here we are now. entertain us.
This really should be much longer considering how long it took me to finish. But it’s not. ‘Tis unbeta’d, and I fear that it ought to have been, but I want to post it now, so it won’t be. (Which means if you notice anything that’s off or doesn’t make sense let me know.)
Much thanks to phoenixdru and implebeian for the encouragement (ie. friendly badgering ;>).
Previous parts here.
Prague - part three
After spending the better part of two months in the city Draco has come to the steadily building realization that he hasn't really seen it. He's walked it's streets and alleys, partaken of much of what it has to offer in the way of fine dining and alcoholic beverages, lent a keen eye to it's particular style of architecture and art galleries. But he hasn't really seen it. He hasn't really been paying attention, at least not to tangible things like stone and brick.
There is something else going on that is not real, but is, and it is taking up all his thoughts without his knowledge. Blaise's scathing denials of the things that Draco sees - the things that are very possibly hunting him or them or all of the above - only help to fuel the apprehension that is steadily growing in the back of his throat. The slow choke of a confined space and a finite amount of air.
If, as he tells himself, they are not actually running from anything, then why is he so wary of being followed? And what exactly does he think is following him? As much as he hates to admit it to himself, and especially to Blaise, he has no answers.
The reasons for coming here in the first place are fading at the edges, an old photograph slowly turning back to dust. Every night when Draco pulls back the sheet to find a spider in the very middle of the bed - an ink spot on not quite white enough white - and Blaise brushes it off as nothing, a bit more purpose drains out of him and a bit more doubt filters in around the edges. Things that Draco feels he should not be noticing (or doesn’t want to) become just a bit more obvious; the stains from floods past crawling up the edges of the buildings, a cobble missing here or there, a building in a state of stalled half renovation. Away from the tourists and the crystal shops there is undoubtedly something untoward going on.
Draco returns to the cafe of the previous evening convinced that the odd little waiter has something to do with it. He meets with staunch denial that the man even exists from the other employees. The so called manager - a girl of barely eighteen - looks at Draco like he's gone completely over the edge when he insists that the man waited on him just yesterday and that she knows exactly where he is. He presses and presses, but the girl just shakes her head no, lips tight with annoyance.
A curse forms on Draco’s lips before he’s even got his wand out. It tastes bitter and familiar and reminds him of his father. His father.
He blinks.
The girl is still standing there staring at him with wide eyed incredulity. Draco catches the ghost of movement through the door to the back room where the other teenage waitresses are lurking.
Everything snaps back into focus, bright and sunlit and harmless.
He shakes his head and walks out the door without a backward glance.
:::
There’s nothing like feeling out of sorts to send you into a frenzy of self doubt. Nothing like a travelling companion who’s more thorn-in-the-side than companion to set you on edge. The thorn in Draco’s side is, for the second meal in a row, very obviously purposefully not responding to his attempts at conversation. It is grating on his last nerve.
"Zabini." The name spat out with more venom than usual in hopes of eliciting some sort of response.
Blaise turns, deliberately too slow and unconcerned, "Yes?"
"Less reading, more talking."
"I was under the impression that you no longer wanted to hear me speak."
"What gave you that idea?"
"If I'm not mistaken I do believe you said something along the lines of 'I've had enough of your talking' over breakfast."
"So you've not spoken to me all day?"
A shrug. "I am only trying to comply with your wishes, dear Draco."
"Well, you can stop now."
Blaise snaps his book shut with a smirk and a wink, "Yes, sir."
The ring on Draco's right middle finger flashes torch light as he turns, pointing toward the one coffee selling establishment they have yet to sample. "So, I was thinking, that cafe across the square-" Blaise is out of his chair and, "Wait. Where are you going?"
Blaise stops mid-stride and turns back, his movements almost too precise, as if rehearsed, (could he have rehearsed this? could he have rehearsed everything?) and leans in, “I am actively not doing as you wish. As you told me to.”
The words are hot and infuriating against Draco's skin, he twists around, cobra quick. Blaise, surprisingly, stays right where he is and Draco's right hand is at his throat. Draco’s eyes burn with silver fire, unused curses forming on his lips. Just as well he didn’t use them on the girl when the real problem has been right here under his nose, under his fingers, the entire time. The words come out as a hiss. "This is all you. Isn't it?"
The hand on his throat is not a surprise and Blaise doesn’t flinch. The lazy "what" is not a question.
"This, this..." Draco makes a sweeping gesture with this left hand, encompassing the pub, the buildings across the square, the sky above, "Everything. The shadows that follow me, the things that go missing from our room, the spiders in the bed, the way the air chokes when I try to breath too quickly..." The way things seem to be coming apart at the seams. The way he’s not going to say all of this out loud because it makes him sound crazy.
"I do believe you are finally cracking up, dear boy."
"No. No. NO. I know what that looks like, and this is not what that looks like. Tell me what the fuck is going on here."
"I don't know."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't expect you to but that is, for once, the complete truth. I have no idea what's going on here." There is something like sincerity in Blaise's eyes.
"Swear to..." Draco tries to think of something that means enough to either one of them to swear on, but he can’t. They are just floundering here and something is floundering after them, only it has purpose, and they don't. Blaise is gazing at him steadily as if he's watching the thoughts play across Draco’s mind. As if he is thinking the same thing.
Draco releases Blaise and notes, with satisfaction, the dark red band where ring bit flesh on the darker boy's neck and takes a step back. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"You’re going to make me say it aren't you? You smug bastard."
"Say what?" Blaise tries to look innocent, the expression slides off him like water off a snake’s back. But this is the Blaise Draco knows. This is the usual wary trust that is always there under the surface. This is the usual pain-in-the-fucking-ass that he can't seem too and doesn’t want to (if he were to actually think about it) get rid of.
"I believe you."
part 4
Much thanks to phoenixdru and implebeian for the encouragement (ie. friendly badgering ;>).
Previous parts here.
Prague - part three
After spending the better part of two months in the city Draco has come to the steadily building realization that he hasn't really seen it. He's walked it's streets and alleys, partaken of much of what it has to offer in the way of fine dining and alcoholic beverages, lent a keen eye to it's particular style of architecture and art galleries. But he hasn't really seen it. He hasn't really been paying attention, at least not to tangible things like stone and brick.
There is something else going on that is not real, but is, and it is taking up all his thoughts without his knowledge. Blaise's scathing denials of the things that Draco sees - the things that are very possibly hunting him or them or all of the above - only help to fuel the apprehension that is steadily growing in the back of his throat. The slow choke of a confined space and a finite amount of air.
If, as he tells himself, they are not actually running from anything, then why is he so wary of being followed? And what exactly does he think is following him? As much as he hates to admit it to himself, and especially to Blaise, he has no answers.
The reasons for coming here in the first place are fading at the edges, an old photograph slowly turning back to dust. Every night when Draco pulls back the sheet to find a spider in the very middle of the bed - an ink spot on not quite white enough white - and Blaise brushes it off as nothing, a bit more purpose drains out of him and a bit more doubt filters in around the edges. Things that Draco feels he should not be noticing (or doesn’t want to) become just a bit more obvious; the stains from floods past crawling up the edges of the buildings, a cobble missing here or there, a building in a state of stalled half renovation. Away from the tourists and the crystal shops there is undoubtedly something untoward going on.
Draco returns to the cafe of the previous evening convinced that the odd little waiter has something to do with it. He meets with staunch denial that the man even exists from the other employees. The so called manager - a girl of barely eighteen - looks at Draco like he's gone completely over the edge when he insists that the man waited on him just yesterday and that she knows exactly where he is. He presses and presses, but the girl just shakes her head no, lips tight with annoyance.
A curse forms on Draco’s lips before he’s even got his wand out. It tastes bitter and familiar and reminds him of his father. His father.
He blinks.
The girl is still standing there staring at him with wide eyed incredulity. Draco catches the ghost of movement through the door to the back room where the other teenage waitresses are lurking.
Everything snaps back into focus, bright and sunlit and harmless.
He shakes his head and walks out the door without a backward glance.
:::
There’s nothing like feeling out of sorts to send you into a frenzy of self doubt. Nothing like a travelling companion who’s more thorn-in-the-side than companion to set you on edge. The thorn in Draco’s side is, for the second meal in a row, very obviously purposefully not responding to his attempts at conversation. It is grating on his last nerve.
"Zabini." The name spat out with more venom than usual in hopes of eliciting some sort of response.
Blaise turns, deliberately too slow and unconcerned, "Yes?"
"Less reading, more talking."
"I was under the impression that you no longer wanted to hear me speak."
"What gave you that idea?"
"If I'm not mistaken I do believe you said something along the lines of 'I've had enough of your talking' over breakfast."
"So you've not spoken to me all day?"
A shrug. "I am only trying to comply with your wishes, dear Draco."
"Well, you can stop now."
Blaise snaps his book shut with a smirk and a wink, "Yes, sir."
The ring on Draco's right middle finger flashes torch light as he turns, pointing toward the one coffee selling establishment they have yet to sample. "So, I was thinking, that cafe across the square-" Blaise is out of his chair and, "Wait. Where are you going?"
Blaise stops mid-stride and turns back, his movements almost too precise, as if rehearsed, (could he have rehearsed this? could he have rehearsed everything?) and leans in, “I am actively not doing as you wish. As you told me to.”
The words are hot and infuriating against Draco's skin, he twists around, cobra quick. Blaise, surprisingly, stays right where he is and Draco's right hand is at his throat. Draco’s eyes burn with silver fire, unused curses forming on his lips. Just as well he didn’t use them on the girl when the real problem has been right here under his nose, under his fingers, the entire time. The words come out as a hiss. "This is all you. Isn't it?"
The hand on his throat is not a surprise and Blaise doesn’t flinch. The lazy "what" is not a question.
"This, this..." Draco makes a sweeping gesture with this left hand, encompassing the pub, the buildings across the square, the sky above, "Everything. The shadows that follow me, the things that go missing from our room, the spiders in the bed, the way the air chokes when I try to breath too quickly..." The way things seem to be coming apart at the seams. The way he’s not going to say all of this out loud because it makes him sound crazy.
"I do believe you are finally cracking up, dear boy."
"No. No. NO. I know what that looks like, and this is not what that looks like. Tell me what the fuck is going on here."
"I don't know."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't expect you to but that is, for once, the complete truth. I have no idea what's going on here." There is something like sincerity in Blaise's eyes.
"Swear to..." Draco tries to think of something that means enough to either one of them to swear on, but he can’t. They are just floundering here and something is floundering after them, only it has purpose, and they don't. Blaise is gazing at him steadily as if he's watching the thoughts play across Draco’s mind. As if he is thinking the same thing.
Draco releases Blaise and notes, with satisfaction, the dark red band where ring bit flesh on the darker boy's neck and takes a step back. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"You’re going to make me say it aren't you? You smug bastard."
"Say what?" Blaise tries to look innocent, the expression slides off him like water off a snake’s back. But this is the Blaise Draco knows. This is the usual wary trust that is always there under the surface. This is the usual pain-in-the-fucking-ass that he can't seem too and doesn’t want to (if he were to actually think about it) get rid of.
"I believe you."
part 4