Title: Streetlights.
Author: BelleCat.
Rating: M
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Summary: Like the ribbons of pink silk that whisper across alabaster flesh, time has undone Draco Malfoy.
Disclaimer: You know the words :D.
׺°"˜"°º×׺°"˜"°º×׺°"˜"°º×׺°"˜"°º×׺°"˜"°º×׺°"˜"°º×׺°"˜"°º×׺°"˜"°º×
Like the ribbons of pink silk that whisper across alabaster flesh, time has undone Draco Malfoy. His name had been blackened to ashes a long time ago and he has nout to serve him but his face and his body and so he uses them; dancing in the dark streets, an angel of the night. And he is beautiful - he always has been. It is easy to see it, and people do.
Harry Potter wants to help him. He comes to him one night in January and he towers over the blond, wrapped in fine robes and sympathy shining like gold in his green, green eyes. He extends a hand and fingertips trace over high cheekbones and hollow cheeks and blue lips and in a smooth voice like honey that brings Draco back to childhood, he requests permission to take the boy home. Yet pride has been instilled in him from before he can remember and even sitting on the pavement clad in wispy chiffon and silk and lace and surely pnuemonia, Draco answers in a voice that has been broken and defeated by everything that has happened that he will not accept charity.
The Chosen One is stubborn - in the years that have gone by and the hardships brought with them, Draco had forgotten but as he stares at the determined set of Potter's tanned jaw he remembers. Yet memories are bittersweet and stained green and red and it takes Draco some time looking at the blue and white of his cold, cold bare legs to keep the tears at bay. The other is quiet for some time, before he opens his mouth and another request is uttered - for it does not take intellect to guess what Draco does for a living these days - and with a voice full of broken glass, the Slytherin accepts, rising gracefully to his feet despite numb limbs. He is impossibly small; petite and barely reaching Potter's shoulder.
It takes a while for Draco's lips to regain from the numb of the cold but they do eventually, responding to the soft pressure of Potter's mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and chocolate and it is hard not to succumb immediately to the warmth exuded by his mouth, his hands, his body. And it hurts to do this; hurts more than any of the kicks or punches or rapes he has recieved because Potter is gentle and Draco is drowning in everything he has tried to forget. Potter cradles him; touches him like he's afraid he might break him and when the Boy Who Lived fills him, Draco tilts his head back and tears stream down his face silently at the beauty of everything that was.
When he's done, Potter presses a kiss to Draco's forehead and slips off the cloak he is wearing, wrapping it around the Slytherin's frail shoulders before making his offer again but Draco refuses; it simply hurts too much to look into those beautiful eyes of a time before his whole world crumbled into ruins. He knows that Potter knows this too - the taller man nods but there is a glint of sadness in his eyes and before he leaves he presses a roll of notes into Draco's hand and kisses his blue knuckles, before walking away into the shadows. As snow begins to fall on London, Draco Malfoy draws the dark cloak around his body and lays down on the cold, dirty pavement, closing his eyes and breathing for the last time.
Under the streetlights.
