sometimes your voice is not enough
In a land long ago but not very far away there was a fic called Prague. And here (due to some sort of minor miricale I'm sure) we have part four. In which Draco is angsty and possibly channeling Spike (from Bebop not Buffy), and there is no dialog, but there is a bit of sex.
I've edited previous parts a bit (most notably the first couple of paragraphs of part three which were originally written in Blaise POV but really should have been Draco all along) but it's all still pretty much unbetaed. And I still don't have much more of an idea of what's going on then Draco does.
Part four is dedicated to longsunday who somehow, through talk of zombies and 28DL crossovers, managed to jump start my working on this fic again.
Previous parts here
Prague - part four
There are times, days hours, when Draco feels like he's living in a dream. Times when nothing seems quite real. It feels almost like he is watching the world through someone else's eyes, someone who doesn't give a toss about him or anything that befalls him. Days seem to skip by like time is becoming unhinged; a watch someone forgot to wind but it doesn't just get slower, it gets faster as well and stops and starts at it's own whim. Two days like an hour, then a day like a week and Draco finds himself having to really stop and think about what day it is, what month. He knows it's winter by the brittle air and wind - now more sinister with the cold - but it bothers him that he has to actually search out a pub with a telly and watch it for a good fifteen minutes before he can come up with the exact date. It is, he decides, time to leave.
The relief and semi-triumph of getting Blaise to admit that he too has no idea what's going on turns hollow in the face of Blaise's staunch denial and easy dismissal of Draco's latest theories that the city is conspiring against them. Blaise just plain won't leave. On top of it he will give no reason why. He gives no voice to Draco's obvious statement (one that he knows Blaise agrees with) that the weather in Athens this time of year would be far more suitable. Blaise is being contrary for the sake of being contrary.
It's come to the point that Draco can hardly remember why he saw fit to follow the git to a city so full of ghosts there is barely any room for the living. It was something to do with culture and appreciation of architecture and the elder Zabini's sudden need to have his son not reside at the estate any longer. Draco was absolutely not going to admit that he would have been bored without Blaise around for an indeterminate amount of time, so he'd come along. Now he's beginning to wonder what exactly it was that Blaise had done to cause his parents to eject him from paradise in the first place. Surely that was information Draco should have thought to inquire about before tramping across the continent in Blaise's wake.
Then again Draco can hardly even remember England at this point. The country is all but a blur with only certain bits in focus, one in particular, the one he would most like to forget. Dinner on a night in early autumn (the night which would turn out to be Draco's final night at the Manor) and the look on Lucius' face as he spoke of the Dark Lord and grandiose plans. It was a look of adulation, devotion, on the face of a man who's pride had always been a sizable asset. The face of a man supplicating himself without admitting to it; doing another's bidding when he had always always kept up the impression that he was the one in control, that he was the one who was calling the shots. Draco had believed it his entire life, believed that Lucius was the most powerful and influential man in the wizarding world. Until that night.
That night Draco had seen nothing but a groveling fool sitting in his father's chair. Lucius who had always talked of beauty and standards and bringing wizard kind to the next level, rising above, nothing but a supplicant to a grotesque half-human madman. Voldemort was offering immortality, true, but at what cost? Too look like him for all eternity? To grovel at his feet and answer every question with an affirmation? Draco would be no one's yes man. Not from that point on anyway.
And where did had that left him? In a foreign country with and incomprehensible language and a different sort of mad man. If the situation was better he was having a hard time holding on to that shred of truth.
There are only little things to hold on to now. Things so small they are almost unnameable, inconsequential. The fact that he is finally getting the handle on the lay of the streets. The dark figure of Blaise standing beside him on those few times when he is not off 'studying'. Their new ritual of coffee as the sun goes down.
:::
Sitting with backs to the west facing wall of the cafe, legs propped on chairs nicked from the next table over Draco can almost feel the warmth in the sun on his face. He almost feels content as he watches the steam from their espresso mingle with smoke from Blaise's cigarette. But when and where, exactly, had Blaise picked up that habit? How much has not been paying attention to?
The sun's steady march across the evening sky seems slightly sinister all of a sudden, it's passing behind buildings turns light stucco dark, backlit, and there just may be something moving where that gargoyle was. When the sun shows it's face again it's nothing but blinding light against a sky that now seems darker blue. Then a flash of wings against the light. A bird. A raven? All birds are raven black against the sun.
Draco shivers and wraps his hands around his cup for warmth. Damn this habit that has him sitting outside as the day grows colder. Damn Blaise for deciding it was a good idea. When Draco complains of the cold Blaise proclaims - with the air of one who won't under any circumstances listen to reason - that coffee is better enjoyed in the open air. Draco hasn't the energy to argue. The city is getting to Blaise too, there is a new sharpness to his features, his speech, his silence; jaw clenched against words he isn't going to say.
The shadows continue stretch their long fingers across the cobbles, slowly growing up Draco's ankle, his knee, his thigh and Draco nearly drops his cup when shadow fingers are followed by actual fingers creeping from knee to thigh under the cover of the new semi-shadow dark. Draco glances at Blaise who is calmly maintaining the illusion of a man letting his cigarette burn out as he gazes idly at the musty looking bookshop across the way. The bastard can't even act like what he wants is really what he wants. Draco tries to shift away but the stone wall juts out just behind his chair and there's no where to go. He's in a corner.
And that's really the crux of it, isn't it? He's backed into a corner and the doesn't know why. Just like he doesn't know why he's let Blaise insinuate himself so deeply under his skin in the first place. Even when he says he knows nothing Draco is sure Blaise knows more than he lets on. If Draco knew more he wouldn't disclose it all up front, and Blaise is a master of diversion, of flipping everything ass over tea kettle at a moment's notice.
That's what this is really about. Those fingers are back creeping further up Draco's thigh, the ghost of a touch through his jeans, remarkably Blaise's hand feels warm despite the chill wind that prowls round their feet. It feels warmer still as his fingers trace the contours of Draco's quickly hardening cock. Fingers that know the exact pressure, exact caress, exact right time to delve beneath waist band and out.
Draco drops his cup on the table with a sharp clunk and a sloshing of coffee onto his leg. Blaise smirks - his cigarette gone to ash half on the table and half on the cobbles below - then stands abruptly dragging his fingers from waist to neck up Draco's chest and fisting his hand in the collar of Draco's shirt, roughly pulling the blond out of his seat and around the corner.
Draco's back hits stone nearly hard enough to knock the wind out of him, undoubtedly hard enough to bruise, and he doesn't feel it over fingers and teeth and tongue on stomach and neck and cock, Blaise's hand up under his shirt and nails bitting flesh. He doesn't even realize it's stone until there are stars behind his eyes as his skull finds the wall this time. The look on Blaise's face is half satisfied smile half pure animal lust as he exposes inch by inch of Draco's skin to the cold air; sinks his teeth into collar bone leaving Draco standing rigid and white knuckled and fighting to hold back a moan, his breath coming in too-quick closed mouth gasps.
This, Draco remembers from somewhere behind a delicious haze, somewhere the thoughts usually stay hidded, is the real reason he's followed Blaise all this way. The teeth at his neck. The nails across the small of his back. The hand on his cock. The way Blaise manages to get him chest to wall and trousers to ground in one fluid movement, two intakes of breath, three thrusts before sounds that he is sure he must be incapable of making ricochet down the alley, off wall wall wall and back again, mingling with Blaise's animal moans. Blaise's weight as he collapses against Draco knocks the wind out of him and Draco doesn't care that his hands are bloodied against the stone. That his shirt is ruined. That his trousers are around his ankles and it's the middle of winter.
He almost doesn't care when Blaise straightens his jacket and walks off down the alley in the opposite direction of the cafe. Draco pulls himself together enough to stumble back to the table and slap a few koruna down next to their no longer steaming cups before he follows. He's not even sure why he bothers.
I've edited previous parts a bit (most notably the first couple of paragraphs of part three which were originally written in Blaise POV but really should have been Draco all along) but it's all still pretty much unbetaed. And I still don't have much more of an idea of what's going on then Draco does.
Part four is dedicated to longsunday who somehow, through talk of zombies and 28DL crossovers, managed to jump start my working on this fic again.
Previous parts here
Prague - part four
There are times, days hours, when Draco feels like he's living in a dream. Times when nothing seems quite real. It feels almost like he is watching the world through someone else's eyes, someone who doesn't give a toss about him or anything that befalls him. Days seem to skip by like time is becoming unhinged; a watch someone forgot to wind but it doesn't just get slower, it gets faster as well and stops and starts at it's own whim. Two days like an hour, then a day like a week and Draco finds himself having to really stop and think about what day it is, what month. He knows it's winter by the brittle air and wind - now more sinister with the cold - but it bothers him that he has to actually search out a pub with a telly and watch it for a good fifteen minutes before he can come up with the exact date. It is, he decides, time to leave.
The relief and semi-triumph of getting Blaise to admit that he too has no idea what's going on turns hollow in the face of Blaise's staunch denial and easy dismissal of Draco's latest theories that the city is conspiring against them. Blaise just plain won't leave. On top of it he will give no reason why. He gives no voice to Draco's obvious statement (one that he knows Blaise agrees with) that the weather in Athens this time of year would be far more suitable. Blaise is being contrary for the sake of being contrary.
It's come to the point that Draco can hardly remember why he saw fit to follow the git to a city so full of ghosts there is barely any room for the living. It was something to do with culture and appreciation of architecture and the elder Zabini's sudden need to have his son not reside at the estate any longer. Draco was absolutely not going to admit that he would have been bored without Blaise around for an indeterminate amount of time, so he'd come along. Now he's beginning to wonder what exactly it was that Blaise had done to cause his parents to eject him from paradise in the first place. Surely that was information Draco should have thought to inquire about before tramping across the continent in Blaise's wake.
Then again Draco can hardly even remember England at this point. The country is all but a blur with only certain bits in focus, one in particular, the one he would most like to forget. Dinner on a night in early autumn (the night which would turn out to be Draco's final night at the Manor) and the look on Lucius' face as he spoke of the Dark Lord and grandiose plans. It was a look of adulation, devotion, on the face of a man who's pride had always been a sizable asset. The face of a man supplicating himself without admitting to it; doing another's bidding when he had always always kept up the impression that he was the one in control, that he was the one who was calling the shots. Draco had believed it his entire life, believed that Lucius was the most powerful and influential man in the wizarding world. Until that night.
That night Draco had seen nothing but a groveling fool sitting in his father's chair. Lucius who had always talked of beauty and standards and bringing wizard kind to the next level, rising above, nothing but a supplicant to a grotesque half-human madman. Voldemort was offering immortality, true, but at what cost? Too look like him for all eternity? To grovel at his feet and answer every question with an affirmation? Draco would be no one's yes man. Not from that point on anyway.
And where did had that left him? In a foreign country with and incomprehensible language and a different sort of mad man. If the situation was better he was having a hard time holding on to that shred of truth.
There are only little things to hold on to now. Things so small they are almost unnameable, inconsequential. The fact that he is finally getting the handle on the lay of the streets. The dark figure of Blaise standing beside him on those few times when he is not off 'studying'. Their new ritual of coffee as the sun goes down.
:::
Sitting with backs to the west facing wall of the cafe, legs propped on chairs nicked from the next table over Draco can almost feel the warmth in the sun on his face. He almost feels content as he watches the steam from their espresso mingle with smoke from Blaise's cigarette. But when and where, exactly, had Blaise picked up that habit? How much has not been paying attention to?
The sun's steady march across the evening sky seems slightly sinister all of a sudden, it's passing behind buildings turns light stucco dark, backlit, and there just may be something moving where that gargoyle was. When the sun shows it's face again it's nothing but blinding light against a sky that now seems darker blue. Then a flash of wings against the light. A bird. A raven? All birds are raven black against the sun.
Draco shivers and wraps his hands around his cup for warmth. Damn this habit that has him sitting outside as the day grows colder. Damn Blaise for deciding it was a good idea. When Draco complains of the cold Blaise proclaims - with the air of one who won't under any circumstances listen to reason - that coffee is better enjoyed in the open air. Draco hasn't the energy to argue. The city is getting to Blaise too, there is a new sharpness to his features, his speech, his silence; jaw clenched against words he isn't going to say.
The shadows continue stretch their long fingers across the cobbles, slowly growing up Draco's ankle, his knee, his thigh and Draco nearly drops his cup when shadow fingers are followed by actual fingers creeping from knee to thigh under the cover of the new semi-shadow dark. Draco glances at Blaise who is calmly maintaining the illusion of a man letting his cigarette burn out as he gazes idly at the musty looking bookshop across the way. The bastard can't even act like what he wants is really what he wants. Draco tries to shift away but the stone wall juts out just behind his chair and there's no where to go. He's in a corner.
And that's really the crux of it, isn't it? He's backed into a corner and the doesn't know why. Just like he doesn't know why he's let Blaise insinuate himself so deeply under his skin in the first place. Even when he says he knows nothing Draco is sure Blaise knows more than he lets on. If Draco knew more he wouldn't disclose it all up front, and Blaise is a master of diversion, of flipping everything ass over tea kettle at a moment's notice.
That's what this is really about. Those fingers are back creeping further up Draco's thigh, the ghost of a touch through his jeans, remarkably Blaise's hand feels warm despite the chill wind that prowls round their feet. It feels warmer still as his fingers trace the contours of Draco's quickly hardening cock. Fingers that know the exact pressure, exact caress, exact right time to delve beneath waist band and out.
Draco drops his cup on the table with a sharp clunk and a sloshing of coffee onto his leg. Blaise smirks - his cigarette gone to ash half on the table and half on the cobbles below - then stands abruptly dragging his fingers from waist to neck up Draco's chest and fisting his hand in the collar of Draco's shirt, roughly pulling the blond out of his seat and around the corner.
Draco's back hits stone nearly hard enough to knock the wind out of him, undoubtedly hard enough to bruise, and he doesn't feel it over fingers and teeth and tongue on stomach and neck and cock, Blaise's hand up under his shirt and nails bitting flesh. He doesn't even realize it's stone until there are stars behind his eyes as his skull finds the wall this time. The look on Blaise's face is half satisfied smile half pure animal lust as he exposes inch by inch of Draco's skin to the cold air; sinks his teeth into collar bone leaving Draco standing rigid and white knuckled and fighting to hold back a moan, his breath coming in too-quick closed mouth gasps.
This, Draco remembers from somewhere behind a delicious haze, somewhere the thoughts usually stay hidded, is the real reason he's followed Blaise all this way. The teeth at his neck. The nails across the small of his back. The hand on his cock. The way Blaise manages to get him chest to wall and trousers to ground in one fluid movement, two intakes of breath, three thrusts before sounds that he is sure he must be incapable of making ricochet down the alley, off wall wall wall and back again, mingling with Blaise's animal moans. Blaise's weight as he collapses against Draco knocks the wind out of him and Draco doesn't care that his hands are bloodied against the stone. That his shirt is ruined. That his trousers are around his ankles and it's the middle of winter.
He almost doesn't care when Blaise straightens his jacket and walks off down the alley in the opposite direction of the cafe. Draco pulls himself together enough to stumble back to the table and slap a few koruna down next to their no longer steaming cups before he follows. He's not even sure why he bothers.