Title: Acrobat

Author: Devilita

Beta-reader: Sarya

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, but the story is

A/N: I got this huge inspiration to write this fic when I saw Placebo's music video of 'Pure Morning'. Brian Molko's gorgeous in the video, as is the Draco I see, so this is what my mind started cooking :)

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Chapter One: Pure Morning

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Absolute freedom.

The sweet feeling of oxygen in my lungs. It's windy up here. My used-to-be-white, sleeveless Ziggy Stardust shirt is way too cold to wear in March, and protectively I wrap my arms around myself.

I look down, there are people. As I stand on the edge of the roof, I can feel the cold concrete numbing my toes and tiny stones boring into my feet. The people down there are yelling something, and a woman in a dark green suit is calmly explaining something about a psychologist she knows and about the importance of me not taking a step forward. I'm on the eighth floor, policemen have cleared the area under the point where I stand. The parking area's getting crowded, people have come to see my little display. Women with shopping bags are just standing there immobilized, not noticing how their children look up at me, wide-eyed, wondering what that silly man is standing there for. I do not want them to see this, but I am not the one to tell off their parents for being weak enough to be stunned by my intentions.

It's poetic. The clouds above me run across the sky, making my blond hair shine under the sunlight when the rays hit it, also making my messy, unwashed strands look dirty grey when they don't.

Lifting my gaze up again, I can see how people are watching my actions from the opposite building. Faces glued to the windows, they breathe against the glass, eyes wide, waiting.

"Please, go back inside! It's not worth it!"

I am not doing this because I have no other choice, that would be a plain cliché, wouldn't it? Because I know I have a choice, many even, I'd say.

I suppose the one I'm considering now is rather clear for every spectator, and if it's not then I daresay they're slightly naïve.

I could also stand here until a policeman sneaks up on me. Me, of course, pretending not to have heard him, then forcefully being dragged inside the building and pinned against the floor. I'd protest this very vocally and physically all the time, throwing dirty insults at the man who's still shaking with adrenaline that was formed during the ambush. Then, I'd be waiting for the other policemen to come and take me to the police station, after which they'd cart me to St. Mungo's, the Mental Hospital which I once visited when I was at the angst-ridden age of thirteen.

Oh well, I could also do as the strangers ask me to do, go inside and wait until the policemen come and take me away, seating me in front of a blank-faced psychiatrist, being forced to listen to the person's empty assurances, 'heal' and go home.

And then back to the point I'm in at the moment.

Somehow the two latter options don't seem appealing to me.

I know that I'm very pretty for a boy, people have always told me so, but I do know that after one step and after the few following seconds I will not be such anymore. A mere faceless bloody pulp on the asphalt that doesn't hear the people's screams and sobs and just generally the sound of other people's activities that are so alive when I'm not. Or even when I am.

This amazing feeling of total power over my own life is beath-taking, I haven't felt this alive for months. If I wanted to be dramatic, I'd say that it has been years since I was this peaceful, but that would be a lie, concidering the fact that during last New Year's Eve things were running pretty high. But this time the substance that intoxicates me is just the mere air that was cleaned by a brisk downpour that occurred just ten minutes ago. Fifteen minutes ago I stepped onto the roof's edge, fifteen minutes ago my decision was one hundred per cent confirmed.

Fifteen minutes ago people started caring about me.

Those people down there don't even know me. They only see a blond-haired wreck of a young man who obviously has lost his mind. No no no, I am not a mental case, certainly not. They are asking why I want to jump, but I am not going to tell them. And at this point I am going to say the teenagers' legendary top10 phrase (I wish there was some drumming in the background). They would not understand.

May I introduce myself to you, my little friends obviously only existing inside my pretty, arrogant head. I am Draco Lucius Malfoy, the disowned son of the Finland ambassor to Britain, born in Wiltshire nineteen years ago, currently residing in London and working as a part-time shell of a man behind the counter of Burger King. But why are my eyes rimmed with dark eyeliner and why am I wearing red lipstick, you may ask. Because I am, as my father so generously always reminded me, a fairy queen.

Back in Hogwarts School for Kids Born to Rich Bastards I was quite popular and known for having a hot temper, but also for being the Drama Queen of the school. I was the one who got adored by lesser people, for I was everything they wanted to be and wanted to have. But no one got me, not really. Physically maybe, but when it came to mushy emotions I was left intact. I was never really into that lot, unless my horny libido claimed otherwise. It's not like they cared about my feelings, the body was the only thing they were able and willing to touch.

Now I can see that they have an ambulance there and that the crowd is enormous.

"Come on, poof, do us a favour and jump already!"

Hehehe, that must have been some fourteen-year-old toughie whose voice has just broken, and is who probably wearing some baggy trousers and an over-sized hooded jacket.

"Do us a favor and disappear before your father arrives, Draco!"

"Yes, mother."

"Yes, mother." My whisper is drowned in the wind, the sky seems to darken again, and maybe we'll even get a thunderstorm. Pity I won't be there to see it.

I move a bit closer to the edge, hearing the startled gasps coming from the crowd and the increased amount of yelling. I can feel it how people gape at me even more intently. Those little ants move restlessly behind the cleared area's boundaries.

A man with a loudspeaker orders me to step back and wait, saying that committing suicide won't solve anything. How the hell would he know? If I'm gone there is nothing to solve.

My feet are now completely numb, I can't feel the coldness nor the uneven concrete. I am not nervous, but nevertheless my heart keeps racing in my chest. Maybe I am a little bit scared of the pain? But I must not think of that. I'm too far gone.

This is it.

I try to smile at the people down below, feeling a few droplets of rain kiss my bare arms.

My right leg feels so light as I lift it over the edge, feeling how the force of nothingness emanates from the ground, rising up towards the sky.

People scream.

I lean forwards, closing my eyes.

The voyage is over in a few seconds.

I lay on the ground, feeling the coldness and ache in my muscles. It feels like there's a weight on top of me which prevents me from rising.

Why am I still able to think? Aren't the dead supposed to be…dead? I notice that my head's not crushed and that my brains aren't smashed out of my skull, put on view for all people to see. But there is the taste of blood in my mouth, and I'm sure the skin of my right cheek is broken.

I turn my head, none too easily because of the weight that makes my chest ache and breathing come out as ragged wheezes.

Green eyes meet mine.

A/N: I am not entirely sure if I'm going to continue this story, since I like it the way it is, already. But please, reviews!

Um, and why is Draco's dad the Finland ambassor to Britain? Because the fair features and high cheekbones plus grey/blue eyes remind me of Scandinavians. Ooh, well sue me!

-Devilita-