Impressionism
First impressions are everything. Draco's first impression of Blaise was seeing the black boy (because he really was a boy, then) on his knees.
Second impressions are easily forgotten. Draco's second impression of Blaise is seeing him fucked . It wasn't sex, or 'making love' or 'intercourse', there was no other word except fucked to describe it.
Third times the charm, they say.
Even magically heated water in a magical castle with magical fireplaces and magical shower rooms could not keep the tile from being cold. It was a mystery to Draco why the showers were first of all, communal and second of all, the floor and walls were always cold. At least the shower knob wasn't cold, but when his shoulder brushed against the green (it was always green, and even for a Slytherin it got a tad annoying) wall he shivered. Two turns of the squeaky handle (why must it squeak?) and hot water was pouring over his face and it was a relief to see the room fill with steam. To accuse Draco of having modesty issues would be a very unwise thing to do, however, showering with a handful of unruly, disgusting, usually unattractive housemates was not on his list of things to do. He preferred to think he deserved to shower alone, rather than he chose specific times when other people did not shower simply to avoid them.
He tilted his face into the water, shutting his eyes. Draco Malfoy didn't believe in perfection, but a shower on a cold winter day, alone from the chatter of Pansy and the achingly stupid comments of Goyle and Crabbe was pretty damn close. The problem with surrounding himself with underlings was that he had to deal with them. He missed the sound of feet on tile, a rather distinct warm muted slap, but easily drowned out by the water running over his face.
It was hard to miss the warm brush against his shoulder that had his eyes open and full of a stream of warm water. With a mild curse he scrubbed at his eyes, they didn't burn (like when he got soap in them) but it blurred his vision; not enough to mistake who had entered the shower room, however. Blaise was one of the few students who was taller than Draco, Blaise and Theodore Nott. Theodore was too skinny, when he stretched his ribs looked like they were trying to escape his body. His ass was bony too. Draco knew these things, he made it a point to know his housemates. Blaise was tall and slender, it was hard to tell when he was walking, because he just seemed to get from one place to another without moving at all.
What annoyed Draco more than the water in his eyes, his privacy invaded, or the fact that Zabini's arms were definitely more toned than his, was the fact that the black boy (was he still a boy, though?) moved past him without a word. Just a brush of flesh on flesh and then Blaise was moving on down to another spigot, turning the handle and adjusting the temperature. Draco was annoyed that he noticed Zabini, noticed the slight curve in the neck when the other tilted his head to escape the spray of water, or the slight quirk of the lips. Muted pleasure, it seemed Draco wasn't the only one who enjoyed a warm shower.
Draco was annoyed that he even knew what the slight-smirk-smile-lips-quirk meant.
He turned the water off, scowling at the double squeak before the shower dribbled off. He looked over at Zabini again, and couldn't help but pause to replay his memories of Blaise. The sound of knees hitting the stone floor, breathless movements, the distinct noise of both clothes being torn off and a prefect's badge hitting the floor. Blaise had always slept 'up', never down. Then there was Zabini spread and taut, fucked . Draco had never wanted to be fucked, not until he'd seen Blaise's mouth, open and begging .
Draco wasn't sure if he wanted to make people beg, or be made beg. But leaning against the cold wall in the shower room, watching Blaise reach for soap, brown fingers rolling over ivory soap, he thought it might not be so bad to beg, especially not on his back, ankles behind his head.
"Malfoy?" Maybe it was the acoustics of the tile and the curved ceiling, that's what Draco blamed it on. He didn't think that Zabini's mouth, perfect and inviting as it was, could steal away his wits so easily with just a word. Or just a name. Then again, Draco would have told people his self control was perfect, but when Blaise leaned over, water pouring down his face and shoulders, finger running down Draco's hip and thigh… well, that was a little different. Draco blamed the way the water clung to Blaise's cheekbones and eyelashes, blamed the low chuckle that echoed too loudly, even against the sound of the shower.
Draco didn't believe in perfection. He was sure Blaise didn't either, when his wet hand slipped across skin and fingernails left little ditches of carved out skin. The wall was still cold, even with the water (Blaise could have turned it off, bastard) that was pouring over both of them now. He didn't think it was perfection when he slipped on the floor, biting down on Blaise's lip, clutching a shoulder and a hip to balance himself. It wasn't perfect, but there was no denying it was close enough.