This fic was written for the HD Career Fest on Livejournal and is only the second fic I've ever written (the other being a Twilight fan fic) and constructive criticism is very much welcomed. The whole thing is about 56,000 words, and I hope to have it all up in about a week/week and a half. It was originally written all as one piece rather than broken up into chapters, but I'll be posting it in chapters here. I'll break the chapters where it feels appropriate, so some chapters may be longer than others, but I'll try to not make them too small.
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Thank you to the army of betas who worked to get this ready for the fest: SecretlySeverus, Cleodoxa, EvilPumkin, AryaEragonPrincessShadeslaye r, AsilleNellum, and Batgirl8968, and to Rebeccaann08 for submitting such a great prompt.
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Disclaimer – This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended..
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Draco jumped at the chance to keep his afternoon with Evan going. "It's a little early, but let me buy you dinner as a thank you? Where would you recommend?"
"Well . . . the Old Quarter's not far. There's some really great shops there, antiques and such. If you'd like, we could just walk around a bit first. They, er, have some antique jewellery stores . . . if there's someone you'd like to take a little something back to."
Evan's green eyes were fixed on a random spot on the ground. He was stuttering and nervous; he was acting like a teenager with a crush afraid of being shot down by the object of his affection. Draco had been raised to take advantage of anyone showing any kind of vulnerability, but what he felt at that moment was a wave of protectiveness. He said, "The only one waiting for me back home is my agent. What she really wants me to bring her back is a new manuscript, or at least an idea for one, but I would like to pick her up something." Picturing radishes and bottle caps, he added, "Her taste in jewellery, though, is . . . somewhat eccentric, to say the least."
Evan's lips twitched, curling into a smile seemingly against his will. Draco read this as the other man being pleased in spite of himself. But he was hesitant, like he wanted something he didn't think he should. He reminded Draco of the way a young child might eye up an older sibling's racing broom, wanting so badly to be up there himself, soaring through the sky, but afraid of falling.
No, Draco corrected himself. Evan looked like someone who had had a bad fall off his broom and was afraid of it happening again . . . wanting to grab a hold and take off, but the memory of his fall standing in his way. The protectiveness Draco had already begun to feel towards the other man doubled.
Casually, he asked, "How about you? Anyone you need to pick up something special for?"
"Oh, no. No, there's no one."
After pausing as he tried to think of the right words, Draco said, "I had thought that possibly Rhys. . . ." He let his voice trail off.
"Oh! No. Rhys is a friend."
"With benefits?"
Evan choked with laughter. "No, definitely not."
"It's just . . . when I walked in the door earlier . . . it rather looked like I'd interrupted something."
"Rhys is . . . very . . . touchy-feely. It's just his nature. He's very perceptive, and he can't stand to see anyone hurting and not try to make them feel better. That's why he became a nurse. He works at the nursing home. When he came in yesterday, he was picking up a cake for one of the residents. It was her birthday, 100 years old. Got a letter from the Queen and everything."
It didn't escape Draco's notice that Evan had just confirmed his suspicion—in not so many words—that something had hurt him, but he didn't mention it. What he did ask was, "He's perceptive?"
Evan nodded.
Taking a deep breath, Draco next asked, "And likes to play match maker for his friends?"
"God, yeah, he's always trying to fix people up . . . . Er . . . ." Evan had begun to answer before seeming to realise the implication behind the question. When he did, his face turned crimson. "About that . . . ."
When Evan was unable to finish his sentence, Draco asked, "I know you said not to take him too seriously, but I just wondered . . . if . . . maybe he wasn't right. I can only answer for myself, of course, but he was pretty much spot on. And I'm rather hoping he was right regarding you as well."
Evan's eyes, fixed again on some random spot on the ground he apparently found very interesting, slowly closed. His face in profile, Draco could see his lips move, but he didn't speak. He appeared to be either cursing under his breath or debating with himself. Draco thought he was possibly doing a little of both, and he gave the other man time to come to a decision. He just hoped it was the decision he wanted to hear.
Draco glanced around them; no one seemed to be in the same part of the garden or looking in their direction. With Evan's attention focused away from him for the moment, he cautiously slid his wand out of the special pocket sown into the seam of his trousers and, keeping his hand lowered and blocked from sight beside his leg, cast a non-verbal Celo charm to screen them from any eyes that might wonder their way.
Evan licked his lips, and Draco's eyes widened as they followed the path of the tip of Evan's tongue, wanting to feel that tongue against his own. When Evan bit his lower lip, pulling it slowly between his teeth, Draco nearly groaned out loud.
Evan laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, I'm arse over tits, alright."
It was exactly what Draco had wanted to hear, but the dejected tone didn't match the words. Evan sounded like he was saying the exact opposite, like he was turning him down.
Draco waited, but Evan didn't say anything more, disappointed he asked, "Is that a bad thing?"
"That's a very bad thing."
The words stung badly, but Draco reminded himself that he was sure Evan had been hurt before and that it was only to be expected he'd be skittish about opening himself up to being hurt again.
Evan continued, explaining, "I turned thirty last year. My best mates from school are all married, and most have kids. My closest friends here on Guernsey are settled; even Rhys, now. You know, it's funny. All I've ever wanted to was to find someone and settle down, whereas Rhys always said settling down was nothing but settling for and there were too many blokes out there to ever settle for just one. But here we are, I'm still looking, and he's been happily living with someone for nearly three years. I just . . . want someone I can fall asleep next to and have him or her still there when I wake up, and no matter how much I fancy you—and bloody fuck do I fancy you—you're just not that person."
Draco had never actually slept with anyone, ever. He'd shared a bed with many women, but there had never been any actual sleeping involved. They'd fucked, and that had been it. He'd never fallen asleep next to someone, had their arms to curl up in when his nightmares woke him in the middle of the night.
But he thought he might like wake up next to Evan in the morning.
When Draco told him as much, Evan said, "And September? Will you still be there in September?"
All Draco could do was admit that no, in September he wouldn't still be there. He pictured himself returning to his empty manor, where, apart from Luna, he had nothing and no one but house elves and portraits of dead people for company. It had never felt as bleak as it did after the prospect of spending the summer waking up next to Evan.
Evan said, "The end of the summer is going to come, and you'll go home."
"If you felt that way, why did you agree to come here with me?" Draco asked.
Evan studied his shoes before answering, "I think I must just be a masochist. You . . . just seemed so excited. I mean, you're a writer, and to see Victor Hugo's house must be a huge thing for you . . . and I just . . . wanted to be the one you saw it with." Evan hesitated, then added in a low whisper, "Thought maybe you'd remember me, then."
His words and the open and honest way they'd been spoken did a lot to sooth Draco's disappointment, and he said, "Not likely to forget you. I, er . . . never . . . . I'd fancied blokes before, but I'd never . . . I've never . . . . ."
"You never acted on it before."
It wasn't a question, but Draco answered it regardless. "No."
"Why not, may I ask?" Evan asked, his head tilted slightly to the side.
Draco breathed deeply as he considered why he'd never acted upon the attraction he'd sometimes felt to other men. "I don't know, really. I just . . . . My life has turned out so differently from what I'd expected—and in some ways, that's a very good thing—that, I don't know, I just always pictured myself with a wife and children, and I guess that I unknowingly clung to the idea of only seeing women to try to keep some small part of the life I'd grown up expecting to one day lead. Does that make sense?"
Any further explanation wasn't possible because Draco saw Evan's eyes settle on his mouth, and he found it difficult to think of anything else.
"It makes perfect sense," Evan whispered.
Subconsciously reminded of watching Evan's tongue glide across his lips, Draco's own did the same, and it produced the same reaction in Evan as it had in him. He saw those green eyes widen and heard his breath hitch; Draco's own breath caught in response, and he made himself look away before he did something to make a fool of himself.
Evan shifted his body to face him more fully. His voice was deep, husky. "I thought it'd be safe. I told myself Rhys was wrong, that you were likely as not straight as a wa . . . straight as an arrow. I told myself there was no way you returned my feelings, that I could spend time with you without risking anything because even if by some chance you were gay, your lovers have probably all been intellectuals. You'd not likely be interested in a simple baker who never went to university."
Draco wanted to stand up and scream that his lovers had all been anyone willing to let him fuck them and that he'd never wanted any of them half as much as he wanted Evan, but as Evan had spoken, he'd slowly moved towards him, closing the distance between them, and Draco had lost the ability to speak, to move . . . to think of anything other than the fact that Evan's lips were about to press against his own.
His last coherent thought, just before those lips brushed across his, was that he was bloody glad he'd cast that Celo charm.
Evan's lips were soft, warm skin against Draco's own.
Evan was the aggressor; he controlled the kiss, and all Draco could do was follow along, let him take the lead. The kiss was slow, languid. Evan's lips moved across Draco's, covering them with slow, closed-mouth kisses. His hands came up and captured Draco's face, holding him still while his tongue replaced his lips, and he alternated between light, quick licks along Draco's lower lip and pulling it between his own to gently nibble.
His hands moved from Draco's face, one burying itself in his hair, the other moving down his throat to his chest before wrapping around his waist and pulling them closer together.
This was all so new to Draco, and he was desperately trying to sort out his feelings—he didn't know whether to pull Evan onto his lap or climb onto his, or to just pull him to the ground and climb on top of him. He settled for shifting his body to turn more fully towards Evan, and let his own tongue come out to meet his. As they deepened the kiss, they moaned into each other's mouths.
Draco put his arms around Evan, holding him flush against his own body. He moved his mouth along Evan's jaw and was surprised at how smooth the skin was. By this time of the afternoon, he'd have expected his jaw to be rough and coarse with stubble, but it was perfectly smooth. He sucked on the skin just below Evan's ear, hard enough to be felt but not to leave a mark, before closing his lips over the lobe and softly biting down on it.
Evan moaned loudly.
Somewhere nearby a child squealed with laughter, and a man's voice shouted, "No! Harry, stop!"
Draco and Evan jumped apart, both breathing hard.
About fifteen feet away, a young boy of around five had run away from his parents and had trampled his way into one of the many flower beds in the garden. A man, presumably his father, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the bed, nervously looking around, clearly hoping the damage hadn't been spotted by the staff. He dragged the child away from the trod-on flowers, scolding him as they moved quickly away.
"I told you, Harry, not in the flowers!"
The child whined, "But I want to pick the pretty flowers for mummy!"
Draco couldn't hear the father's response; they'd gone too far away. Still breathing hard, he glanced at Evan. He was looking right at him. His eyes were wide, his lips were parted and swollen, a deeper pink after their kisses. He looked anxious. Understandable, really. Draco himself had had a bit of a fright at the thought of being caught snogging in public, and he knew they were well hidden from view by the Celo charm he'd cast. But Evan didn't know that.
Draco laughed nervously. He didn't know if Evan was only shaken at the thought that they'd nearly been caught and was wondering how they hadn't been—because it was obvious they hadn't been seen in spite of how in the open they were—or if he regretted the kiss.
He thought to himself, Merlin, please don't let him regret it, and aloud said, "Near thing, that."
Evan studied his face for a moment before agreeing, his heavy breathing slowly returning to normal. "Very near."
The corners of Evan's mouth twitched before slowly spreading into a wide smile. He laughed and ran his hand though his hair. "I, er, believe you mentioned something about grabbing some dinner?"
"And I believe you mentioned something about the Old Quarter."
XoXoX
Harry was more than ready to leave the gardens; although he'd known they were well hidden from view by the charm he'd cast quickly and quietly when Luke's attention had been momentarily diverted, hearing his name shouted at such a moment had shaken him rather badly. He'd been sure he'd been recognised and that photos of him snogging Luke would be plastered all over the next morning's Daily Prophet. Even after all this time, they couldn't leave him be and often ran bogus stories about where he'd supposedly been seen, what he'd supposedly been doing, and with whom.
"Ready to get out of here, then?" Harry hoped his voice didn't sound as anxious to Luke as it did to himself, but he badly wanted to leave and was almost ready to grab the other man by the arm and drag him out of there. Suddenly, every person in the garden seemed suspicious. The woman standing with young Harry and his father was looking straight at him; he was sure of it. Since the end of the war, it seemed like half the baby boys born in the Wizarding world had been named Harry. His best friend, Ron, liked to tease him that that was only because the other half already had an older brother named Harry. The three could be a magical family. Harry glanced back at the small family suspiciously before looking around the gardens.
And the older couple just exiting the house . . . dressed like that? The man's wearing a flower print shirt and short trousers with black knee socks and sandals. The hat the woman's wearing . . . . It looks like half of her head is being eaten by enormous, multi-coloured butterflies. No chance are they really Muggles.
"Very," Luke said as he jumped to his feet. Surprisingly, Harry thought he seemed as anxious to leave as he himself was, and he appeared just as uneasy.
Harry dearly hoped that unease wasn't the result of his regretting the kiss they'd shared, because the moment their lips had touched, any hope Harry had had of keeping things under control went flying off the broom. To blazes with common sense; he wanted Luke, and unless the other man said no, he was going to have him, even if it was only for the summer. He didn't want to waste a single day.
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Harry guided them towards the Old Quarter. One of his favourite things about living in St. Peter Port was that he could get almost anywhere he needed to go by walking. His home to his bakery was only a ten minute walk. The market, his favourite pubs and restaurants, almost nothing was more than a fifteen or twenty minute walk away, even if most of that walk was either up or down hill. It kept him in shape—walking up and down all those hills and stairs—that was for sure. And the ease with which one could walk almost anywhere in town and the good bus transportation around the island made his never having learnt to drive irrelevant.
The walk was a silent one, but it was not a comfortable silence; for Harry, it was filled with anticipation, spent thinking about their mind-blowing kiss and wondering if Luke was also remembering it.
He also thought about doing more than just kissing the man walking beside him, and he wondered if Luke was thinking about that as well. But Luke had never been with a man before, and Harry wondered if he might want to take it slow.
He hoped not; they didn't have time for slow.
Under normal circumstances, Harry was not one to jump into sex too quickly in a relationship. In his case, it could be very risky to give too much of himself to another person too soon; there was always the chance the person knew more than they let on, knew who he really was, and that he or she was only after his name or his money. He also wanted to be sure both he and the other person wanted the same thing, that the other person didn't see him as just a casual fuck buddy.
But with Luke, he didn't want to go slow. One thing he could never lose sight of was how very short a summer was. Better to enjoy every moment of Luke's company whilst he could than to waste what little time they had regretting that time not be longer.
As he had once been told, it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
Presently, they arrived at the Old Quarter and entered Mill St, which was decked out with bunting in Guernsey's red, yellow and white colours. Luke stopped to look in the windows of the Quay Gallery and admire a display of landscape photographs taken all around the island. They went inside and browsed around. Luke bought prints of Fermain Bay and La Tables des Pions, The Fairy Ring. He seemed particularly interested in the prints of The Fairy Ring, and as they left the store and continued down the street, Harry explained, "They say if you walk around the stone circle three times and make a wish, it will come true."
Luke grinned and asked him if he'd ever tried it, and he responded that no, he had not. Not for lack of Luna's urging, he added silently. Out loud he said, "A friend of mine from school is convinced Guernsey is inhabited by fairies. Every time she visits we have to go to Le Creux ès Faies, Passage Tomb. She's convinced it's the entrance to the Fairy Kingdom."
"Your friend sounds a lot like my agent. She told me all about Guernsey's native fairies. She said they're helpful. She thought maybe they'd help me with a little inspiration. She's a bit loony, but she's a good friend, and at this point, I'll try anything. I may even go to the Fairy Ring and give it a go. The place she hired for me is near there. Certainly couldn't hurt."
Glancing sideways at Luke, Harry ventured, "We could try that one day."
He nearly jumped for joy when Luke grinned and said that yes, they could.
Harry said, "I think the fairies are supposed to be helpful more in the way of leaving someone a loaf of bread or gâche, or maybe a bean jar, though. Something like that."
"What's gâche?" Luke asked.
"Guernsey gâche. Gâche is the D'gernésiais word for cake. It's a kind of a sweetbread. I make mine with candied orange peel and sultanas, but some people use currants. The Guernsey butter is key. You've got to use real Guernsey butter, or they'll throw you off the island—literally, drag you to the harbour and chuck you off the pier."
Luke laughed, "And a bean jar?"
"Just what the name says. A jar filled with beans. It takes days to make. Traditionally, women used to start it Friday night, so I've been told. The beans had to soak overnight. Then the next day, they'd be boiled in a stock with cheap cuts of meat and poured into a pottery jar. The jars would be stored for dinner on Monday."
"Seems like a bloody load of work for some beans. Why the certain days of the week?"
"Monday was laundry day."
At Luke's incredulous look, Harry explained, "This was back when there was more to doing laundry than throwing it in a machine and pressing a couple buttons. They didn't have time to do all the family's laundry for a whole week and cook. They would often reheat the jar for dinner on Tuesday, as well."
"Why? What was Tuesday?"
"Ironing day."
Luke laughed, "You are making this up!"
"I am not!" Harry feigned offense, but his grin gave him away. "Look, there's a book shop, I bet they'll have a book on Guernsey and its culture."
Just as Harry had suspected, they found several books on Guernsey geared towards tourists in the store, and Harry was just about to show Luke one on the traditional food of the island, but the other man had drifted off to the other side of the shop. Harry moved over to him, the book he wanted to show him in his hand, but at the look on Luke's face, he set it down, forgotten.
What had he been thinking, taking a writer who was suffering from writer's block to a book store?
Luke's silver eyes scanned the shelves, looking in the W's. The shop had two of Simon Wrentmore's books on the shelf. He picked up both of them.
"I've got all of his books back at mine. You're welcome to borrow them, if you'd like," Harry offered.
With a long last look, Luke set them down and turned away. His eyes averted, he opened his mouth twice without speaking before facing Harry and asking, "Which was your favourite? Of his books, I mean."
Harry didn't have to think about it. As they walked out the door, he answered, "His first. From This Day Forward."
"Why that one? Do you think they went downhill from there?"
"What? No. Not at all. It's just . . . . I'd been through . . ." Harry exhaled slowly, "some real shite, and when that book came out, I was still trying to get over it three years later.
"I'd gone back and finished school, then spent a year training for the job I'd always wanted, only to realise it wasn't what I wanted to spend my life doing at all. Before the final year of training, my best mate and I got royally pissed for my birthday, and I blurted out that I bleedin' hated it. The next day, when we'd sobered up, he confronted me. He told me it was OK to quit if it wasn't what I wanted. It was what I had always thought I'd wanted, and it was what everyone I cared about expected of me, and it just . . . . I know it sounds mad, but I honestly didn't realise I didn't have to do it. I didn't realise I could just say I didn't want to do it after all. I needed to be told I wouldn't be letting everyone down if I quit.
"After that, I just . . . drifted. Nothing I did . . . fit quite right. I was relieved to not have to return to training for a job I knew I didn't want, but there was nothing else I did want. A friend suggested I should go away on holiday, be alone for a while and get away from everything, and see if things didn't seem clearer when I got back. She said sometimes you need to step away from all the trees before you can see the forest. She recommended Guernsey. She'd been here before.
"I'd never been much of a reader, but I had nothing but time on my hands, so another one of my friends stuck a pile of books in my bag—Mione's answer to any and every problem is a book—and From This Day Forward was one of them. I couldn't put it down. I read it cover to cover in a day and a half, and then I read it again. I could relate to the main character. I could understand him. He felt very real to me. I could see a lot of myself in him." Harry smiled. "Figuratively, of course."
Luke's attention was rapt; he looked to be hanging on Harry's every word. Harry stopped in front of their destination, The Old Quarter Restaurant on Mansell Street. He reached out for the door, holding it open and stepping aside for Luke to enter first, but the other man didn't move. His eyes were looking straight into Harry's. With his voice filled with emotion, he said, "It really meant something to you."
"Er, yeah. Do you want to borrow it?"
Luke shook his head. He said, "I have a copy."
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Inside the restaurant, Harry was greeted by the owner personally, as he had been there many times with friends, and he introduced Luke. There was a scattering of customers, but the place was not yet full. As they were being shown to a corner table for two in the back, they passed families starting their meals and couples ignoring theirs, their eyes only for each other. At one table, a woman sat alone with a drink in front of her. She was casting anxious glances toward the door every time someone moved. Harry explained, "They've not been open long, but they're already gaining quite a nice following. We're lucky, it's early. They'll be packed soon, but not being on the seafront, they don't get as many tourists as some places do."
The place was small, cosy, with chairs upholstered in black or white leather and mahogany tables with heavy, turned legs, rough-hewn stone walls painted a soft white and lined by sconces, and heavy exposed dark wood beams in the ceiling. "It's charming," Luke responded as he looked around.
Scanning the menus they'd just been given, Luke asked, "What do you recommend?"
"Everything is good. The food here is really excellent. For starters, my favourite is the smoked salmon. But not this evening."
"Why not this evening?"
Very bluntly, Harry said, "It's served with rocket salad and horseradish cream dressing, and as I fully intend to snog you again after dinner, I think it best to avoid anything with horseradish."
Harry had kept his head down while he spoke, but he glanced up to see Luke's reaction to his words. The other man had just taken a sip of his water. He choked on it.
"Alright, there?"
Luke coughed. "Fine." Looking down at his menu, he cleared his throat and said, "Best to stay away from the onion mash, then, as well."
xOxOx
Walking back towards the marina to catch a bus back to his cottage, Draco spotted a secluded nook between two buildings and grabbed Evan by the arm, dragging him deep into the space and cutting him off mid-sentence. He pressed him up against a wall. "I believe you promised me another snog." Without giving Evan a chance to answer, Draco covered his mouth with his own.
By the time pudding had been brought after dinner, a slight shadow had begun to appear along Evan's jawline, and it had been driving Draco half mad. He hadn't been able to concentrate on anything other than what the no longer perfectly smooth skin would feel like under his lips, and now he could finally find out. He dragged his lips from Evan's mouth to run them along his jaw and moaned at the feel of the coarse hairs. He could feel Evan's breath against his face. The body pressed against his was so perfectly masculine, from the roughness of Evan's jawline under his lips, to the flat chest against his own, to the broad shoulders under his hands and the strong arms wrapped around him. Everything about kissing Evan was perfect—the sounds he made, the way his hands moved over Draco's body, pressing them closer together. He matched Draco perfectly. He was somehow both aggressive and submissive at the same time. One minute he ceded control to Draco, the next he stole it back.
As they pulled apart for air, breathless and both wanting more, Draco thought to himself that the end of the summer seemed somehow much closer than it had thirty-six hours ago.
Evan's mouth returned to Draco's neck, and between licking, sucking, biting and kissing, he asked, "You'll come back tomorrow?"
Draco heard the uncertainty in his voice. Remembering Evan's words from earlier in the day, he promised, "I'll be there in the morning. Likely late morning, though," before recapturing the other man's mouth. He tasted like chocolate and wine.
Draco knew that if they didn't stop soon, they'd get carried away and go too far, and while it would hardly be his first time up against a wall in an alleyway, he didn't want that with Evan. He let their kisses slow and become more leisurely, until he finally stepped back. Draco's entire body thrummed with excitement as he caught his breath. His arms were scraped from being pressed between Evan's back and the brick wall he'd pushed him against. His lips felt swollen and bruised, and they tingled from the stubble along Evan's jaw and throat.
He felt more alive than he ever had before.
"I'll see you in the morning, then," Evan said, out of breath as well. He continued, "Tomorrow is supposed to be a particularly fine day, according to the weatherman. We could go to Fermain Bay, if you'd like. It's quite small, but there's a little café we could have lunch at. There's a walk from town along the cliffs we could take. It's about nine miles altogether. Fermain Bay is about halfway. To get down to the bay, you need to follow a steep cliff pathway, but it's well worth. There are places to stop here and there along the walk, and there is a tea room and a hotel with a bar near the end. Buses stop almost directly in front of the hotel to return to town. It usually takes about four or five hours, but it'll be longer if we stop for lunch."
Draco pressed another kiss against Evan's lips. "Sounds perfect."
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There a little snogging action for you!
The plot of Draco's first book will be reveled later. The hat the Muggle woman was wearing in the garden's at Hauteville House is meant to copy one worn by Princess Beatrice.
Drop me a review and let me know if you liked it!