Winter Shorts 2008 Round Two: Fic - The Sky of Florence - PG-13
Mod Note: Here's the second post for today! Enjoy and don't forget to comment! :D Vaysh...I almost posted the wrong one! I read, "carrot fries" and went, "oops! but yum!" lol. - aki_hoshi
Title: The Sky of Florence
Name: vaysh11
Prompt: #118 - reporters, eggplant, thunderstorm
Prompt Given by: Anonymous
Word Count: 1,420
Rating: PG-13
Betas: Mille grazie, pingrid, for catching all and even my Italian mistakes!
Author's Notes: This was written on the night train from Firenze to München. It is dedicated to the Florence Six, anthimaeria, blamebrampton, pingrid, raitala, shiv5468 and yours truly.
Summary: Like father like son, they say, and Scorpius Malfoy hates that saying with a vengeance.
*
The sky of Florence is all blues and pinks, with trees and houses sharply outlined against it. Scorpius is reminded of Al by the contrast of pastels and black, of a softness that cuts right into his heart.
He is vacationing in Italy, with Father and Father's current boyfriend, Paolo something-or-other. After a day spent in churches and museums, Scorpius finds himself in this expensive Muggle restaurant, before him a half-eaten dish of aubergine parmigiana, admiring the sky and thinking of Albus.
They had it all planned out. Al was to convince his dad to take the kids to Italy for the summer. And that part of the plan worked out brilliantly - the Potters are indeed somewhere on the boot-shaped peninsula. Last Sunday they were to meet in Venice, but Venice hadn't happened. It's not as if Scorpius can ask Father to change his itinerary for meeting up with one Harry Potter. And Al says his dad would rather slave away in his office than face any member of the Malfoy family while on holidays.
So when the hotel clerk handed Scorpius Al's letter, saying that the Potters were heading towards Naples, he felt the same bitter disappointment as cuts through him now, while he is watching the sky, where just above the Palazzo Vecchio dark purplish clouds gather. He senses Father's eyes on him and turns to meet his gaze.
"Is the eggplant all right?" Father asks quietly, and Scorpius nods. "I'm not really hungry," he says.
Father still looks at him, and Scorpius can practically feel him read his mind. No Legilimency, not without Scorpius' consent, and he'd rather die than let him into his head right now. But Father knows anyway, knows that something is heavy on Scorpius' mind. If he just could get rid of that bloody father-son link between them, which leaves him wide open to his father's knowing gaze. All his life Scorpius has done everything he can to not be like Father, to not resemble Draco Malfoy so much. He cropped his hair short, when Father let his own grow down to his shoulders, got glasses even though the healers offered to correct his eye-sight with a few spells, he wears Muggle clothes whenever possible.
"More wine?" Paolo asks, and Scorpius nods, earning himself another disapproving look. Father's thoughts are written clearly across his face. Drowning his sorrows in Tuscan wine, now, isn't he? And Scorpius wishes that he could get smashed, stumble to the hotel singing Muggle songs and wank himself into sleep. Leisurely and not thinking of Al at all.
"Did you go shopping today?" Father points at the bag beside Scorpius' chair where the edge of a red cashmere scarf is peeking out.
He shrugs. "I lost my scarf in the Boboli Gardens."
Father raises an eyebrow. "Your school scarf?"
Again Scorpius nods.
"And you replace it with Gryffindor red?"
Really, Scorpius wishes he and his father would not think so much alike. "It's a present," he blurts out, "for a friend who happens to like red."
For a moment Father's face darkens like the thunderstorm that is drawing near. But he lets it go, smiles at Scorpius instead. "There is nothing wrong with having a friend in Gryffindor," he says and turns his attention back to his dish of wild boar. He starts to talk to Paolo who has been watching them quietly, an odd smile on his face. But his father's tight grip around the knife tells Scorpius that this conversation isn't over yet.
After dinner, they are walking back to the hotel, through the cobble-stoned ginnels of Florence. The Gelaterias are open late, and Paolo buys shamelessly over-priced ice cream for all of them. He and Father giggle like schoolboys as they take turns tasting the Every Flavour kind. Paolo's a nice guy, Scorpius thinks, as he watches the lithe man walk in front of him. The early grey in his hair flashes silver in the streetlights, his green eyes shine darkly when he turns his head. Father always goes for this type of man, but Paolo actually seems to care for him.
It will not last, Scorpius knows - it never does. He has no idea what kind of bloke his father is waiting for to settle down with, but it's not a bloke called Paolo. Or James. Or Georg. Scorpius doesn't want to be gay, even when he admits to himself - in the deepest dark of the night - that he most probably is. He's slept with enough girls to know that there will be no Miss Perfect for him. It is why Al's letter shocked him so much. He's been carrying the parchment in his trouser pockets ever since the owl delivered it to him on the last day of school. The Potter kids had left already, because of some official ceremony, with oodles of reporters in attendance, no doubt, in honour of their famous dad.
Scorpius, the letter says, I've been thinking. About you, mostly. When we meet in Italy, can I take you out on a date? I'd like to kiss you very much. Cheers, Albus.
It sounds so much like him, Scorpius can almost hear Al's voice whenever he re-reads the words. He thinks that Al must have been drunk when he wrote them, and the dark blotches on the parchment seem to confirm his suspicion. Only he knows, it's not spilled wine. Not drops of ink, either. Only tears leave such faint spots. They are like Al, sharply defined against the parchment's smooth softness. Scorpius has no idea how to deal with his friend's pain - his best friend who wants to be his lover. Wrap him in red cashmere when he longs to be wrapped in your arms?
But he cannot be gay. It's another thing that would make him like Father. And even worse, Al fits his father's type to the dot: skin like pale cream contrasting starkly with dark hair, the green of his eyes like Slytherin to the Gryffindor red of his lips. The memory of Al's face makes Scorpius' heart hurt all of a sudden. He doesn't have a type, he only wants Al here, with him, now. And perhaps that's what makes him different from his father.
He is looking towards the sharply etched line of the horizon when a pair of hands moves across his eyes from behind and strong fingers press ever so lightly on his lids.
"Guess who?" a voice says at his ear.
Scorpius' heart skips a beat, but there's no need to guess. He would know these hands anywhere. He turns around and takes Al's face into his palms, searches blindly with his lips for Al's mouth. The other boy goes stiff, but it's only for one startled moment, then his body melts against Scorpius, and his lips open and they kiss, kiss, like Scorpius never thought he could kiss anybody. He is achingly hard in almost an instant, and this is another thing he never thought possible. He wants this to never end - this wordless intimacy, all of Al's soft sharpness directed towards him, and him alone. He doesn't care, does not even think about Father and Paolo. All he cares about is Al, his face leaning into his palm, as Scorpius rakes fingertips through that mess of dark hair, Al's warm breath flowing into him like night air filled with the scent of flowers and dust.
Scorpius cannot help laughing, loudly, and he moves his head back to finally look at Al. His green eyes glitter - with happy tears, Scorpius is certain of it.
"So this is my answer?" Al whispers, and words form in Scorpius' mind, words that surprise him more than anything that has happened during these last few weeks. I've waited so long for you. He cannot say it, not now, and so he just nods and traces Al's lips with trembling fingers. "All my life," he says softly even if Al can't possibly understand. There is a wetness on his face, and Scorpius realises it's the first drops of rain, heralding the imminent thunderstorm. The half-moon is reflected in the depth of Al's eyes. And how odd is that, to see the sky of Florence in his face?
He presses against Al's body, hard and soft and here. Then he takes his friend by the hand. "I bought you a present," he says and thinks of pale skin stretching over warm flesh, of a scarf, soft and red as Albus Potter's lips.
*
Disclaimer: This piece of fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.
Title: The Sky of Florence
Name: vaysh11
Prompt: #118 - reporters, eggplant, thunderstorm
Prompt Given by: Anonymous
Word Count: 1,420
Rating: PG-13
Betas: Mille grazie, pingrid, for catching all and even my Italian mistakes!
Author's Notes: This was written on the night train from Firenze to München. It is dedicated to the Florence Six, anthimaeria, blamebrampton, pingrid, raitala, shiv5468 and yours truly.
Summary: Like father like son, they say, and Scorpius Malfoy hates that saying with a vengeance.
*
The sky of Florence is all blues and pinks, with trees and houses sharply outlined against it. Scorpius is reminded of Al by the contrast of pastels and black, of a softness that cuts right into his heart.
He is vacationing in Italy, with Father and Father's current boyfriend, Paolo something-or-other. After a day spent in churches and museums, Scorpius finds himself in this expensive Muggle restaurant, before him a half-eaten dish of aubergine parmigiana, admiring the sky and thinking of Albus.
They had it all planned out. Al was to convince his dad to take the kids to Italy for the summer. And that part of the plan worked out brilliantly - the Potters are indeed somewhere on the boot-shaped peninsula. Last Sunday they were to meet in Venice, but Venice hadn't happened. It's not as if Scorpius can ask Father to change his itinerary for meeting up with one Harry Potter. And Al says his dad would rather slave away in his office than face any member of the Malfoy family while on holidays.
So when the hotel clerk handed Scorpius Al's letter, saying that the Potters were heading towards Naples, he felt the same bitter disappointment as cuts through him now, while he is watching the sky, where just above the Palazzo Vecchio dark purplish clouds gather. He senses Father's eyes on him and turns to meet his gaze.
"Is the eggplant all right?" Father asks quietly, and Scorpius nods. "I'm not really hungry," he says.
Father still looks at him, and Scorpius can practically feel him read his mind. No Legilimency, not without Scorpius' consent, and he'd rather die than let him into his head right now. But Father knows anyway, knows that something is heavy on Scorpius' mind. If he just could get rid of that bloody father-son link between them, which leaves him wide open to his father's knowing gaze. All his life Scorpius has done everything he can to not be like Father, to not resemble Draco Malfoy so much. He cropped his hair short, when Father let his own grow down to his shoulders, got glasses even though the healers offered to correct his eye-sight with a few spells, he wears Muggle clothes whenever possible.
"More wine?" Paolo asks, and Scorpius nods, earning himself another disapproving look. Father's thoughts are written clearly across his face. Drowning his sorrows in Tuscan wine, now, isn't he? And Scorpius wishes that he could get smashed, stumble to the hotel singing Muggle songs and wank himself into sleep. Leisurely and not thinking of Al at all.
"Did you go shopping today?" Father points at the bag beside Scorpius' chair where the edge of a red cashmere scarf is peeking out.
He shrugs. "I lost my scarf in the Boboli Gardens."
Father raises an eyebrow. "Your school scarf?"
Again Scorpius nods.
"And you replace it with Gryffindor red?"
Really, Scorpius wishes he and his father would not think so much alike. "It's a present," he blurts out, "for a friend who happens to like red."
For a moment Father's face darkens like the thunderstorm that is drawing near. But he lets it go, smiles at Scorpius instead. "There is nothing wrong with having a friend in Gryffindor," he says and turns his attention back to his dish of wild boar. He starts to talk to Paolo who has been watching them quietly, an odd smile on his face. But his father's tight grip around the knife tells Scorpius that this conversation isn't over yet.
After dinner, they are walking back to the hotel, through the cobble-stoned ginnels of Florence. The Gelaterias are open late, and Paolo buys shamelessly over-priced ice cream for all of them. He and Father giggle like schoolboys as they take turns tasting the Every Flavour kind. Paolo's a nice guy, Scorpius thinks, as he watches the lithe man walk in front of him. The early grey in his hair flashes silver in the streetlights, his green eyes shine darkly when he turns his head. Father always goes for this type of man, but Paolo actually seems to care for him.
It will not last, Scorpius knows - it never does. He has no idea what kind of bloke his father is waiting for to settle down with, but it's not a bloke called Paolo. Or James. Or Georg. Scorpius doesn't want to be gay, even when he admits to himself - in the deepest dark of the night - that he most probably is. He's slept with enough girls to know that there will be no Miss Perfect for him. It is why Al's letter shocked him so much. He's been carrying the parchment in his trouser pockets ever since the owl delivered it to him on the last day of school. The Potter kids had left already, because of some official ceremony, with oodles of reporters in attendance, no doubt, in honour of their famous dad.
Scorpius, the letter says, I've been thinking. About you, mostly. When we meet in Italy, can I take you out on a date? I'd like to kiss you very much. Cheers, Albus.
It sounds so much like him, Scorpius can almost hear Al's voice whenever he re-reads the words. He thinks that Al must have been drunk when he wrote them, and the dark blotches on the parchment seem to confirm his suspicion. Only he knows, it's not spilled wine. Not drops of ink, either. Only tears leave such faint spots. They are like Al, sharply defined against the parchment's smooth softness. Scorpius has no idea how to deal with his friend's pain - his best friend who wants to be his lover. Wrap him in red cashmere when he longs to be wrapped in your arms?
But he cannot be gay. It's another thing that would make him like Father. And even worse, Al fits his father's type to the dot: skin like pale cream contrasting starkly with dark hair, the green of his eyes like Slytherin to the Gryffindor red of his lips. The memory of Al's face makes Scorpius' heart hurt all of a sudden. He doesn't have a type, he only wants Al here, with him, now. And perhaps that's what makes him different from his father.
He is looking towards the sharply etched line of the horizon when a pair of hands moves across his eyes from behind and strong fingers press ever so lightly on his lids.
"Guess who?" a voice says at his ear.
Scorpius' heart skips a beat, but there's no need to guess. He would know these hands anywhere. He turns around and takes Al's face into his palms, searches blindly with his lips for Al's mouth. The other boy goes stiff, but it's only for one startled moment, then his body melts against Scorpius, and his lips open and they kiss, kiss, like Scorpius never thought he could kiss anybody. He is achingly hard in almost an instant, and this is another thing he never thought possible. He wants this to never end - this wordless intimacy, all of Al's soft sharpness directed towards him, and him alone. He doesn't care, does not even think about Father and Paolo. All he cares about is Al, his face leaning into his palm, as Scorpius rakes fingertips through that mess of dark hair, Al's warm breath flowing into him like night air filled with the scent of flowers and dust.
Scorpius cannot help laughing, loudly, and he moves his head back to finally look at Al. His green eyes glitter - with happy tears, Scorpius is certain of it.
"So this is my answer?" Al whispers, and words form in Scorpius' mind, words that surprise him more than anything that has happened during these last few weeks. I've waited so long for you. He cannot say it, not now, and so he just nods and traces Al's lips with trembling fingers. "All my life," he says softly even if Al can't possibly understand. There is a wetness on his face, and Scorpius realises it's the first drops of rain, heralding the imminent thunderstorm. The half-moon is reflected in the depth of Al's eyes. And how odd is that, to see the sky of Florence in his face?
He presses against Al's body, hard and soft and here. Then he takes his friend by the hand. "I bought you a present," he says and thinks of pale skin stretching over warm flesh, of a scarf, soft and red as Albus Potter's lips.
*
Disclaimer: This piece of fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.