FIC: "The Lemniscate, or the Nature of Infinity" for femmequixotic
Recipient: femmequixotic
Author/Artist: snapelike
Title: The Lemniscate, or the Nature of Infinity
Rating: R
Pairings: Viktor Krum/Draco Malfoy
Word Count: 5,675
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *Implied canon character death (back story - none of the main characters).*
Summary: The war is long over, but Draco Malfoy is still caught up in the loss of the man he only too late realised that he loved. Trying to forget, he finds himself immersed in Quidditch and sex - sex for money, that is. Not all men, however, are willing to pay...
Author's/Artist's Notes: When I chose Viktor as my unloved character, I decided to leave out his accent, or at least not to try to imitate it. There is a nice post about accents here which explains better than I could possibly do the reasons for leaving it out. I hope, Femme, that you don't mind that I did. The lines from the Bulgarian folk tale comes from A Spell in Time.
A lemniscate is an ellipse whose most common form is the locus of points whose distances from two fixed points is a constant. Bernoulli, who discovered the lemniscate in 1654, described it as "...a lying eight-like figure, folded in a knot of a bundle, or of a lemniscus, a knot of a French ribbon". (A thorough explanation can be found at MathNet.) The curve of the lemniscate can be rather similar to the sign for the infinite, ∞. For beta, thanks to my beloved K.
I. The Game
Draco likes it. He is fine with it. It makes him forget. It makes him remember -- if only he knew which to prefer. The sheets are soft and warm underneath his back, and the man, the nameless, but rather well-known man on top of him is hard and cold. It's the icebox of business transaction, Draco thinks, spreading his legs wider, allowing the slender, dark man room to chase the release he pays for. Draco gasps as the man thrusts into him, deeply and cruelly. Through half-closed lids, pale lids rimmed with even paler lashes, Draco watches his customer: a lean, hook-nosed man with brown hair. It is almost. And then not. Almost...
It has begun. It's a never-ending cycle: week after week, year after year. Game after game. One player, and the next.
It is a never-ending story: the Quidditch season begins and Draco travels with it. It is symbiotic: a two-sided organism of sweat and testosterone, of sex and money. It is a symbiosis which provides Draco with what he wants, but never really with what he needs. He is a seeker still. It is what he does... seeks. No matter where he goes, he is looking. In the street, in his dreams. For that one man, the man he scorned. The man he loved and admired -- a realisation that came only too late.
And now it will always be too late.
The Quidditch circuit has begun, although it never ends. It flows eternally, like Draco's need for what he cannot have. He floats with it, the circuit, on a wave of cold desire and sweaty lust. It makes him forget. It makes him feel as if he still has a life to live, although the man he searches for does not.
So many years. Circuit after circuit of days and longing. Minutes, hours, days of need. Only sex and money dull the pain and make Draco forget -- at least partly -- that he never steps into a street, never walks into a building without seeking out that one person who is never there. He seeks, and all he finds is a simulacrum of what should have been: the reality that is no reality.
So it goes: Draco seeks, and he prefer the seekers for their lean, slender bodies, for their often arrogant self-image, for their ability to make Draco fly, too, if only for a few hours.
And when he lands, it is to face the realisation that no man will ever be like the man who saved him, the man he should have cherished and admired and loved. No, no one will ever be like him. The loss is eternal.
'Thanks.' That is the first coherent word the man has said since they ended up in the wizarding hotel's large bed. They're not here to socialise or enter into deep, intellectual conversation.
'My pleasure,' Draco drawls, 'and yours.'
'Certainement.' The French Quidditch player smiles. 'Always a pleasure with you, Malfoy. Glad you're with us this year, too.' He yawns, gets out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. Draco sighs, reaches for his wand and cleans himself before dressing. He does not want to stay. He likes his customers to stay customers, so that he can keep up the illusion, at least partly, of having been in bed with a man who no longer exists. He does not need to speak with them, or to let them become anything but this anonymous mass of substitutes.
With his body still humming from the release, Draco walks out the door, down the stairs to the luxurious hotel room he has secured. The name of Malfoy still opens doors in places where others might be refused. The Quidditch World Cup makes it close to impossible to find a room in the Bulgarian capital: the entire hotel is booked by the teams and their followers. An entire hotel filled with men for Draco to feast on.
Draco walks down the stairs, already in search for his next man, for the next few hours of blessed lust.
II. The Exercise
The Japanese fly like a flock of fast birds: a tightly knit group of slender, hard men on state-of-the-art brooms. It is as if the group communicates invisibly: they move in an intricate pattern of movements which make it seem as if they defy gravity and spit in its face once and again. The red-and-white clad players are cheered on by the crowd: it does not matter that these currently are the world's third best national team - and most importantly the team that might beat the Bulgarians. Talent shows, and even the Bulgarian spectators recognise it.
The team shoots like an arrow against the sky, as if they want to disappear into the blue eternity. As they dive into a double loop, fireworks suddenly go off, and behind them the shape of a kite, a tengu in gold and red appears as the Japanese players throw their brooms into an even steeper fall, stopping only inches from the ground, waving at the spectators, making the crowd go wild.
Draco sits, as usual, in the best seat money and connections can buy. He has two of the British team members on his left and right, for once relaxing, just immersing himself in the game and the excitement that has nothing to do with beds and men. Cho Chang is almost pulling off his right arm as her favourite team (except, of course, for her own, Britain) finishes their entrée. Oliver, on Draco's other side, just huffs and murmurs, 'no stamina.' He should know. He's with Marcus Flint now, and Draco assumes that lends quite another meaning to the word.
Turning to Oliver, Draco is just about to say something when the entire Quidditch pitch goes dark. 'Eh?' Oliver says before a single spotlight catches a beautiful young girl on the top of one of the towers. She's clad in a Bulgarian traditional dress.
'His eyes are like fire upon water. His words are like music playing. He is the man of your dreams. But is he all that he seems? Delve into the darkness and discover ... if he’s a man or a Dragon Lover,' she begins, as drums softly begin a deep, slow rhythm somewhere out there, in the dark. 'From his eyes fierce sparks fly and the horse he rides is like a mountain,' she continues, her voice clear as silver; soothing and cold.
Draco faintly recognises the words, perhaps a Bulgarian folk tale he's been told as a child. The Bulgarians know them too, because they start a chant: Krum! Krum! Krum!, raising their fists in the air.
Oliver grins. 'Dragon Lover?' That's one's for you, Dragon Malfoy! Perhaps I should buy you for him as a present? He's bloody ugly, though, and I doubt he's ever had a male lover, so I'd almost feel sorry for you if you had to take him up the arse. Almost.'
They've known each other for ages, and despite the fact that the old enmity has disappeared, it rears its ugly head once in a while, still.
'You do that,' Draco says, managing not to sneer. 'He's a better player than you - and I didn't complain about your cock, did I?' Oliver seems to have taken pleasure in fucking old enemies; perhaps he assumes that the cock is stronger than the broom?
Oliver's reply is drowned out by the sound of drums and fireworks and lights going off as the girl raises her arms toward the sky. 'Viktor Krum! Balgariya!'
A meteor seems slow compared to the red-clad thunderbolt that shoots through the air, followed by six giant fire-golden dragons. The drums reach a crescendo, and the dragons explode into a shower of tiny Golden Snitches, revealing the other six Bulgarian players as the swarm of fake Snitches disappears into the sky.
'Viktor Krum!' The spectators shout and cheer; there is no one but Krum, the world's best seeker. The world's best Quidditch player.
The game starts, but Draco's attention is wavering. Perhaps Oliver's words hit harder than they should have? Perhaps he's getting tired of the constant return to this odd way of living, this superficial soothing of deep wounds that never heal? Perhaps he is tired of the hunt, of the focus that disappeared even before the hunt began. Chasing ghosts and shadows is eternal: he will never find...
Draco rubs a thin hand over his face. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, seeing in his mind only the dark robes, the long, black hair, the burning eyes. The rare smile that was only for him. The care. The sacrifice. The pain has lessened, but now, ten years after, it still feels excruciating. No, tonight he needs yet another man, someone to make him forget those deep, sharp eyes; the deep, sharp wit. The deep feelings that he recognised too late. They have to go. Everything has to go.
The game continues, but Draco does not see it. He is back at Hogwarts, caught up in memories. He does not know how long he has been sitting like that, staring at nothing. Around him the spectators cheer and shout. 'Krum! Krum has caught the Snitch! Bulgaria wins!'
Draco's eyes snap open, and there, just in front of him, his fantasies seem to have taken physical form for a moment: hovering on his broom, face to face with Draco, a lean man with black, burning fire-eyes holds up the Snitch victoriously. He looks directly at Draco; such an intense, dark glare. Then Viktor Krum raises one eyebrow in a manner that reminds Draco of someone else. The thin lips contract in something that might be a sour smile, just before Viktor pulls his broom into a steep turn, leaving Draco to his loss and his desire, utterly stunned.
III. The Circular Line
'He's all yours,' Oliver whispers. 'Or, rather, you're his,' he adds, nodding in Viktor Krum's general direction. 'The boys chipped in, so you're to endure him for an entire night, Malfoy.' Oliver's smile is not entirely pleasant and there is a hint of viciousness in this voice. 'I'm sure it'll be exciting teaching him the ropes.'
'I'm sure you are sure.' Draco doesn't find Oliver's teasing funny. Since Friday's semifinals Draco has been absent-minded, and even though he has thrown himself into a tour de force of male beds and bodies, nothing has eased his uneasiness. He cannot yet put a finger to what it is that is bothering him, except that it has to do with Krum. Krum has developed. It isn't as if Draco hasn't seen him before. He has: hook-nosed, ugly, unpleasant Krum. But Krum, on the contrary, has never for a second since Draco gave up his wife and the empty upper-class life he led noticed him. Draco was refused once and since then, Krum somehow became invisible. It is beyond Draco why Krum has accepted this time.
Turning his attention from Oliver, Draco leans against a silver and velvet chair, crossing his arms in front of him, dangling a Champagne flute between two fingers. He downs it and signals to one of the hotel's House-elves that he needs another. Despite the fact that the restaurant is filled to the brim with Quidditch players, ministers, famous witches and wizards, Draco has a replacement in a second. He sips, enjoying the refreshing taste.
Draco looks at Krum with renewed interest. The famous Quidditch player certainly has developed. He is even thinner and darker than before, but more muscular. His hair has grown long, and the adult Krum... the arrogant, rude, unpleasant, utterly gorgeous Krum is suddenly visible again: a new focal point in a life that is ruled by one already - one firmly set. Draco looks at Krum closely, an assessment he hasn't made before, or rather hasn't made since Krum made it abundantly clear to Draco that he did not pay to bed a lover, male or female. Despite the earlier refusal, Draco feels like a satellite, circling, watching, recording Krum's every move, as if he is seeing the man anew, as if he needs to reacquaint himself with Krum's actions and habits.
Around them, people are chatting, eating, drinking. The smell of delicious food and expensive wines mingles with the women's expensive perfumes. It is nauseating. Draco turns to Oliver again, ignoring Flint who possessively has thrown a massive arm around Oliver's shoulder. Draco ignores Flint. The man is as clever as a box of biscuits and probably won't understand their conversation anyway. Brilliant player, not a thinker, Draco knows. 'And what did you have in mind,' he finally asks Oliver, 'Have you even asked Krum about this? Does he want-' me '- a rent boy at all? He did underline once that it was not his idea of fun.'
'Does it matter? You've got your Galleons. Just go play with him. If he knows what's good for him, he'll be in your bed in sixty seconds.'
Behind Oliver a few of the Bulgarians are whispering and laughing. 'Yeah, Malfoy,' one of them shouts. 'Go do him. Krum needs to get laid. Far too serious, that one! Your tight arse surely will make him feel better.'
An unusual sense of fairness suddenly hits Draco. 'You are doing this to make fun of him,' he says, his voice slow and drawling. 'You find it amusing to embarrass him in front of half the wizarding world's finest? Is that it?'
'Oh, come on, Draco. You rarely have problems making people look bad -- as long as you look good,' Oliver grins. 'If there ever was an arsehole...'
Draco huffs. 'I sell my body, Wood. Not my mind. Those times are over when my mind and my thoughts were ruled by others.' Draco pulls his hair back, tying one stray strand back into the bow. 'I'll do it, but don't expect me to provide you with entertainment for the night.' Rolling his eyes, Draco turns his back to the people who are supposed to be Krum's friends, gathering what dignity he has left and walks through the throng of people, towards the man he has been watching for three days.
IV. The Electricity
'What do you want?' Krum's English has not developed by much and his manners leave a lot to be desired. 'Malfoy.'
'There was a time... at Hogwarts... when I was Draco and you were Viktor,' Draco says, trying to relax under the unfriendly scrutiny. He has seen those eyes before, or perhaps another set, and it feels the same: he is naked, exposed, defenceless.
The blow is hard and to the point. 'So?' Viktor's face shows little, but the contempt is there, somewhere, hidden in that one word; in the way he glares at Draco.
Krum might have aged, grown, matured. But he is still direct, bordering rude, leaving Draco little choice other than to be just as direct. Perhaps honesty works better than trying to win Krum over with flattery and flirting. Draco hopes so. 'Your team mates and my lovely friends have bought me for you. I tried to explain to them that you have little interest in men, and more particularly in me. However, I'm at your service until tomorrow. Maybe I can polish your broom, or something?'
Krum laughs unexpectedly. 'My broom? You have polished many brooms, Malfoy. Too many brooms for me to like. I say before I don't pay, that has not changed.' Krum scowls again, the laughter which briefly altered the sour look has gone. 'I told them I do not want to have you. I do not pay, and I-'
'Technically you're not,' Draco says. 'Paying, that is.' He looks over his shoulder at the group of men who seems to take some pleasure in annoying Krum. 'They are.' Draco feels the surge of success. At least Krum is speaking to him now. 'I think they think this is amusing. Making fun of you.'
'Why should I care? They make fun of me now, but on the field? I make fun of them.' Viktor straightens proudly, leaving his usual slouching behind, as if the undeniable fact that he is the greatest Quidditch player in the world, the best seeker for centuries, fills him up, alters him into a tall, resourceful, impressive man. 'I outfly them. Always. Then we see who laughs.'
Draco can barely keep himself from appreciating the man in front of him in a way that clearly will offend Krum, or worse, make him bolt. 'You certainly know your own worth,' he says neutrally, stopping himself from reaching out to touch Krum.
'And you do not,' Krum says, his face serious, no traces of mocking or dismissal, 'know yours. Once, Malfoy, you were proud and ambitious and beautiful. Now you're a whore. Why?'
The words hit harder than any blow could, because they come at a point where Draco is defenceless. The pain of loss and what could have been is reflected in his eyes, he knows that, and there is nothing he can do to hide it. And for the first time in his life he puts what has driven him into this abyss into words. 'There was someone... someone I-' Draco's lips narrow, pressed together, as if deciding by themselves that enough has been said. Draco looks away, not wanting to let Krum see what havoc his question has wreaked in his heart. 'It makes me forget.'
Then a thin hand closes around Draco's wrist. It is hard and warm and strong. 'Let us go,' Viktor says, pulling Draco with him. 'Let them think what they wish to think.'
'Oh!' Draco can't hold back a surprised gasp. He certainly hadn't seen that one coming. He trails behind Krum like a child after his father, ignoring the many eyes that follow them as Krum strides towards the restaurant's exit. Krum's fingers almost burn his skin, as if the touch contains some kind of tension, energy, that Draco connects with. As Krum walks into the dim corridor, up the stairs, he turns and Draco imagines that he sees little blue flames dancing around Krum's hand, just where skin meets skin. Draco thinks that Krum might see the flames, too, because he looks surprised, caught up in the magic that burns between them.
Krum's breath is ragged as he asks, 'your room, Malfoy?'
'Second floor.' Draco does not try to pull out of Krum's strong grip and Krum -- Viktor -- in turn, does not let go. '217'
At the door, Draco taps the door with the tip of his wand. his other arm still caught in Viktor's iron grip. 'So?' Draco turns, around to look at Viktor as the door swings open, revealing the luxurious suite with its soft carpets and its beautiful, elegant furniture.
'So,' Viktor says and before Draco manages to react he is pressed against the William Morris wall paper, his back against marigolds in pale green on green. 'So!' Then Viktor does what Draco had never thought he would do; what Draco had never counted on; what he has waited for for more years than he wishes to think of: Viktor presses his thin, hard body against Draco's, leaning in, pausing, as if their bodies were not already touching; as if it wasn't clear that Viktor is aroused -- Draco as well. The kiss grows between them, even before their lips touch: the soft whiff of a breath; the damp scent of coffee and wine; the warmth of red lips so close that it takes but an inch to catch and cage the kiss that is already happening.
And as their mouths finally meet, as Viktor's narrow lips close over Draco's fuller ones, an old circuit seems to dissolve and a new one takes over: one made up of a hot tongue against a hot tongue; of hands straying over willing bodies. It is electricity moving in a complete and closed path: power, tension, pulse, a heartbeat repeated over and over, weaving its rhythm with the rhythm of another. It is the sensation of fine wool under the touch of a hand, of tensed muscles flexing as Draco falls into the waves of the kiss. Draco's body and mind hum from tension and need. Moaning loudly as Viktor's fingers caress his nape, Draco clings to the man who kisses him so delightfully, enjoying the fulfilment of an almost decade-lasting longing -- only this instant, Draco cannot truly remember who the longing was for. The images of two dark, reserved men melt together and part: one a bittersweet, eternal memory, the other so very, very real.
'Draco... oh, Draco,' Viktor whispers, barely separating his mouth from Draco's, his voice hoarse and raw from emotion. He kisses Draco again, his tongue sliding between Draco's wet lips, deep into his mouth. Viktor's moans vibrate against Draco's lips, a dark, velvet sound that feels as delicious as it tastes.
Draco is in heaven. He had no idea that Viktor could be like this: so forceful, so knowing. No, Viktor is no virgin, that much is certain. For once, Draco has nothing to say, no encouraging words, no praise. He has no flattering comments to a customer on size or form (although Viktor's form certainly is worth noticing) or abilities. Draco has no lies left as he stands there, caught up in Viktor's warmth. He has nothing left but himself: a failed husband, a tainted lover, a boy in search of a past that will never return.
Honesty. Honesty with himself and his feelings: an entirely new sensation.
He feels entirely naked and vulnerable as Viktor withdraws, his eyes shining with a warmth and a fire that matches those of their bodies.
Viktor cups Draco's face between his hands, one thumb stroking ever so softly over Draco's cheekbone. 'We stop here. No more.' Viktor's accent is worse than ever, as if it is difficult for him to convey his words, his feelings.
Draco's world stops too. It cannot be true. This is what he wanted, and now he cannot have...
Outside, the whisper of cars passing by reaches him. There is a sound of a door slamming and distant voices and laughter announce that the downstairs party is over. 'But-' Draco begins, before Viktor interrupts.
'I do not want to. I cannot do it with paid men,' Viktor says, his tone of voice regretful. 'I will not.' He moves a hand to let a finger follow Draco's eyebrow, a tender movement, before he leans in, kissing Draco on the lips. 'If you were not... until then... I... ' Viktor seems to search for the right words. He whispers something, perhaps in Bulgarian. 'Аз съм влюбен в теб.'
Then Viktor Disapparates, leaving Draco stunned, paralysed. The world is frozen, cold, empty. Viktor's words still linger; a faint echo of what could have been. If you were not... until then...
'No!' Draco angrily grabs a vase from the table and throws it at the wall. 'No!' The vase shatters in what might be thousands of little sharp pieces, just like Draco's heart. 'No!'
If you were not... until then...
Draco is on the verge of giving up. He has had it with love and pain and dark, impossible men. Why is life so utterly unbearable?
If you were not... until then...
If he was not? Draco takes a deep breath, trying to get his feelings under control. If he was not what? And if he wasn't, then what?
If he wasn't a whore, then Viktor would want him?
Letting out a deep sigh, Draco straightens his back and his determination. He has lost once, but this time... this time he is not making the mistake of letting go of what he desires most. His long hunt has reached a new focus.
He grabs his wand. The hotel can forward his luggage.
A second later, Draco, too, Disapparates.
The Nature of Infinity
The man at Draco's side is blond and beautiful, so very different from the men he sought out before. Autumn is approaching and this, the last international game before the Quidditch season is over, is a stormy affair, both in regards to the weather and when it comes to the two teams. The champions, the Bulgarian national team, fight like there is no tomorrow, and the British are in trouble. Viktor Krum flies like a dragon: dangerous, fast, hard. Despite the company, Draco cannot keep his excitement hidden.
'Draco, please!' The gentleman at Draco's side puts a hand on his knee, as if to calm him down. 'Perhaps you would wish to tone down your fascination with Mr Krum?'
'Father, please!' Draco mocks, smiling at his father. Despite their... differences concerning Draco's choice of lifestyle, it is wonderful to be home, to be a Malfoy again. 'It's not fascination. I told you.'
'If you insist. As long as I have my son back, living in a suitable manner, honouring the obligations of the Malfoy family.' Lucius shakes his head. 'I suppose one man is better than-' Waving a hand, as if to include all men present, Lucius sighs. 'At least you are home.'
'Lucius!' Narcissa's voice is a bit sharper than usual. 'Leave the boy alone.'
Rolling his eyes as his parents begin discussing who have been the most lenient and pampering when it comes to his upbringing, Draco pulls his heavy robes tightly around himself, keeping the chill Autumn air at bay. He cannot keep his attention at the game: he sees only one player, one man.
Viktor... Oh, Viktor.
Draco walks down the stairs to the bottom of the pitch. His patience is running low. If will by itself could end the game, the Snitch would have been caught by now. Draco's mind is filled with images of Viktor, of the one kiss they shared. His body longs for touch, for Viktor's hands on his skin, for Viktor's mouth on his. Leaning against the heavy wood of the giant oval above him, he waits at the entrance of the players' exit at the bottom of the tower. Lost in thoughts, Draco suddenly remembers his youth: the many games he played for Slytherin. There was always someone waiting for him: sometimes together with his father, sometimes alone. Inadvertently Draco looks around, as if the black-clad, sour man would still be here, lurking in the shadows. But all there is left is the memory, bitter still, but less painful. Perhaps it has lessened, shrunk, the pain, leaving space to share with another memory, less painful: one of the wonderful, determined man who flies his broom somewhere out there, on the field.
Above his head Draco can hear the crowd cheer. Britain has won. The Bulgarian champions are defeated! Nervously Draco clutches the heavy fabric of his robe between thin fingers. Doubt breathes its icy insecurity into his blood, and he shudders, as if the temperature is dropping. What if Viktor didn't mean anything with what he'd said? What if he still doesn't want Draco? What if the entire thing is but a figment of imagination?
Voices disturb Draco's thoughts. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what might come. The Bulgarians are, judging from their bickering, not too happy with the outcome of the game.
There they are! Draco can't breathe. Viktor! There's Zograf and Ivanova and behind them comes Viktor, looking gloomy and sour, in that strangely attractive, oh-so-recognisable way. Only now it is Viktor's expression, not a substitute for someone else's.
Draco steps up to the team. 'Viktor,' he says, trying to keep his voice calm. 'I-'
Viktor's face changes. At first it is surprise as he gasps a, 'Draco!', then the anger of defeat hastens to flee as a smile overtakes the gaunt face, chasing the shadows of anger away. 'Draco!'
Before anybody reacts, Viktor is there, just in front of Draco, strong and warm arms pulling him into a sweat-and-autumn-scented embrace.
'I thought I'd never see you again! I heard that you-' Viktor's voice is rough with emotion.
This time it is Draco who initiates the kiss, because there is no way he can wait as much as a second longer to kiss the man he is in love with. Viktor obviously doesn't care that the entire team is standing next to them. Somebody remarks snidely that a room would be in order, but another of Viktor's teammates ushers the remaining team members away from the pair, leaving them the relative peace that can be found when thousands of spectators are sitting above them on the wooden benches.
Draco doesn't care either. Mostly because he doesn't give a damn about what people think of him. Not anymore. With Viktor... Everything is different with Viktor: this kisses, the touches, the taut, muscular body. Draco has fucked men in so many places, so many times, and it gave him nothing but a few hours of release and distraction. He never felt tainted, though, if only by the indifference that was all he put in those encounters. Viktor... Viktor is pure, hot, clean, dirty, everything that Draco has dreamt of, even before he knew that he was able to dream of someone else. Of someone equally dark and sour and hard and wonderful as the man who occupied his mind for years.
With his arms around Viktor Krum's neck, Draco sighs happily, his lips moving from Viktor's mouth to his exposed collarbone. 'And now,' Draco murmurs against the sun-tanned, sweaty skin. 'Do you want me now?'
'Oh, yes!' Viktor breathes the words into Draco's hair before he raises a hand and tilts Draco's face upwards. 'Never doubt that.' A tender caress is followed by a light kiss. 'Never doubt. I wanted all of you. Not just your body for a night. I wanted you for me - for myself.'
The world falls into place around Draco. His need and his want are suddenly the same. 'And when you left that day? You said something, that I-'
'I did. I will tell you again. And again.' Viktor laughs. 'Аз съм влюбен в теб. I'm in love with you.'
'Oh.' Draco's mouth becomes round and surprised, and Viktor must think it needs kissing, for in a second the hot kisses resume, to Draco's delight. With Viktor's tongue playing in his mouth, Draco is suddenly guided onto the other side of the heavy wooden pillar he is leaning against. Half-way hidden from passersby, Viktor's advances become braver, more intimate. Draco doesn't care. He would let Viktor have him in the middle of the bloody Quidditch pitch if the man expressed the need to. 'Viktor... I can't wait,' Draco sighs, enjoying the sensation of Viktor's hand under his robe. 'And you said you wanted me now!' he pouts, already attempting to wrap Viktor around his little finger. 'Please?'
'I think I regret this already,' Viktor teases. 'I know you, Malfoy. All your little tricks.' Viktor slowly opens the front of Draco's robes. 'Every one of them I have seen at Hogwarts. And I will let you try them. Until I get enough of it.' Viktor's eyes change, become intense and hot. 'I will get enough -- and then I will decide what we do.' Viktor pulls Draco close, flush against his lean body, against the dirty Quidditch leathers and the sweaty robe. His gloved hands move over Draco's back, down to his arse, tightening the grip. Draco moans as his erection rubs against Viktor's. Draco's and Viktor's needs seem to be very compatible, very alike. 'And now, I think, we do this,' Viktor states before he picks Draco up, guiding his legs around his waist.
It's a bit clumsy and awkward and contains an innocence that Draco thought he'd long lost. Hands fumble for access while lips paint their lust-filled and loving little pictures on exposed skin. Above them, people are leaving, unaware that somewhere below their feet, two people are making love: a rushed, but needed love-making; a joining of bodies which have been without this for too long. When Viktor finally slides inside, Draco shivers, clinging to his lover. The emotions are almost too much: Viktor's dark eyes, his kisses, the sweet words he whispers in a language Draco does not understand. But the tone is enough. The slide of skin against skin is enough. Oh, Salazar, it is enough!
Viktor does not make Draco fly. On the contrary. He grounds him in a way that Draco has never tried before. He is here, in the midst of reality with a man who loves him. Their pleasure is of the earth too: heavy and slow and perfect. Together they are chasing ghosts away, slowly, quietly putting them to rest. 'Only you,' Viktor whispers in his formal and slightly broken English. 'Only you, Draco.'
In their small corner of the world, the sky is autumn-blue. The air is earth-scented: leaves and grass and apples rotting on the ground. It is the end of the year; the end of yet another circuit, an end which usually leaves Draco depressed and bereft of hope.
This time, Draco looks up into the sky as his pleasure rises with the wind. 'Yes,' Draco whispers, caught in his lover's embrace as they reach their release together. 'I love you, too, Viktor.'
The sky glitters with sun and dancing leaves, and Draco thinks he can see eternity for a moment as he leans back, lost in pleasure. The infinite universe surrounds them, ready for them to take flight.
With Viktor at his side, Draco is ready for it.
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Author/Artist: snapelike
Title: The Lemniscate, or the Nature of Infinity
Rating: R
Pairings: Viktor Krum/Draco Malfoy
Word Count: 5,675
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *Implied canon character death (back story - none of the main characters).*
Summary: The war is long over, but Draco Malfoy is still caught up in the loss of the man he only too late realised that he loved. Trying to forget, he finds himself immersed in Quidditch and sex - sex for money, that is. Not all men, however, are willing to pay...
Author's/Artist's Notes: When I chose Viktor as my unloved character, I decided to leave out his accent, or at least not to try to imitate it. There is a nice post about accents here which explains better than I could possibly do the reasons for leaving it out. I hope, Femme, that you don't mind that I did. The lines from the Bulgarian folk tale comes from A Spell in Time.
A lemniscate is an ellipse whose most common form is the locus of points whose distances from two fixed points is a constant. Bernoulli, who discovered the lemniscate in 1654, described it as "...a lying eight-like figure, folded in a knot of a bundle, or of a lemniscus, a knot of a French ribbon". (A thorough explanation can be found at MathNet.) The curve of the lemniscate can be rather similar to the sign for the infinite, ∞. For beta, thanks to my beloved K.
I. The Game
Draco likes it. He is fine with it. It makes him forget. It makes him remember -- if only he knew which to prefer. The sheets are soft and warm underneath his back, and the man, the nameless, but rather well-known man on top of him is hard and cold. It's the icebox of business transaction, Draco thinks, spreading his legs wider, allowing the slender, dark man room to chase the release he pays for. Draco gasps as the man thrusts into him, deeply and cruelly. Through half-closed lids, pale lids rimmed with even paler lashes, Draco watches his customer: a lean, hook-nosed man with brown hair. It is almost. And then not. Almost...
It has begun. It's a never-ending cycle: week after week, year after year. Game after game. One player, and the next.
It is a never-ending story: the Quidditch season begins and Draco travels with it. It is symbiotic: a two-sided organism of sweat and testosterone, of sex and money. It is a symbiosis which provides Draco with what he wants, but never really with what he needs. He is a seeker still. It is what he does... seeks. No matter where he goes, he is looking. In the street, in his dreams. For that one man, the man he scorned. The man he loved and admired -- a realisation that came only too late.
And now it will always be too late.
The Quidditch circuit has begun, although it never ends. It flows eternally, like Draco's need for what he cannot have. He floats with it, the circuit, on a wave of cold desire and sweaty lust. It makes him forget. It makes him feel as if he still has a life to live, although the man he searches for does not.
So many years. Circuit after circuit of days and longing. Minutes, hours, days of need. Only sex and money dull the pain and make Draco forget -- at least partly -- that he never steps into a street, never walks into a building without seeking out that one person who is never there. He seeks, and all he finds is a simulacrum of what should have been: the reality that is no reality.
So it goes: Draco seeks, and he prefer the seekers for their lean, slender bodies, for their often arrogant self-image, for their ability to make Draco fly, too, if only for a few hours.
And when he lands, it is to face the realisation that no man will ever be like the man who saved him, the man he should have cherished and admired and loved. No, no one will ever be like him. The loss is eternal.
'Thanks.' That is the first coherent word the man has said since they ended up in the wizarding hotel's large bed. They're not here to socialise or enter into deep, intellectual conversation.
'My pleasure,' Draco drawls, 'and yours.'
'Certainement.' The French Quidditch player smiles. 'Always a pleasure with you, Malfoy. Glad you're with us this year, too.' He yawns, gets out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. Draco sighs, reaches for his wand and cleans himself before dressing. He does not want to stay. He likes his customers to stay customers, so that he can keep up the illusion, at least partly, of having been in bed with a man who no longer exists. He does not need to speak with them, or to let them become anything but this anonymous mass of substitutes.
With his body still humming from the release, Draco walks out the door, down the stairs to the luxurious hotel room he has secured. The name of Malfoy still opens doors in places where others might be refused. The Quidditch World Cup makes it close to impossible to find a room in the Bulgarian capital: the entire hotel is booked by the teams and their followers. An entire hotel filled with men for Draco to feast on.
Draco walks down the stairs, already in search for his next man, for the next few hours of blessed lust.
II. The Exercise
The Japanese fly like a flock of fast birds: a tightly knit group of slender, hard men on state-of-the-art brooms. It is as if the group communicates invisibly: they move in an intricate pattern of movements which make it seem as if they defy gravity and spit in its face once and again. The red-and-white clad players are cheered on by the crowd: it does not matter that these currently are the world's third best national team - and most importantly the team that might beat the Bulgarians. Talent shows, and even the Bulgarian spectators recognise it.
The team shoots like an arrow against the sky, as if they want to disappear into the blue eternity. As they dive into a double loop, fireworks suddenly go off, and behind them the shape of a kite, a tengu in gold and red appears as the Japanese players throw their brooms into an even steeper fall, stopping only inches from the ground, waving at the spectators, making the crowd go wild.
Draco sits, as usual, in the best seat money and connections can buy. He has two of the British team members on his left and right, for once relaxing, just immersing himself in the game and the excitement that has nothing to do with beds and men. Cho Chang is almost pulling off his right arm as her favourite team (except, of course, for her own, Britain) finishes their entrée. Oliver, on Draco's other side, just huffs and murmurs, 'no stamina.' He should know. He's with Marcus Flint now, and Draco assumes that lends quite another meaning to the word.
Turning to Oliver, Draco is just about to say something when the entire Quidditch pitch goes dark. 'Eh?' Oliver says before a single spotlight catches a beautiful young girl on the top of one of the towers. She's clad in a Bulgarian traditional dress.
'His eyes are like fire upon water. His words are like music playing. He is the man of your dreams. But is he all that he seems? Delve into the darkness and discover ... if he’s a man or a Dragon Lover,' she begins, as drums softly begin a deep, slow rhythm somewhere out there, in the dark. 'From his eyes fierce sparks fly and the horse he rides is like a mountain,' she continues, her voice clear as silver; soothing and cold.
Draco faintly recognises the words, perhaps a Bulgarian folk tale he's been told as a child. The Bulgarians know them too, because they start a chant: Krum! Krum! Krum!, raising their fists in the air.
Oliver grins. 'Dragon Lover?' That's one's for you, Dragon Malfoy! Perhaps I should buy you for him as a present? He's bloody ugly, though, and I doubt he's ever had a male lover, so I'd almost feel sorry for you if you had to take him up the arse. Almost.'
They've known each other for ages, and despite the fact that the old enmity has disappeared, it rears its ugly head once in a while, still.
'You do that,' Draco says, managing not to sneer. 'He's a better player than you - and I didn't complain about your cock, did I?' Oliver seems to have taken pleasure in fucking old enemies; perhaps he assumes that the cock is stronger than the broom?
Oliver's reply is drowned out by the sound of drums and fireworks and lights going off as the girl raises her arms toward the sky. 'Viktor Krum! Balgariya!'
A meteor seems slow compared to the red-clad thunderbolt that shoots through the air, followed by six giant fire-golden dragons. The drums reach a crescendo, and the dragons explode into a shower of tiny Golden Snitches, revealing the other six Bulgarian players as the swarm of fake Snitches disappears into the sky.
'Viktor Krum!' The spectators shout and cheer; there is no one but Krum, the world's best seeker. The world's best Quidditch player.
The game starts, but Draco's attention is wavering. Perhaps Oliver's words hit harder than they should have? Perhaps he's getting tired of the constant return to this odd way of living, this superficial soothing of deep wounds that never heal? Perhaps he is tired of the hunt, of the focus that disappeared even before the hunt began. Chasing ghosts and shadows is eternal: he will never find...
Draco rubs a thin hand over his face. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, seeing in his mind only the dark robes, the long, black hair, the burning eyes. The rare smile that was only for him. The care. The sacrifice. The pain has lessened, but now, ten years after, it still feels excruciating. No, tonight he needs yet another man, someone to make him forget those deep, sharp eyes; the deep, sharp wit. The deep feelings that he recognised too late. They have to go. Everything has to go.
The game continues, but Draco does not see it. He is back at Hogwarts, caught up in memories. He does not know how long he has been sitting like that, staring at nothing. Around him the spectators cheer and shout. 'Krum! Krum has caught the Snitch! Bulgaria wins!'
Draco's eyes snap open, and there, just in front of him, his fantasies seem to have taken physical form for a moment: hovering on his broom, face to face with Draco, a lean man with black, burning fire-eyes holds up the Snitch victoriously. He looks directly at Draco; such an intense, dark glare. Then Viktor Krum raises one eyebrow in a manner that reminds Draco of someone else. The thin lips contract in something that might be a sour smile, just before Viktor pulls his broom into a steep turn, leaving Draco to his loss and his desire, utterly stunned.
III. The Circular Line
'He's all yours,' Oliver whispers. 'Or, rather, you're his,' he adds, nodding in Viktor Krum's general direction. 'The boys chipped in, so you're to endure him for an entire night, Malfoy.' Oliver's smile is not entirely pleasant and there is a hint of viciousness in this voice. 'I'm sure it'll be exciting teaching him the ropes.'
'I'm sure you are sure.' Draco doesn't find Oliver's teasing funny. Since Friday's semifinals Draco has been absent-minded, and even though he has thrown himself into a tour de force of male beds and bodies, nothing has eased his uneasiness. He cannot yet put a finger to what it is that is bothering him, except that it has to do with Krum. Krum has developed. It isn't as if Draco hasn't seen him before. He has: hook-nosed, ugly, unpleasant Krum. But Krum, on the contrary, has never for a second since Draco gave up his wife and the empty upper-class life he led noticed him. Draco was refused once and since then, Krum somehow became invisible. It is beyond Draco why Krum has accepted this time.
Turning his attention from Oliver, Draco leans against a silver and velvet chair, crossing his arms in front of him, dangling a Champagne flute between two fingers. He downs it and signals to one of the hotel's House-elves that he needs another. Despite the fact that the restaurant is filled to the brim with Quidditch players, ministers, famous witches and wizards, Draco has a replacement in a second. He sips, enjoying the refreshing taste.
Draco looks at Krum with renewed interest. The famous Quidditch player certainly has developed. He is even thinner and darker than before, but more muscular. His hair has grown long, and the adult Krum... the arrogant, rude, unpleasant, utterly gorgeous Krum is suddenly visible again: a new focal point in a life that is ruled by one already - one firmly set. Draco looks at Krum closely, an assessment he hasn't made before, or rather hasn't made since Krum made it abundantly clear to Draco that he did not pay to bed a lover, male or female. Despite the earlier refusal, Draco feels like a satellite, circling, watching, recording Krum's every move, as if he is seeing the man anew, as if he needs to reacquaint himself with Krum's actions and habits.
Around them, people are chatting, eating, drinking. The smell of delicious food and expensive wines mingles with the women's expensive perfumes. It is nauseating. Draco turns to Oliver again, ignoring Flint who possessively has thrown a massive arm around Oliver's shoulder. Draco ignores Flint. The man is as clever as a box of biscuits and probably won't understand their conversation anyway. Brilliant player, not a thinker, Draco knows. 'And what did you have in mind,' he finally asks Oliver, 'Have you even asked Krum about this? Does he want-' me '- a rent boy at all? He did underline once that it was not his idea of fun.'
'Does it matter? You've got your Galleons. Just go play with him. If he knows what's good for him, he'll be in your bed in sixty seconds.'
Behind Oliver a few of the Bulgarians are whispering and laughing. 'Yeah, Malfoy,' one of them shouts. 'Go do him. Krum needs to get laid. Far too serious, that one! Your tight arse surely will make him feel better.'
An unusual sense of fairness suddenly hits Draco. 'You are doing this to make fun of him,' he says, his voice slow and drawling. 'You find it amusing to embarrass him in front of half the wizarding world's finest? Is that it?'
'Oh, come on, Draco. You rarely have problems making people look bad -- as long as you look good,' Oliver grins. 'If there ever was an arsehole...'
Draco huffs. 'I sell my body, Wood. Not my mind. Those times are over when my mind and my thoughts were ruled by others.' Draco pulls his hair back, tying one stray strand back into the bow. 'I'll do it, but don't expect me to provide you with entertainment for the night.' Rolling his eyes, Draco turns his back to the people who are supposed to be Krum's friends, gathering what dignity he has left and walks through the throng of people, towards the man he has been watching for three days.
IV. The Electricity
'What do you want?' Krum's English has not developed by much and his manners leave a lot to be desired. 'Malfoy.'
'There was a time... at Hogwarts... when I was Draco and you were Viktor,' Draco says, trying to relax under the unfriendly scrutiny. He has seen those eyes before, or perhaps another set, and it feels the same: he is naked, exposed, defenceless.
The blow is hard and to the point. 'So?' Viktor's face shows little, but the contempt is there, somewhere, hidden in that one word; in the way he glares at Draco.
Krum might have aged, grown, matured. But he is still direct, bordering rude, leaving Draco little choice other than to be just as direct. Perhaps honesty works better than trying to win Krum over with flattery and flirting. Draco hopes so. 'Your team mates and my lovely friends have bought me for you. I tried to explain to them that you have little interest in men, and more particularly in me. However, I'm at your service until tomorrow. Maybe I can polish your broom, or something?'
Krum laughs unexpectedly. 'My broom? You have polished many brooms, Malfoy. Too many brooms for me to like. I say before I don't pay, that has not changed.' Krum scowls again, the laughter which briefly altered the sour look has gone. 'I told them I do not want to have you. I do not pay, and I-'
'Technically you're not,' Draco says. 'Paying, that is.' He looks over his shoulder at the group of men who seems to take some pleasure in annoying Krum. 'They are.' Draco feels the surge of success. At least Krum is speaking to him now. 'I think they think this is amusing. Making fun of you.'
'Why should I care? They make fun of me now, but on the field? I make fun of them.' Viktor straightens proudly, leaving his usual slouching behind, as if the undeniable fact that he is the greatest Quidditch player in the world, the best seeker for centuries, fills him up, alters him into a tall, resourceful, impressive man. 'I outfly them. Always. Then we see who laughs.'
Draco can barely keep himself from appreciating the man in front of him in a way that clearly will offend Krum, or worse, make him bolt. 'You certainly know your own worth,' he says neutrally, stopping himself from reaching out to touch Krum.
'And you do not,' Krum says, his face serious, no traces of mocking or dismissal, 'know yours. Once, Malfoy, you were proud and ambitious and beautiful. Now you're a whore. Why?'
The words hit harder than any blow could, because they come at a point where Draco is defenceless. The pain of loss and what could have been is reflected in his eyes, he knows that, and there is nothing he can do to hide it. And for the first time in his life he puts what has driven him into this abyss into words. 'There was someone... someone I-' Draco's lips narrow, pressed together, as if deciding by themselves that enough has been said. Draco looks away, not wanting to let Krum see what havoc his question has wreaked in his heart. 'It makes me forget.'
Then a thin hand closes around Draco's wrist. It is hard and warm and strong. 'Let us go,' Viktor says, pulling Draco with him. 'Let them think what they wish to think.'
'Oh!' Draco can't hold back a surprised gasp. He certainly hadn't seen that one coming. He trails behind Krum like a child after his father, ignoring the many eyes that follow them as Krum strides towards the restaurant's exit. Krum's fingers almost burn his skin, as if the touch contains some kind of tension, energy, that Draco connects with. As Krum walks into the dim corridor, up the stairs, he turns and Draco imagines that he sees little blue flames dancing around Krum's hand, just where skin meets skin. Draco thinks that Krum might see the flames, too, because he looks surprised, caught up in the magic that burns between them.
Krum's breath is ragged as he asks, 'your room, Malfoy?'
'Second floor.' Draco does not try to pull out of Krum's strong grip and Krum -- Viktor -- in turn, does not let go. '217'
At the door, Draco taps the door with the tip of his wand. his other arm still caught in Viktor's iron grip. 'So?' Draco turns, around to look at Viktor as the door swings open, revealing the luxurious suite with its soft carpets and its beautiful, elegant furniture.
'So,' Viktor says and before Draco manages to react he is pressed against the William Morris wall paper, his back against marigolds in pale green on green. 'So!' Then Viktor does what Draco had never thought he would do; what Draco had never counted on; what he has waited for for more years than he wishes to think of: Viktor presses his thin, hard body against Draco's, leaning in, pausing, as if their bodies were not already touching; as if it wasn't clear that Viktor is aroused -- Draco as well. The kiss grows between them, even before their lips touch: the soft whiff of a breath; the damp scent of coffee and wine; the warmth of red lips so close that it takes but an inch to catch and cage the kiss that is already happening.
And as their mouths finally meet, as Viktor's narrow lips close over Draco's fuller ones, an old circuit seems to dissolve and a new one takes over: one made up of a hot tongue against a hot tongue; of hands straying over willing bodies. It is electricity moving in a complete and closed path: power, tension, pulse, a heartbeat repeated over and over, weaving its rhythm with the rhythm of another. It is the sensation of fine wool under the touch of a hand, of tensed muscles flexing as Draco falls into the waves of the kiss. Draco's body and mind hum from tension and need. Moaning loudly as Viktor's fingers caress his nape, Draco clings to the man who kisses him so delightfully, enjoying the fulfilment of an almost decade-lasting longing -- only this instant, Draco cannot truly remember who the longing was for. The images of two dark, reserved men melt together and part: one a bittersweet, eternal memory, the other so very, very real.
'Draco... oh, Draco,' Viktor whispers, barely separating his mouth from Draco's, his voice hoarse and raw from emotion. He kisses Draco again, his tongue sliding between Draco's wet lips, deep into his mouth. Viktor's moans vibrate against Draco's lips, a dark, velvet sound that feels as delicious as it tastes.
Draco is in heaven. He had no idea that Viktor could be like this: so forceful, so knowing. No, Viktor is no virgin, that much is certain. For once, Draco has nothing to say, no encouraging words, no praise. He has no flattering comments to a customer on size or form (although Viktor's form certainly is worth noticing) or abilities. Draco has no lies left as he stands there, caught up in Viktor's warmth. He has nothing left but himself: a failed husband, a tainted lover, a boy in search of a past that will never return.
Honesty. Honesty with himself and his feelings: an entirely new sensation.
He feels entirely naked and vulnerable as Viktor withdraws, his eyes shining with a warmth and a fire that matches those of their bodies.
Viktor cups Draco's face between his hands, one thumb stroking ever so softly over Draco's cheekbone. 'We stop here. No more.' Viktor's accent is worse than ever, as if it is difficult for him to convey his words, his feelings.
Draco's world stops too. It cannot be true. This is what he wanted, and now he cannot have...
Outside, the whisper of cars passing by reaches him. There is a sound of a door slamming and distant voices and laughter announce that the downstairs party is over. 'But-' Draco begins, before Viktor interrupts.
'I do not want to. I cannot do it with paid men,' Viktor says, his tone of voice regretful. 'I will not.' He moves a hand to let a finger follow Draco's eyebrow, a tender movement, before he leans in, kissing Draco on the lips. 'If you were not... until then... I... ' Viktor seems to search for the right words. He whispers something, perhaps in Bulgarian. 'Аз съм влюбен в теб.'
Then Viktor Disapparates, leaving Draco stunned, paralysed. The world is frozen, cold, empty. Viktor's words still linger; a faint echo of what could have been. If you were not... until then...
'No!' Draco angrily grabs a vase from the table and throws it at the wall. 'No!' The vase shatters in what might be thousands of little sharp pieces, just like Draco's heart. 'No!'
If you were not... until then...
Draco is on the verge of giving up. He has had it with love and pain and dark, impossible men. Why is life so utterly unbearable?
If you were not... until then...
If he was not? Draco takes a deep breath, trying to get his feelings under control. If he was not what? And if he wasn't, then what?
If he wasn't a whore, then Viktor would want him?
Letting out a deep sigh, Draco straightens his back and his determination. He has lost once, but this time... this time he is not making the mistake of letting go of what he desires most. His long hunt has reached a new focus.
He grabs his wand. The hotel can forward his luggage.
A second later, Draco, too, Disapparates.
The Nature of Infinity
The man at Draco's side is blond and beautiful, so very different from the men he sought out before. Autumn is approaching and this, the last international game before the Quidditch season is over, is a stormy affair, both in regards to the weather and when it comes to the two teams. The champions, the Bulgarian national team, fight like there is no tomorrow, and the British are in trouble. Viktor Krum flies like a dragon: dangerous, fast, hard. Despite the company, Draco cannot keep his excitement hidden.
'Draco, please!' The gentleman at Draco's side puts a hand on his knee, as if to calm him down. 'Perhaps you would wish to tone down your fascination with Mr Krum?'
'Father, please!' Draco mocks, smiling at his father. Despite their... differences concerning Draco's choice of lifestyle, it is wonderful to be home, to be a Malfoy again. 'It's not fascination. I told you.'
'If you insist. As long as I have my son back, living in a suitable manner, honouring the obligations of the Malfoy family.' Lucius shakes his head. 'I suppose one man is better than-' Waving a hand, as if to include all men present, Lucius sighs. 'At least you are home.'
'Lucius!' Narcissa's voice is a bit sharper than usual. 'Leave the boy alone.'
Rolling his eyes as his parents begin discussing who have been the most lenient and pampering when it comes to his upbringing, Draco pulls his heavy robes tightly around himself, keeping the chill Autumn air at bay. He cannot keep his attention at the game: he sees only one player, one man.
Viktor... Oh, Viktor.
Draco walks down the stairs to the bottom of the pitch. His patience is running low. If will by itself could end the game, the Snitch would have been caught by now. Draco's mind is filled with images of Viktor, of the one kiss they shared. His body longs for touch, for Viktor's hands on his skin, for Viktor's mouth on his. Leaning against the heavy wood of the giant oval above him, he waits at the entrance of the players' exit at the bottom of the tower. Lost in thoughts, Draco suddenly remembers his youth: the many games he played for Slytherin. There was always someone waiting for him: sometimes together with his father, sometimes alone. Inadvertently Draco looks around, as if the black-clad, sour man would still be here, lurking in the shadows. But all there is left is the memory, bitter still, but less painful. Perhaps it has lessened, shrunk, the pain, leaving space to share with another memory, less painful: one of the wonderful, determined man who flies his broom somewhere out there, on the field.
Above his head Draco can hear the crowd cheer. Britain has won. The Bulgarian champions are defeated! Nervously Draco clutches the heavy fabric of his robe between thin fingers. Doubt breathes its icy insecurity into his blood, and he shudders, as if the temperature is dropping. What if Viktor didn't mean anything with what he'd said? What if he still doesn't want Draco? What if the entire thing is but a figment of imagination?
Voices disturb Draco's thoughts. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what might come. The Bulgarians are, judging from their bickering, not too happy with the outcome of the game.
There they are! Draco can't breathe. Viktor! There's Zograf and Ivanova and behind them comes Viktor, looking gloomy and sour, in that strangely attractive, oh-so-recognisable way. Only now it is Viktor's expression, not a substitute for someone else's.
Draco steps up to the team. 'Viktor,' he says, trying to keep his voice calm. 'I-'
Viktor's face changes. At first it is surprise as he gasps a, 'Draco!', then the anger of defeat hastens to flee as a smile overtakes the gaunt face, chasing the shadows of anger away. 'Draco!'
Before anybody reacts, Viktor is there, just in front of Draco, strong and warm arms pulling him into a sweat-and-autumn-scented embrace.
'I thought I'd never see you again! I heard that you-' Viktor's voice is rough with emotion.
This time it is Draco who initiates the kiss, because there is no way he can wait as much as a second longer to kiss the man he is in love with. Viktor obviously doesn't care that the entire team is standing next to them. Somebody remarks snidely that a room would be in order, but another of Viktor's teammates ushers the remaining team members away from the pair, leaving them the relative peace that can be found when thousands of spectators are sitting above them on the wooden benches.
Draco doesn't care either. Mostly because he doesn't give a damn about what people think of him. Not anymore. With Viktor... Everything is different with Viktor: this kisses, the touches, the taut, muscular body. Draco has fucked men in so many places, so many times, and it gave him nothing but a few hours of release and distraction. He never felt tainted, though, if only by the indifference that was all he put in those encounters. Viktor... Viktor is pure, hot, clean, dirty, everything that Draco has dreamt of, even before he knew that he was able to dream of someone else. Of someone equally dark and sour and hard and wonderful as the man who occupied his mind for years.
With his arms around Viktor Krum's neck, Draco sighs happily, his lips moving from Viktor's mouth to his exposed collarbone. 'And now,' Draco murmurs against the sun-tanned, sweaty skin. 'Do you want me now?'
'Oh, yes!' Viktor breathes the words into Draco's hair before he raises a hand and tilts Draco's face upwards. 'Never doubt that.' A tender caress is followed by a light kiss. 'Never doubt. I wanted all of you. Not just your body for a night. I wanted you for me - for myself.'
The world falls into place around Draco. His need and his want are suddenly the same. 'And when you left that day? You said something, that I-'
'I did. I will tell you again. And again.' Viktor laughs. 'Аз съм влюбен в теб. I'm in love with you.'
'Oh.' Draco's mouth becomes round and surprised, and Viktor must think it needs kissing, for in a second the hot kisses resume, to Draco's delight. With Viktor's tongue playing in his mouth, Draco is suddenly guided onto the other side of the heavy wooden pillar he is leaning against. Half-way hidden from passersby, Viktor's advances become braver, more intimate. Draco doesn't care. He would let Viktor have him in the middle of the bloody Quidditch pitch if the man expressed the need to. 'Viktor... I can't wait,' Draco sighs, enjoying the sensation of Viktor's hand under his robe. 'And you said you wanted me now!' he pouts, already attempting to wrap Viktor around his little finger. 'Please?'
'I think I regret this already,' Viktor teases. 'I know you, Malfoy. All your little tricks.' Viktor slowly opens the front of Draco's robes. 'Every one of them I have seen at Hogwarts. And I will let you try them. Until I get enough of it.' Viktor's eyes change, become intense and hot. 'I will get enough -- and then I will decide what we do.' Viktor pulls Draco close, flush against his lean body, against the dirty Quidditch leathers and the sweaty robe. His gloved hands move over Draco's back, down to his arse, tightening the grip. Draco moans as his erection rubs against Viktor's. Draco's and Viktor's needs seem to be very compatible, very alike. 'And now, I think, we do this,' Viktor states before he picks Draco up, guiding his legs around his waist.
It's a bit clumsy and awkward and contains an innocence that Draco thought he'd long lost. Hands fumble for access while lips paint their lust-filled and loving little pictures on exposed skin. Above them, people are leaving, unaware that somewhere below their feet, two people are making love: a rushed, but needed love-making; a joining of bodies which have been without this for too long. When Viktor finally slides inside, Draco shivers, clinging to his lover. The emotions are almost too much: Viktor's dark eyes, his kisses, the sweet words he whispers in a language Draco does not understand. But the tone is enough. The slide of skin against skin is enough. Oh, Salazar, it is enough!
Viktor does not make Draco fly. On the contrary. He grounds him in a way that Draco has never tried before. He is here, in the midst of reality with a man who loves him. Their pleasure is of the earth too: heavy and slow and perfect. Together they are chasing ghosts away, slowly, quietly putting them to rest. 'Only you,' Viktor whispers in his formal and slightly broken English. 'Only you, Draco.'
In their small corner of the world, the sky is autumn-blue. The air is earth-scented: leaves and grass and apples rotting on the ground. It is the end of the year; the end of yet another circuit, an end which usually leaves Draco depressed and bereft of hope.
This time, Draco looks up into the sky as his pleasure rises with the wind. 'Yes,' Draco whispers, caught in his lover's embrace as they reach their release together. 'I love you, too, Viktor.'
The sky glitters with sun and dancing leaves, and Draco thinks he can see eternity for a moment as he leans back, lost in pleasure. The infinite universe surrounds them, ready for them to take flight.
With Viktor at his side, Draco is ready for it.
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