Rating: R
Canon: post-HBP. No spoilers.
Length: 1,200 words.
Scenario: I promise not to say a word.
Summary: body language.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Especially these characters.
Notes: Posted unbetaed to get in mostly on time. (it's still September 1st in some times zones, right?)
The Deterioration of Lost Places
�and I� I-I, Draco thinks, the tip of his tongue wet on his bottom lip, forehead pressed against the sharp point and curve of Harry's collarbone, hands spread out across the pale, pale, pale of Harry's skin, there, and there, fingers spread to touch as many places as possible. To have ten and two and one and a hundred places of contact. Of touch. Don't think you can't, he thinks, and surges forward, presses his mouth there too, blindly and hoping and waiting and Harry's fingers twist in his too-long hair, I don't.
He's gotten careless. His hair is too long and there's dirt under his fingernails, sweat gathered in the hollow small of his back, his fingertips smooth and vaguely sticky with faint traces of cheap wax from sealing letter after letter after� And, "Shhhh," Harry whispers, hisses against his temple where his hair is damp and sticking to him, "shhhh, shhhh, shhhhh," he says, a smooth, soothing sibilant shushing, and oh, oh god, he's too much alliteration, he's losing his meaning and silencing words Draco's never even begun to say by stealing them from Draco's mouth with his tongue.
Harry's palm is hot, steady at the boyish, bony curve of Draco's hip, fingers tight together and curled in. It's dark here, and Draco doesn't know where here is, just knows it's always dark, and the window doesn't give anything away at all, covered in a thick layer of soot that's sticking, black even in the places where it's thin from his fingers and the cupping of his palms and the moon is shining through like a taunt. Harry's palm is hot, at Draco's hip and on the back of his neck, with the rough slide against the tense muscles that bunch and sigh, like a cat stretching in the sunlight, stroked and content.
He gasps, mouth falling open but silently: soundless. Harry says, "Shhhh," against the shell of his ear and Draco shivers and it's like a promise. He thinks, yes, yes, okay, I will. I swear. Oh, I'll be good and you'll be good and we'll be good, when you breathe deep and your spine curves and your shoulders and your forehead and your fingers touch mine.
And his fingers spread out, like folding paper fans from far off countries, colourful and unfolding, with red wax and black soot and too white skin blue in the faint light of Harry's wand in an empty jam jar on the table. (The table wobbles when Harry sits there, and the light sways and makes Draco dizzy with something he can't name, his mouth dry and Harry looking away, the light rushing toward him and then away from him and then back again. It always goes back again.) Draco writes the names of places he's never been with his fingertips over Harry's chest, over the place where Draco thinks if he could just listen he could hear his heart beating. There are long, looping letters, a 'J' that reaches parts that can take away Harry's breath, an 'A' that makes his eyes flutter closed. An 'N' that means more, with curves to it that say something different, something soppier and sloppier than Draco's willing to be, that makes Harry shiver.
He bites down on the tip of his tongue and spells out lost magic into the dip of Harry's hip, the place where his thumb fits perfectly, like maybe he's not as mad as he thinks, maybe. But his fingers sway with something he's lost the name to across Harry's belly and he laughs, rough and ticklish and breathless, and Draco knows better. He maps out destinations from shoulder to wrist, Harry's hand palm up, leaning against Draco's chest, and he's lost.
Harry says his name, like a curse, bumps his nose against Draco's check and presses a sloppy, opened-mouth kiss on Draco's jaw, his hand sliding up, out of Draco's too loose grip, and his thumb presses, misses, catches at the corner of Draco's mouth, where he's got no choice but to scrape his teeth across it because-- Oh god, he doesn't even have a reason. Just because. And Harry kisses his jaw and cups his cheek in his palm and his teeth scrape and scream something into the gasping quiet of the tiny room they carve themselves into but Draco can't understand it over how hard Harry's heart is thundering against his palm. God and it is, he is: thunder and lightning and the raging storm against any place where Draco cups his palms and tries to just hold on. It's got to be the storm, nothing else could be that furious.
They curve together, around each other, and Harry is clumsy with his glasses taped around the nose and sitting on the yellowing porcelain lip of the sink. He keeps his eyes open and he's half-blind and Draco wonders just how much he likes it that way, sometimes, when Draco's knuckles brush his belly with every stroke he makes of Harry's cock and Harry breathes in and out and in again sharply. They move together, swaying and inching until the backs of Draco's knees hit the mattress and when they're trying to get here is the only time this place feels bigger than a shoebox.
He falls across the dirty, messed up sheets in a way that is almost not falling, but only almost, with Harry's hands on his hips and Harry's tongue at the hollow of his throat and Harry following him, for once, and doing it willingly. Crawling up and sitting with knees on either side of Draco's thighs, and his heel is rough against Draco's shin and Draco arches, head thrown back and shoulders pressed tight to the mattress and held there by Harry's hands. Oh, and he bends until he thinks he could break, Harry just not touching him, just barely, barely not touching him at all, suddenly, until he thinks he could break and he doesn't make a sound with his breath caught up and tangled in the back of his mouth.
And this is breaking him, maybe, but he can feel summer melting away outside, leaching heat from the insides of his bones and leaving them hollow like a bird's are. Lighter and ready for flight. Easy as a twig is to crush under your boot. He's silent, with Harry's thumb pressing against the stupidly soft inside of his left elbow, where the skin is red from charms that don't work, where the magic leaks upwards and if he closes his eyes and squints just there, he can pretend that he's been sunburnt by summer slipping away and Harry's thumb is cruel. It's only half pretending, anyway. He shivers when Harry drops a kiss there, just like Harry knew he would.
Draco curls his fingers tightly around the iron of the headboard, and rust dusts off onto his fingertips, digs in with his grip like maybe it'll be a part of him tomorrow, if he can just catch the words before the slide away from him. Oh, he thinks, with his tongue slipping across the roof of Harry's mouth, you won't, he thinks, blindly hopeful like he can't afford to be, you won't be my atrophy.
