Title: Draining Rain
Rating: PG-16…
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or an of the characters so sue me not for I have little except for this mind in my head.
Other things: Just routine.
Pairings: Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott
Author's Note: This is the fourth of a series (Will You Remember, Withering Away & Tenderhearted). Another moment in their lives. For Auto but of course.. and Nott House! And thanks Sin for help with the title.
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They made sure the patients bathed at least twice a week, more if the patient cared about their physical state of being. St. Mungo's wasn't about to gain the reputation of being unsanitary. It was a tiresome process. Some were physically unable to wash themselves while others didn't appear to care in the least.
Usually it was a one on one affair. One customer and one employee.
To make life easier they were stuck together. Less trips and work. After all, Blaise Zabini could wash himself without aid. He didn't stand there, allowing the water to run and beat down on him, no matter the temperature
Theodore Nott required attention. As if the nurse believed that he would accidentally drown himself like a poor turkey if he lacked constant guidance.
Blaise would go into his shower stall, turn on the water, adjust the temperature and what not. He would rinse away the invisible stains that adorn those who live in a hospital no matter the reason. Briefly he let himself forget. A shower can be anywhere, there is no enormous difference between one bathroom and the next. Between the prefects' bathroom and the regular dorm ones. And he would stretch out the time for as long as he could, treasuring each second as it slipped away from him. Soaping himself thoroughly so he was covered in suds and drenched before he let the water wash them all away. Spiraling down the drain. Bubbles are always so free until they burst.
But it was impossible to forget the stall adjacent his where the nurse would be forced to painstakingly clean Nott, inch by inch. A grounded reminder of where they were. Strange, unwelcomed hands doing tasks that did not belong to them.
It irked.
The nurse would even dry him with somewhat irritable towels that had once been white like most of the building's furnishings but had changed to another color, a tinge gray, a dabble of yellow. Wary, suspicious, they kept the towels cut short, skimpy so they could not be used to hang oneself with... You could still strangle another with one.
A biweekly routine.
Except one day Zabini took Nott's hand in his own once they entered the bathroom (of course not in the exposed corridor) and propelled him into a stall, following in afterwards. He twisted the knob and set up the water's pressure and temperature, ignoring the uniformed woman watching from the mildly damp tiled floor. Out went a hand expectantly. Soap please.
Not bothering to begin with his own body, that could wait for the next visit, he focused on the other. Starting with the left arm, shoulder downward to his fingertips, right arm, chest trailing lightly over the ribs, too thin, back including neck, using the same method that suited his own method of cleaning. Careful to advert his gaze when it was necessary. Down to ten toes. Shampoo. Conditioner. No brush provided, it could be a potential threat in their hands. He made do with fingers. Thin and gentle, cautious, curling through the locks, removing tangles and tracing features.
A last dip under the steam of water, making certain nothing remained.
He took the towel too. It was easy enough. A light patting and rubbing combination to remove the moisture and perhaps ruffle the hair a little bit. It wasn't often one saw the school-aged Nott with messy hair. Now..it wasn't quite the same.
The test was to stay on task, to show that there was no need to take this away. Trustworthy. How ironic. The traitor and the one who might as well have been one.
Once Blaise stopped, hesitated or paused. A couple seconds while bent slightly, only two-thirds finished as he pressed the side of his head to Nott's chest. He listened to the only sound that mattered asides from the unspoken and whispered ones. The quiet beat that gave him purpose.
Fin