if Harry does, before he opens the door to his own home, his faithful wife waiting. She does not ask. They both know the rules.
"Bye, Hermione." He says it like it is the last time.
She knows better. "Bye Harry."
She watches his back as he leaves, arched, body huddled together as though he is trying to make himself small, wishes to be invisible again. The clouds overhead threaten to open up, threaten downpour. She keeps looking long after he's gone, staring at the spot he stood in before he disappeared. Hermione exhales, shuts the door softly, hears the lock click. Then, she cleans.
She gets down on her hands and knees and scrubs the floor, washes the dishes, elbow-deep in suds, collects the laundry in a basket. Hermione does not use magic to fix up the house, does not use it when she stands in the shower, hot water raining down painfully on her skin, leaving her red and raw.
She does not forget and she cannot fix this.
She's gotten good at pretending.
(But her hands still shake.)
one direction rpf | harry/louis and louis/eleanor. open happiness (pg)
Harry's scrolling through the apps. on his phone, tired and bored, wondering if Zayn or Niall want to see if they can somehow sneak drinks at the bar (he's pretty sure they could. Bartenders here get confused when they see their IDs.) when there's a loud knock on his door. "Go away," he mumbles, mostly to himself. If it's one of the boys they'll start shouting at him, if it's Paul he'll knock a few times before telling Harry he needs to open the door or he's coming in, and if it's a fan they'll think he's not in or they have the wrong room and actually go away.
He looks up when the door opens and Louis pops his head in (Harry can't remember if he gave Louis his extra key this time--one time Louis lost it after Harry lost his and Paul shook his head, half frustrated because they woke him up at was 3 in the morning and half amused--or if Louis stole his key earlier or if he stole his extra from whoever he did give it to. It's hard to keep track of these things when they're somewhere new every few days). He asks, "What?"
Louis smiles before stepping into the room, wearing a stupid, matching pair of coca-cola pyjama tops and bottoms. "We need you."
"Clearly." Harry locks his phone and tosses it to the other side of the bed, not getting up. "No one will want to fuck you if you wear that to bed."
Louis gasps and slaps his hand over his heart. "You lie. You totally want to fuck me right now."
Harry rolls his eyes. "If only to get you out of that ridiculous outfit."
"I know you think it's cute, Haz." Louis twirls around and proceeds to walk towards him as though he's on a runway.
"You're stupid."
"You love me."
Harry's mouth bends into a smile and he says, "Maybe a little."
Louis beams at him. "Good. Because we need you."
And then there's a light, slow, almost hesitant knock on the door. "Are you two making out or is it safe?" Eleanor calls.
"It's never safe," Harry says. He can practically see Eleanor rolling her eyes even if she's still on the other side of the door. Louis walks over and opens it. Harry can't help but laugh when he sees her wearing the same stupid pyjamas as Louis. "Are you two going to start matching all the time now?"
"No, I have a much more sophisticated fashion sense," Louis says, his mouth twitching into a smirk.
This time when Eleanor rolls her eyes Harry can see it. "He wishes. Can you take pictures, please?" Eleanor holds her phone out to Harry.
Harry sighs and scoots himself off the bed, standing up and tugging his shirt down. "Only because you said please." He takes her phone and holds it up.
"In the hallway, Harry." Louis says, letting Eleanor grab his hand and pull him out of the room.
"Right." Harry follows, realizing for what feels like the ten millionth time in their lives, that everything they do and post will be analyzed and speculated on. It sucks for a lot of reasons. Like how he's not allowed to hold Louis' hand in public the way Eleanor is, and he can't tweet about how much he misses Louis when they're apart for a few days, and he sure as hell can't wear stupid matching outfits and have someone take pictures so they can keep them and post them on the internet.
He takes a few pictures with Eleanor's phone as she and Louis smile brightly and do different poses, sometimes making faces that Harry would laugh at if he wasn't so tired and suddenly annoyed by this entire situation. And okay, Harry knows he gets jealous of Eleanor more than Eleanor gets jealous of him, and Louis mostly finds that hilarious. And Harry knows he's a twat a lot of the time, but he figures sometimes he earns the right to be. Because he has Louis and Eleanor has Louis but not in the same way, and maybe he's not ready to have Louis like Eleanor does. And maybe if he and Eleanor both did it would be even more complicated because there relationship is so different. He shakes his head, it's too late to be thinking about this, makes himself laugh so his smile looks more genuine than it is. "Are we done yet?"
"Yeah," Eleanor says and Harry hands her back her phone. "I'll go post a few of these. You two do your," she makes a motion with her hand, "thing. You can him tomorrow night, Harry."
"Hey!" Louis says, "I am not a child of your divorce."
"Whatever," Eleanor sighs. She starts down the hall before turning around. She says, "We bought you a pair, too."
Harry laughs for real this time, a loud cackle spilling past his lips. "Thanks."
Then Eleanor's turning the corner and Louis is sticking the keycard Harry is pretty sure he stole from Lou into the door, opening it and grabbing Harry's wrist, pulling him inside. "We can take a family picture tomorrow."
"You, me and Eleanor or just you and me?" Harry asks.
"Both." And then Louis is pushing Harry against the door, hands on Harry's shoulder, sweeping his tongue into Harry's mouth.
Harry groans a little, surprised, but he slips his hand under Louis' (still really dumb) shirt and rests the other at the nape of his neck, running his fingers through the hair there. It's like every other time he's kissed Louis, comfortable but a tingle in his spine telling him it'll never be enough, a pounding of more more more running through his veins.
Harry's not even bothered when Eleanor comes back, handing him a bag with his matching pyjamas, and Louis lacing his fingers with hers as they stand in the doorway, Louis leaning against the Jam as he says, "I will see you tomorrow," with a waggle of his eyebrows.
"I promise not to wear him out too much," Eleanor says, winking.
Harry pretends to gag, closing the door behind them as they leave his room. He flops down on his bed, reaches over and grabs his phone, sees that Louis has sent him a text, go to sleep u look tired, and so has Niall, beer!!!. Harry smiles, decides to get the beer from Niall. Alcohol helps you fall asleep anyway.