Ficlet: Written First (H/D, PG13)
Just now malafede felt compelled to share this link to one of Makofu's H/D pics, and I was, in turn, compelled to drabble. So.
This is kind of weird and abstract and angsty, to go with the serene-yet-vaguely-disturbing mood of the pic. Also, this is rather regressive of me, somewhat in the oldstyle!H/D kinda groove....
Disclaimer: not mine. rats.
// written first //
Sometimes he almost wants to say the words, but his lips turn blue, and it's not enough. He's silent as he lays his cheek against Harry's back, and traps Harry's heart between it and his hand.
He wants to tell Harry every secret he's never admitted he knew, but he can't. Harry would listen, and his eyes would shutter and he'd walk away with a slow, even gait, and then Draco would grow slowly colder until the winter found its way beneath his fingernails. It would be over, he thinks. If he speaks, it would be over.
//
Harry looks down at the long, pale fingers resting on his chest, and he can't move. If he moves, Draco will startle and jerk away; if he moves, he'll remember why he should really get going; if he moves, he'll turn around and see Draco there, looking at him with those empty cold eyes full of everything Harry hates.
Harry doesn't look at Draco. He just listens to him breathe and watches the sky.
He remembers.
He remembers flying together earlier that day. He remembers hexing Draco off his broom earlier that year, when he thought it might be entertaining. He remembers visiting Draco in the hospital, holding those long fingers beneath his own, and waiting.
He remembers how Draco woke up and refused to speak. He looked at Harry with withering, accusing eyes, and something in Harry's stomach had tightened. Guilt.
The next morning, Draco owled him an empty parchment, and it was only a month later that the hidden words finally crumpled underneath yet another spell: "I love you," it said. "I hate you. I love you. I hate you. I love you. I have you." It went on and on in endless repetition, the elegant, pointed scrawl going straight off the page. Harry couldn't tell which was true and which wasn't; which was written first and which was written last. He didn't think he wanted to know.
//
Draco shivers, though Harry's back is warm and his breathing even. Harry never remarks on Draco's infrequent, silent breaks from their warfare, and neither of them mentions it. They don't look at each other, so it doesn't really happen. It's not real like this, is it.
In a minute, Draco will get up. He'll walk away slowly, waiting for Potter to move, which he won't. He's Potter, and he thinks this is all Draco deserves. Maybe he's right.
//
Harry feels so calm.
Draco fits snugly against his back, like he belongs there. This feels okay, though it shouldn't. It doesn't hurt until afterwards; Harry's heart is suspended, barely beating in his own chest. It's okay as long as Draco stays still like this. They can breathe the stilted winter air and wait it out.
Harry feels so calm.
//
Sometimes Draco thinks he's about to break, but then Harry moves, and instead he gasps.
This is kind of weird and abstract and angsty, to go with the serene-yet-vaguely-disturbing mood of the pic. Also, this is rather regressive of me, somewhat in the oldstyle!H/D kinda groove....
Disclaimer: not mine. rats.
// written first //
Sometimes he almost wants to say the words, but his lips turn blue, and it's not enough. He's silent as he lays his cheek against Harry's back, and traps Harry's heart between it and his hand.
He wants to tell Harry every secret he's never admitted he knew, but he can't. Harry would listen, and his eyes would shutter and he'd walk away with a slow, even gait, and then Draco would grow slowly colder until the winter found its way beneath his fingernails. It would be over, he thinks. If he speaks, it would be over.
//
Harry looks down at the long, pale fingers resting on his chest, and he can't move. If he moves, Draco will startle and jerk away; if he moves, he'll remember why he should really get going; if he moves, he'll turn around and see Draco there, looking at him with those empty cold eyes full of everything Harry hates.
Harry doesn't look at Draco. He just listens to him breathe and watches the sky.
He remembers.
He remembers flying together earlier that day. He remembers hexing Draco off his broom earlier that year, when he thought it might be entertaining. He remembers visiting Draco in the hospital, holding those long fingers beneath his own, and waiting.
He remembers how Draco woke up and refused to speak. He looked at Harry with withering, accusing eyes, and something in Harry's stomach had tightened. Guilt.
The next morning, Draco owled him an empty parchment, and it was only a month later that the hidden words finally crumpled underneath yet another spell: "I love you," it said. "I hate you. I love you. I hate you. I love you. I have you." It went on and on in endless repetition, the elegant, pointed scrawl going straight off the page. Harry couldn't tell which was true and which wasn't; which was written first and which was written last. He didn't think he wanted to know.
//
Draco shivers, though Harry's back is warm and his breathing even. Harry never remarks on Draco's infrequent, silent breaks from their warfare, and neither of them mentions it. They don't look at each other, so it doesn't really happen. It's not real like this, is it.
In a minute, Draco will get up. He'll walk away slowly, waiting for Potter to move, which he won't. He's Potter, and he thinks this is all Draco deserves. Maybe he's right.
//
Harry feels so calm.
Draco fits snugly against his back, like he belongs there. This feels okay, though it shouldn't. It doesn't hurt until afterwards; Harry's heart is suspended, barely beating in his own chest. It's okay as long as Draco stays still like this. They can breathe the stilted winter air and wait it out.
Harry feels so calm.
//
Sometimes Draco thinks he's about to break, but then Harry moves, and instead he gasps.