HOLY SHIT SHE'S WRITING
Thanks to the marvellous furiosity (LJ won't let me link for some reason) or rather her Skyehawke account that I've been stalking and reading through for the past two days, I've gotten a chink of inspiration to write. Congratulate me, please. Last time I wrote musta been summer 09. Possibly.
Title: Because They Are Of The Same.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: M
Summary: It's because it's all true, and because what they've always had is just different shades of the same colour. [Non-DH compliant]
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Fuck no. I only play with some characters really deviously.
I. They've started over many times.
Harry's favourite time is that day in late August, sun wringing the sweat out of his skin and burning him tan. He lifts a palm to shade his eyes, head cranes up and what does he see in the distance if not that white-blond thatch. He feels hatred and excitement and that anticipation. No one can bring that out in him. No one but this insufferable git.
They'd nearly come to blows again, like they did most afternoons after the war finally ended. They grudgingly worked together, but once that forced-upon camaraderie had finished, they started arguing for no reason other than to simply do something. Harry suspects that he always let himself be riled up because he wanted to be excited, wanted to have some kind of purpose, some kind of secret niche to hold onto after daylight hours when building the world again had halted. Draco, because he didn't have anything else to do and Potter's presence just annoyed the shit out of him most days, when he didn't have to be nice to him.
Except this time was different. Harry blames the heat of the sun, making them sluggish and lazy, and so instead of hitting each other bloody and broken-nosed, they just sit on the grass. They're not really hating each other. They actually get along well. But there's something about physical force that makes them - subconsciously - want to continue hitting and kicking.
Harry doesn't quite remember what they talked about, or the excuse he used to sit closer to Draco as the heat dissipated over the long hours. He just remembers the sudden sweetness of lips on his, the sudden intimate fire, the grass blades at his neck when Draco rolls him over.
Draco's version is that one time, two days after victorious celebrations that left wizarding England drunk and happy. Quite a few parties were still going on, but a lot of Death Eaters were still rounded up, buildings that had been destroyed mended slowly by teams of wizards and witches who had come forth to help willingly. Though Harry was the hero of the hour - and though loath to admit, not a little proud - he'd volunteered to help with the clear-up, leaving the alcohol for the evenings. Draco had been part of his team; and while they didn't beat each other silly yet, Draco suspected they were close, a few times. And on that day, Harry's arms brushed his more often than was necessary; the warmth of his body closer than comfortable; his face strangely and clearly outlined in Draco's memory, hours after they'd gone home when he's lying in bed and he keeps rolling around because dammit, it can't be healthy to see someone like that in your mind's eye, and that smile, that secret smile that nobody saw but him and which - he was so certain - was meant for him, and him alone.
II. He told me he loved me.
Draco whispers that in Harry's ear every night since they moved in together. The walls of the bedroom had heard many cries, and whimpers and moans of want, many a conversation, many a shout, many a secret. And yet if walls could talk, Draco knew this was the one secret they'd never tell. Draco had never wanted to need someone that much, and far less his old nemesis, but times change and who knew Harry's eye-lashes were so long and dark, and fluttered just so when he slept? Always the eloquent one, even in sex (or so Draco likes to think) it's Harry's presence that reduces him to a loving, sopping, gibbering mess. He loves that he's like that, he loves Harry romantically and desperately, and even without words - but he'd never admit it. Much less acknowledge it, even if his fingers are running through black strands when Harry's sick, or eyes twinkling when Harry's happy.
Harry shouts it the first time under his window, at three a.m. and dammit, what does the bloody (cute) idiot want now? Harry had been brushed off earlier that day, and pissed off, he let his anger be known as only The Boy Who Lived Bloody Twice could: bangs and whistles and shouts of anger. He knows he's way too drunk, and he knows he'll fall over, but he also knows that he has to admit this niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he looks at Draco, and he has to confess this to Draco because he can't tell himself, he can't look his own face in the mirror and speak this truth alone, even though he already knows it. Screams out, loud and clear - "Draco fucking Malfoy, I love you!" desperate and hoarse - because if Draco knows, the rest of the world can know. He wants to know, the voice at the back of his mind slurs, what he can do better, what he needs to do so that Draco doesn't brush him off like that ever again, because for a second he almost thought that they- they- and then he can't talk anymore and it's only then he realises he's been yelling out loud, and Draco's light disappears but a bath-robed blond unlocks the door and Merlin, he's never been so gratefulrelievedjoyous to see someone. Then he's kissed, and Draco chuckles sleepily when he pulls back abruptly because, whoof, that's a lot of whisky on his breath. And then Harry doesn't care anymore, because he's being kissed again, and that's all that matters.
III. Yes.
Harry laughs, his cheeks blush, and yes-yes-OH!RIGHTFUCKINGTHERE-
He remembers Draco's eyes gleaming mischievously, a little pink sliver of tongue licking white, hair fluffed and honestly? he's so happy and ecstatic and fucked out that simply gazing at those grey eyes is what makes him happiest in the world. Right now - and quite possibly for a long while after this. The rain hammers the window panes, the lightning mingles electric blue with soft orange of a candle (not for any romantic reason - the power had been knocked out) and this is the best first time. Ever.
Draco vehemently denies this version. He says pompously every time they argue - which, depending on the day, hour and mood, either shuts them up, or starts another argument, or even throws them into a bit of a romp in whichever room they happen to be in at the time - that it was on the floor in the living room, because his arse was sore and red and welted for weeks afterwards ("Shut up, more like days," Harry snorts. "WEEKS, I tell you!"). He refuses to acknowledge the fact that Harry did roll him over during a tickle fight and managed to get his clothes off in under a minute ("Because a tickle fight is just not a good story-telling device, and anyway we were wrestling. WRESTLING.") but he does smile and a canine tooth peeks out over his bottom lip when he thinks of the vermilion bites on his flesh, sinking into his very nerves, adorned with wanton sounds and little thrusts and oh, so good, that cry and release, that brief oblivion when it seemed all his senses had shut off and the only real thing despite that was Harry, his heavy body and his breath in his ear and that slackening turgidity in him.
And the sun was shining and the electricity had most certainly not been knocked out. That twit.
IV. Because they are of the same.
There are many versions of a truth. They all happened, at some point. And it doesn't matter that Draco insists he'd only ever hated Potter, and it doesn't matter that Harry just laughs whenever that happens. It's because it's all true, and because what they've always had is just different shades of the same colour. The same bodies and the same names and the same words and the same hearts, and it doesn't matter when or where; it only matters when Draco stows his head onto Harry's chest, many years after the war is over, forehead sticking to the greying curls, and whispers what he's always whispered. And it only matters when Harry peers down, still can't see well but he doesn't need to because he knows every hair and every blemish and every pore, and whispers back what the walls can't hear and will never tell. Forever can be a long time, but however long it is, that's how long they'll spend together, whispering the same old words. Because they are of the same.
So, if I was a bit rusty, feel free to tell me - I'm more than happy to read concrit!
Title: Because They Are Of The Same.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: M
Summary: It's because it's all true, and because what they've always had is just different shades of the same colour. [Non-DH compliant]
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Fuck no. I only play with some characters really deviously.
I. They've started over many times.
Harry's favourite time is that day in late August, sun wringing the sweat out of his skin and burning him tan. He lifts a palm to shade his eyes, head cranes up and what does he see in the distance if not that white-blond thatch. He feels hatred and excitement and that anticipation. No one can bring that out in him. No one but this insufferable git.
They'd nearly come to blows again, like they did most afternoons after the war finally ended. They grudgingly worked together, but once that forced-upon camaraderie had finished, they started arguing for no reason other than to simply do something. Harry suspects that he always let himself be riled up because he wanted to be excited, wanted to have some kind of purpose, some kind of secret niche to hold onto after daylight hours when building the world again had halted. Draco, because he didn't have anything else to do and Potter's presence just annoyed the shit out of him most days, when he didn't have to be nice to him.
Except this time was different. Harry blames the heat of the sun, making them sluggish and lazy, and so instead of hitting each other bloody and broken-nosed, they just sit on the grass. They're not really hating each other. They actually get along well. But there's something about physical force that makes them - subconsciously - want to continue hitting and kicking.
Harry doesn't quite remember what they talked about, or the excuse he used to sit closer to Draco as the heat dissipated over the long hours. He just remembers the sudden sweetness of lips on his, the sudden intimate fire, the grass blades at his neck when Draco rolls him over.
Draco's version is that one time, two days after victorious celebrations that left wizarding England drunk and happy. Quite a few parties were still going on, but a lot of Death Eaters were still rounded up, buildings that had been destroyed mended slowly by teams of wizards and witches who had come forth to help willingly. Though Harry was the hero of the hour - and though loath to admit, not a little proud - he'd volunteered to help with the clear-up, leaving the alcohol for the evenings. Draco had been part of his team; and while they didn't beat each other silly yet, Draco suspected they were close, a few times. And on that day, Harry's arms brushed his more often than was necessary; the warmth of his body closer than comfortable; his face strangely and clearly outlined in Draco's memory, hours after they'd gone home when he's lying in bed and he keeps rolling around because dammit, it can't be healthy to see someone like that in your mind's eye, and that smile, that secret smile that nobody saw but him and which - he was so certain - was meant for him, and him alone.
II. He told me he loved me.
Draco whispers that in Harry's ear every night since they moved in together. The walls of the bedroom had heard many cries, and whimpers and moans of want, many a conversation, many a shout, many a secret. And yet if walls could talk, Draco knew this was the one secret they'd never tell. Draco had never wanted to need someone that much, and far less his old nemesis, but times change and who knew Harry's eye-lashes were so long and dark, and fluttered just so when he slept? Always the eloquent one, even in sex (or so Draco likes to think) it's Harry's presence that reduces him to a loving, sopping, gibbering mess. He loves that he's like that, he loves Harry romantically and desperately, and even without words - but he'd never admit it. Much less acknowledge it, even if his fingers are running through black strands when Harry's sick, or eyes twinkling when Harry's happy.
Harry shouts it the first time under his window, at three a.m. and dammit, what does the bloody (cute) idiot want now? Harry had been brushed off earlier that day, and pissed off, he let his anger be known as only The Boy Who Lived Bloody Twice could: bangs and whistles and shouts of anger. He knows he's way too drunk, and he knows he'll fall over, but he also knows that he has to admit this niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he looks at Draco, and he has to confess this to Draco because he can't tell himself, he can't look his own face in the mirror and speak this truth alone, even though he already knows it. Screams out, loud and clear - "Draco fucking Malfoy, I love you!" desperate and hoarse - because if Draco knows, the rest of the world can know. He wants to know, the voice at the back of his mind slurs, what he can do better, what he needs to do so that Draco doesn't brush him off like that ever again, because for a second he almost thought that they- they- and then he can't talk anymore and it's only then he realises he's been yelling out loud, and Draco's light disappears but a bath-robed blond unlocks the door and Merlin, he's never been so gratefulrelievedjoyous to see someone. Then he's kissed, and Draco chuckles sleepily when he pulls back abruptly because, whoof, that's a lot of whisky on his breath. And then Harry doesn't care anymore, because he's being kissed again, and that's all that matters.
III. Yes.
Harry laughs, his cheeks blush, and yes-yes-OH!RIGHTFUCKINGTHERE-
He remembers Draco's eyes gleaming mischievously, a little pink sliver of tongue licking white, hair fluffed and honestly? he's so happy and ecstatic and fucked out that simply gazing at those grey eyes is what makes him happiest in the world. Right now - and quite possibly for a long while after this. The rain hammers the window panes, the lightning mingles electric blue with soft orange of a candle (not for any romantic reason - the power had been knocked out) and this is the best first time. Ever.
Draco vehemently denies this version. He says pompously every time they argue - which, depending on the day, hour and mood, either shuts them up, or starts another argument, or even throws them into a bit of a romp in whichever room they happen to be in at the time - that it was on the floor in the living room, because his arse was sore and red and welted for weeks afterwards ("Shut up, more like days," Harry snorts. "WEEKS, I tell you!"). He refuses to acknowledge the fact that Harry did roll him over during a tickle fight and managed to get his clothes off in under a minute ("Because a tickle fight is just not a good story-telling device, and anyway we were wrestling. WRESTLING.") but he does smile and a canine tooth peeks out over his bottom lip when he thinks of the vermilion bites on his flesh, sinking into his very nerves, adorned with wanton sounds and little thrusts and oh, so good, that cry and release, that brief oblivion when it seemed all his senses had shut off and the only real thing despite that was Harry, his heavy body and his breath in his ear and that slackening turgidity in him.
And the sun was shining and the electricity had most certainly not been knocked out. That twit.
IV. Because they are of the same.
There are many versions of a truth. They all happened, at some point. And it doesn't matter that Draco insists he'd only ever hated Potter, and it doesn't matter that Harry just laughs whenever that happens. It's because it's all true, and because what they've always had is just different shades of the same colour. The same bodies and the same names and the same words and the same hearts, and it doesn't matter when or where; it only matters when Draco stows his head onto Harry's chest, many years after the war is over, forehead sticking to the greying curls, and whispers what he's always whispered. And it only matters when Harry peers down, still can't see well but he doesn't need to because he knows every hair and every blemish and every pore, and whispers back what the walls can't hear and will never tell. Forever can be a long time, but however long it is, that's how long they'll spend together, whispering the same old words. Because they are of the same.
So, if I was a bit rusty, feel free to tell me - I'm more than happy to read concrit!