duvet
By: ShinigamiForever
Warnings: Slash. Oddity. and much strangeness prevails.
Disclaimer: "Duvet" belongs to BOA. HP belongs to none other than the might JK Rowling, who better hurry up with the fifth book!
Summary: Slash- Draco/Harry. Spring to summer, summer to autumn, autumn to winter, winter to spring, but it's only beautiful if he loves you back. And you're a fool to think it will last.
A/N: "Duvet", this song, is song for the opening of Serial Experiments Lain. It's a great song. Beautiful. Anyway, this fic is very short, and it's a typical hit-and-run fic of mine. Ha. Seems like season fics are pretty popular, no? Want two good season fics to read? Amalin's "two lost souls" and Trin's "seasonal." Format of writing the seasons was stolen from Trin without permission. Whoops.
====
[s p r i n g: and you don't seem to understand]
The light that bled from the sun landed haphazardly on the spring grass, new and brilliantly green, green of a pair of eyes that stared at him now. The filigree of dew lace under his fingertips felt sharp and intruding, poking at him, goading him with silent wet voices.
Light was cabernet sauvignon dry.
Lake water lapped absently against the shore, like Yeat's vision of Innisfree, a smooth heartbeat sound of whispers in his mouth and ears. He watched Harry sprawled across the grass on his back, black hair an argument to the sun.
He pounced, leaning into the body beneath and lining himself against thighs and chest, hands clenching the grass beside Harry's head, lips broken and open to kiss. The grass was crushed under his hand, the green stains on his fingertips where the dew had stung.
Sometimes, he hated himself.
[s u m m e r: a shame you seemed an honest man]
The heat was relentless as he watched Draco fly, watched him who had eyes almost as white as clean sheets, eyes just as crisp as those sheets. His own knuckles were almost as ashen as those eyes, gripped around the handle of his broom like a drowning man on a rope, a rope pulling him into the safety of another hell.
Draco flew. Flew like sea spray and seagulls and the waves lapping against the shore.
Ron flew by him, calling out, "Harry!" and pretended not to notice who it was that Harry was staring at.
[a u t u m n: and all the fears you hold so dear]
It always mattered to him whether or not Harry showed up. But sometimes he showed he cared and other times, he pretended everything was okay and he would walk back to his dorm room where Blaise sat waiting for him, Blaise with warm hands and a soothing voice.
Blaise, who knew about Harry, and Blaise, who listened to him cry at night, and Blaise, who deserved so much more than Draco crawling back on those nights.
All those promises frayed. All those dreams forgotten. All those lives changed.
Too many mistakes. And what would he do with them when Harry left?
[w i n t e r: will turn to whisper in your ear]
Now Harry found he couldn't say Draco's name without it getting stuck in his throat, the 'Mal' coming out, and the 'Foy' stuck like a crumpled up ball of hurt in his mouth. Pin pricks in his stomach and a knife drawn across his lip.
And sometimes, he couldn't look at Draco from across the Great Hall without wanting to cry.
For some reason, he heard drums in his ears and saw blue in his eyes.
[s p r i n g (ii): and you know what they say might hurt you]
Spring again, spring this time without Harry's skin and kisses and fingers running circles over his skin. Spring this time without Harry's love there to comfort him.
Spring, this time, with pain.
[s u m m e r (ii): and you know that it means so much]
He tried not to look at Draco's eyes, those bleached eyes, red at the corner with blood, red and gray and white. Tired eyes, Harry's own.
"Do you miss me?" Draco's voice was harsh and ragged, forced out of his throat. He sounded like Harry when Harry couldn't say Malfoy. Couldn't say Draco's name without wanting to cry.
Was Draco about to cry? Was he himself going to cry?
"Do you miss me?" Louder now, hysterical, the voice rising like nails. "Sometimes," dropped down until it was a slow whisper, so slow and quiet he had to lean in to catch it. Leaned into Draco close enough he could hear the uneven violent breathing. "Sometimes I miss you so much I can't breathe."
And Harry suddenly, abruptly, and terrifyingly, could not.
[a u t u m n (ii): and you don't even feel a thing]
"What's your favorite color, Draco?" Blaise asked, leaning backwards against the tree, hands full of the crimson dawn of fall leaves. Draco looked away, catching sight of a gray sky amongst the foliage, a sky that mirrored his own eyes.
"Hm?"
"Color, Draco," Blaise repeated, amused now. "What's your favorite color?"
He thought of Harry's eyes, green in all the red and brown of the seasonal fall. Of Harry under a coverlet of leaves, the skin reflecting the red and orange and golden yellow around him. Of Harry's hair, raven wings against eye-color sky. And of Harry's mouth, pink and crackled and dry in the autumn wind.
"Autumn. It's my favorite color," and left Blaise to figure it out for himself.
[w i n t e r (ii): i'm falling]
Maybe, one of these days, he'll--
Maybe. But later.
Stuck in the shower, tears falling like the hot water, and outside, it started to snow.
A/N: So what would Harry do? Well, it's up to you, I guess.
Thanks, again, to Amalin, for looking over this and encouraging me with all her praise. Yay! Thank you!
By: ShinigamiForever
Warnings: Slash. Oddity. and much strangeness prevails.
Disclaimer: "Duvet" belongs to BOA. HP belongs to none other than the might JK Rowling, who better hurry up with the fifth book!
Summary: Slash- Draco/Harry. Spring to summer, summer to autumn, autumn to winter, winter to spring, but it's only beautiful if he loves you back. And you're a fool to think it will last.
A/N: "Duvet", this song, is song for the opening of Serial Experiments Lain. It's a great song. Beautiful. Anyway, this fic is very short, and it's a typical hit-and-run fic of mine. Ha. Seems like season fics are pretty popular, no? Want two good season fics to read? Amalin's "two lost souls" and Trin's "seasonal." Format of writing the seasons was stolen from Trin without permission. Whoops.
====
[s p r i n g: and you don't seem to understand]
The light that bled from the sun landed haphazardly on the spring grass, new and brilliantly green, green of a pair of eyes that stared at him now. The filigree of dew lace under his fingertips felt sharp and intruding, poking at him, goading him with silent wet voices.
Light was cabernet sauvignon dry.
Lake water lapped absently against the shore, like Yeat's vision of Innisfree, a smooth heartbeat sound of whispers in his mouth and ears. He watched Harry sprawled across the grass on his back, black hair an argument to the sun.
He pounced, leaning into the body beneath and lining himself against thighs and chest, hands clenching the grass beside Harry's head, lips broken and open to kiss. The grass was crushed under his hand, the green stains on his fingertips where the dew had stung.
Sometimes, he hated himself.
[s u m m e r: a shame you seemed an honest man]
The heat was relentless as he watched Draco fly, watched him who had eyes almost as white as clean sheets, eyes just as crisp as those sheets. His own knuckles were almost as ashen as those eyes, gripped around the handle of his broom like a drowning man on a rope, a rope pulling him into the safety of another hell.
Draco flew. Flew like sea spray and seagulls and the waves lapping against the shore.
Ron flew by him, calling out, "Harry!" and pretended not to notice who it was that Harry was staring at.
[a u t u m n: and all the fears you hold so dear]
It always mattered to him whether or not Harry showed up. But sometimes he showed he cared and other times, he pretended everything was okay and he would walk back to his dorm room where Blaise sat waiting for him, Blaise with warm hands and a soothing voice.
Blaise, who knew about Harry, and Blaise, who listened to him cry at night, and Blaise, who deserved so much more than Draco crawling back on those nights.
All those promises frayed. All those dreams forgotten. All those lives changed.
Too many mistakes. And what would he do with them when Harry left?
[w i n t e r: will turn to whisper in your ear]
Now Harry found he couldn't say Draco's name without it getting stuck in his throat, the 'Mal' coming out, and the 'Foy' stuck like a crumpled up ball of hurt in his mouth. Pin pricks in his stomach and a knife drawn across his lip.
And sometimes, he couldn't look at Draco from across the Great Hall without wanting to cry.
For some reason, he heard drums in his ears and saw blue in his eyes.
[s p r i n g (ii): and you know what they say might hurt you]
Spring again, spring this time without Harry's skin and kisses and fingers running circles over his skin. Spring this time without Harry's love there to comfort him.
Spring, this time, with pain.
[s u m m e r (ii): and you know that it means so much]
He tried not to look at Draco's eyes, those bleached eyes, red at the corner with blood, red and gray and white. Tired eyes, Harry's own.
"Do you miss me?" Draco's voice was harsh and ragged, forced out of his throat. He sounded like Harry when Harry couldn't say Malfoy. Couldn't say Draco's name without wanting to cry.
Was Draco about to cry? Was he himself going to cry?
"Do you miss me?" Louder now, hysterical, the voice rising like nails. "Sometimes," dropped down until it was a slow whisper, so slow and quiet he had to lean in to catch it. Leaned into Draco close enough he could hear the uneven violent breathing. "Sometimes I miss you so much I can't breathe."
And Harry suddenly, abruptly, and terrifyingly, could not.
[a u t u m n (ii): and you don't even feel a thing]
"What's your favorite color, Draco?" Blaise asked, leaning backwards against the tree, hands full of the crimson dawn of fall leaves. Draco looked away, catching sight of a gray sky amongst the foliage, a sky that mirrored his own eyes.
"Hm?"
"Color, Draco," Blaise repeated, amused now. "What's your favorite color?"
He thought of Harry's eyes, green in all the red and brown of the seasonal fall. Of Harry under a coverlet of leaves, the skin reflecting the red and orange and golden yellow around him. Of Harry's hair, raven wings against eye-color sky. And of Harry's mouth, pink and crackled and dry in the autumn wind.
"Autumn. It's my favorite color," and left Blaise to figure it out for himself.
[w i n t e r (ii): i'm falling]
Maybe, one of these days, he'll--
Maybe. But later.
Stuck in the shower, tears falling like the hot water, and outside, it started to snow.
A/N: So what would Harry do? Well, it's up to you, I guess.
Thanks, again, to Amalin, for looking over this and encouraging me with all her praise. Yay! Thank you!