roll the Rs off your tongue
I want scones. *pouts*
*ignores the fact that it is 2 in the morning*
Table Manners, Darling
Written as a series of drabbles for
hd_boardgame
April is the cruellest month
A chair (Rococo, French) is all that remains of his father. It has bendy legs like swirls of foam and a curling top lip on each armrest. Draco likes its latte-coloured legs, like the roll of a wave, a pastry, a blonde ringlet suddenly Transfigured into wood.
He rides Potter on the chair, kissing Potter’s forehead and the vee of his scar. Harry, rocking to and fro like the lisp of a song with his legs spread taut across the cushioned seat. His skin grows slick when he is aroused, slippery-wet.
Sometimes, afterwards, the sweat-stains on the chair - leopard spots on green velvet - make Draco feel mildly ill.
After the war, a faint longing for normalcy and normal things malingers in the air, like the holiday flu. Work, holidays, nights out, boyfriends, love - they succeed war and death like spring after winter, sprouting new roots. (Weaselette has a new boyfriend and Pansy is pregnant with twins.)
Sometimes, when the bed is cold no matter how much Harry resembles a furnace, a sunstone, Draco likes to sit in his Father’s chair and watch the sky slip past darkened windows. It is - unlike peacetime, or love, or normal things - familiar.
::
Hitler came to her wedding; she thought he had exquisite table manners
They live together. (Or, in Potter-speak, they Live.)
Sometimes, when the birds twitter too loudly and Harry eats honey with toast, dribbling gold on his lips and his fingers and the tablecloth, Draco remembers how, when he was young, he used to cut his food into tiny pieces, spearing each mouthful on the prongs of his fork.
Nibbling Harry’s stomach around his navel, stroking his tongue through the ins and outs and making Harry squirm with laughter, eyes crinkling like gold leaf - he wonders how many mouthfuls Harry will take.
He mouths the tip of Harry’s cock - lick, purl, twist - before swallowing him whole, honey-sweet.
::
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
There has never been a fat Malfoy.
Draco relishes this fact - war heroes lead sedentary lives, as a whole. (Twice shy.) In a shoebox, Potter collects Dumbledores and Snapes like the ghosts of his past and chocolate frogs sun themselves by the windowsill, oozing cocoa powder.
There is a mirror in the empty bedroom, where Draco never sleeps. It makes him look seventeen again, all angles and pale fire.
He wonders why Harry always insists on watching him in the mirror, voyeur-like, when he comes here. Harry has the prettiest eyes, green like bottled messages, thrice-folded like wings.
Slowly, Draco trails his fingers, flour-white, over the knobs in the old wood. E-r -i- s-e -d.
The Harry in the mirror mouths, I could fall in love with you.
::
One day, Draco thinks, they will get a white house with a picket fence, spangled with rose trellises and duck ponds.
One day Narcissa will come to visit.
But for now, for now - he licks the white sugar off Harry’s eyelashes, like powder, like snowflakes, and smiles at Harry’s smile in the morning - they will do.