Aftershocks
Summary: There are some nights in which dreaming is more like drowning.
Word Count: 1300
Rating: PG ish
Author's Notes: Part of a thirty day challenge that I started.... ahem, in summer 2012. Written for the prompt 'Knowledge'.
Knowledge
(Aftershocks)
There are some nights in which dreaming is more like drowning and Draco always wakes up with a gasp locked in his throat, his limbs covered in a thin layer of sweat and his heart pounding in every part of his body. For a moment he is nothing but a heartbeat - nothing but a muscle straining to remain alive, pulsing harder in the fight for survival - and then he turns and rolls over to Harry, burying his face in the crook of Harry’s neck.
He never speaks of this weakness in daylight - never once addresses how his voice is raspy with the echo of screams and how hard he trembles against Harry’s side in the heart-wrenching moments following the push into reality. It is as forbidden in the daylight as his Dark Mark is, as shameful to him as his love for Muggle music, but this is not daylight and deep is the darkness surrounding his fears.
Somehow, immediately, always, Harry wakes up when Draco does and the first thing out of his mouth is a sleepy, “I love you.” It’s almost as if it’s simply a continuation of whatever his dream was and if Draco didn’t need those three words so goddamn much he would find it within himself to be envious of Harry’s good dreams.
But he does need those words, so he simply latches onto Harry and holds him, clings to him. Struggles not to speak, knowing his voice will break if he tries.
Pale legs tangle against tan ones, cold feet brushing against warm ones as Draco’s arms come up around Harry’s head, one hand tangling in black hair as Draco presses his lips against Harry’s neck and quakes.
“What was it this time?” Harry whispers sleepily, shifting slightly so that Draco has better access to his frame. “In the Manor?”
“Hogwarts,” Draco replies, and memories bleed behind his eyelids for a moment, causing him to sob out against Harry. It is a weakness he would never show to anyone else, at any other time, but here and now in the bed they’ve shared for so long, it is a relief to finally let it show.
The darkness is less fearful with Harry’s nose nuzzling his hair. “The battle?”
“Before,” Draco whispers.
“Shit, Draco,” and a warm arm wraps around his waist, pulling him ever closer, and there is something in Draco that shrivels up because Harry just knows.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers.
“I won’t.”
“Please.”
“I promise.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
Harry slowly pushes him over, a comforting movement because Draco knows what it will lead to next. They are a well-oiled machine, they are two parts of a whole, they are a bird in flight and a deer running through the forest. Harry moves him until Draco is the one on his back and Harry is nearly lying on top of him, his weight needed to hold Draco together.
“You,” breathes Harry in the dark, on all sides of Draco, arms on either side of his face and mouth hovering somewhere near Draco’s right ear, “are worthy of all things wonderful, Draco Malfoy.”
When they kiss, it is nothing more than the slow slide of lips against lips. If there is passion, it is a slow, smoldering passion, like the warm embers of a tired fire. It is not rushed or fierce or breakable - rather, it is a kiss of comfort, of lips slowly dragging against each other, of two sets of breath mingling together in a way that said you are not alone. Harry’s fingers knotted in Draco’s hair, stroking the sensitive skin underneath as his lips latched on Draco’s bottom lip and slowly, tenderly sucked on it. Draco arches up in a whimper, his hands clenching the loose Quidditch shirt Harry had worn to bed, and wonders if this is what love tastes like.
They break away and Harry rests his head on the pillow next to Draco’s head, making a soft little noise as he relaxes into Draco. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
“They were making me torture people. Carrows. Fucking Carrows. At first it was just random faces - young ones, though, second years, maybe - and then suddenly it was everyone, it was Granger and Weasley and Blaise and Longbottom - Lovegood and y-you -”
“I’ve got you,” hands in his hair, soothing him, gentle kisses pressed hotly against his neck.
“Fuck, but you were screaming - I - I -” Draco’s gasping now, gulping for air but he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t think, doesn’t deserve the beautiful man still pressing down on him.
“Draco - Draco -” and Harry shifts again, sliding more firmly on top of Draco and then pushing himself up so that he’s straddling Draco. The blond’s hands automatically move to clutch at Harry’s hips, steadying him, while Harry’s thighs clench around his sides. There is nothing sexual about the position at this point - merely Harry doing his best to allow Draco his air and the firm pressure of hereness that Draco craves so much. “Draco,” he says again. “Do what I told you to do.”
“I - I - I c-can’t,” chokes out Draco, fingers digging bruises into the sand of Harry’s skin.
“Shhh, Draco, try.”
Draco gulps for another few seconds and then, shakily, spitting it out as though it burns, “O-one. We met at lift at w-work, even though we work on two d-different floors.”
“Go on,” says Harry softly.
“T-two. We went out for drinks at the Dragon’s Breath two weeks later.”
“Yes,” he encourages.
“Three. The Tornadoes Quidditch match. Four. The international potions case.”
He can faintly see the outline of Harry’s smile in the dark.
“F-five. The kiss in your office. Oh, Merlin, Harry, I should have stayed in Azkaban with my father, you should have heard the screams - I think I could hear him scream every night, my name -” Draco’s breath hitches as warm fingers push under his shirt, skating up his sides. He closes his eyes and lays there for a moment underneath Harry, struggling to compose himself. Fingers press into his sides, counting his ribs, counting out one, two, three, four, five, “S-six. When you punched that photographer outside of Flourish and Blotts.”
“He deserved it,” murmurs Harry. “Git.”
“Seven. The first Weasley family dinner.”
“I told you it wasn’t going to be nearly as scary as you thought it would be.”
“Eight, when you asked me to move in. Harry...”
Harry shifts a little on top of him and for a moment Draco loses his train of thought. Is that what Harry dreams about? Does he dream about the soft kisses and the frantic removal of clothing that happened after Draco’d said yes? About packing boxes together and arguing where items went when they unpacked, about the first time they’d eaten together in the flat, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire with bowls of vanilla ice cream? Draco aches.
“Nine,” continues Harry.
“Nine - when I found the ring in the dresser, you shitty hider,” and now the darkness is no longer darkness but rather a soft blanket and the covers feel warm and Harry’s weight is comforting and heavy and so are Draco’s eyelids, the nightmare fading away... “Ten.”
“Ten. I love you,” finishes Harry, and he lays back down next to Draco, scooting close and sliding back into Draco’s embrace.
“Ten, you love me.”
A small kiss presses against the skin under Draco’s ear.
“I love you,” whispers Harry. “I’ve got you.”
It is this knowledge that sends Draco back to sleep. The knowledge that Harry will be there when he wakes up, will love him as he opens his eyes, will forgive him the next time he fucks up and the time after that. Will hold him the next time his memories invade his sleep.
Sometimes dreaming is like drowning; sometimes it’s like flying.
Word Count: 1300
Rating: PG ish
Author's Notes: Part of a thirty day challenge that I started.... ahem, in summer 2012. Written for the prompt 'Knowledge'.
Knowledge
(Aftershocks)
There are some nights in which dreaming is more like drowning and Draco always wakes up with a gasp locked in his throat, his limbs covered in a thin layer of sweat and his heart pounding in every part of his body. For a moment he is nothing but a heartbeat - nothing but a muscle straining to remain alive, pulsing harder in the fight for survival - and then he turns and rolls over to Harry, burying his face in the crook of Harry’s neck.
He never speaks of this weakness in daylight - never once addresses how his voice is raspy with the echo of screams and how hard he trembles against Harry’s side in the heart-wrenching moments following the push into reality. It is as forbidden in the daylight as his Dark Mark is, as shameful to him as his love for Muggle music, but this is not daylight and deep is the darkness surrounding his fears.
Somehow, immediately, always, Harry wakes up when Draco does and the first thing out of his mouth is a sleepy, “I love you.” It’s almost as if it’s simply a continuation of whatever his dream was and if Draco didn’t need those three words so goddamn much he would find it within himself to be envious of Harry’s good dreams.
But he does need those words, so he simply latches onto Harry and holds him, clings to him. Struggles not to speak, knowing his voice will break if he tries.
Pale legs tangle against tan ones, cold feet brushing against warm ones as Draco’s arms come up around Harry’s head, one hand tangling in black hair as Draco presses his lips against Harry’s neck and quakes.
“What was it this time?” Harry whispers sleepily, shifting slightly so that Draco has better access to his frame. “In the Manor?”
“Hogwarts,” Draco replies, and memories bleed behind his eyelids for a moment, causing him to sob out against Harry. It is a weakness he would never show to anyone else, at any other time, but here and now in the bed they’ve shared for so long, it is a relief to finally let it show.
The darkness is less fearful with Harry’s nose nuzzling his hair. “The battle?”
“Before,” Draco whispers.
“Shit, Draco,” and a warm arm wraps around his waist, pulling him ever closer, and there is something in Draco that shrivels up because Harry just knows.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers.
“I won’t.”
“Please.”
“I promise.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
Harry slowly pushes him over, a comforting movement because Draco knows what it will lead to next. They are a well-oiled machine, they are two parts of a whole, they are a bird in flight and a deer running through the forest. Harry moves him until Draco is the one on his back and Harry is nearly lying on top of him, his weight needed to hold Draco together.
“You,” breathes Harry in the dark, on all sides of Draco, arms on either side of his face and mouth hovering somewhere near Draco’s right ear, “are worthy of all things wonderful, Draco Malfoy.”
When they kiss, it is nothing more than the slow slide of lips against lips. If there is passion, it is a slow, smoldering passion, like the warm embers of a tired fire. It is not rushed or fierce or breakable - rather, it is a kiss of comfort, of lips slowly dragging against each other, of two sets of breath mingling together in a way that said you are not alone. Harry’s fingers knotted in Draco’s hair, stroking the sensitive skin underneath as his lips latched on Draco’s bottom lip and slowly, tenderly sucked on it. Draco arches up in a whimper, his hands clenching the loose Quidditch shirt Harry had worn to bed, and wonders if this is what love tastes like.
They break away and Harry rests his head on the pillow next to Draco’s head, making a soft little noise as he relaxes into Draco. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
“They were making me torture people. Carrows. Fucking Carrows. At first it was just random faces - young ones, though, second years, maybe - and then suddenly it was everyone, it was Granger and Weasley and Blaise and Longbottom - Lovegood and y-you -”
“I’ve got you,” hands in his hair, soothing him, gentle kisses pressed hotly against his neck.
“Fuck, but you were screaming - I - I -” Draco’s gasping now, gulping for air but he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t think, doesn’t deserve the beautiful man still pressing down on him.
“Draco - Draco -” and Harry shifts again, sliding more firmly on top of Draco and then pushing himself up so that he’s straddling Draco. The blond’s hands automatically move to clutch at Harry’s hips, steadying him, while Harry’s thighs clench around his sides. There is nothing sexual about the position at this point - merely Harry doing his best to allow Draco his air and the firm pressure of hereness that Draco craves so much. “Draco,” he says again. “Do what I told you to do.”
“I - I - I c-can’t,” chokes out Draco, fingers digging bruises into the sand of Harry’s skin.
“Shhh, Draco, try.”
Draco gulps for another few seconds and then, shakily, spitting it out as though it burns, “O-one. We met at lift at w-work, even though we work on two d-different floors.”
“Go on,” says Harry softly.
“T-two. We went out for drinks at the Dragon’s Breath two weeks later.”
“Yes,” he encourages.
“Three. The Tornadoes Quidditch match. Four. The international potions case.”
He can faintly see the outline of Harry’s smile in the dark.
“F-five. The kiss in your office. Oh, Merlin, Harry, I should have stayed in Azkaban with my father, you should have heard the screams - I think I could hear him scream every night, my name -” Draco’s breath hitches as warm fingers push under his shirt, skating up his sides. He closes his eyes and lays there for a moment underneath Harry, struggling to compose himself. Fingers press into his sides, counting his ribs, counting out one, two, three, four, five, “S-six. When you punched that photographer outside of Flourish and Blotts.”
“He deserved it,” murmurs Harry. “Git.”
“Seven. The first Weasley family dinner.”
“I told you it wasn’t going to be nearly as scary as you thought it would be.”
“Eight, when you asked me to move in. Harry...”
Harry shifts a little on top of him and for a moment Draco loses his train of thought. Is that what Harry dreams about? Does he dream about the soft kisses and the frantic removal of clothing that happened after Draco’d said yes? About packing boxes together and arguing where items went when they unpacked, about the first time they’d eaten together in the flat, sitting cross-legged in front of the fire with bowls of vanilla ice cream? Draco aches.
“Nine,” continues Harry.
“Nine - when I found the ring in the dresser, you shitty hider,” and now the darkness is no longer darkness but rather a soft blanket and the covers feel warm and Harry’s weight is comforting and heavy and so are Draco’s eyelids, the nightmare fading away... “Ten.”
“Ten. I love you,” finishes Harry, and he lays back down next to Draco, scooting close and sliding back into Draco’s embrace.
“Ten, you love me.”
A small kiss presses against the skin under Draco’s ear.
“I love you,” whispers Harry. “I’ve got you.”
It is this knowledge that sends Draco back to sleep. The knowledge that Harry will be there when he wakes up, will love him as he opens his eyes, will forgive him the next time he fucks up and the time after that. Will hold him the next time his memories invade his sleep.
Sometimes dreaming is like drowning; sometimes it’s like flying.