Upon entering the house, Draco noticed there was a strange smell about it. A sort of woody, earthen smell that made you think of dark woods. "It'll need a bit of cleaning," Antares remarked.
Blaise nodded, looking at Draco, looking at Antares. Just a week out here. Then he could be back to the city, where he belonged.
Climbing up the stairs was a difficult task, considering the luggage they had brought. Heaving the last canvas duffle up the stairs, Draco rolled his eyes. How many times had he told Antares that they did NOT need to bring sheets? Or towels? Or soap?
As soon as the house was cleaned, the sheets on the beds, the towels in the closet and the soaps in their dishes, Draco looked out the window. The sun was setting in a concerto of reds and oranges, indigo and purple flirting with the edges of the sky. He remembered the last sunset he had watched. Ignoring the memories stabbing his insides, he resumed unpacking his clothes. Below, he could hear Antares and Blaise cooking.
These memories were going to eat him alive. Stop it, he berated himself mentally. What are you? It was going to be a long week. Sighing, he decided to take a nap.