Disclaimer: I do not own Draco, Harry, or any of the other characters that are the creation of J.K Rowling.
Summary: In a wave of unfeeling numbness, both Harry and Draco have found comfort in the unforgiving cold of the metal knife- and each other.
Chapter One: You're My Knife
He sat at the edge of his bed, grasping his guitar, and trying to ignore the insanity welling up inside of him. Throwing his dark black hair back, he started to strum a few chords, and began to sing in his deep gravelly voice.
biting keeps your words at bay
tending to the sores that stay
happiness is just a gash away
when i open a familiar scar
pain goes shooting like a star
comfort hasn't failed to follow so far...
and you might say it's self-indulgent
you might say its self-destructive
but, you see, it's more productive
than if i were to be healthy
& pens and penknives take the blame
crane my neck & scratch my name
but the ugly marks
are worth the momentary gain...
when i jab a sharpened object in
choirs of angels seem to sing
hymns of hate in memorandum
Setting his guitar down gently, he looked to his side, seeing the bloodstained knife set to the side of him. Sighing he got up, and walking to the window, let himself out of the house. Accidently scraping his already scarred skin on the side of the house, he looked at it. Bringing the tender flesh to his mouth, he licked the oozing blood off, and savored the metalic taste of fresh blood, before swinging to the ground, and setting off towards the park.
Reaching the park, the thin male started toward the swings, prepared to take his favorite swing. Upon reaching them, however, the male noticed a lone figure sitting upon them. "Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?" he snarled.
The boy looked up with dull silvery-gray eyes. "It's a park, anyone is allowed." He glanced down hesitantly at scarred arms, before crossing them over his chest and turning away from the angry intruder.
"Get off of my swing." came the reply, in a calm, measured voice, before he stepped up to the boy, who had since turned his back on him, and was proceding to ignore him.
"I don't see your name."
"That's too bad." Harry replied between gritted teeth. "Because that's my god damn swing."
"Why the hell are you making such a big deal out of this?" the soft-spoken grey eyed boy questioned, turning back to the cobalt-haired boy, glaring him full in the eye. "This is in no way your swing, nor your park. So screw off."
The emerald eyed boy growled in annoyance, but complied to the boy's wishes, grabbing a swing a few feet away from him, and turning toward the small pond that the park bordered on. Pulling a portable cd player, he plugged two small speakers into it, and started to blast Bright Eyes, while singing along in his raspy voice that made him sound like he had been smoking for years.
"Turn that down, hmm?" Draco asked quietly, turning to face him. "I can't concentrate with that up so loud, and I was here first."
"Thats okay, I like it this level. Or perhaps higher?" He turned the volume up another few notches, screeching to the music, and bouncing a bit.
Draco mumbled incoharntly, and turned again, attempting to ignore the other boy. All he wanted was a few moments of peace, when he could see his very life flow. He couldn't do it at home, no, not anymore. He closed his eyes, bracing himself against the pain each and every breath he drew took. His heart was so battered and bruised, he couldn't even think. With a soft moan, he brought the sharp tool to his wrist, and with a hissing intake of air, pulled the box cutter across his pulsating vein, pressing down as hard as he could.
Harry turned at the slight moan falling from the boy's deep red lips. He'd reconize that sound anywhere, as it was the exact sound he would amit when the feeling of warmth, brought on by the gentle parting of skin that only an instrument as delicate as a new boxcutter could produce.
"Um. What the hell are you doing, dumbass?" Harry made his way over to Draco, touching his shoulder softly, knowing from experience, that when cutting, you were apt to go into a sort of a... trance. He picked up the abandoned boxcutter, and pocketed it for later.
"What the fuck?" an angry, bleeding Draco yelped. He stood, the blood still gracefully flowing out of his slit arm.
Harry rolled his eyes, the still wet blood present on the boxcutter he had slipped into his pocket, starting to stain the outside of his pants, in a neat shape, the shape of a boxcutter. "I'm leaving. Good night."
"Wait." The slim male lurched forward, latching onto the raven haired teen that was beginning to amble away, ever so slowly, as if wishing the blond would try to stop him. His eyes stared out desperately, fingers fumbling on the slipperly leg of the pants.
"Yes?" Harry turned back, appearing annoyed, but secretly pleased.
"Can.. can I please have my boxcutter back? It's my.. my last one." Draco's tearing eyes stared pleadingly up at Harry's. "I need it, please." He pulled himself up to a sitting postition, grasping at Harry's slippery jeans in an attempt to stay upright. His slit wrist was still bleeding from the cut he had placed upon it, and the blood flowing to his palms, making the hold on Harry's jeans quite unsure.
Harry laughed. What a pathetic, pathetic loser. How was this the Draco he had known in school? That Draco had been strong, in control. Now here he was, practically sobbing at Harry's feet. Aparently, they were both very different people away from Hogwarts, sad, and lonesome in their own ways. "You are just sad, you know that?" Dragging the surprisingly thin boy to his feet, Harry pulled him over to the bench, next to the pond, and sat him down.
Draco sat as far away from Harry as he possibly could, drawing his impossibly bony legs up to his heaving chest. He heard a mocking laugh, and flinched when the unforgivingly sharp object that had previously been taken away was thrown at him.
"There. Have your precious little toy. I hope you bleed to death." With that, Harry stood, and walked off, this time, quickly and purposefully, without looking back.