Side

SIDE BY SIDE IN ORBIT

"...what if there were two,
side by side in orbit..."
R.E.M., "Nightswimming"

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CHAPTER 2 - The L Word

Even before I wake up I know that the bed is empty next to me. I don't sleep well after Draco left, being so used to having him beside me, or around me, most nights. Sometimes after we had argued we went to bed lying as far apart as we could, careful not to touch each other even with an elbow or a toe. But during the night we always gravitated towards the centre of the bed, our bodies wiser than our minds, and we woke up in the morning as entangled as ever, arms and legs entwined, warm and relaxed and slightly damp with sweat, our own, each other's. What I think about most, now, are all the infinitely intimate moments when we were not sure who was who and what belonged to whom. My hands on him or his on me, my tongue in his mouth or his in mine, his saliva or mine on my lips, our sweat mingling on our bodies, a whispered word from one of us to the other, borders transcended. Now that he's gone it's like phantom pains; like having limbs missing that I never even knew were there.

He's been gone three weeks. Tragedy boy. Melodrama boy. He's very good at making nothing into something, both good and bad. If he had only let me get a word in edgewise it needn't have come to this. But he didn't even let me finish my sentence.

I don't know where he's gone to and I haven't tried to find him. There haven't been any owls about him missing work so I guess he goes there as usual. But I won't owl him or go to see him. He was the one who left and he's the one who has to come back. I'll just stay here, waiting, like a harbour waiting for an erratic ship to be guided there by the beacons along the coast. Because he has to come back. I refuse to acknowledge any other possibilities.

He's probably drinking hard. He usually gets drunk when he's upset about something, it's his way of dealing with it, a form of exorcism. It doesn't work for me. I sometimes drink when I'm upset, too, but never the way he does, never that much. I only want the alcohol to loosen me up a bit, tear down mental walls and allow an uninhibited flow of thought. I don't want to drown in it. He wants to be washed away.

Everything here reminds me so painfully of him. In the shower I close my eyes and listen to the water drumming on top of my head. I can't even stand the sight of the sea coloured mosaic tiles on the walls; it only makes me remember the back of my shoulders being pressed against them so hard that the little squares leave an imprint on my skin, while Draco is on his knees in front of me, my hands in his wet hair and the sound of my moans echoing flatly between the walls.

Another Sunday morning without a lazy breakfast-for-two in bed. Sunshine is flowing in through the windows but the kitchen feels bleak, as if Draco's presence is the only thing that will make the place come alive. I make toast the Muggle way, feeling too angry and too drained to trust myself to use magic. I would probably burn down the whole house. When I have bitten into the first piece, the doorbell rings.

Hermione looks very pretty in a white sleeveless dress. Her tanned face is flushed pink from the walk, her clear brown eyes glittering as she kisses me on the cheek. I ask if she wants breakfast and she sits down at the kitchen table while I cook, the sunshine brighter now that she is here. The sharp pleasant smells of frying bacon and freshly ground coffee makes the kitchen wake up. I open the balcony door to let in sweet, cool air and late morning sounds. As I set the plates on the table Hermione gives me one of her firm no-nonsense looks and says brusquely:

"What do you two think you're doing?"

"What?"

I wince and the cutlery drops from my hand and clatters loudly onto her plate.

"You and Draco. I just can't watch you do this to each other. I met Draco yesterday but I didn't get much sense out of him. But I could tell he was really upset. What have you done to him?"

"Why do you always take Draco's opinion as unquestionable truth?" Saying his name makes me shiver. "Why do you assume I've done something to him? Would you mind hearing my side of the story, just for a change?"

"No, I wouldn't mind at all," she says drily. "In fact that's why I'm here."

She can be very annoying.

"I haven't done a bloody thing to him. Nothing. He just ran out on me. He wouldn't listen. When does Draco ever listen?" I haven't realised just how angry I am until now. "Exactly. He doesn't. He never fucking listens. We were talking, and he - I only said to him - I just tried to tell him - " I break off, winded suddenly, not at all sure now of the wisdom of what I tried to tell him.

"Tell him what?"

I stare at her helplessly.

"Um... that I love him."

I blush at hearing myself say it. Hermione lifts an eyebrow and looks at me with a scepticism that bores into my head. She bursts out laughing, a rough, barking laugh that makes me shudder.

"Yeah, I'm sure that's what you did! How stupid of me not to guess! Harry told Draco he loved him, damn, that must be why Draco looks like a ghost and drinks himself stupid. Oh, come on, Harry. You can do better than this."

"I guess it... came out wrong."

"God, Harry! For someone so bright you're really pretty dense, you know. How about telling me what happened."

"Not until you tell me what Draco said yesterday. What was he like? Is he all right?"

"I won't tell you what he said. I don't think he would want me to. But he was quite drunk and determined to make that condition worse, and he looked like death. You know the way his eyes take on this impenetrable slate colour sometimes. Like that." She gives me a searching look. "You should have just said you loved him. In so many words. You two make me crazy. I meet Draco in the street looking like death and then I find you here looking... well, not much better, and all the time it's so obvious you're still in love and dying to get back with each other. Just find him, Harry, and tell him properly this time."

Easy for Hermione to say. She's not the one who will have to face Draco's anger. But she wants to know what really happened. Well, the thing is - nothing did. Absolutely nothing. That's why I'm so blazing mad at him, melodrama boy. It was just something I said to him that he misunderstood - but we've had so many misunderstandings before and some pretty ugly arguments, too, and we've always managed to get through those without this sort of drama. And that is what scares the hell out of me: I'm afraid he really wanted to leave me anyway, that he has been thinking of leaving for some time and just caught this opportunity like a Snitch, a golden excuse for leaving me and making it my fault.

I tell Hermione this over steaming cups of coffee this glorious Sunday morning in July that I should have spent in bed with Draco, slowly moving my mouth over his creamy skin.

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"And that was it, Hermione. I swear that was all."

Her eyes are shut tight and I stare at her in some kind of desperation. Sensible Hermione. I don't doubt for a second that she has it all figured out, that she sees clearly what I have failed to see. Sometimes I think she understands Draco far better than I do. I'm too close to him, so focused on details I miss the whole.

"God, Harry," she moans softly. "I'm sorry, but how could you have been so bloody stupid. No wonder Draco looked like death. Don't you see what it was you said to him? What it was he thought you said?"

She opens her eyes, reaches across the table and grips my hand, crushes it until I protest. My thoughts are whirling uncontrollably and I honestly don't understand. Hermione says, very clearly as if she is explaining to a slow child:

"He heard you say that you've stayed with him out of gratitude; that you are indebted to him and this has chained you to him. He heard you say that you stay with him simply to try to pay off your debt. You thought you were telling him you loved him and he thought you were telling him the exact opposite."

As simple as that. How ridiculous can love get. You'd think that wizards should be clever enough to keep themselves out of stupid, completely unnecessary tangles like this, but we're no better than Muggles in this respect. If anything, we're worse, because we think magic will solve our problems, whereas Muggles know they will have to work on it.

* * *

I lie awake that night trying to push the thought of Draco away, but it keeps returning, irritatingly persistent, like a too-friendly, plunging dog you try to shove off your bed.

Just find him and tell him you love him. I didn't tell Hermione we have never said "I love you". Except the one time at Hogwarts, when Draco stood in the doorway with his back to me, said he loved me and then rushed off. We've said it in a million other ways, showed it in every way we can think of, but never once used those words. And the longer you refrain from saying it, the harder it is to say. The L word has been hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles.

A little more than a week from now I'll be twenty-one. We had planned a big party for the weekend. I'm going ahead with the plans and I can't help wondering if Draco will turn up.

I wish he would deliver himself to my door like a birthday gift, the best one I've ever had. And that he will let me spend the entire night unwrapping him and savouring the contents.