Crown of Rope, part V, the conclusion
Continued from here
Friday afternoon found Draco in East London at the Ridley Road street market, buying fresh food and meat both for the evening's meal and also for his larder in general. He'd become used to cooking for one, and his repertoire unsurprisingly focussed on rice and vegetable dishes due to his time in Osaka. After combing a couple of cookbooks he had, he'd settled on something less exotic for his evening meal with Ron, after owling Flissy for the recipe. Ron had spent the night and gone into work grudgingly and, to Draco's indecent pleasure, wearing a pair of Draco's boxer shorts. Ron had gone by his flat after their pizza to get a change of clothes, but as he'd dressed this morning, he'd admitted he'd wanted to wear something of Draco's.
"What kind of grief did Potter give you while you were away?" Draco had asked, making tea and serving up toast and jam for both of them before Ron had to get to a ten o'clock meeting.
"Harry? Well, he asked a lot of probing questions, and I told him to get stuffed a lot," Ron had said through a mouthful of bread, shrugging. "Seriously, though, I told him that I didn't plan on him getting anymore eyefuls like that, but he could expect that if he didn't see me as often, it's because I'm with you. And I'm happy. And I'm not under some wicked Malfoysian curse, either."
Draco had looked down his nose, and took a sip of his tea. "Well, what fun is there if he doesn't believe that?"
Ron snorted, taking another slice of toast and heaping it with persimmon preserves. "Plenty. He said you're invited anytime we do stuff with Teddy. He's all into establishing harmony and healing wounds and being sickeningly happy about everything."
"Seemed like, when I saw him at the match."
"He is. And he deserves it." Ron had paused, swirling the last of his tea before tossing it back. The open, simple look of hopeful wonder in Ron's gaze was yet another weft in the weave Draco felt between them. "And so do I. Glad you came back."
Draco took an expansive breath. "So am I."
Once back at his flat, Draco put away his collection of foodstuffs and rang Blaise. They chatted for a while, and Draco was very pleased that Blaise was so caught up in his own newly revived love life that he wasn't lonely and wanting Draco's company. He told Blaise about the new job, and some about his golf, but he could tell his friend wasn't really all that interested. They had drifted apart during Draco's time overseas, but out of some lingering sense of obligation he kept up with him. What would be more unpredictable was his American cousin Cassandra, who he was sure would plan to visit in the near future. She was uncharacteristically nonjudgmental, and knew about Draco's predilections, at least in that he was queer. She didn't know about the rope bondage appeal, and certainly didn't need to. She'd probably fawn all over Ron, with his unpolished and unconventional looks, and no doubt she'd be beside herself when she found out he was one of six men in his family. Well, five, now.
He decided to go and get a couple of bottles of wine to go with dinner, and as he did, Draco realised he'd totally forgotten to tell Ron about his run-in with George. They'd had other things on their mind, to be sure. One thing that he was never going to do was apologise for who he was, his family, or even his own choices. Absently he rubbed at his left forearm where his Dark Mark remained, now only a ghostly scar of what it once was. He'd had no choice when he took it- he would have done anything to save his family. And if there was one thing that Ron seemed to live and breathe, it was loyalty. At some point he really should ask what Ron's year had been like, that awful passage of weeks and months during the grimmest time of the War. It seemed incomprehensible that that had happened four years ago; Draco was twenty-two now, but he felt far older. Thankfully he didn't look it, and neither did Weasley.
Draco spent a goodly amount of time making the beetroot ravioli with three cheese filling, hoping that Ron liked Italian food. Most people seemed to, though in Draco's remembrances of his school years, the house-elves had certainly leaned toward standard English fare. Once the dish was ready and he'd put it in the oven on a low heat, he got a shower and took his time engaged in his pre-anticipatory-sex cleaning and shaving. He was enjoying a cigarette and a cup of tea out on his porch when Ron appeared in his living room. That morning at breakfast he'd told Ron he'd spelled his wards so that Ron could come and go as he wished, and Ron had seemed quite pleased.
"I don't have wards, but I do have a special locking spell on my flat. I'll give you the password," he'd said, the crooked smile twisting a skein of yearning in the chambers of Draco's heart.
Now Ron grinned at him, unshouldering his large oxblood satchel and gesturing at the bathroom. Draco nodded, smiling in return, and finishing his cigarette before going inside. He'd opened one of the bottles of cabernet shiraz, allowing it to breathe- something the bloke in the shop had suggested. He was pouring them each a glass when Ron's distinctive loping stride brought him into the kitchen.
"I assumed you'd like a glass," Draco explained.
"'Course." Ron gently took Draco's hands once they were done with their task and laced them behind his back. "Hi," he said, his voice low and throaty.
"Hi."
The deep kiss was inevitable, and the effect on Draco's body just as much so. The blood soared between his legs like a kingfisher diving for a meal. Their tongues tangled and speared until the neediness passed, and it became more of a welcome back, I've missed you gentle exploration. After a time they drew apart and Draco gave Ron a glass of wine. He checked up on the pasta dish, seeing it only needed about fifteen more minutes. They went and sat in the living room, still silent, but their intuitive expressions acknowledged the space was thick with unspoken words of companionship.
"I had a memorable meeting with your brother a couple of days ago," Draco said finally, after Accio'ing the wine bottle and scooting next to Ron on the couch as he refilled their glasses.
"George? Did you go by Wheezes?" Ron appeared thunderstruck and appreciative.
"Oh yes," Draco said dryly. "He thought I was you. I had to convince him otherwise, and to say he was surprised would be rather an understatement."
"What, did he think I'd polyjuiced myself? No, because he doesn't know you're back."
Draco shook his had ruefully. "He does now. He was quite impressed with your glamour skills, until I proved to be who I said I was. Then there was a fight, and then I left." He spoke dispassionately, amused at the baffled expression on Ron's face.
"What did you fight about?"
"He didn't seem to think I deserved to be in there at all, and I certainly had no business bothering you."
"Why'd I even come up as a topic?" Ron began to look angry, but Draco decided they might as well discuss it if they were ever going to appear together in front of any of Weasley's family.
"Basically he and Jordan were convinced I'd come by to bother them, and I said I'd only come along because you and I had spoken. I went to Diagon Alley after you were called away; I didn't want to sulk in my flat. Anyway, George said I should stay away and that you hated me, and I told him he didn't know the half of it."
Ron gripped his hand in a squeeze, a flicker of vengeance in his eyes. "He and I'll just have a talk," he muttered.
"Is that really necessary?" Draco asked, putting his wine glass down and glancing at his watch. His ravioli smelled fabulous, and he still needed to set the table and toss the salad.
"Well, yes!" Ron said indignantly, following Draco into the kitchen with a new glass of wine. He dutifully tossed the salad after Draco asked, though his mind was still on George. "It's none of his bloody business who I'm involved with, and he has no bloody right to be so rude to you. What if you'd wanted to buy something?"
"He might've thought I'd come to buy him out or something equally ludicrous," Draco observed, pulling the bubbling pan out of the oven and placing it on the counter. "He was looking out for you but I'd say he was out of line. It's not like I became a Death Eater for its dazzling magnetism and perks. I had to or the Dark Lord would've had my father killed and I can't imagine what would've been done to my mother. I was blatantly expendable," he ground out bitterly, surprised at how easily the rage rose in him at the mention of that time in his life.
There was a pause while Draco stared down at the baked ravioli, his hands still clenched to the potholders on the sides of the pan. Ron came to stand behind Draco, resting his chin on his shoulder. Seconds later his arms were around Draco's waist, and Ron's comforting piney scent drifted around Draco like a lazy moth.
"I really had no idea," Ron said, his voice contemplative. "I thought Harry was mad for following you around during sixth year, and once it was all on in earnest, I didn't think about you at all. No offense."
"None taken."
"Maybe you'll fill in some of the gaps for me. But I can't stand being around this gorgeous-smelling dish for much longer without eating it right here. Can I take out plates and cutlery and stuff and set the table?"
Draco smiled faintly at Ron's ever-present appetite. "Yes, please. I'll show you where they are." He turned in Ron's arms and planted a brusque but fervent kiss on Ron's lips. "I knew it was you who'd saved me, that second time. I knew it was you who'd punched me, too. Your voice, even full of contempt, it kept me going."
"Harry's the one who stunned the Death Eater," Ron said apologetically. "I would've left you and thought good riddance. But I sure did deck you in the face. I didn't know what all had been going on."
After they got the table set and Draco basked in Ron's praise for the meal, he at last asked Ron about his seventh year. Ron filled Draco in with what all he and Potter and Granger had done, how he'd abandoned them, and eventually returned. Ron was equally curious, so Draco gave him an overview of what his year had been like, up until the point that their lives had intersected in the Room of Requirement.
"And now we're years beyond that, you're Auror Weasley and I'm still Draco Malfoy, and somehow nothing seems more natural than us having dinner at my flat, followed by a night of shagging and collapsing together in my bed."
"Life's funny, isn't it?" Ron said with a thoughtful smile, taking their plates into the kitchen.
"Indeed. Why don't you relax in the living room for a couple of minutes while I get this cleaned up," Draco suggested.
Ron tried to insist he should do the washing-up, but Draco would have none of it. "Open that other bottle and enjoy a glass. Look at my books or something," Draco said graciously, nudging Ron away and toward the living room.
"I guess you're still celebrating?" Ron looked pointedly at the wine bottles, a triumphant look on his face.
"I bought them for you, you ingrate. Yes, I've had some, but if you're going to be a royal arse about it, I'll happily keep my place alcohol free," Draco said, his tone supercilious.
"No, no. Just putting my foot in it," Ron said, wandering into the next room.
Draco spent a bit longer than he'd intended getting the kitchen back in order. He checked his freezer to make sure the two different tubs of ice cream he'd bought really were there and weren't some figment he'd dreamed about. There was Mickleberry Swirl from Fortescue's and an indulgent Sticky Toffee Pudding from a Muggle Häagen Dazs shop. Ron had been awfully quiet, he realised, and walked the few steps into the living room to see what he was up to.
Ron was sitting on the couch, leaning over, his focus totally absorbed by the pages in the elegant black photo album. His expression was one of intense disbelief, or incomprehension. Brows furrowed, he chewed on his lower lip, the wine glass forgotten. Draco's insides felt twisted in knots; quite obviously Ron didn't know what to make of the photographs and they didn't turn him on. Draco let out a long, resolute breath and Ron glanced up, startled. Draco put his hands in his pockets, gazing at Ron full on, unashamed but suddenly melancholy that he probably wouldn't be able to share this experience with his new lover.
"This is you," Ron stated, lifting the book slightly from his lap.
"Yes, it is." Draco decided to explain as best he could. "I'm at one of the clubs I told you about, a bondage club. I'm tied up in a ritual called shibari, rope bondage. You've looked at the whole set of pictures?"
Ron nodded, guilt darkening on his features. "I'm sorry. I should've asked, but I saw a couple and you're so gorgeous, but these are obviously personal, and "
"What? You can ask me anything, Ron. Anything at all. I wasn't going to tell you, at least not for a while. A lot of people don't understand how being tied up with ropes and being on display is erotic."
Ron looked uncomfortable, but he did seem to be struggling to understand. He turned to the pages toward the end, where Draco hung from the ceiling, one man taking him from behind while Draco sucked another one off.
"Maybe I'm just really old-fashioned, but are you really into this group stuff? I don't think I could stand it. I know I couldn't," he said vehemently.
"No, that was a special night. I wasn't seeing anyone, and they were all people I knew reasonably well. I'd slept with them all before, at different times." Draco decided to take a seat next to Ron, who appeared grateful, though still working to reconcile the person on the couch with the figure wrapped in silk cords being fucked by a select group of Japanese men.
"Why do you like being tied up? Do you want me to do that?" Ron asked, his gaze searching Draco's eyes for a thousand answers before looking back down at the pictures. "It looks complicated. And painful. I won't do things to hurt you, that's too kinky for me. I've really fallen for you, despite how really bloody unlikely that was, and I won't beat or hurt you. Even if you get off on it."
"No, it's not painful, if done correctly," Draco reassured him, trying to ease the book out of Ron's grasp, but Ron held it firmly. "There's something incredibly sexy about the rope, and the care taken by the person who does the binding. It's about trust and reverence, really- and I like being looked at and admired. That can hardly come as a shock."
Ron snorted, an embarrassed huff of a laugh. "No. I'm content to look at you all the time, especially naked." His eyes were a haunted loch blue, uncertainty and intrigue now lurking in their depths. "Did you bring back some of their rope with you? You can't do this by yourself, obviously," he said, a smile creeping onto his lips and reaching fully to his eyes.
"I learned a couple of spells for very basic knot-tying, but doing this alone isn't very fun. I could tie my arms behind me and cast a self-buggering charm on a dildo, but why?" Draco leaned in provocatively, sensing that Ron might be receptive to this kind of sexual exploration after all. "I'd far rather feel your thick cock up my arse, and if I'm restrained while you have your way with me, so much the better. On occasion," he clarified, running a hand through some straggles of fringe hanging in his eyes. "I really don't mind regular shagging. At all."
Ron glanced down at the pictures, flipping back toward the beginning where Draco stood, a placid, inwardly turned look of concentration on his face. One of the men at Haitokukan had tied him in a karada, or harness, the black rope in striking contrast to his skin.
"I want to try," Ron said slowly before closing the book with a soft whump. "But I'll need you to draw a picture, or something. Not with you dangling above the floor, but another way you like." He turned his head and Draco saw the faint apprehension melt away. "You do trust me?"
"Yes. Why, well, that's more complicated."
"I trusted you when you took me to that hotel," Ron reminded him. "I'd only just run across you again. You could've been lying out of your arse and hexed me and left me there for shits and giggles."
"Maybe when I was seventeen," Draco said, standing up from the couch. "Not anymore. I'll just go and get the rope."
He could feel his pulse speed up as he got his lube and took the rope out of its drawer in his bedroom, and heard the wavelike sounds of the blood pounding in his ears. He took the time to light a stick of sandalwood incense and returned to the living room where he found Ron, stripped to his boxers- well, Draco's boxers, and a low fire crackling in the hearth. He handed the silk rope and phial to Ron, grateful that Ron appeared to understand the solemnity that went along with this level of intimacy. A regret that he'd spent so long away when he could have been here, had he known Ron would turn out this magnificent and interested, broke away like a floe from an ice field. But this was how things needed to come to pass; Draco hadn't really known himself when he'd first tried to grind himself into Weasley back then.
"D'you want some music or something?" Ron asked as Draco took off his clothes.
"Actually, yes. There's a Muggle group I like called Sigúr Ros. I'll put it on."
"I'll just use the loo. Had a lot of wine," Ron said, smiling crookedly as he left the room.
Draco went into his study and turned on the computer, arranging the programming so it would play two albums back to back, making sure it would be amplified into the living room. He was already half hard at the very thought of Ron tying the cord into patterns and knots on him, and projecting to how it would feel to have Ron fucking him, whether fast and aggressive, or slower ploughing. Anticipation was half of the allure of sex regardless; the mechanics didn't actually change much, but the intent could definitely heighten or cheapen the experience. He got his wand and drew a couple of diagrams in the air, one to show how to bind his wrists and another to tie together his calves and thighs. If Ron understood, which Draco now believed he would, his positioning would be face down, with his legs apart, his arse spread and there for Ron's pleasure. He got a pillow from the couch and placed it on the floor, looking up as Ron walked back in. His expression was studious as he looked at the floating, slowly dissipating images.
"I don't like the idea of your face mashed into the carpet," Ron said thoughtfully.
At those words, an explosion of fireflies danced in Draco's belly. This made sense to Ron after all; he would sculpt Draco with the rope and his own desires into something he wanted to ravage and claim.
"I'm going to transfigure one of your chairs into a footstool. Cushioned," he said quickly. "And you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable?"
"I promise," Draco vowed, handing Ron the rope and kneeling in front of him. The anticipation of being bound and made love to caused bursts of heat like fireworks to course along his skin and to his cock, now stiff with beads of fluid welling at the tip.
Ron took his time making the footstool the right height and length, then he told Draco to lie on it, placing Draco's arms along the legs of the transfigured chair and his thighs on the outside of the back legs. Draco's breath hitched at the feel of Ron's calloused fingers as they began their work of binding him to the footstool. He took his time, perhaps understanding how needy Draco was in the process itself, the testing of the knots, pressing back against the path of open-mouthed kisses Ron planted down the ridged trail of his spine. At the sound of Ron pulling the stopper out of the oil phial, Draco's cock jumped fruitlessly against the air and saliva flooded his mouth. Oh gods, he was going to combust right there, before Ron had even really touched him. When Ron took his wide palms and began massaging Draco's upper back, he moaned piteously. It was almost too much- he'd really not expected anything as divine as this. An image came to mind of a spider web he'd seen on his back porch, easing slightly in a breeze so that it looked as though the diaphanous net was breathing. He sank into the cushioned footstool as Ron rubbed and kneaded, moving inexorably down to Draco's buttocks. He spent a tortuously long time plying his fingers deep into the meat of his arsecheeks, and then he began speaking in a low voice.
"You're so gorgeous. I'm going to slide into this sweet little hole of yours, and it's going to feel fucking amazing. You must love this, really- Scorpius is pacing," he said, a lusty humour in his voice as Draco writhed against his desired restraints. "His tail keeps flicking down to your hole, and I can tell you want it, you're trying to relax, but you want to be so full, filled up with my cock in there."
"Oh my fucking god," Draco moaned, every nerve in his body on fire, his shaft pulsing with the blood trapped in its rigid fleshy confines.
"I'll fuck you, don't worry," Ron said, his words gravelly and as needy as Draco felt. There was a tingling heat in Draco's channel, and he knew Ron had cast a cleansing spell. "Just want to taste you, first, see if I can get Scorpius riled up even more before I feel you sucking me in."
A drop of saliva fell onto the carpet from Draco's mouth. He was going to melt, consumed by Ron's words that dripped flames, only stopping when Ron's tongue delved into him. Draco couldn't move, he only groaned his praise in a wordless chant of pleasure. He nearly sobbed with relief when he felt Ron move away and heard the unmistakable squelching sound of unguent being slathered on Ron's cock. They moaned together when Ron pushed into the tight muscle, Draco's body closing around Ron's cock like a tight glove.
"So fucking good," Ron panted, leaning forward when he was balls deep to bite at Draco's shoulder before sucking hard on the spot. "Your arse was meant for me."
All of Draco's vocabulary was lost as he clung to the footrest and the caress of the silk rope on his forearms and lower thighs. His own cock now bounced up underneath the wooden bottom of the footrest in time to Ron's thrusts. It was the feel of Ron's hips snapping, his hands moored to Draco's hipbones, and the relentless drive of his cock deep into his body that absorbed Draco. He cried out in staccatoed, anguished cries at the jolts of pleasure as Ron drove into him. Ron's grunts and occasional "yeah"s changed to a punctuated set of lust-driven words like "yours" and "so - hot" and "wanted - this - so - long" until the timbre of his voice changed. All of a sudden, Draco was left empty as Ron pulled out without warning.
"Naaah?!" Draco yelled in shocked dismay.
He heard the slapping of wet skin on skin and realised Ron was wanking furiously. Seconds later, hot spatters of fluid fell in small puddles on his back. Ron breathed heavily above him, one hand still on Draco's hip, the other apparently cradling his cock until Draco felt the slick hand on his own aching prick.
"Oh my god," Ron panted, sliding his fist along Draco's shaft. Draco was about to come; his senses were taxed to the breaking point.
"Draco," Ron said hoarsely, "Scorpius. He's licking it. Holy fuck. He's licking my come up off your back-"
With a wordless, silent scream, Draco came. He was momentarily blinded as he shuddered and spasmed, the release fountaining onto Ron's hand, or the floor, he had no idea. For a few moments, he didn't feel that he was in his body at all there was only the explosion of a new universe, or the end of the world, or the most intense release he'd ever had. When time passed and he still didn't speak, Ron seemed to become worried.
"Draco? You okay?"
"Y- yes," Draco forced out through his dry throat. "Fucking. Incredible," he whispered as he heard Ron cast a Relashio and felt the rope slither into innocuous coils. He was helped gently up from the footstool and promptly collapsed on the floor, waving bonelessly at Ron to join him.
"You sure you're okay?" Ron's agitation was palpable and Draco struggled to reassure him.
"Never better. I promise," Draco said before clearing his throat. "I'm not broken. What you did- I've- That was unbelievable."
Ron's face relaxed. "Glad to hear it. It sure was for me."
Once Draco's heartbeat had slowed to normal, he leaned over and kissed Ron thoroughly on the lips. "I'm just going to get us something," he said, easing up from the floor. After casting a quick Terego on both of them, he walked unsteadily into the kitchen, took out two glasses and got his bottle of sake from the back of the pantry cabinet. He came back to the living room to see Ron sprawled out on his back, a contented smile lying lazily on his mouth. He seemed to glow like burnished copper in the firelight, and Draco wondered how he'd ever thought that the freckles on his skin were ugly spots. Draco carefully sat down, sitting cross-legged, and poured them each a small serving.
Ron sniffed at it, but kept his mouth shut, apparently uncertain what to say given Draco's earlier comment about alcohol in the flat.
"I'm celebrating," Draco said, raising his glass to Ron, who did the same, his teeth visible with his wide smile. When they'd each had a sip, Ron twisted his mouth to the side, evidently not all that keen on the taste.
"Dare I ask what?" Ron asked, taking another swallow as though to see if it would be better the next time.
"You."
Ron looked skeptically at him, scratching at a spot above his left ear before running his hand through his endearingly mussed hair. "You sure you're okay? You're being downright sentimental. You said you didn't do that. Or date. Or drink."
Draco let out a long breath. "Well, maybe I've changed my mind. Or maybe you changed my mind. Probably the sex has addled my brain," he murmured, rolling a small amount of the rice wine across his palate before swallowing it.
"It's okay. We really don't have to call it dating. I've always hated that term, anyway." Ron rolled the glass between the palms of his hands before placing it on the carpet. He stretched out on his side, elbow on the carpet and his head cradled in his hand. "Just give me a warning if you feel the need to go running off halfway around the world again, okay?"
Though he knew being with Ron was going to come with strife, and no doubt some earth-shattering rows, not to mention stony silences or outright hostility from their respective families, Draco said his next words with an ease of spirit he'd only just begun to recognise as such.
"Next time, you're coming with me."
.:~ epilogue ~:.
"All right, Teddy, we've got to let them go off to the part of the airport where people have tickets. Say good-bye," Potter instructed and the small boy did as bidden.
"Have a really great trip," he went on, shaking hands with Draco and giving Ron a brief but firm hug.
"We will," Ron replied. The smile hadn't left his face since they'd arrived at the airport terminal, everything still fully ablaze and decorated from the Christmas holiday only two days prior. It had been Ron's idea for Teddy to come with them to Heathrow, and for him to be able to see the huge aeroplanes with their brightly painted sides and tails. They'd watched for some time, the planes both large and small resembling flocks of birds strutting proudly for each other. It was Ron's first time at an airport as well, and it was obviously he was as enthralled as Potter's godson.
"You be good. I'll bring you back some really wicked toys," Ron promised, squatting down and enfolding Teddy in a hug.
"Bye Uncle Ron," Teddy said, the regret that he wasn't allowed to go too written on his face. "Bye Uncle Draco."
"Good-bye, Teddy. We'll see you in a couple of weeks." Somehow Draco had become used to being yet another uncle in the child's cache of men who looked out for him. He was a bit surprised at how proprietary he'd come to feel, being an actual blood relative. A distant relative, anyway.
"I want a panda," Teddy said strongly.
"Pandas are in China. Ron and I are going to Japan," Draco reminded him. "But maybe I'll be able to see a kodama and tell you what they really look like."
"Bring me a kodama?" Teddy asked, eyes wide.
"I don't know that they can survive being away from their trees, but we'll see."
There was a last flurry of farewells, and Ron promising Potter that he'd find a way to send a note to let him know they'd arrived safely.
"For Merlin's sake, you can just use my mobile and call Granger," Draco said, peevish. "She'll tell your family you're all right."
"Right. Okay. Bye!"
They watched Potter and Teddy walk hand in hand away from them until a few minutes later they were swallowed into the busy crowd.
"So." Draco adjusted his small knapsack and turned to Ron. "We still have over an hour to wait, but we should head to Terminal One where our departure is."
"Is there a bar?"
"Yes, we'll find you one. But don't go overboard. We're flying first class- you can drink your way across the globe if you want, but I don't want you spewing and making a spectacle of yourself," he said warningly. "I think you'll really enjoy flying, especially with the luxuries that come with first class. The seats are wide and comfortable, and you can listen to music and watch movies," he went on, steering Ron away from a duty free shop and into the queue for being inspected for hazardous materials.
"I can't believe you did all of this alone," Ron said once they'd make it through. He was obviously relieved that their convoluted plan for getting their disillusioned wands wordlessly up and over the barricades while having suffering the other indignities that came along with Muggle air transportation. Draco knew that Ron found having to take off his shoes in public particularly unnerving.
"I do like flying. On a broom," Ron said pointedly, earning an intrigued glance from a cluster of passing Asian girls who then began giggling coquettishly at him.
"Given the length of the flight, I'm sure you'll find this far more comfortable."
Draco thoroughly enjoyed being the one to lead their way and pretend that this was all old hat to him, though of course this was only his third time on an aeroplane. In a romantic fit of lunacy, he'd convinced Ron to take off a fortnight from his Auror duties, given him a couple of pieces of monogrammed luggage for Christmas, and bought them tickets to Osaka to spend the New Year and ten days following.
Ron still looked exceedingly nervous, though he was also fascinated and compelled to stare at the hulking pieces of metal parked at the gates. That aeroplanes went into the air at all seemed to defy so many laws to Draco's mind as he watched them barrel down the runways and lift up toward the sky. Once seated at a bar a few gates from their own departure, Ron seemed much more comfortable. Draco ordered a cup of tea and pulled out his cigarette case, lighting what would be one of his last cigarettes for several hours.
"Hey! I thought you said you couldn't smoke in here!" Ron said, confused.
"They changed the legislation a few weeks ago. Loads of Muggles rejoiced," Draco said under his breath.
Ron shrugged, probably pleased that Draco wouldn't be as irritable until later. "Nice scarf," he commented, taking a deep swallow of his whiskey.
Draco quirked his lips. "Thanks."
The fir green and gold striped scarf had been Molly Weasley's attempt at harmony, Draco had supposed at the time, when he'd opened it Christmas afternoon. He'd been shocked to receive anything at all, despite Ron's commentary from the weeks prior. There had been no getting out of spending Christmas afternoon at the Burrow, but it wasn't quite as awful as Draco had imagined. They'd spent a cheery and comfortable morning at Draco's flat; the look on Ron's face at the luggage had been priceless, but Draco had been just as bowled over by the framed photograph Ron had given him. Potter must have taken it the afternoon they'd spent playing croquet at his house with Teddy, George and Jordan on a cold but sunny November day. Draco had his hands shoved into his jacket pocket, and Ron stood behind him, his arms woven through and clasped at Draco's midsection, his chin planted on Draco's shoulder. In the picture Ron murmured something in Draco's ear and he'd turned his head slightly, enough for Ron to brush the hint of a kiss against his jaw. On the back Ron had written, "I'm deeply marked, too."
"She'll knit you a whole jumper next year," Ron said authoritatively, finishing his drink and signaling for another.
"Next year? That's a bit presumptuous, don't you think?" Draco said. He took a long drag off of his cigarette before eyeing Ron and the new glass. "I'm serious. No more. You'll be positively ill."
"I won't. Just taking the edge off."
"As long as you can still walk a straight line," Draco acquiesced, but in his heart, he couldn't blame Ron. Before his inaugural flight, he'd had no fewer than three martinis, and had regretted it later, but he'd needed it at the time.
"I will. And it's not really presumptuous, is it?" Ron asked earnestly, holding out his palm, hand up.
"What?" Draco asked in exasperation, looking at Ron's hand.
"Fag, please."
Draco rolled his eyes and gave him one. Ron lit it off of the end of Draco's, a gesture that Draco found strangely intimate.
"Why isn't it presumptuous? We might want to kill each other by this time next year."
Ron's face fell. "You don't really mean that."
The bartender came over and looked enquiringly at Draco.
"All right," Draco said, caving into the ambiance and the face that he didn't mind dampening his nervous energy just a little bit. "I'll have a glass of merlot." He regarded Ron, who seemed to be puzzling over something complicated or troubling, or both. "No, I don't really think that. But it's not always going to be Quidditch and golf, earth-shattering sex and sleeping in 'til noon. Thanks," he said, accepting the glass from the bartender.
The rakish man gave Draco and Ron a long look, evidently having heard the last of Draco's brief tirade. Draco arched an eyebrow, challenging him, but he went back to the busy job of tending his customers.
"Says who?" Ron insisted, putting his cigarette in the ashtray so he could let his hand rest discreetly on Draco's thigh. "I can't ever imagine getting tired of you."
"Oh, I doubt you would. But you might want to throttle me on sight. I might have to spend days on my own just because I need it. Or because you've pissed me off so much I can't stand to look at you."
"But we're not like that now."
"No. Amazingly, we're not."
As Draco looked at Ron, at the now-familiar tapestry of faint scars and constellations of freckles on his face, he sensed a door solidly shutting. It was closing off the path of quick retreat, of thinking he could give this up with only a moment's notice and be back on his own as though these three months had been a superficial diversion. He was invested, in a way that he intuitively knew meant something very different to a Malfoy than a Weasley. When Malfoys committed to something, there was no backing away. It excited him, and caused a flare of queasy fear at the same time. Ron picked up on the sudden seriousness of their exchange, and Draco saw a reflection of hopeful worry in his gaze.
Ron squeezed Draco's leg before taking another pull off of his cigarette. "You bought me luggage. That's pretty serious." The levity was back in his voice, but Draco knew there was more. Ron was searching through the unspoken words like a beachcomber intent on finding an unspoiled conch, or nautilus.
"We were going on a trip. I thought you should have your own, or you'd be travelling first class with purple plaid suitcases or something equally hideous." Draco took a sip on his wine, a smile playing on his lips.
"It means more than that. You know that I know you know that," Ron said smugly.
The adrenaline and alcohol were beginning to affect Ron, but Draco found that he simply wasn't worried anymore. They were on an adventure of the heart as much as anything else, and Draco realised he'd just ripped up his return ticket.
"I know you know that," Draco said finally.
Though he was sure it was just his overactive imagination at play, he thought he felt a warm swath at the base of his spine, as though Scorpius had breathed a silent roar of approval.
* * * * *
Friday afternoon found Draco in East London at the Ridley Road street market, buying fresh food and meat both for the evening's meal and also for his larder in general. He'd become used to cooking for one, and his repertoire unsurprisingly focussed on rice and vegetable dishes due to his time in Osaka. After combing a couple of cookbooks he had, he'd settled on something less exotic for his evening meal with Ron, after owling Flissy for the recipe. Ron had spent the night and gone into work grudgingly and, to Draco's indecent pleasure, wearing a pair of Draco's boxer shorts. Ron had gone by his flat after their pizza to get a change of clothes, but as he'd dressed this morning, he'd admitted he'd wanted to wear something of Draco's.
"What kind of grief did Potter give you while you were away?" Draco had asked, making tea and serving up toast and jam for both of them before Ron had to get to a ten o'clock meeting.
"Harry? Well, he asked a lot of probing questions, and I told him to get stuffed a lot," Ron had said through a mouthful of bread, shrugging. "Seriously, though, I told him that I didn't plan on him getting anymore eyefuls like that, but he could expect that if he didn't see me as often, it's because I'm with you. And I'm happy. And I'm not under some wicked Malfoysian curse, either."
Draco had looked down his nose, and took a sip of his tea. "Well, what fun is there if he doesn't believe that?"
Ron snorted, taking another slice of toast and heaping it with persimmon preserves. "Plenty. He said you're invited anytime we do stuff with Teddy. He's all into establishing harmony and healing wounds and being sickeningly happy about everything."
"Seemed like, when I saw him at the match."
"He is. And he deserves it." Ron had paused, swirling the last of his tea before tossing it back. The open, simple look of hopeful wonder in Ron's gaze was yet another weft in the weave Draco felt between them. "And so do I. Glad you came back."
Draco took an expansive breath. "So am I."
Once back at his flat, Draco put away his collection of foodstuffs and rang Blaise. They chatted for a while, and Draco was very pleased that Blaise was so caught up in his own newly revived love life that he wasn't lonely and wanting Draco's company. He told Blaise about the new job, and some about his golf, but he could tell his friend wasn't really all that interested. They had drifted apart during Draco's time overseas, but out of some lingering sense of obligation he kept up with him. What would be more unpredictable was his American cousin Cassandra, who he was sure would plan to visit in the near future. She was uncharacteristically nonjudgmental, and knew about Draco's predilections, at least in that he was queer. She didn't know about the rope bondage appeal, and certainly didn't need to. She'd probably fawn all over Ron, with his unpolished and unconventional looks, and no doubt she'd be beside herself when she found out he was one of six men in his family. Well, five, now.
He decided to go and get a couple of bottles of wine to go with dinner, and as he did, Draco realised he'd totally forgotten to tell Ron about his run-in with George. They'd had other things on their mind, to be sure. One thing that he was never going to do was apologise for who he was, his family, or even his own choices. Absently he rubbed at his left forearm where his Dark Mark remained, now only a ghostly scar of what it once was. He'd had no choice when he took it- he would have done anything to save his family. And if there was one thing that Ron seemed to live and breathe, it was loyalty. At some point he really should ask what Ron's year had been like, that awful passage of weeks and months during the grimmest time of the War. It seemed incomprehensible that that had happened four years ago; Draco was twenty-two now, but he felt far older. Thankfully he didn't look it, and neither did Weasley.
Draco spent a goodly amount of time making the beetroot ravioli with three cheese filling, hoping that Ron liked Italian food. Most people seemed to, though in Draco's remembrances of his school years, the house-elves had certainly leaned toward standard English fare. Once the dish was ready and he'd put it in the oven on a low heat, he got a shower and took his time engaged in his pre-anticipatory-sex cleaning and shaving. He was enjoying a cigarette and a cup of tea out on his porch when Ron appeared in his living room. That morning at breakfast he'd told Ron he'd spelled his wards so that Ron could come and go as he wished, and Ron had seemed quite pleased.
"I don't have wards, but I do have a special locking spell on my flat. I'll give you the password," he'd said, the crooked smile twisting a skein of yearning in the chambers of Draco's heart.
Now Ron grinned at him, unshouldering his large oxblood satchel and gesturing at the bathroom. Draco nodded, smiling in return, and finishing his cigarette before going inside. He'd opened one of the bottles of cabernet shiraz, allowing it to breathe- something the bloke in the shop had suggested. He was pouring them each a glass when Ron's distinctive loping stride brought him into the kitchen.
"I assumed you'd like a glass," Draco explained.
"'Course." Ron gently took Draco's hands once they were done with their task and laced them behind his back. "Hi," he said, his voice low and throaty.
"Hi."
The deep kiss was inevitable, and the effect on Draco's body just as much so. The blood soared between his legs like a kingfisher diving for a meal. Their tongues tangled and speared until the neediness passed, and it became more of a welcome back, I've missed you gentle exploration. After a time they drew apart and Draco gave Ron a glass of wine. He checked up on the pasta dish, seeing it only needed about fifteen more minutes. They went and sat in the living room, still silent, but their intuitive expressions acknowledged the space was thick with unspoken words of companionship.
"I had a memorable meeting with your brother a couple of days ago," Draco said finally, after Accio'ing the wine bottle and scooting next to Ron on the couch as he refilled their glasses.
"George? Did you go by Wheezes?" Ron appeared thunderstruck and appreciative.
"Oh yes," Draco said dryly. "He thought I was you. I had to convince him otherwise, and to say he was surprised would be rather an understatement."
"What, did he think I'd polyjuiced myself? No, because he doesn't know you're back."
Draco shook his had ruefully. "He does now. He was quite impressed with your glamour skills, until I proved to be who I said I was. Then there was a fight, and then I left." He spoke dispassionately, amused at the baffled expression on Ron's face.
"What did you fight about?"
"He didn't seem to think I deserved to be in there at all, and I certainly had no business bothering you."
"Why'd I even come up as a topic?" Ron began to look angry, but Draco decided they might as well discuss it if they were ever going to appear together in front of any of Weasley's family.
"Basically he and Jordan were convinced I'd come by to bother them, and I said I'd only come along because you and I had spoken. I went to Diagon Alley after you were called away; I didn't want to sulk in my flat. Anyway, George said I should stay away and that you hated me, and I told him he didn't know the half of it."
Ron gripped his hand in a squeeze, a flicker of vengeance in his eyes. "He and I'll just have a talk," he muttered.
"Is that really necessary?" Draco asked, putting his wine glass down and glancing at his watch. His ravioli smelled fabulous, and he still needed to set the table and toss the salad.
"Well, yes!" Ron said indignantly, following Draco into the kitchen with a new glass of wine. He dutifully tossed the salad after Draco asked, though his mind was still on George. "It's none of his bloody business who I'm involved with, and he has no bloody right to be so rude to you. What if you'd wanted to buy something?"
"He might've thought I'd come to buy him out or something equally ludicrous," Draco observed, pulling the bubbling pan out of the oven and placing it on the counter. "He was looking out for you but I'd say he was out of line. It's not like I became a Death Eater for its dazzling magnetism and perks. I had to or the Dark Lord would've had my father killed and I can't imagine what would've been done to my mother. I was blatantly expendable," he ground out bitterly, surprised at how easily the rage rose in him at the mention of that time in his life.
There was a pause while Draco stared down at the baked ravioli, his hands still clenched to the potholders on the sides of the pan. Ron came to stand behind Draco, resting his chin on his shoulder. Seconds later his arms were around Draco's waist, and Ron's comforting piney scent drifted around Draco like a lazy moth.
"I really had no idea," Ron said, his voice contemplative. "I thought Harry was mad for following you around during sixth year, and once it was all on in earnest, I didn't think about you at all. No offense."
"None taken."
"Maybe you'll fill in some of the gaps for me. But I can't stand being around this gorgeous-smelling dish for much longer without eating it right here. Can I take out plates and cutlery and stuff and set the table?"
Draco smiled faintly at Ron's ever-present appetite. "Yes, please. I'll show you where they are." He turned in Ron's arms and planted a brusque but fervent kiss on Ron's lips. "I knew it was you who'd saved me, that second time. I knew it was you who'd punched me, too. Your voice, even full of contempt, it kept me going."
"Harry's the one who stunned the Death Eater," Ron said apologetically. "I would've left you and thought good riddance. But I sure did deck you in the face. I didn't know what all had been going on."
After they got the table set and Draco basked in Ron's praise for the meal, he at last asked Ron about his seventh year. Ron filled Draco in with what all he and Potter and Granger had done, how he'd abandoned them, and eventually returned. Ron was equally curious, so Draco gave him an overview of what his year had been like, up until the point that their lives had intersected in the Room of Requirement.
"And now we're years beyond that, you're Auror Weasley and I'm still Draco Malfoy, and somehow nothing seems more natural than us having dinner at my flat, followed by a night of shagging and collapsing together in my bed."
"Life's funny, isn't it?" Ron said with a thoughtful smile, taking their plates into the kitchen.
"Indeed. Why don't you relax in the living room for a couple of minutes while I get this cleaned up," Draco suggested.
Ron tried to insist he should do the washing-up, but Draco would have none of it. "Open that other bottle and enjoy a glass. Look at my books or something," Draco said graciously, nudging Ron away and toward the living room.
"I guess you're still celebrating?" Ron looked pointedly at the wine bottles, a triumphant look on his face.
"I bought them for you, you ingrate. Yes, I've had some, but if you're going to be a royal arse about it, I'll happily keep my place alcohol free," Draco said, his tone supercilious.
"No, no. Just putting my foot in it," Ron said, wandering into the next room.
Draco spent a bit longer than he'd intended getting the kitchen back in order. He checked his freezer to make sure the two different tubs of ice cream he'd bought really were there and weren't some figment he'd dreamed about. There was Mickleberry Swirl from Fortescue's and an indulgent Sticky Toffee Pudding from a Muggle Häagen Dazs shop. Ron had been awfully quiet, he realised, and walked the few steps into the living room to see what he was up to.
Ron was sitting on the couch, leaning over, his focus totally absorbed by the pages in the elegant black photo album. His expression was one of intense disbelief, or incomprehension. Brows furrowed, he chewed on his lower lip, the wine glass forgotten. Draco's insides felt twisted in knots; quite obviously Ron didn't know what to make of the photographs and they didn't turn him on. Draco let out a long, resolute breath and Ron glanced up, startled. Draco put his hands in his pockets, gazing at Ron full on, unashamed but suddenly melancholy that he probably wouldn't be able to share this experience with his new lover.
"This is you," Ron stated, lifting the book slightly from his lap.
"Yes, it is." Draco decided to explain as best he could. "I'm at one of the clubs I told you about, a bondage club. I'm tied up in a ritual called shibari, rope bondage. You've looked at the whole set of pictures?"
Ron nodded, guilt darkening on his features. "I'm sorry. I should've asked, but I saw a couple and you're so gorgeous, but these are obviously personal, and "
"What? You can ask me anything, Ron. Anything at all. I wasn't going to tell you, at least not for a while. A lot of people don't understand how being tied up with ropes and being on display is erotic."
Ron looked uncomfortable, but he did seem to be struggling to understand. He turned to the pages toward the end, where Draco hung from the ceiling, one man taking him from behind while Draco sucked another one off.
"Maybe I'm just really old-fashioned, but are you really into this group stuff? I don't think I could stand it. I know I couldn't," he said vehemently.
"No, that was a special night. I wasn't seeing anyone, and they were all people I knew reasonably well. I'd slept with them all before, at different times." Draco decided to take a seat next to Ron, who appeared grateful, though still working to reconcile the person on the couch with the figure wrapped in silk cords being fucked by a select group of Japanese men.
"Why do you like being tied up? Do you want me to do that?" Ron asked, his gaze searching Draco's eyes for a thousand answers before looking back down at the pictures. "It looks complicated. And painful. I won't do things to hurt you, that's too kinky for me. I've really fallen for you, despite how really bloody unlikely that was, and I won't beat or hurt you. Even if you get off on it."
"No, it's not painful, if done correctly," Draco reassured him, trying to ease the book out of Ron's grasp, but Ron held it firmly. "There's something incredibly sexy about the rope, and the care taken by the person who does the binding. It's about trust and reverence, really- and I like being looked at and admired. That can hardly come as a shock."
Ron snorted, an embarrassed huff of a laugh. "No. I'm content to look at you all the time, especially naked." His eyes were a haunted loch blue, uncertainty and intrigue now lurking in their depths. "Did you bring back some of their rope with you? You can't do this by yourself, obviously," he said, a smile creeping onto his lips and reaching fully to his eyes.
"I learned a couple of spells for very basic knot-tying, but doing this alone isn't very fun. I could tie my arms behind me and cast a self-buggering charm on a dildo, but why?" Draco leaned in provocatively, sensing that Ron might be receptive to this kind of sexual exploration after all. "I'd far rather feel your thick cock up my arse, and if I'm restrained while you have your way with me, so much the better. On occasion," he clarified, running a hand through some straggles of fringe hanging in his eyes. "I really don't mind regular shagging. At all."
Ron glanced down at the pictures, flipping back toward the beginning where Draco stood, a placid, inwardly turned look of concentration on his face. One of the men at Haitokukan had tied him in a karada, or harness, the black rope in striking contrast to his skin.
"I want to try," Ron said slowly before closing the book with a soft whump. "But I'll need you to draw a picture, or something. Not with you dangling above the floor, but another way you like." He turned his head and Draco saw the faint apprehension melt away. "You do trust me?"
"Yes. Why, well, that's more complicated."
"I trusted you when you took me to that hotel," Ron reminded him. "I'd only just run across you again. You could've been lying out of your arse and hexed me and left me there for shits and giggles."
"Maybe when I was seventeen," Draco said, standing up from the couch. "Not anymore. I'll just go and get the rope."
He could feel his pulse speed up as he got his lube and took the rope out of its drawer in his bedroom, and heard the wavelike sounds of the blood pounding in his ears. He took the time to light a stick of sandalwood incense and returned to the living room where he found Ron, stripped to his boxers- well, Draco's boxers, and a low fire crackling in the hearth. He handed the silk rope and phial to Ron, grateful that Ron appeared to understand the solemnity that went along with this level of intimacy. A regret that he'd spent so long away when he could have been here, had he known Ron would turn out this magnificent and interested, broke away like a floe from an ice field. But this was how things needed to come to pass; Draco hadn't really known himself when he'd first tried to grind himself into Weasley back then.
"D'you want some music or something?" Ron asked as Draco took off his clothes.
"Actually, yes. There's a Muggle group I like called Sigúr Ros. I'll put it on."
"I'll just use the loo. Had a lot of wine," Ron said, smiling crookedly as he left the room.
Draco went into his study and turned on the computer, arranging the programming so it would play two albums back to back, making sure it would be amplified into the living room. He was already half hard at the very thought of Ron tying the cord into patterns and knots on him, and projecting to how it would feel to have Ron fucking him, whether fast and aggressive, or slower ploughing. Anticipation was half of the allure of sex regardless; the mechanics didn't actually change much, but the intent could definitely heighten or cheapen the experience. He got his wand and drew a couple of diagrams in the air, one to show how to bind his wrists and another to tie together his calves and thighs. If Ron understood, which Draco now believed he would, his positioning would be face down, with his legs apart, his arse spread and there for Ron's pleasure. He got a pillow from the couch and placed it on the floor, looking up as Ron walked back in. His expression was studious as he looked at the floating, slowly dissipating images.
"I don't like the idea of your face mashed into the carpet," Ron said thoughtfully.
At those words, an explosion of fireflies danced in Draco's belly. This made sense to Ron after all; he would sculpt Draco with the rope and his own desires into something he wanted to ravage and claim.
"I'm going to transfigure one of your chairs into a footstool. Cushioned," he said quickly. "And you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable?"
"I promise," Draco vowed, handing Ron the rope and kneeling in front of him. The anticipation of being bound and made love to caused bursts of heat like fireworks to course along his skin and to his cock, now stiff with beads of fluid welling at the tip.
Ron took his time making the footstool the right height and length, then he told Draco to lie on it, placing Draco's arms along the legs of the transfigured chair and his thighs on the outside of the back legs. Draco's breath hitched at the feel of Ron's calloused fingers as they began their work of binding him to the footstool. He took his time, perhaps understanding how needy Draco was in the process itself, the testing of the knots, pressing back against the path of open-mouthed kisses Ron planted down the ridged trail of his spine. At the sound of Ron pulling the stopper out of the oil phial, Draco's cock jumped fruitlessly against the air and saliva flooded his mouth. Oh gods, he was going to combust right there, before Ron had even really touched him. When Ron took his wide palms and began massaging Draco's upper back, he moaned piteously. It was almost too much- he'd really not expected anything as divine as this. An image came to mind of a spider web he'd seen on his back porch, easing slightly in a breeze so that it looked as though the diaphanous net was breathing. He sank into the cushioned footstool as Ron rubbed and kneaded, moving inexorably down to Draco's buttocks. He spent a tortuously long time plying his fingers deep into the meat of his arsecheeks, and then he began speaking in a low voice.
"You're so gorgeous. I'm going to slide into this sweet little hole of yours, and it's going to feel fucking amazing. You must love this, really- Scorpius is pacing," he said, a lusty humour in his voice as Draco writhed against his desired restraints. "His tail keeps flicking down to your hole, and I can tell you want it, you're trying to relax, but you want to be so full, filled up with my cock in there."
"Oh my fucking god," Draco moaned, every nerve in his body on fire, his shaft pulsing with the blood trapped in its rigid fleshy confines.
"I'll fuck you, don't worry," Ron said, his words gravelly and as needy as Draco felt. There was a tingling heat in Draco's channel, and he knew Ron had cast a cleansing spell. "Just want to taste you, first, see if I can get Scorpius riled up even more before I feel you sucking me in."
A drop of saliva fell onto the carpet from Draco's mouth. He was going to melt, consumed by Ron's words that dripped flames, only stopping when Ron's tongue delved into him. Draco couldn't move, he only groaned his praise in a wordless chant of pleasure. He nearly sobbed with relief when he felt Ron move away and heard the unmistakable squelching sound of unguent being slathered on Ron's cock. They moaned together when Ron pushed into the tight muscle, Draco's body closing around Ron's cock like a tight glove.
"So fucking good," Ron panted, leaning forward when he was balls deep to bite at Draco's shoulder before sucking hard on the spot. "Your arse was meant for me."
All of Draco's vocabulary was lost as he clung to the footrest and the caress of the silk rope on his forearms and lower thighs. His own cock now bounced up underneath the wooden bottom of the footrest in time to Ron's thrusts. It was the feel of Ron's hips snapping, his hands moored to Draco's hipbones, and the relentless drive of his cock deep into his body that absorbed Draco. He cried out in staccatoed, anguished cries at the jolts of pleasure as Ron drove into him. Ron's grunts and occasional "yeah"s changed to a punctuated set of lust-driven words like "yours" and "so - hot" and "wanted - this - so - long" until the timbre of his voice changed. All of a sudden, Draco was left empty as Ron pulled out without warning.
"Naaah?!" Draco yelled in shocked dismay.
He heard the slapping of wet skin on skin and realised Ron was wanking furiously. Seconds later, hot spatters of fluid fell in small puddles on his back. Ron breathed heavily above him, one hand still on Draco's hip, the other apparently cradling his cock until Draco felt the slick hand on his own aching prick.
"Oh my god," Ron panted, sliding his fist along Draco's shaft. Draco was about to come; his senses were taxed to the breaking point.
"Draco," Ron said hoarsely, "Scorpius. He's licking it. Holy fuck. He's licking my come up off your back-"
With a wordless, silent scream, Draco came. He was momentarily blinded as he shuddered and spasmed, the release fountaining onto Ron's hand, or the floor, he had no idea. For a few moments, he didn't feel that he was in his body at all there was only the explosion of a new universe, or the end of the world, or the most intense release he'd ever had. When time passed and he still didn't speak, Ron seemed to become worried.
"Draco? You okay?"
"Y- yes," Draco forced out through his dry throat. "Fucking. Incredible," he whispered as he heard Ron cast a Relashio and felt the rope slither into innocuous coils. He was helped gently up from the footstool and promptly collapsed on the floor, waving bonelessly at Ron to join him.
"You sure you're okay?" Ron's agitation was palpable and Draco struggled to reassure him.
"Never better. I promise," Draco said before clearing his throat. "I'm not broken. What you did- I've- That was unbelievable."
Ron's face relaxed. "Glad to hear it. It sure was for me."
Once Draco's heartbeat had slowed to normal, he leaned over and kissed Ron thoroughly on the lips. "I'm just going to get us something," he said, easing up from the floor. After casting a quick Terego on both of them, he walked unsteadily into the kitchen, took out two glasses and got his bottle of sake from the back of the pantry cabinet. He came back to the living room to see Ron sprawled out on his back, a contented smile lying lazily on his mouth. He seemed to glow like burnished copper in the firelight, and Draco wondered how he'd ever thought that the freckles on his skin were ugly spots. Draco carefully sat down, sitting cross-legged, and poured them each a small serving.
Ron sniffed at it, but kept his mouth shut, apparently uncertain what to say given Draco's earlier comment about alcohol in the flat.
"I'm celebrating," Draco said, raising his glass to Ron, who did the same, his teeth visible with his wide smile. When they'd each had a sip, Ron twisted his mouth to the side, evidently not all that keen on the taste.
"Dare I ask what?" Ron asked, taking another swallow as though to see if it would be better the next time.
"You."
Ron looked skeptically at him, scratching at a spot above his left ear before running his hand through his endearingly mussed hair. "You sure you're okay? You're being downright sentimental. You said you didn't do that. Or date. Or drink."
Draco let out a long breath. "Well, maybe I've changed my mind. Or maybe you changed my mind. Probably the sex has addled my brain," he murmured, rolling a small amount of the rice wine across his palate before swallowing it.
"It's okay. We really don't have to call it dating. I've always hated that term, anyway." Ron rolled the glass between the palms of his hands before placing it on the carpet. He stretched out on his side, elbow on the carpet and his head cradled in his hand. "Just give me a warning if you feel the need to go running off halfway around the world again, okay?"
Though he knew being with Ron was going to come with strife, and no doubt some earth-shattering rows, not to mention stony silences or outright hostility from their respective families, Draco said his next words with an ease of spirit he'd only just begun to recognise as such.
"Next time, you're coming with me."
.:~ epilogue ~:.
"All right, Teddy, we've got to let them go off to the part of the airport where people have tickets. Say good-bye," Potter instructed and the small boy did as bidden.
"Have a really great trip," he went on, shaking hands with Draco and giving Ron a brief but firm hug.
"We will," Ron replied. The smile hadn't left his face since they'd arrived at the airport terminal, everything still fully ablaze and decorated from the Christmas holiday only two days prior. It had been Ron's idea for Teddy to come with them to Heathrow, and for him to be able to see the huge aeroplanes with their brightly painted sides and tails. They'd watched for some time, the planes both large and small resembling flocks of birds strutting proudly for each other. It was Ron's first time at an airport as well, and it was obviously he was as enthralled as Potter's godson.
"You be good. I'll bring you back some really wicked toys," Ron promised, squatting down and enfolding Teddy in a hug.
"Bye Uncle Ron," Teddy said, the regret that he wasn't allowed to go too written on his face. "Bye Uncle Draco."
"Good-bye, Teddy. We'll see you in a couple of weeks." Somehow Draco had become used to being yet another uncle in the child's cache of men who looked out for him. He was a bit surprised at how proprietary he'd come to feel, being an actual blood relative. A distant relative, anyway.
"I want a panda," Teddy said strongly.
"Pandas are in China. Ron and I are going to Japan," Draco reminded him. "But maybe I'll be able to see a kodama and tell you what they really look like."
"Bring me a kodama?" Teddy asked, eyes wide.
"I don't know that they can survive being away from their trees, but we'll see."
There was a last flurry of farewells, and Ron promising Potter that he'd find a way to send a note to let him know they'd arrived safely.
"For Merlin's sake, you can just use my mobile and call Granger," Draco said, peevish. "She'll tell your family you're all right."
"Right. Okay. Bye!"
They watched Potter and Teddy walk hand in hand away from them until a few minutes later they were swallowed into the busy crowd.
"So." Draco adjusted his small knapsack and turned to Ron. "We still have over an hour to wait, but we should head to Terminal One where our departure is."
"Is there a bar?"
"Yes, we'll find you one. But don't go overboard. We're flying first class- you can drink your way across the globe if you want, but I don't want you spewing and making a spectacle of yourself," he said warningly. "I think you'll really enjoy flying, especially with the luxuries that come with first class. The seats are wide and comfortable, and you can listen to music and watch movies," he went on, steering Ron away from a duty free shop and into the queue for being inspected for hazardous materials.
"I can't believe you did all of this alone," Ron said once they'd make it through. He was obviously relieved that their convoluted plan for getting their disillusioned wands wordlessly up and over the barricades while having suffering the other indignities that came along with Muggle air transportation. Draco knew that Ron found having to take off his shoes in public particularly unnerving.
"I do like flying. On a broom," Ron said pointedly, earning an intrigued glance from a cluster of passing Asian girls who then began giggling coquettishly at him.
"Given the length of the flight, I'm sure you'll find this far more comfortable."
Draco thoroughly enjoyed being the one to lead their way and pretend that this was all old hat to him, though of course this was only his third time on an aeroplane. In a romantic fit of lunacy, he'd convinced Ron to take off a fortnight from his Auror duties, given him a couple of pieces of monogrammed luggage for Christmas, and bought them tickets to Osaka to spend the New Year and ten days following.
Ron still looked exceedingly nervous, though he was also fascinated and compelled to stare at the hulking pieces of metal parked at the gates. That aeroplanes went into the air at all seemed to defy so many laws to Draco's mind as he watched them barrel down the runways and lift up toward the sky. Once seated at a bar a few gates from their own departure, Ron seemed much more comfortable. Draco ordered a cup of tea and pulled out his cigarette case, lighting what would be one of his last cigarettes for several hours.
"Hey! I thought you said you couldn't smoke in here!" Ron said, confused.
"They changed the legislation a few weeks ago. Loads of Muggles rejoiced," Draco said under his breath.
Ron shrugged, probably pleased that Draco wouldn't be as irritable until later. "Nice scarf," he commented, taking a deep swallow of his whiskey.
Draco quirked his lips. "Thanks."
The fir green and gold striped scarf had been Molly Weasley's attempt at harmony, Draco had supposed at the time, when he'd opened it Christmas afternoon. He'd been shocked to receive anything at all, despite Ron's commentary from the weeks prior. There had been no getting out of spending Christmas afternoon at the Burrow, but it wasn't quite as awful as Draco had imagined. They'd spent a cheery and comfortable morning at Draco's flat; the look on Ron's face at the luggage had been priceless, but Draco had been just as bowled over by the framed photograph Ron had given him. Potter must have taken it the afternoon they'd spent playing croquet at his house with Teddy, George and Jordan on a cold but sunny November day. Draco had his hands shoved into his jacket pocket, and Ron stood behind him, his arms woven through and clasped at Draco's midsection, his chin planted on Draco's shoulder. In the picture Ron murmured something in Draco's ear and he'd turned his head slightly, enough for Ron to brush the hint of a kiss against his jaw. On the back Ron had written, "I'm deeply marked, too."
"She'll knit you a whole jumper next year," Ron said authoritatively, finishing his drink and signaling for another.
"Next year? That's a bit presumptuous, don't you think?" Draco said. He took a long drag off of his cigarette before eyeing Ron and the new glass. "I'm serious. No more. You'll be positively ill."
"I won't. Just taking the edge off."
"As long as you can still walk a straight line," Draco acquiesced, but in his heart, he couldn't blame Ron. Before his inaugural flight, he'd had no fewer than three martinis, and had regretted it later, but he'd needed it at the time.
"I will. And it's not really presumptuous, is it?" Ron asked earnestly, holding out his palm, hand up.
"What?" Draco asked in exasperation, looking at Ron's hand.
"Fag, please."
Draco rolled his eyes and gave him one. Ron lit it off of the end of Draco's, a gesture that Draco found strangely intimate.
"Why isn't it presumptuous? We might want to kill each other by this time next year."
Ron's face fell. "You don't really mean that."
The bartender came over and looked enquiringly at Draco.
"All right," Draco said, caving into the ambiance and the face that he didn't mind dampening his nervous energy just a little bit. "I'll have a glass of merlot." He regarded Ron, who seemed to be puzzling over something complicated or troubling, or both. "No, I don't really think that. But it's not always going to be Quidditch and golf, earth-shattering sex and sleeping in 'til noon. Thanks," he said, accepting the glass from the bartender.
The rakish man gave Draco and Ron a long look, evidently having heard the last of Draco's brief tirade. Draco arched an eyebrow, challenging him, but he went back to the busy job of tending his customers.
"Says who?" Ron insisted, putting his cigarette in the ashtray so he could let his hand rest discreetly on Draco's thigh. "I can't ever imagine getting tired of you."
"Oh, I doubt you would. But you might want to throttle me on sight. I might have to spend days on my own just because I need it. Or because you've pissed me off so much I can't stand to look at you."
"But we're not like that now."
"No. Amazingly, we're not."
As Draco looked at Ron, at the now-familiar tapestry of faint scars and constellations of freckles on his face, he sensed a door solidly shutting. It was closing off the path of quick retreat, of thinking he could give this up with only a moment's notice and be back on his own as though these three months had been a superficial diversion. He was invested, in a way that he intuitively knew meant something very different to a Malfoy than a Weasley. When Malfoys committed to something, there was no backing away. It excited him, and caused a flare of queasy fear at the same time. Ron picked up on the sudden seriousness of their exchange, and Draco saw a reflection of hopeful worry in his gaze.
Ron squeezed Draco's leg before taking another pull off of his cigarette. "You bought me luggage. That's pretty serious." The levity was back in his voice, but Draco knew there was more. Ron was searching through the unspoken words like a beachcomber intent on finding an unspoiled conch, or nautilus.
"We were going on a trip. I thought you should have your own, or you'd be travelling first class with purple plaid suitcases or something equally hideous." Draco took a sip on his wine, a smile playing on his lips.
"It means more than that. You know that I know you know that," Ron said smugly.
The adrenaline and alcohol were beginning to affect Ron, but Draco found that he simply wasn't worried anymore. They were on an adventure of the heart as much as anything else, and Draco realised he'd just ripped up his return ticket.
"I know you know that," Draco said finally.
Though he was sure it was just his overactive imagination at play, he thought he felt a warm swath at the base of his spine, as though Scorpius had breathed a silent roar of approval.
* * * * *