The Inconsequential Things
No Pairing. | PG | 657 words | 08 November, 2008
Betas: none, all mistakes are my own!
Summary: Someone is missing you.
Notes: This was written for aldehyde. She's one of my LJBFFs, and when she went on a trip and was internet-less, I nearly died from Moonal-withdrawl.
I had Al/Scorpius in my mind more, but it could be Harry/Draco too, or Kris/Adam, or any pairing of any dynamic, really. I like ot count it as original work, since it's so ambiguous, save for the some-what British phrasing in parts.
***
I miss you.
You went to run an errand, you told me you be back in a few minutes, but I still miss the strength of your arms around me, the heat from your body against my back, even your cold toes playing footsie with mine while I yelp and try to push you away, but you won't have it, and you only press your warmth further into me, easing my shivers.
I miss the way you get so engrossed with your work, but can still take a second to brush your hand across my hip as I walk by, and even smile and make me lean down to kiss you softly when I bring you more coffee.
I miss the way you go off about something that you feel is an injustice or an affront to you; you only seem to get more upset when I look amused at your antics, but since you know I always make it up to you later, you try not to get too mad at me.
I miss the way you talk to yourself while concentrating on a task, or while fiddling with something; the way you run your hand through your hair and muss it up so it that it falls in your eyes; it makes me want to tuck it behind your ear, but instead, I watch as you mutter and run your hand through your hair some more.
I miss the slide of your skin against mine when we're making love. I miss the hot panting in my ear as you spend yourself inside of me. I miss the salty sweetness of your kisses, open and hot-mouthed; they give me shivers and I arch under you in ecstasy.
I miss the way you nibble at my fingertips. It tickles, and I try to pull my hand away, but you won't let me until you're done with each digit.
I miss when you run your fingers through my hair. I can't help but close my eyes in purring-cat kind of pleasure, but I miss it more because it's when I feel most safe; most loved.
I miss the way your eyes twinkle when you smile, and the way your laugh fills a room – it could fill a large stadium, I think, with its joy.
I miss sharing sweet kisses in front of our parents; I swear your father might have a serious fit one of these days, but I know he loves you, and I know he'd die before making you unhappy.
I miss getting in rows with you. Not because I like fighting, but because it always leads to the best sex. I'm obsessed with sex with you. I don't mind admitting it; because then it means I'm obsessed with you, which we both know is the truth.
I miss your little notes, which seem so inconsequential, but you left me one this morning, on the pillow next to mine, so I'd know where you've gone. You'd never put hearts or x's or o's on one, but your love is apparent each time, because sometimes you'll leave one even if you're in the shower, which I can always plainly hear is on.
I'm sitting at the window, curled up like I always am, and I see something else I miss. Looking down at the busy street below, I miss the way the sunlight plays off your hair, and the sight of you returning home to me. This time, you're holding a newspaper under your arm, a bag of what's sure to be fresh pastries, and two coffees.
I don't miss that you do these little inconsequential things. They happen every day. I miss all of you, and I love that you do these little inconsequential things, because you walk in the door and see me sitting there, and I smile. You smile back, and I can tell that you miss all the things I miss too.
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