[RP Log: Draco, Blaise. PG]

Feb 21, 2006 10:24

Date: February 9th.

Summary: Blaise returns from his impromptu and, as it turns out, rather unpleasant visit back home. Draco is concerned -- and with good reason.

Rating: PG.



Blaise leans against the stone wall for a moment in a futile effort to clear his head before entering the common room. Going down the stairs has been a rather slower process than he would like, and now he can't quite seem to stop shivering lightly from a cold he knows he shouldn't be feeling, bundled in thick winter robes as he is. Fuck, I really am sick, he thinks, a little incoherently. And the conversation waiting ahead is going to be hard, even with a clear head. Draco. And -- Freckles hates me now.

Fuck. This won't do. "Get yourself together," he murmurs, running a hand across his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he pushes away from the wall and whispers the password.

The tap-tap-tapping of the tip of Draco's quill on the nearby table is like a meter of his current level of patience (something that's already low enough on a typical day), a staccatto beat that echoes in the stillness of the Slytherin common room, bouncing off of stone walls. Grey eyes are fixed immovably on the fireplace, flickering futility that's casting vague, winding shadows on the floor, and if anyone were to find the tapping annoying or bothersome, they would promptly leave the room before disturbing him.

It's late, at any rate, and the common room is empty, despite Draco's unawareness of (and, indeed, disregard for) the fact. There's a muscle twitching in his jaw, thoughts racing to and fro in his head to a point where he can't even comprehend them anymore, thoughts of duty and obligation and fuck, not Blaise. He's tuned them out, allowing them to overwhelm him, and it's as if he's on auto pilot, waiting for Blaise to come down.

The grind of stone on stone, and Draco barely registers the shift, expression grave and set. Belatedly, he blinks, eyes flicking away from the fire and over to the figure that's outlined by shadows, standing several meters away.

"Blaise."

His throat is dry when he speaks, and he feels his calm exterior slipping before the conversation has even begun.

The tone in Draco's voice (surely he's hearing it wrong -- Draco can't really be frightened for him?) makes him stop dead for a second before walking, a little too slowly, across the floor. The room swims dizzily in front of his eyes, and Draco is a blurred shadow in front of the fire, his silver hair turned golden in the low light.

"Draco," he replies softly, and can't quite keep the weariness (longing? Couldn't be) out of his voice.

Suddenly too warm, he lets the cloak carelessly slide off of his shoulders and onto he floor. Reaching the table, he lets himself sink down on it and finally looks up at Draco.

Grey eyes bore into dark brown for several long, tense moments, and a stick in the fireplace snaps. In an instant, Draco reaches out for Blaise's arm, pulling up his sleeve, needing to see the bare skin that he knows is still there, needing the confirmation (not yet not yet not now). The firelight makes Blaise's skin look almost glowing, and Draco's heartbeat slows just a little bit, because, no, it isn't there.

Nothing's there.

He knew nothing would be there.

He trails two fingertips over the skin of Blaise's forearm all the same, light and soft and everything that the atmosphere around them isn't.

Blaise closes his eyes and sits completely still as Draco tears his sleeve up. He shivers lightly at the gentle touch across fever-sensitive skin and wants very badly to pull the other boy close and lean against him. Instead he opens his eyes and looks up into stormy grey, steeling himself.

"No," he says quietly, unable to keep a harsh, ragged edge out of his voice. "And not if I can help it, but ..." he swallows (and it hurts), "I'm afraid Mother may be set on marrying Carrow, and if she does ..." another breath, and he puts a hand down on the table to steady himself, "if she does, then I'm fucked."

Cold fingers splay over the smooth, unmarked skin (not entirely unmarked, though, no; there's a mark, a faint one, from a snake bite incident that happened years ago; and it's foolish, Draco knows it is, but the irony of it makes him shiver all the same, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end, making his skin prickle). They curl around Blaise's wrist, tightening, and the pulse he feels beneath the warmth of his palm is a strange, though inadequate, comfort.

"Blaise," he repeats, as if saying the name again will keep Blaise here, and not just now, but always. A shaky inhalation, but his voice is firm and angry when he speaks. "No. Fucking -- no. They can't have you, too."

Something about the way Draco speaks his name (almost, almost like a caress, or a plea and Blaise has no idea how to answer either just now, though he achingly wants to) makes him sway a little. The other boy's fingers brush across the faded scar on his arm, awakening the ghost of the old pain in a tremble beneath the skin. He shifts a little, and swallows against a sudden clenching in his stomach. Shivers, trying to shake off the icy fear, which he has done his level best to push down since his mother bent to whisper, lips brushing against his hair, Blaise, love, Edmund would like a word in private.

"No," he says softly, answering Draco and the memory, both (though in the memory he follows his mother up elegantly arched stairs, to his first sight of the Mark, sickeningly burned and twisted into a man's skin), "I think Mother wants to keep me in reserve," his lip curls expressively, but he keeps his tone forcibly calm, "unless she absolutely has to -- sacrifice me."

Eyes flick up from (almost) smooth, olive skin, catching Blaise's, and the grip of Draco's fingers is almost vice-like as the words sink in. There's a sick, churning feeling in his stomach, an obstruction in his throat that makes it difficult to breathe, and all the while, a mantra in his head, like, no no no no no.

"You told me," he begins, words slow and grave, deliberate, "that I had a choice. That there is always a choice." Fingers clench, and Draco pulls, tugging Blaise closer, to the very edge of the table; their thighs are brushing, and Draco can feel the other boy's breath, streams of warm, moving air (and he thinks he smells the telltale scent of alcohol). "Were you just saying that, then? Convenient words of comfort?"

He flinches, can't help it, as Draco's grip tightens bruisingly on his arm, and then Draco is pulling him, and they're suddenly so close together that the proximity of Draco's body distracts him a little from his words. He blinks, trying to clear his vision, and brings up both hands, fingers digging into Draco's shoulders, half to steady himself and half because he can't stand the distance a moment longer.

"I don't do convenient," he mutters into Draco's shoulder, dizzily leaning in to rest his forehead in the shadowed hollow of his neck, "and I don't do comfort, you bloody well know that."

A hand reaches up to cup the nape of Blaise's neck, and the skin there is hot and feverish against cool fingers. Draco tangles them in dark strands of hair, inhales, and, hell, neither of them is in any state for this sort of conversation. The pad of a thumb traces soothing figures into the inside of Blaise's wrist, accidental patterns and irregular shapes pressed into soft flesh, and when he speaks, his lips brush against the shell of Blaise's ear.

"In that case," he says, words hushing over skin like a promise never made, all in vain, melancholy, "we'll figure something out." Draco begins to pull away but thinks better of it, nuzzling into the crook of Blaise's neck. "You're not well."

He draws a shuddering breath as Draco's fingers, cool and soothing, grace his neck, and his finger ghosts across the thin skin on the inside of his wrist. It's halfway between comforting and too much on skin that feels raw with fever, but he doesn't want Draco to stop, ever.

"No, I'm really not," he whispers, a harsh, ragged edge to his voice. Part of him wants to pull away, stand on his own, but he isn't sure he can. Without Draco, he isn't sure if there is he can anything do at all, really, and the thought is almost as sickeningly frightening as the path his mother seems to have carved for him (if not more so).

"But Carrow -- you need to know -- " He pauses, deep breath, striving for focus. "He's Marked, he showed me -- and if he has his way, I'll be -- I don't know -- and then, if the Dark Lord doesn't win after all, she'll be able to say -- to say she didn't know, and -- " He trails off, unsure what it is he is saying anymore, but sharply aware that it is probably more than he should. He feels dizzy and sick, and wants desperately to rest -- settles for leaning heavily into Draco, forehead pressed against smooth skin and fine silk, breathing him in, and doesn't ever want to move again.

The weight of Blaise's words settles over Draco's mind as the weight of a lean frame rests against Draco's body, exhausted, and eyelids slide closed over grey, as if coaxed downward by the heaviness of both. He thinks he can feel faint tremors running through Blaise's limbs, quivering vibrations just beneath his fingertips, and he rubs his brow against the side of Blaise's face, silk strands of ebony caught in between.

"Shh. Blaise, listen to me. Hush." Hands on Blaise's shoulders, gentle, and he seeks out the other boy's gaze. "I know. And what I don't know, you'll tell me later." Draco rises from the couch, fingers moving up to cup Blaise's jaw. "Lie down."

He tries to shake his head -- there is more he should say and he doesn't want to lie down here, where anyone might come along and see him shattered, it won't do -- but Draco's hands are firm and gentle against his cheeks, soft grey eyes meet his own, compelling -- you're safe, just now you're safe, trust me -- and the stairs up to the dorm suddenly seem like a ridiculously impossible task. He stands, sways, abruptly aware of the absence of Draco's body to lean against, and swallows, throat dry and painful.

"I don't want to lie down," he murmurs resentfully, even as Draco shifts, laying a hand softly against his chest and pushing him down, and he makes no move to resist it. The rooms tilts (it feels a little like falling), and he throws out a hand clumsily to find Draco's wrist, needing the reassurance, the strong, familiar pulse beneath his fingers.

"Don't go," he mutters and what he means is, Don't leave me.

Warm fingers against pale wrist, and Draco feels like an anchor, heavy with things that he'd rather not know, solid and here but rusting, maybe. He sits down on the very edge of the couch, feeling the warmth that emanates from Blaise's body like a furnace. Eyes meet, and dark shocks of hair are brushed away from Blaise's heated brow by a careful hand.

"I'm not going," he tells him in soft tones, leaning in to breathe in the shadows darkening the column of Blaise's throat, coaxing him to lie down the rest of the way, to relax and let the cushions of the couch bear him. To let go, just for a moment. "Stop thinking, Blaise. Hush now."

Please, he thinks but doesn't say. Draco knows that if it were given utterance, it would only strengthen Blaise's resistance.

A gentle touch and calm grey eyes and Draco is there, a solid ward against the chaos clamoring to draw Blaise under as he falls back on the couch. With violent suddenness, he's shivering with cold, and the material of his shirt feels coarse and unpleasant where it touches bare skin. Catching his breath on a soft sound of displeasure, he tries to ignore his body's treachery.

"Can't," he whispers, shifting restlessly as Draco leans into him, instinctively turning his head into the touch, wanting more of it, needing the solid warmth of the other boy's body. He tenses against a cold shiver, fingers tightening hard on Draco's wrist. Doesn't ask, but looks up through dry, hurting eyes into silver grey, very close and soft with firelight and concern.

Breaths ghost over the skin of Blaise's neck, and Draco's hand goes up to the side of his torso, pushing him down onto the couch with a slow, drawn out gentleness that's meant to keep the other boy off of his guard more than anything. Of a sudden, the tremors running through Blaise's frame intensify, causing Draco to curse inwardly both out of concern and because of Blaise's lack of cooperation. With a flick of his wand, he summons a blanket from the dormitory, letting it hover nearby for a moment.

"Mm. You can," he murmurs, shifting, one leg finding itself between both of Blaise's, torso pressed against the other's as lips seek the pulse point on the underside of Blaise's throat and claim it softly. "I'll lie down with you. Now relax, you git."

With a whisper of fabric on fabric, the blanket settles over them.

Draco’s lips whisper against his collarbone; there is the heat of a body settling against him, a leg pushed lazily between his own, and he wonders hazily how it is that Draco can make getting him to lie down and relax when he cannot even stand seem like a gentle kind of seduction. The answer to that seems to be hiding in the slender fingers tracing his ribs, coaxing the shivering tension out of aching muscles, and he groans softly, turning instinctively into the warmth of Draco’s body.

Blaise feels himself slipping, eyes falling shut against his will, and reaches for the last thing that needs to be said. "Draco," he mutters, the other boy’s name hardly more than a breath across warm skin, "If they do ... take me ... we -- I’ll be with you." And that’s how I want it to be.

There's a heartbeat under Draco's palm, steadying.

"I know," he says, swallowing. It's a fragile sort of comfort.

blaise, draco, rp logs

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