Fic: Cloves and Honey for slyth_enigma
Title: Cloves and Honey
Author/Artist: sktypied
Giftee: slyth_enigma
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 2,042
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: A little bit of angst, language, and m/m kissing.
Author/Artist's Notes: The plotbunny was inspired by the song "Our Separate Ways" by Teddy Thompson, and one of the lines is paraphrased from the lyrics. Beta'd by nohara_megami, slytherin966, and aeronomic. Any remaining mistakes are mine! Hope you like it! :)
Summary: 'And there was the moment he'd been waiting for: a quickly smothered gasp, an involuntary jerk of clinking keys, and a small hesitation. Awareness of being caught-a previously unknown delicacy to him that curled and sank like molasses to the pit of his stomach.'
Harry sighed as he stared up at the ceiling of their living room.
A ceiling he couldn't see because his earlier rage had got the best of him and taken out their electricity in a storm of popping light fixtures and flailing, crackling wires that had ripped themselves out of the walls. Their flat was a disaster, he knew.
Despite the lack of power, the lights and appliances had gone crazy, probably feeding off his out of control magic as things often did. Lights flickering madly, the telly had exploded, and yet the various pieces of glass that had made up its screen still played the show he'd been watching. The fridge doors had frantically swung open and closed, intermittently spewing their contents to the peril of whatever got in their way, as the oven door heaved to and fro, the dials and knobs twisting and turning, the burners twirling up into the air but still managing to glow red with heat. Random items had buzzed and whirled around the flat, sometimes impaling themselves into the ceiling or the crumbling walls while furniture had rolled and swung and floated around the flat.
Through it all, he had remained uninjured. Exhausted, sweaty, refreshed, but uninjured.
He didn't know what to think of that yet. He almost wished he'd been injured in some way, so that when Draco … if Draco finally returned, he could see what he truly meant to him. If he truly meant anything at all, now.
He sighed again, gustily this time. He should be doing something productive, like fixing the flat back up or searching Draco out in the clubs he knew he frequented. Instead, he was lounging on the sofa, haphazardly balanced on top of the fallen fridge, feeling sorry for himself and nursing his emotional wounds with a slice of cake and a glass of wine. Both meant for his and Draco's five-year anniversary, which had passed without comment from Draco before he'd left for his 'office' at the Ministry. He'd been called back because there had been a problem with one of the files he'd submitted; an excuse that was flimsy, at best, but one Draco had apparently thought he wouldn't question.
Anger flaring, he quickly grabbed his fork and stabbed off a piece of cake, chewing it furiously. Did Draco really think he was that stupid and naïve? Had he thought that all along? Was this entire relationship a sham, something Draco remained in because he felt-No, no. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, dragging his hand down his face. He didn't want to go down that path. It was what had caused his previous violent temper tantrum and he didn't think the flat could handle another episode.
He jumped slightly as the lock to the front door suddenly jiggled and rattled. The sound was obscenely loud as it cascaded through the blanket of silence, and he was just entertaining the thought of warding it so Draco couldn't get in, when the door slowly swung open. Realising that he was seeing how Draco snuck in, he had the absurd feeling he was seeing something he wasn't supposed to, something unsullied and chaste until his eyes beheld it. Pure bollocks though, he thought and quietly sipped his wine, watching the growing sliver of starlit night and the blond hair it framed.
And there was the moment he'd been waiting for: a quickly smothered gasp, an involuntary jerk of clinking keys, and a small hesitation. Awareness of being caught-a previously unknown delicacy to him that curled and sank like molasses to the pit of his stomach.
"… Harry."
A single word that spoke volumes. Despite the tumultuous rush of feelings it created, he casually took another bite from his slice of cake, chewing slowly this time and deliberating over what his reply should be. He was surprised Draco had come home, really, although the thought that it was in respect to their anniversary had him mentally snorting at himself. Over the past six months or so, Draco had obviously shown where his considerations lay-with himself. Swallowing, he took a sip of wine, crudely smacking his lips. "Draco," he said, because he didn't want to seem overly upset, even if his magic was pulsing and pushing against its containment.
There was a strained silence then, heavy with the weight of words that needed to be said. He wondered what Draco would do next, poised in the doorway to their flat, able to either shut the door behind him or … or walk out. One hand tensely gripping the plate in his lap, and struggling to hide the trembling in the other, he prayed for the decision to be reached quickly. He didn't think his heart could take much more suspense.
Gradually, Draco closed the door behind him.
Click and the flat was pitch-black once more.
His heart thudding, he bit his lip and banished the piece of cake to the kitchen. He wasn't hungry anymore, but gods, he needed the wine. He knocked back a nervous gulp of alcohol, wincing as it blazed down his throat and made his nose tingle. Draco hadn't left. He hadn't left, but what did that mean? Or maybe it didn't mean anything at all? Draco had always been especially good at covering his true emotions in stressful situations. It was one of the things that had originally drawn him to the blond during the War; Draco's calm and composed façade had always soothed him, even if things were going to hell around them. But for all he knew, Draco was just going to gather his stuff and-and leave. Walk back out the door with his multiple trunks floating along behind, like snobby little dogs on a leash. He frowned, resting the glass of wine on his thigh and stroking its delicate stem. Little dogs on a leash … not too far from what he'd been the past few months. Once he'd started seeing the signs, he'd done his best to cling to Draco, desperately trying to prevent the creeping death of their relationship, desperately trying to convince himself that if he just held on tighter, Draco would come back. He grimaced. Well, if Draco really wanted, they could-
"Why won't the lights work?"
He blinked, pulling himself away from his growing resignation and looking up in the direction of Draco's voice. "What?"
He couldn't see the roll of eyes, but he knew it was there. "I said, why won't the lights work? Didn't you say the electricity was always on and easier to use than our magic?" Click, click, click-the sound of Draco flipping the light switch up and down.
"Er … yeah, well, normally. But … I might have … um, I sort of …"
"Lumos."
He hissed and threw an arm up against the bright glare, eyes squeezing shut. "Merlin, Draco, you could've warned me."
"What did you do to the flat?" was the carefully neutral reply.
Squinting, he peeked over the top of his arm, waiting for his eyes to adjust. "Well, I … you had to go to your-office. At the Ministry. And, um …" He sighed and dropped his arm, looking back down at his lap, at the wine glass he rested there. This wasn't going the way he'd planned. He'd wanted to be nonchalant, cool and collected, like Draco always seemed to be around him nowadays-like he was now. Instead, his tone was unsure, shaky and withdrawn, and he knew that if he explained what had happened to the flat, all pretence of being indifferent would be lost. In for a knut, in for a galleon, he thought wearily. "I got angry. Pretty much destroyed the flat."
"That explains why our bed is out here, stuck through like a pin cushion."
"Yeah," he replied softly. Deciding he didn't need the wine as much, he sent it floating off to the kitchen to join the slice of cake, wherever it had landed.
The sphere of light began to drift closer as Draco picked his way over the ransacked room, his face hues of blue-grey concentration. "The wine was for our anniversary, wasn't it?"
Surprised, Harry nodded. "Yeah," he repeated. Then added, "There's cake as well. I, um, started without you though." He cleared his throat. "Got tired of waiting, you know?"
Other than a quick glance, there wasn't a response, until finally Draco stood before him, expression blank. "What kind of cake?"
Harry looked away and shrugged sadly. "Your favourite. Double Dutch chocolate." He paused. "I … made it. Figured store-bought wouldn't be as … meaningful … for our five-year anniversary," and he couldn't help the edge of bitterness that crept into his words.
"Ah," Draco said, still devoid of emotion.
Fuck it, he thought angrily, and impulsively reached up to yank Draco down by his tie, allowing the feelings of frustration, anger and hurt to flow into a hard kiss. His tongue briefly swiped across warm, firm lips, but didn't wait for acceptance, instead forcing its way through. It roved over the bumps and dips of perfect teeth, plundered and slid and battled against a docile tongue, trying to impose and coerce an equally ravenous response. When it remained maddeningly passive, he drew back, panting and wide-eyed.
Draco simply raised an eyebrow and drawled, "Are you done?"
He froze, his mind a sudden blank expanse until, "Yes. I-suppose I am," and he slowly let go of Draco's tie, the silk slipping luxuriously under his fingers.
"Good. I'm in mind to have a piece of that Double Dutch, unless you've eaten it all." Draco sniffed as he looked down at his mussed tie and shirt, then set about putting them to rights with his free hand.
He eyed Draco speculatively, finally grasping an idea he had missed from the very start. "You know … You can cast charms to fix your hair and rid yourself of the smell of sex, but you can never replace the way you taste."
The blond paused momentarily, before continuing to set his appearance to rights. "What do you mean?" he asked indifferently.
"When we first got together, you tasted like cloves and honey. Spicy sweet, invigoratingly smooth, an explosion of taste-"
Draco snorted and drawled, "Potter, really, no need to get so horribly sa-"
"No," he harshly cut off, a finger angrily jabbing at Draco. "You don't understand. You've changed. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but you've changed and I don't even know what to say to you anymore."
Shoulders feeling slightly lighter, his chest a little looser, he continued passionately, "We've always had a volatile relationship-when one of us was mad, we let the other know it by screaming in each other's faces and slamming doors and making right gits of ourselves. Then we'd always make up by fucking each other into the wall, or ground, or-but now …" he sighed and shook his head, his anger suddenly evaporating. "We don't even talk to each other the same way. I try and I try to make conversation, but all you do is mumble something about having to work on a new project or stare at me as if I'm not even fit to be the dirt beneath your shoe."
A tense silence followed, broken only by their rhythmic breaths.
"You better not have eaten all the cake, Potter," Draco said, and abruptly turned, taking the artificial light with him as he made his way to the kitchen.
He followed the gently bobbing light, watching it filter softly into the darkness, fading and shrinking until he was left in almost complete blackness, with only the faintest blue-white tinge. "Well, shit," he muttered bitterly, and carelessly ran a hand through his hair. He'd wished for one last spark, one last sign, that maybe they were meant to stay together and work through this. Draco had worried about the cake instead. A rather pointed sign, indeed.
Well, if Draco really wanted, they could go their separate ways, he thought, and Disapparated, just as the light began to gently bob in his direction, growing and rolling until the empty room was awash in a blue-white hue.
Please leave your comments on the author's LJ HERE.
Author/Artist: sktypied
Giftee: slyth_enigma
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 2,042
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: A little bit of angst, language, and m/m kissing.
Author/Artist's Notes: The plotbunny was inspired by the song "Our Separate Ways" by Teddy Thompson, and one of the lines is paraphrased from the lyrics. Beta'd by nohara_megami, slytherin966, and aeronomic. Any remaining mistakes are mine! Hope you like it! :)
Summary: 'And there was the moment he'd been waiting for: a quickly smothered gasp, an involuntary jerk of clinking keys, and a small hesitation. Awareness of being caught-a previously unknown delicacy to him that curled and sank like molasses to the pit of his stomach.'
Harry sighed as he stared up at the ceiling of their living room.
A ceiling he couldn't see because his earlier rage had got the best of him and taken out their electricity in a storm of popping light fixtures and flailing, crackling wires that had ripped themselves out of the walls. Their flat was a disaster, he knew.
Despite the lack of power, the lights and appliances had gone crazy, probably feeding off his out of control magic as things often did. Lights flickering madly, the telly had exploded, and yet the various pieces of glass that had made up its screen still played the show he'd been watching. The fridge doors had frantically swung open and closed, intermittently spewing their contents to the peril of whatever got in their way, as the oven door heaved to and fro, the dials and knobs twisting and turning, the burners twirling up into the air but still managing to glow red with heat. Random items had buzzed and whirled around the flat, sometimes impaling themselves into the ceiling or the crumbling walls while furniture had rolled and swung and floated around the flat.
Through it all, he had remained uninjured. Exhausted, sweaty, refreshed, but uninjured.
He didn't know what to think of that yet. He almost wished he'd been injured in some way, so that when Draco … if Draco finally returned, he could see what he truly meant to him. If he truly meant anything at all, now.
He sighed again, gustily this time. He should be doing something productive, like fixing the flat back up or searching Draco out in the clubs he knew he frequented. Instead, he was lounging on the sofa, haphazardly balanced on top of the fallen fridge, feeling sorry for himself and nursing his emotional wounds with a slice of cake and a glass of wine. Both meant for his and Draco's five-year anniversary, which had passed without comment from Draco before he'd left for his 'office' at the Ministry. He'd been called back because there had been a problem with one of the files he'd submitted; an excuse that was flimsy, at best, but one Draco had apparently thought he wouldn't question.
Anger flaring, he quickly grabbed his fork and stabbed off a piece of cake, chewing it furiously. Did Draco really think he was that stupid and naïve? Had he thought that all along? Was this entire relationship a sham, something Draco remained in because he felt-No, no. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, dragging his hand down his face. He didn't want to go down that path. It was what had caused his previous violent temper tantrum and he didn't think the flat could handle another episode.
He jumped slightly as the lock to the front door suddenly jiggled and rattled. The sound was obscenely loud as it cascaded through the blanket of silence, and he was just entertaining the thought of warding it so Draco couldn't get in, when the door slowly swung open. Realising that he was seeing how Draco snuck in, he had the absurd feeling he was seeing something he wasn't supposed to, something unsullied and chaste until his eyes beheld it. Pure bollocks though, he thought and quietly sipped his wine, watching the growing sliver of starlit night and the blond hair it framed.
And there was the moment he'd been waiting for: a quickly smothered gasp, an involuntary jerk of clinking keys, and a small hesitation. Awareness of being caught-a previously unknown delicacy to him that curled and sank like molasses to the pit of his stomach.
"… Harry."
A single word that spoke volumes. Despite the tumultuous rush of feelings it created, he casually took another bite from his slice of cake, chewing slowly this time and deliberating over what his reply should be. He was surprised Draco had come home, really, although the thought that it was in respect to their anniversary had him mentally snorting at himself. Over the past six months or so, Draco had obviously shown where his considerations lay-with himself. Swallowing, he took a sip of wine, crudely smacking his lips. "Draco," he said, because he didn't want to seem overly upset, even if his magic was pulsing and pushing against its containment.
There was a strained silence then, heavy with the weight of words that needed to be said. He wondered what Draco would do next, poised in the doorway to their flat, able to either shut the door behind him or … or walk out. One hand tensely gripping the plate in his lap, and struggling to hide the trembling in the other, he prayed for the decision to be reached quickly. He didn't think his heart could take much more suspense.
Gradually, Draco closed the door behind him.
Click and the flat was pitch-black once more.
His heart thudding, he bit his lip and banished the piece of cake to the kitchen. He wasn't hungry anymore, but gods, he needed the wine. He knocked back a nervous gulp of alcohol, wincing as it blazed down his throat and made his nose tingle. Draco hadn't left. He hadn't left, but what did that mean? Or maybe it didn't mean anything at all? Draco had always been especially good at covering his true emotions in stressful situations. It was one of the things that had originally drawn him to the blond during the War; Draco's calm and composed façade had always soothed him, even if things were going to hell around them. But for all he knew, Draco was just going to gather his stuff and-and leave. Walk back out the door with his multiple trunks floating along behind, like snobby little dogs on a leash. He frowned, resting the glass of wine on his thigh and stroking its delicate stem. Little dogs on a leash … not too far from what he'd been the past few months. Once he'd started seeing the signs, he'd done his best to cling to Draco, desperately trying to prevent the creeping death of their relationship, desperately trying to convince himself that if he just held on tighter, Draco would come back. He grimaced. Well, if Draco really wanted, they could-
"Why won't the lights work?"
He blinked, pulling himself away from his growing resignation and looking up in the direction of Draco's voice. "What?"
He couldn't see the roll of eyes, but he knew it was there. "I said, why won't the lights work? Didn't you say the electricity was always on and easier to use than our magic?" Click, click, click-the sound of Draco flipping the light switch up and down.
"Er … yeah, well, normally. But … I might have … um, I sort of …"
"Lumos."
He hissed and threw an arm up against the bright glare, eyes squeezing shut. "Merlin, Draco, you could've warned me."
"What did you do to the flat?" was the carefully neutral reply.
Squinting, he peeked over the top of his arm, waiting for his eyes to adjust. "Well, I … you had to go to your-office. At the Ministry. And, um …" He sighed and dropped his arm, looking back down at his lap, at the wine glass he rested there. This wasn't going the way he'd planned. He'd wanted to be nonchalant, cool and collected, like Draco always seemed to be around him nowadays-like he was now. Instead, his tone was unsure, shaky and withdrawn, and he knew that if he explained what had happened to the flat, all pretence of being indifferent would be lost. In for a knut, in for a galleon, he thought wearily. "I got angry. Pretty much destroyed the flat."
"That explains why our bed is out here, stuck through like a pin cushion."
"Yeah," he replied softly. Deciding he didn't need the wine as much, he sent it floating off to the kitchen to join the slice of cake, wherever it had landed.
The sphere of light began to drift closer as Draco picked his way over the ransacked room, his face hues of blue-grey concentration. "The wine was for our anniversary, wasn't it?"
Surprised, Harry nodded. "Yeah," he repeated. Then added, "There's cake as well. I, um, started without you though." He cleared his throat. "Got tired of waiting, you know?"
Other than a quick glance, there wasn't a response, until finally Draco stood before him, expression blank. "What kind of cake?"
Harry looked away and shrugged sadly. "Your favourite. Double Dutch chocolate." He paused. "I … made it. Figured store-bought wouldn't be as … meaningful … for our five-year anniversary," and he couldn't help the edge of bitterness that crept into his words.
"Ah," Draco said, still devoid of emotion.
Fuck it, he thought angrily, and impulsively reached up to yank Draco down by his tie, allowing the feelings of frustration, anger and hurt to flow into a hard kiss. His tongue briefly swiped across warm, firm lips, but didn't wait for acceptance, instead forcing its way through. It roved over the bumps and dips of perfect teeth, plundered and slid and battled against a docile tongue, trying to impose and coerce an equally ravenous response. When it remained maddeningly passive, he drew back, panting and wide-eyed.
Draco simply raised an eyebrow and drawled, "Are you done?"
He froze, his mind a sudden blank expanse until, "Yes. I-suppose I am," and he slowly let go of Draco's tie, the silk slipping luxuriously under his fingers.
"Good. I'm in mind to have a piece of that Double Dutch, unless you've eaten it all." Draco sniffed as he looked down at his mussed tie and shirt, then set about putting them to rights with his free hand.
He eyed Draco speculatively, finally grasping an idea he had missed from the very start. "You know … You can cast charms to fix your hair and rid yourself of the smell of sex, but you can never replace the way you taste."
The blond paused momentarily, before continuing to set his appearance to rights. "What do you mean?" he asked indifferently.
"When we first got together, you tasted like cloves and honey. Spicy sweet, invigoratingly smooth, an explosion of taste-"
Draco snorted and drawled, "Potter, really, no need to get so horribly sa-"
"No," he harshly cut off, a finger angrily jabbing at Draco. "You don't understand. You've changed. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but you've changed and I don't even know what to say to you anymore."
Shoulders feeling slightly lighter, his chest a little looser, he continued passionately, "We've always had a volatile relationship-when one of us was mad, we let the other know it by screaming in each other's faces and slamming doors and making right gits of ourselves. Then we'd always make up by fucking each other into the wall, or ground, or-but now …" he sighed and shook his head, his anger suddenly evaporating. "We don't even talk to each other the same way. I try and I try to make conversation, but all you do is mumble something about having to work on a new project or stare at me as if I'm not even fit to be the dirt beneath your shoe."
A tense silence followed, broken only by their rhythmic breaths.
"You better not have eaten all the cake, Potter," Draco said, and abruptly turned, taking the artificial light with him as he made his way to the kitchen.
He followed the gently bobbing light, watching it filter softly into the darkness, fading and shrinking until he was left in almost complete blackness, with only the faintest blue-white tinge. "Well, shit," he muttered bitterly, and carelessly ran a hand through his hair. He'd wished for one last spark, one last sign, that maybe they were meant to stay together and work through this. Draco had worried about the cake instead. A rather pointed sign, indeed.
Well, if Draco really wanted, they could go their separate ways, he thought, and Disapparated, just as the light began to gently bob in his direction, growing and rolling until the empty room was awash in a blue-white hue.
Please leave your comments on the author's LJ HERE.