This is the start of something...
And I’m not sure where it’s going, exactly, but I’ve got ideas, oh I’ve got ideas. I’m not sure it makes all that much sense either (as it starts sort of in the middle of the story, but I meant it like that, honest). Also, it doesn’t have a name yet, so I’m calling it Prague for now, since that’s where they are. Unbeta’d so con-crit is most appreciated.
Blaise is a bit off and so is Draco (but in a different way), and there's gothic architecture.
Prague
The dull clink clunk of two glasses on the wooden table and Blaise turns to Draco as he settles into the seat next to him and laughs. Too hard and too long and too many teeth. A bark. A warning of a something unnameable, untamable, just beneath the surface; head thrown back and teeth glinting in the half light.
Draco downs his drink in one go and turns away, watching the man at the table across from them. Following the slow curl of smoke off his just lit pipe as it slides over deep red walls. The red is a real red, a red that means it, deep and rich; blood that's just met air still heavy with oxygen, thick and sweet and copper.
Blaise's voice is at Draco's ear again, sharp and not so sweet; mingling with smoke vision and the alcohol streaming through his veins. The half purr half hiss, threading through his thoughts, through the many shifting shades of grey and smoke against dark red. Whispering danger and something more, something deeper, something he doesn’t want to think about. And Blaise blows Draco a kiss heavy with scotch and almost sneer. It is just air and scent and hints of emotions that are most likely not even there, but Draco feels it. He pretends a shiver has not just slithered, cool and hot, down his spine, as he tries to concentrate on motion through the window.
The sea of people moving through the square is no longer as interesting as it had been moments before. Blaise's gaze sliding down his neck to his shoulder is a tangible thing and Draco very nearly upends the entire table in his sudden need to be away from the combined heat of lingering whisper and never ending half glare.
Milling crowds fill the square with noise, and the oppressive orange glow of too many lights endeavoring to keep out the quickly advancing dark pushes him toward the fringes and less traveled streets.
Leaves swirl in fits and starts around street corners in eddies, chasing down narrow lanes, like wind tunnels. The wind is playful at first glance, but biting with sand and grit and sharp stems as it catches him up. It grapples at his coat and shirt and hair. No regard for anyone who just wants to be left alone. And where did all these leaves come from anyway, here in the middle of the city.
Draco turns a corner, and turns a corner, and turns a corner, the night growing cooler and quieter with each step. Narrow cobbled alley after narrow cobbled alley, buildings leaning in from both sides, listening, echoing, the now-much-louder-than-seems-possible clip slap of boots on stone, the swish of fabric. The thirst quenching sweetness of air being disturbed by only him. Every other street a courtyard leading to an alley until he will not admit he's got himself turned around and in a street so narrow that he can't see any cathedral spires for direction.
He decides he doesn't care, and settles himself into a deep window sill to watch the clouds drift silently past the thin slash of star pricked sky available to him.
The cold seeps in around him nipping at his ears and wrists, curling around his neck. He puts his hands in his pockets seeking warmth but his gloves aren't there. Blaise. Or the city. Or some other intangible thing is pulling at the fibers of his brain. Stretching them too thin. He never forgets his gloves.
It has been like this the entire time they've been in Prague, as if the city somehow effects them, him, on a deeper level. And Blaise, though he was never exactly cooperative, is even less so now. All purring seductive whispers and sharp claws. A contradiction of even himself.
There is a nearly sinister air to the gothic architecture and Draco cannot keep his mind from drifting to all of the imagined medieval tortures that went on (or are going on still) just under the street. In the basement of the very cafe he had just been sitting in, with it's suspicious metal rings high up on the rough stone walls. He had spent many a disconcerting hour in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor as his father 'worked'. He knows what those rings are for. He just doesn't like knowing, and he doesn't want to think about it.
There had been a time when he would have loved to. When he had all but begged for a chance to participate in the mysterious rituals that called so many black hooded wizards to the caverns beneath the Manor. When he would have gladly meted out the torture himself and eagerly awaited praise for a job well done. When he had been a proper Malfoy.
Before Blaise, and life, had gotten out of hand.
part 2
Blaise is a bit off and so is Draco (but in a different way), and there's gothic architecture.
Prague
The dull clink clunk of two glasses on the wooden table and Blaise turns to Draco as he settles into the seat next to him and laughs. Too hard and too long and too many teeth. A bark. A warning of a something unnameable, untamable, just beneath the surface; head thrown back and teeth glinting in the half light.
Draco downs his drink in one go and turns away, watching the man at the table across from them. Following the slow curl of smoke off his just lit pipe as it slides over deep red walls. The red is a real red, a red that means it, deep and rich; blood that's just met air still heavy with oxygen, thick and sweet and copper.
Blaise's voice is at Draco's ear again, sharp and not so sweet; mingling with smoke vision and the alcohol streaming through his veins. The half purr half hiss, threading through his thoughts, through the many shifting shades of grey and smoke against dark red. Whispering danger and something more, something deeper, something he doesn’t want to think about. And Blaise blows Draco a kiss heavy with scotch and almost sneer. It is just air and scent and hints of emotions that are most likely not even there, but Draco feels it. He pretends a shiver has not just slithered, cool and hot, down his spine, as he tries to concentrate on motion through the window.
The sea of people moving through the square is no longer as interesting as it had been moments before. Blaise's gaze sliding down his neck to his shoulder is a tangible thing and Draco very nearly upends the entire table in his sudden need to be away from the combined heat of lingering whisper and never ending half glare.
Milling crowds fill the square with noise, and the oppressive orange glow of too many lights endeavoring to keep out the quickly advancing dark pushes him toward the fringes and less traveled streets.
Leaves swirl in fits and starts around street corners in eddies, chasing down narrow lanes, like wind tunnels. The wind is playful at first glance, but biting with sand and grit and sharp stems as it catches him up. It grapples at his coat and shirt and hair. No regard for anyone who just wants to be left alone. And where did all these leaves come from anyway, here in the middle of the city.
Draco turns a corner, and turns a corner, and turns a corner, the night growing cooler and quieter with each step. Narrow cobbled alley after narrow cobbled alley, buildings leaning in from both sides, listening, echoing, the now-much-louder-than-seems-possible clip slap of boots on stone, the swish of fabric. The thirst quenching sweetness of air being disturbed by only him. Every other street a courtyard leading to an alley until he will not admit he's got himself turned around and in a street so narrow that he can't see any cathedral spires for direction.
He decides he doesn't care, and settles himself into a deep window sill to watch the clouds drift silently past the thin slash of star pricked sky available to him.
The cold seeps in around him nipping at his ears and wrists, curling around his neck. He puts his hands in his pockets seeking warmth but his gloves aren't there. Blaise. Or the city. Or some other intangible thing is pulling at the fibers of his brain. Stretching them too thin. He never forgets his gloves.
It has been like this the entire time they've been in Prague, as if the city somehow effects them, him, on a deeper level. And Blaise, though he was never exactly cooperative, is even less so now. All purring seductive whispers and sharp claws. A contradiction of even himself.
There is a nearly sinister air to the gothic architecture and Draco cannot keep his mind from drifting to all of the imagined medieval tortures that went on (or are going on still) just under the street. In the basement of the very cafe he had just been sitting in, with it's suspicious metal rings high up on the rough stone walls. He had spent many a disconcerting hour in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor as his father 'worked'. He knows what those rings are for. He just doesn't like knowing, and he doesn't want to think about it.
There had been a time when he would have loved to. When he had all but begged for a chance to participate in the mysterious rituals that called so many black hooded wizards to the caverns beneath the Manor. When he would have gladly meted out the torture himself and eagerly awaited praise for a job well done. When he had been a proper Malfoy.
Before Blaise, and life, had gotten out of hand.
part 2