Title: A Gash of Colour
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Author: wishfinger
Rating: between PG-13 and NC-17, That Swear Word
Wordcount: 600
Note: This ficlet sucks, but I had to write something, dammit

He is a study in monochrome, all white skin and grey shirt and black socks. His lips are a thin line of indeterminate colour, waxy and oft-bitten. Even his hair looks more pallid than flaxen in the weak afternoon light from a small window.
A gash of colour: a strangled expletive that resounds within paintpeeling walls.

Watching this sneering, foulmouthed young man stumble over discarded clothes and bric-a-brac, Harry wonders if he should have woken up at all.

Not that he could have slept for too long. Draco must be feeling much better already: insults are hurled at his wallpaper, furniture and damned laziness.
" Weasel's hovel is a mansion compared to this pigsty, Potter. " Harry can almost feel the spit flying in the last word. Leaning against the headboard, he closes his eyes.

" Grow up, Draco. "

Silence, then. The passing of each second marked by the wooden clock Hermione had sent him from France, between which and London she now divides her time. It doesn't last, of course, and he opens his eyes to find Draco glaring at him, his bonewhite face twisted in… what? Fury?
It's like tasting your own saliva in your mouth. A bland, overly familiar, slick grey nothing.

" You think you're so fucking mature, don't you, Potter? I'm sick of you. " He's seething now. One pale ( and trembling, realises Harry ) hand reaches for the black trousers lying where they'd been thrown so unceremoniously on a chair just a few hours ago. Whether that was the urgency of their passion, or simply the fact that the war was over, Draco is certainly, how did one put it, loosening up a little.
So fucking mature.
You'd be surprised.

" Then leave. "

And no, Draco wasn't expecting that, by the way he freezes, not at all. A sigh, possibly; no response, perhaps; a fight, probably. Not this. The light dies slowly in the sky, making the circles under Draco's eyes seem suddenly more pronounced. The rich dark reek of butterbeer, sweat and semen has evaporated, leaving the colourless cold of winter.
" You want me to leave. " Draco is incredulous, shocked, then angry at himself for saying it like that. Like he, Draco Augustus Malfoy, cares about what Harry Fucking Potter wants. Conveniently overlooking the past few months, but at least it'd be less pathetic, more in character.
A sneer is only good for as long as you can hide behind it. Draco's falters now.

And Harry wonders why he doesn't, because there isn't a need to stay on anyone's good side for favours or protection. Draco managed to learn the art of charming people a bit late, but fast enough to be able to salvage his reputation. The lack of a Dark Mark on his arm helped, of course.
" You said you're sick of me. Why don't you leave? "
" I. … Fuck. "
" So do I. Let's shake hands. "

A gash of colour: the blood flooding behind that corpsewan skin. Draco flings his trousers back down and stalks back to the bed, back to Harry, and his grey eyes are so close that Harry can see they're actually sort of blueish ( a gash of colour ), and then those grey lips close over his, and his kiss is as bitter as his sneer is as bitter as the taste of him in the morning, and the flick of his tongue ( a gash of colour ) against his palate is a gash of colour on the grey canvas of another lost day.

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