Title: Touch and go
Author: CreativeAngel
Author Email: Enzymbia AtYahoo . Com (For some reason, you must put it together yourself, keeps deleting half.)
Genre: Slash, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Romance, Angst
Rating: R. If you are beneath 16 years of age, please call your mother to make sure you are allowed to read not-too-graphic gay-porn. Or your father. Preferably on a day when he's drunk. Though I didn't tell you that.
Disclaimer: I am JKR. That's why I write fanfiction. Yup. Sure. Darn Polyjuice Potion, brew faster:glares at Snape:
Summary: When did I become honest? When did I begin to speak the truth of my hearts desires? Does being blind and deaf do this to you? No, not even now do I dare to think of what I really want. It echoes inside me and I do not dare put a name to it when I don't know how he feels. (HP/DM)
Warnings: Slash, Sexual Content, Adult Language, Depression, Suicide (attempts, at least)
Authoress Ramble: Oh, hello. Are you back here? Well… This is my last attempt of making something sort-of serious in from of a completed fanfiction. If things proceed as I want them to, this will be approximately 20-25 chapters long. This time around I have decided to return to writing short chapters (up to 3000 words) instead of long chapters as in my precious fanfiction where a chapter went up to above 5000 words). I have a feeling of that this is going to be one of the shortest chapters, as it is not much more then 1200 words. I don't have a Beta, but if you would like to Beta for me, leave your email and I'll contact you. Tell me how fast you can return a 3000 words long chapter. I want you to be between 0 and 48 hours.


CHAPTER ONE

You hide your feelings so well
I'm not sure I want you to know
Tough there's so much to tell
That every day is a touch and go

Touch and go – Sanna Hendriksson

Touch. Fingertips tracing my skin. I know his hands. The slight cold of his nails, the flawless skin on that scar between his thumb and middle finger. There's a roughness to the skin that makes me shiver sometimes. He knows how to touch; he knows how to speak. Letters traced on my skin, sometimes symbols that I swear he's made up himself, because a bird cannot be made that way.

Hi, how are you today?

'Fine, thanks,' I say, hoping desperately that my voice sounds low and normal.

You sound tired.

I never knew how much a voice could tell until after … after It. It's a whole different world now, a world solely based on touch, feel, smell and taste. It's quite different when one is used to be in the middle of everything. Strangely enough, he is the only one that bothers to visit me. Not one of the others cares. Sure the days before a holiday can be crowded, at least it feels so, compared to the stillness of every other day.

What are you thinking of?

'You,' I say honestly. When did I become honest? When did I begin to speak the truth of my hearts desires? Does being blind and deaf do this to you? No, not even now do I dare to think of what I really want. It echoes inside me and I do not dare put a name to it when I don't know how he feels.

Why? He asks, fingers tracing the word into the skin on my arm. It's rare these days. He's becoming quite good at it, not bothering to spell out every word like he used to. He makes them shorter, using only a few consonants, yet when his fingers trace my skin I can tell how his handwriting looks like. He never writes fluently, he scribbles. Fast, now that I've learned to recognize his letters.

'I don't know, Potter,' I snap, suddenly annoyed by his presence. 'I'm sick of this place! I'm sick of being locked in! I'm not insane, for Merlin's sake, I'm just blind and deaf!'

His fingertips twitch. He is not used to this. I rarely lash out and I've stopped calling him by his last name. It's quite useless when one has been where he has. Once again, I do not think about it. I push it away, urgent to hide whatever the world has to bring me on that front.

I know, I'm tired of it too, he says leaving me wondering what the fuck he meant. Be right back.

His fingertips move away from me, the air suddenly brushing my skin as I imagine him walking away from me. Soon I feel the smell of the nurse. I don't know her name; she never speaks to me. Actually, Harry is the only one that speaks with me. Oh, my former friends come by. The hold my hand and I feel their voices against my skin. I don't know what they say, tough, because they never let Harry translate for them. I get out of bed when I feel the small thud that means the door closed. It's quite remarkably how much sound you can feel if you are open to it. I feel small waves against my back, which means the nurse is talking loudly and rapidly. I wonder why she's upset and I ask her. No answer comes back, but a hand guides me to my clothes and I sense the material of a robe beneath my fingers.

'What colour?' I ask, because even if you're deaf and blind, you can't afford to look sloppy.

She guides my hand to the nametag where they have written the colour. Blue. I know how the robes look, though I've never seen them. I know how the nurse looks, small, fat and hair in tight curls. I smell the perm sometimes, that's how I know. Her hands are fat, fingers short. She smells disinfectant and a bit like lavender. I hate both smells. After spending two years at St Mungo's I'm quite fed up with the place.

My room is exactly four steps wide and ten steps long. The door is in the short end of the room, to the right of my bed. From the left, I feel something warm my skin, so I assume there's an enchanted window with a heating spell. Done quite nicely, if someone should ask me. They don't though. There's a small bathroom and a shower to the right of the door that suddenly is pulled open. Harry's arms wrap around me and he swings me while I yell at him to stop and tell me what's going on.

You can go! Go home, I mean.

'Home?' I ask, trying to sound sarcastic. I can practically feel him blushing. Oh, sweet torture, how thou defile my heart.

I mean. I thought. You could. But maybe.

'Stop stuttering, Potter!' I snap, apparently quite loudly, because his fingers jump.

Come home with me? He trances a small building on my arm to symbolise home. I mean, not for always, just for the weekend. It's Friday today and I'm off work.

'You work?' I ask, never having thought of him doing else then getting O's in Defence Against the Dark Arts and failing miserably at Potions.

I'm working with the twins, remember?

'They let you into a joke shop?'

I try, I try really hard not to sound surprised. He must have told me, but I've forgotten. It's quite handy to think that people never move on from what you think they are. For me, the last memory of seeing Harry is a scrawny, black haired boy with pants at least four or five sizes too large and glasses that constantly get in the way when you try to – I shut my mind of there. Nox. Never mind, never mind, the sky is blue. Denial is a strong tool, did you know?

Draco?

Oh, yes. He uses that sign again. That sign that has come to represent my name. Three fingers pressed into my arm, the middle finger bent in from the first knuckle. I asked him once where he came up with that and he told me that it just reminded him of the head of a dragon statue that he saw in a Muggle restaurant as a child. I asked him how that could be, but he couldn't explain.

Draco? Would you come with me?

I nod, too occupied by my thoughts to notice what I've agreed to until it's too late. I'll be going to Potter's place. A place where I've never been. I freak out. He notices.

It's okay. I'll show you where everything is. Though I should go home to clean, or you'll trip on all my stuff.

'Messy Harry,' I snigger. For a moment I feel him leaning over me and I wonder what he's about to do, but then his body heat pulls back and disappears. For some reason it hurts somewhere inside.

I'll be back in ... four hours or so. Pack for a lazy weekend at home.

I smile and nod and he squeezes my hand before he leaves.