AN: This story may bear some resemblance to a fic I wrote for another fandom I'm no longer writing for. The idea is still extremely dear to me and yeah, I felt like writing some tomarry again, so here it is.
It's a modern AU about artists and lawyers, finding and saving oneself, flavoured with some BDSM. Everything that happens is safe, sane and consensual.
Additional warnings for explicit content will be added in each chapter.
Enjoy!
The London Ghost
Chapter I
His feet are feather-light on the wooden floor, pale if not for the bruise around his left ankle. Purplish, it contrast with his skin, but matches with the burgundy of his open kimono.
It's always easier in the summer. Sun wakes him up just in time and there's no need for clocks or alarms, no need to disturb Tom's sleep. The morning breeze touches the long white curtains and for one breath Harry sees it draped, stilled in a photo frame, immortalized in marble - the sunrays play on the sheer fabric like dirty kitten paws - and he keeps the view in his mind, ready to come back to it later, possibly to turn it into something lasting.
Tiptoeing, he's silent like a ghost; standing by the kitchen counter he's attentive in each movement, careful not to drop the knife in his hand or the tea-kettle standing near the edge. Earl Grey for Tom, Bai Mudan with honey for him; soon it starts to brew and Harry sets the table - a single plate, some orange juice. The eggs still have three minutes to boil.
His knee cracks when he leans down to pet V. Their cat turned a little bit overweight over the past three years. Tom is very strict about his diet - it's Harry who can never say no to his companion's demanding meowing, not when he can get a peck of the wet nose on his cheek and a content purr instead. Truth be told, they all gained weight after Harry took liking in Italian kitchen. They simply pretend it never happened.
His hair is getting out of hand again, falling into his eyes - he's been debating cutting it off, the same way he did once in a desperate attempt to change something, anything - but Tom is so attached to it, always marveling how much he loves pulling and petting and even brushing it at times, that Harry has no heart to do it to him. His only fear is seeing someone else in the mirror - someone he was in the past.
But his reflection is smiling at him every time he checks, offering a gaze full of brightness and beauty. Some days he can't believe how different he became.
The water starts boiling the same minute he hears distant steps. V runs after it, more of a dog than a cat, and Harry notices how the bathroom door clicks. The soft murmur of Tom's voice barely reaches his ears.
His tea is still bordering on the edge of too hot, but he drinks it nonetheless. The sweet hint of honey makes him feel peaceful and at home; there's a safe routine in the taste he knows so well. He's almost sure the leaves at the bottom of his teacup form a flower - a somewhat crooked rose, if he had to guess - and he takes it for a good omen.
When his knees meet the floor, Harry feels how strained his back muscles are. It's an echo of pain - a reminder that he should exercise more, stretch more. Flying comes at a price.
His eyes are glued to the floor. His heart beats fast.
It's anticipation, the sweet torture of waiting for a gift that's already well known.
"Good morning, Harry."
"Good morning, sir."
A few steps behind his back, the sound of a chair moving on kitchen tiles; he spots a single long hair under the table.
A finger finds his chin and Harry smiles looking up, warmth slowly spreading through his body at the sight of Tom. His smile is calmer, well baVd; for some reason there's always a hint of sadness in everything Tom does. It took Harry years to understand it's neither his fault, nor is it Tom's - it's simply how life goes - but Harry lights up every time he can see his lover's smile, treasuring it more than any gift Tom ever gave him.
In the morning light Harry can easily see how much has changed. Just like him, Tom is no longer the man he used to be. When he smiles, his eyes tend to blink on reflex, and Harry counts the wrinkles around them, looking for new ones every day.
Back when they've first met it was one on left and two on right; it's a little bit more now.
Back when they've first met Tom was rarely smiling at all and Harry finds the change quite satisfying.
He's guided closer, and when his head is placed on Tom's lap, Harry lets his robe fall freely from his left arm, nestling himself on the hard floor that has become his favourite morning spot. V toddles back into the kitchen and rubs against his bare ankles, only to focus on the loose end of the silky sash keeping his robe in place, tugging on it for a minute.
Tom eats slowly, sipping on his tea and swiping his phone screen left and right, reading the morning news. There's a nonchalant elegance in his moves, something that one has to be born with, that cannot be studied. Tom says Harry has it too, the aura of someone living in another, past decade - maybe the 20s, Tom jokes at times, judging by Harry's inexplicable love towards Hershey's Kisses - but he can't quite believe it. He's not as awkward as he used to be - just the opposite, he feels quite gorgeous in his own skin these days - but he could never reach Tom's level when it comes to self-presentation.
A warm hand cups the back of his neck and he has to move again. A single finger brushes over his lips, urging them to part and so he does, his jaw slack, waiting.
Time passes. Tom eats on, reading some especially interesting article and Harry can feel how quickly saliva gathers in his mouth, threatening to slip past the seam of his lips. He breathes through his nose.
It's hard to keep his eyes open - when he's tilting his head up it's only natural to close them - and he tries to concentrate on Tom's greying hair for a change. The last case left him weary, thinned out. Harry wishes they could go on vacation somewhere far away, maybe Greece again? Somewhere warm enough to lie down and do nothing else than worship each other for fourteen days.
August, he hopes. September if Tom's opponent appeals again.
"... all day?"
The question catches him off guard. Lost in thoughts, he doesn't realize he's been spoken too, that Tom is looking at him, a piece of blue cheese between his fingers.
Harry feels his mouth water again, in hunger and anticipation.
"You weren't listening, were you? What were you thinking about?"
"You, sir," his voice comes out dry and quiet. "Always about you."
He spots the twist of Tom's lips, the doubt of an atheist wanting to believe in some divine being.
"Trying to fool me with that sweet talk of yours, aren't you?"
"No, sir. I would never lie to you."
Something shifts in the air. Tom's smile freezes on his lips and suddenly the room falls oddly quiet, unreal. A garbage truck passes by the open window, someone laughs and curses; the lights play on Tom's white shirt but get sucked by his pitch black vest. V meows. Harry remembers he was supposed to keep his mouth open.
The cheese is soft against his lips and cold on his tongue. He chews slowly, once again locked between Tom's knee and his hand. He knows he's not allowed to touch; his fingers lace around the chair leg instead.
"I'll be home around eight." Tom goes back to his sandwich, but his hand stays in Harry's hair, aimlessly wrapping his locks around his fingers. "Mr. Black wants to discuss the appeal once more."
Harry nods. He hoped they could celebrate tonight.
"I'll be waiting, sir."
He sees the man every day. Seventeen minutes past seven he appears on the street corner, emerging from behind the gray wall. The swell of his coat comes first - long and elegant, it looks like an armour and makes the man seem taller than he really is. His steps are neither too short nor too long - they're just right, stable and confident, evoking some longing in Harry's blue soul as he sips his morning coffee - even if he wasn't so lithe, Gray's 'Ghost girl' rather than his 'Ballerina', he could never do this look justice. When he's not hunching, when he allows himself to breathe, he's a black panther, all catwalk moves - hips pushed slightly forward, his head leaning back. Usually, he's just awkward and plain, hidden beneath his long black sleeves and hair falling on his face, a mystery no one wants to unfold.
At 7:21 the man passes by him and Harry feels the soft rush of his perfume, spicy and rich, though nowhere near obtrusive. Harry has found it in a perfumery after weeks of searching, trying one shop after another in poor attempts to avoid being a total freak, and even the name seemed suitable when he saw it for the first time - X. Truly, the man was an enigma. Charming one of the girls with what was left of his outer beauty after endless sleepless nights, he got a free sample and now every time the man is going by his usual spot at the cafe patio, Harry thinks about the pillow he had soaked with his perfumes. Usually, the white fabric is wet with tears and there's a knife underneath - Harry isn't sure why does he keep a knife under his pillow, it must have seemed a reasonable choice to hide it there once - and the scent calms him down some nights, enveloping him in dream-like affection, a touch he's never even felt, an illusion of caress. Even though he's never spoken to the handsome stranger, he thinks about him a lot during the lonely hours between sunset and dawn.
Some nights nothing, not even the rich bouquet of cardamom, orris and vetiver can help ease his pain and he stays awake until the once-white-wall opposite the window slowly turns from midnight black to sleepless gray to dirty yellow when morning sun creeps into the attic. On such nights his eyes are dry and he cannot weep.
Harry knows he's a creep. If someone told him his own story, he'd laugh at the poor guy, crazy enough to find the perfume of a man he hasn't even spoken to, but it's his reality, his story. He's starved for affection, for love, no matter how stupid it sounds in his own head, and fantasising about the man seems an easy escape, even if it brings him little comfort in the end.
Some days he's so desperate he has to bite his tongue to keep quiet. He has no idea what exactly would he want to say, how to address the stranger, but the man awakens something odd in his guts, a longing that makes him teary-eyed. If only, if only- His mind is prompted to create impossible scenarios, one after another, but what unites them all is the sweetness of a happy ending, the freedom of a new beginning.
Without knowing, the man becomes his fairy tale prince.
There's no shadow of chance in the visions, Harry is painfully aware of it. They're two people living in the same city, but there's nothing else they share. They pass by each other every day, but they're no acquaintances. They drink coffee from the same machine during lunch breaks, but they never sit side by side. They walk the same pavement, breathe the same air, but Harry knows no other pair could be as different as they are.
So day by day, he admires the man from afar, longing for the unexplored more and tugging on his scarf; his sketchbook is still empty.
"Philo Gallery is pleased to present London Ghost, an artistic vision brought by Harry Potter. This multimedia installation of photographs, sculpture, found objects and sound examines the complex dialogue between reality and fiction as seen by the anonymous narrator - the London Ghost, an imaginary hero roaming the streets. The exhibition will be on view from June-"
"We all know when it'll be on, Draco." Hearing Miss McGonagall's voice, Harry doesn't stop himself from looking up towards the monochrome, shiny ceiling. She's not in her best mood. "Read the rest."
When Draco clears his throat, his Adam's apple bobs, and Harry can't stop imagining it's a fist Malfoy would gladly put right next to Miss McGonagall's face.
With a hand moving swiftly to his mouth, he barely hides his amusement in time.
"Natural talent, Harry Potter has immortalized the dynamic landscape of London through an environmentally aware and politically astute lens. His visually seductive yet powerful vistas and sculptures
document the intimate moments of human interaction in an industrially developed city, focusing on what's true, simple and a bit naive." Somehow, Harry thinks, everything he's done sounds better in Draco's soft, pleasant voice. "Installed in varying materials throughout the exhibition, London Ghost is the guardian angel of both the author and his muses - sometimes appearing as a scarecrow-like figure fashioned out of tattered clothing and dry tree stalks, sometime portrayed by a stranger in cloak made of raven feathers - he sees and feels more, allowing us to take a look at glimpses of everyday life in a city we all thought we knew."
When Draco ends his speech, the room is quiet for a moment. Harry feels that the silence is more important than any kind of applause - they're all speechless, impressed by the smooth wording and flowery metaphors. It's hard to say how much of it is true - he's been looking at his own works for too long to judge them, to the point of getting sick of every piece he created - but the frown disappears from Miss McGonagall's face and all the other curators seem more than content, so maybe - maybe - it won't end with a catastrophe.
Some days he can't believe it's happening - the exhibition, his own works displayed in a famous gallery, other, new ones waiting to be finished in his own atelier - like everything else in his life so far, Harry tries to accept it gracefully, without hoping for anything better or expecting something worse. Not many things can shatter his composure. Or so he thinks. Nothing bad has happened in some time.
AN: Your comments mean a lot.