Parallel
Disclaimer: Me don't own!
A/N: Inspired by, believe it or not, math :o I know, it scared me too, but this is a decent story…sort of. I don't really know, wanna help me decide?
Parallel lines: two lines never meant to cross.
With a force that surprises both of them, the brunette pushes the blonde into the wall. The stone muffles the sound, sparks the pain that the blonde refuses the show. His sneer is matched perfectly with a glare, his fist in dark robes lined with red equal to the fist in his own dark robes lined with green. Fist to fist, face to face, heart to heart, they face each other with unwavering force.
"Back off Potter," the blonde snarls through tightened lips, "Before I make you back off."
Harry Potter easily adapts a smirk nearly identical smirk normally worn by Draco Malfoy. "And how exactly are you going to do that?" He presses Malfoy further into the wall with the weight of his bigger body in emphasis. "I don't see your wand."
For just a moment Malfoy hesitates, shrewd silver eyes calculating even as they blaze with rage. He knows he is no match in strength with Harry Potter, and, admittedly, not as strong in magic either.
It is only Malfoy's pride that sustains him and fuels the fire inside of a body that should have been recoiling in fear. Harry Potter is no one to mess with but Draco Malfoy is at the point where he damns everything—especially the dark man currently assaulting him.
"I don't need a wand to beat you Potter," he spits; a lie that might doom him or might save him. Which is which anymore?
Potter has the gall to actually look amused. "Oh?" he mutters, "and how's that?" His fingers starting to idly pluck at Malfoy's collar where his thumb skims the skin of Malfoy's vulnerable throat. The blonde swallows reflexively. He fights the shiver, fights the power. Potter does not affect him; he can't affect him in that way.
At least, not in the way that one might think.
There is a pressure pushing down, magnets pulling the lines together. Closer, closer, too close.
Potter's hand moves from his collar to his neck, that pale column that can bruise too easy. Too easy to die. A large tan hand covers it, applies light pressure to the windpipe. A pointed chin just raises itself higher, a pale brow arches. There is no way, Malfoy tries to assure himself, that Potter can feel his heart hammering a panicked tempo in his chest; there is no way that Potter can see the goosebumps raising up under the threatening touch.
"I could kill you right now," Potter whispers to him. How have they gone from yelling to whispering? Malfoy can no longer remember, and he doesn't really want to. He keeps his chin up, appears to be the cool, suave boy he has always been.
"You wouldn't; we're in the middle of a hallway."
"A deserted hallway," Potter corrects him with a lethal smile. It sends an injection of heat right into Malfoy's stomach where it sits there, poison waiting for the moment to spread. "You still wouldn't."
Potter leans almost infinitely closer; his entire body is against Malfoy's. His dark head bends, burning emeralds staying fixed with mercury one as he starts to knead the flesh of the blonde boy's throat. His smile is still there, a nonverbal threat, a beautiful sight. "And why wouldn't I Malfoy? Why shouldn't I?"
Malfoy's eyes are glaciers; Potter's eyes are fire. There is no need to answer the question; it already lies in the pale hand that releases Gryffindor robes, in a single indecisive flicker in the Malfoy's infamous gaze.
One opening is all it takes.
Things aren't parallel anymore. Lines merge. Meet. Make a new line, a new plot.
Harry Potter's lips smother Draco Malfoy far better than any hands could do. Violence isn't just acts; it can be passion.
Where the lines meet is the answer.
It is anything but romantic; it is anything but sensitive—a power play without words, a play for domination in a whole new game. It is a game which, unfortunately for them both, they find themselves enjoying. Hands once balled into tightly coiled fists now claw at one another's clothing, tongues twist and burn and swallow obscenities and all the other things they want to say. All the things they've always wanted to say but can never, ever, put into the words.
Potter's hands rip through Malfoy's blonde hair, disheveling perfectly gelled strands. Malfoy's hands dig into Potter's shoulders, fingertips gouging marks into the rough flesh and threatening to pierce into the material. They never part for air; they'd rather faint than admit defeat to one another. They'd rather faint than stop the torture, the slide of tongues and saliva and hidden words in unholy places in which they have shoved themselves, fought themselves, lost themselves.
Between their chests, pressed heart to heart to one another, something is starting to form.
Gasping for air, their eyes lock. Potter leans in, tastes Malfoy's lips one final time. Malfoy's teeth clamps down on Potter's lip, draws blood.
"I hate you Malfoy. Don't forget that."
"And I hate you too, Potter. Always remember that."
A new coordinate to be mapped, labeled, solved…
It is known as an intersection: the point where two lines meet.