Stay

We both know you've been screamin'
Why don't you give your little voice a rest
Come on up inside my bed
And just pretend you need me...

And if she ever lets you down
After she's run out of your money
Well then just crawl on back to me
I'm the one that sets you free
And I'm the one that needs you...

Well you can use my body
To do what you have to
But stay a little longer
Stay with me...
-- "Stay" by Coal

------

The knock at his door would always come at three am. It didn't matter the day of the week, the month of the year. The visits always seemed to be perfectly timed. The green digitalised numbers of his alarm clock would morph from 2:59 to 3:00, and an insistent hand would bang on his front door. It wasn't every night, or every week - sometimes months would pass before he was once again roused from intermittent slumber by the sound of flesh and wood echoing throughout his small flat.

And when he did awake to the dull thudding, he would lay in his bed for exactly three minutes - no less, no more - and consider ignoring his visitor, consider burying his head beneath his pillow and pretending he'd not heard the persistent rapping. When the three minutes had passed, he would sigh, leave the warmth and safety of his bed, and make his way to door. He would almost always reach it mid-knock, the heavy oak rattling against the frame. When the locks were undone, both conventional Muggle and unconventional magic, the door would be thrown open to reveal a thin figure covered in an impossibly soft velvet cloak, hair glinting and skin sallow in the dim light of the outside hall.

"Merlin, Potter. Must you always take bloody forever to answer the door? I'm liable to be murdered out here one night. Honestly, can't you find a more respectable residence?" Arms crossed and a disdainful sneer dashing across porcelain flesh.

"Another fight with Pansy, Draco?" Rolled eyes and a soft hint of annoyance shining in brilliant green.

"Is there another reason I would be standing at your door at this ridiculous hour?"

There wasn't, of course. It was as if they followed a script. Enter Draco Malfoy, stage left. Enter Harry Potter, stage right. Every action, every word, every touch was exactly the same every time. The opening act would begin with a one-sided conversation, Draco ranting about whatever it was that his wife had done this time - called him on his infidelity, overspent her monthly allowance during a trip to Paris, insignificant little nothings that never failed to make his blood boil - while Harry nodded and made the appropriate murmurs of disapproval.

The second act would begin with a bruising kiss and rough hands slipping against taut skin and soft flannel. It would take place first in the living room, splayed limbs twisting together on a sofa that had seen better days. Ten minutes would pass before the scene changed to the bedroom, hands and tongues fighting each other for dominance, the bottom sheet inevitably coming loose in one corner. There would be words whispered and lost, spoken from lips pressed against smooth abdomens, soft thighs. It would end with moans, the sounds of two bodies meeting together, crisp cotton sheets crinkling around them.

The third act included a typical post coital moment. Long, pristine fingers clutching a cigarette, the grating of metal and flint and the quick flare of a small flame. Cool grey suddenly illuminated by bright orange. There would be no words until the end of this act, no murmurs of love and completion that so typically followed intercourse. There would be only the sound of two men breathing, one inhaling and exhaling acrid blue smoke and the other watching the pinpoint of red light rise and fall with each breath. An ashtray was kept on one side of the bed, only used on nights like these. The sound of a cigarette being ground into the glass would be punctuated by the sound of movement, the sound of a hand dragging across the floor in search of clothing.

"Stay." An outstretched hand brushing against a shoulder.

"Don't start with that again. We both know that I can't. Wouldn't look good for either of us if I were to be seen leaving your flat in the morning, would it?" A mask of cold indifference fractured for a millisecond and legs hurriedly pushed into pressed black slacks.

The conclusion of the third act and the beginning of the finale was the slamming of heavy oak. The resolute sound would echo through the tiny flat and reverberate in the centre of his chest, accompanied by a dull and unidentifiable ache. It wasn't that he enjoyed following the script, he would tell himself, it was just that he didn't know how to rewrite it. Emptying the ashtray into the kitchen trash and taking it back to its designated place on the windowsill, he would resolve to take control of the script, change the beginning of the first act - or the end of the third. He wouldn't answer the door - or Draco wouldn't leave. And his resolve would stay firm. Until the next time a knock came at his door at three am and the play began once more.