Your Every Color, 4/4
You're gold and more gold
And you're platinum too
With snow toned, copper attitude
I don't know what I'd do without you
Neville managed to excuse himself, a bit falteringly, to go to his workshop, but not before he and Draco had finished off the sandwiches. Draco, predictably, had been starving, and ended up eating most of them, but Neville was satisfied with just one. There was plenty of food in his kitchen, and Draco needed his strength.
A few hours later, he was stirring the Balm, whispering a charm to keep it from sticking to the sides as it solidified, when Draco stumbled in.
“Need place to sleep,” he slurred, grabbing Neville around the shoulders for support. “Jus’ took potion, for th’ pain…”
Neville was alarmed at the sudden change in Draco’s behaviour, but he managed to divert the extra weight enough to catch himself on the counter instead of the hot metal of his cauldron.
“Okay,” he said frantically, trying to think as Draco’s elbow jabbed him painfully in the ear. “You can, uhm, have my bed for now, I guess…”
He started to walk towards the door. Dragging Draco along was easier than it should have been- the other man must have lost a great deal of weight during his time in the hospital- and it was short work to pull him through the door and maneuver him onto Neville’s bed. When Draco was sprawled on top of the blanket, seemingly unconscious, Neville suddenly realised that he was wearing very little clothing.
Neville tore his eyes away, even though Draco wasn’t exactly indecent- he was still wearing his boxers, after all- but just then Draco inhaled sharply and Neville’s mind was flooded with images as the blond’s mental defenses fell.
People, people all around him, laughing and jeering; he recognized Lucius and Bellatrix in the crowd before Voldemort stepped forward. His mouth moved, saying something Neville couldn’t hear, and then he was looking down at his body in horror as long slices appeared all over his clothing, the frayed edges of the material growing dark with blood.
Pain exploded in the back of his head, and Neville came back to himself to find that he was flat on his back on the floor. Slowly, he sat up, rubbing his head even as a bump began to form, and looked at Draco again.
He had never seen so many scars on one body. It was a wonder Draco was still alive, he thought, amazed; he looked like he’d been sewn back together, the way the rough tissue zigzagged across his skin. Neville reached out tentatively to touch one, a jagged line running along the outside of his leg, hesitated for a moment, and then traced it from just below the hem of his boxers to the top of his knee.
Draco shivered but didn’t wake; either he was a very sound sleeper or the potion he’d taken had completely knocked him out. Neville pulled his hand away, then was struck by a sudden idea and rushed out into the living room to get his paints and a brush. He dipped the brush into the red paint and leaned over the blond’s prone form, painting a line on one of the scars on his chest, starkly bright against his ivory skin.
He covered the rest of the scars, each one in a different color, and then stared at his handiwork, his mind racing. There was a trick he'd used as a small child, painting on one piece of paper and then pressing another against it, pulling them apart to make two identical images, and he wondered if that would work with skin. This was his artwork, after all, and Draco was just the canvas.
He had just taken off his shirt and was starting to climb onto the bed when Draco’s eyes opened.
“Er,” Neville said nervously, realizing exactly how strange this situation must look. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Draco repeated, raising an eyebrow in that trademarked way of his that always made Neville feel small.
“I was just, uh. Going to bed.” Even though it’s only six, he thought, as the clock on the bedside table was painfully reminding him. He wondered when Draco was going to realize that there was paint all over him.
“Mmm,” Draco agreed, though he didn’t sound as though he really believed it. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Neville climbed across him, accidentally bumping his knee against Draco’s leg. There was paint on his trousers now, yellow paint, but he ignored it, hoping that Draco would go back to sleep.
“So,” Draco said, when they were both laying on their backs, staring at the ceiling, “I thought you painting my father was strange, but it’s nothing compared to this.”
Neville squeaked and turned bright red, and glanced over to see that Draco was gazing at him. “Uhm,” he said intelligently, and tried to smother himself with a pillow.
“That doesn’t work, you know.” Draco’s muffled voice sounded amused, and Neville peeked out from beneath the pillow. “I’ve tried. I think someone else has to do it for you.”
He was smiling. Actually smiling, and Neville had never noticed exactly how pink his mouth was against his skin.
“Your scars,” Neville whispered, for his voice seemed to have deserted him, and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see that smile disappear. “And I didn’t paint your father, I painted you.”
“Quite literally, in this case,” Draco said, and even though his voice was quiet Neville was almost sure that he’d gotten closer. “That’s twice now, isn’t it?”
“Three times, actually,” Neville told him, opening his eyes. Draco was right next to him, leaning over him, actually, and he froze. Draco smiled again when he saw him looking.
“I think it’s my turn, don’t you?” he asked, and when Neville just stared at him, he dipped his finger in one of the painted scars on his chest and drew a green circle around Neville’s nipple.
“Oh,” Neville gasped, mostly in surprise, and nearly choked on his tongue when Draco smeared his hand in all the multicolored paints on his chest and ran it in a straight line from Neville’s throat to his trousers.
“Take them off,” Draco whispered, his eyes dark. Neville nodded and tried to obey, but it wasn’t easy. Harder than he’d expected, actually. Much harder. He bit his lip and hoped against hope that Draco wouldn’t notice.
When Draco touched him, though, he changed his mind, hoping that Draco would notice and trail those long fingers upwards, just a little bit further, and
“Ohyesrightthere!” Oh dear Merlin his back was going to crack if it arched any farther, but Draco’s hand was on his cock and the paint was making such delicious squelching noises, and Neville tried to make a mental note to check the ingredients on a lubricant bottle to see what it was that made the paint stick and slide so differently because God help him if it wasn’t the best feeling in the world.
And then he was coming, harder than he’d ever thought possible, in white spurts tainted with the colors of the rainbow, all over Draco’s hand and his own chest and the bed, and the darkness behind his eyelids flashed like neon lights as he stopped breathing.
“Holy fuck, Longbottom.” Draco’s voice was deep, husky, even, and rang red with lust in Neville’s ears. “You should paint with white more often.”
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Happy (belated) birthday, Christina darling!