Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
Warning: Mild sexual content, strong language
Lethobenthos
Benthos
βένθος (benthos): depth of the sea
A flurry of striped feathers sailed across the lead grey sky and into Draco's flat, bringing with it the scent of summer rain and disrupting Draco's quiet evening. The winged shadow glided across the slate grey wall and landed on a shadowy perch. Sprawled on the second-hand sofa with a book in hand, Draco shot a look at the intruder in question. Perched atop the back rest of a wooden chair, a familiar looking tawny owl stared at him with inscrutable black eyes. A square of what appeared to be a folded note was tied to its leg.
Draco knitted his brow; his heart skipped a beat. Half-forgotten memories of a certain someone were dragged from the depths of his consciousness back to the surface like flotsam. He remembered the cosy flat above the shop, the crooked grin, the dirty jokes, the smell of burnt sugar and fireworks and shea butter, the taste of rum and lime and mint, the summer blue twilight, the tense muscles beneath his fingers, the scarred, calloused hands roaming over his body, the lost look on a certain someone's freckled face...
Heaving a breath, he put his book aside, got up, went to the owl, and untied the note, which was damp from the rain. The note was folded into an origami envelope about the size of his palm. Ever so carefully he unfolded the origami, all the while fighting the urge to smooth out the creases lest he smudge the ink. The writing on the parchment was little more than two lines of scrawl in navy blue ink.
Want to meet? I'm free next Monday and Wednesday night. G.W.
He had almost forgotten about George Weasley and whatever it was that had transpired between them. What they had were nothing more than escapades, a dalliance between two former enemies. It hardly counted as a love affair. Every time he was convinced that he would never cross path with George Weasley again, the man would send him a note out of the blue, reminding him of their association and his own folly.
A flicker of agitation came over Draco. He folded the note in half and dropped it on the coffee table. The owl, whose name he did not know, was watching and waiting. It stayed silent and still as a stuffed owl; its eyes glinted in the pale lamplight like black glass beads.
"I suppose your master thinks I'll be at his beck and call whenever he pleases?"
The owl turned its head this way and that, as if searching for its master or an answer in Draco's flat. In the next beat, it shook its wings and tended to its feathers with its beak, all the while ignoring Draco. George Weasley must have instructed his owl to bring back a reply. Resigned, Draco grabbed a piece of paper and a pen.
He wrote out his reply in his usual cursive hand, and without thinking he folded the note into an origami envelope. With that done he went to the owl, who stared at him for a beat or two and raised one leg. Tying the note to the owl's leg, Draco muttered, "Tell your master not to wank off to my note." The owl hooted. "That's not funny."
Draco found some ham in the kitchen and gave a piece to the owl. While the owl gobbled down the meat, Draco ran a finger lightly over its feathers, and the owl let him. He had not owned an owl in years. It was not as inconvenient as he had imagined—not when he hardly had any correspondence by owl post these days. Except from George Weasley, he thought wryly.
"Better get going before it starts raining cats and dogs out there," he told the owl.
The owl crooked its head, cooed an indecipherable reply, and took flight through the window and into the darkened sky, leaving behind scratch marks on the chair and fallen feathers in its wake. Draco sighed and grabbed his wand on the coffee table. After clearing away the feathers, he settled down on the sofa once more with his book, but the words on the pages eluded his grasp. There was a stillness in the air; the silence in the flat was deafening. He closed his book and cast a look at George Weasley's note.
Two images flickered in his mind like a double exposure. In one lifetime, George and his twin were waltzing in the ice-rimed Great Hall, their movements fluid and perfectly in tune to one another, like two fish at play. In a different lifetime, George was dancing with abandon in the pulsating electric purple light of the crowded nightclub, a lone fish lost in a school of fish. Holding the images in his head for a beat or two, Draco let out a breath and let the memories sink to the bottom of the sea.
Rain drummed against his umbrella as Draco strode along the drenched street. Beneath the blue grey twilight of dusk, the ground shimmered with spilled lights: sodium orange with streaks of blood red and unearthly green and bone white. A double-decker zoomed down the street and splashed water about, a flash of white headlights and red rear-lamps like the arcs of spells. The warm moist air smelled of rain and dust.
He checked his watch. It was almost nine o'clock; he had dallied long enough.
He turned a corner and stepped into a narrow street barely wide enough for a single car to pass through. Shops were closed and their windows dark, while lights could be glimpsed behind drawn curtains in some of the flats above. There was no one about. After folding up his umbrella, he ventured into a dimly lit alley that opened up between grimy brick walls. Taking out his wand, he conjured a cloak for himself, pulled the hood over his head, and disapparated.
His spell brought him to the lightless door of 93 Diagon Alley. There was a hush in the air; the constant drone and bustle of the city beyond had ceased. Only the hypnotic sound of rain remained to fill the silence. Candlelight flickered in the empty alley, their ghosts shivering on the wet cobblestone pavement and in darkened shop windows.
After putting away his wand, Draco knocked on the door and stepped back. Several heartbeats later, the door glided open without a sound. Silhouetted in warm lamplight, George Weasley stared at Draco for a moment before flashing Draco a wry grin. "Hello, stranger." He stepped aside to let Draco in, his gaze trailing after Draco's cloak. "You really don't want to be seen with me, do you?"
"I'm not exactly a welcoming face in these parts."
"Well, I don't mind seeing more of your face in these parts." George closed the door behind him, shutting out the rainy night and the rest of the world. The lock slid shut with a clank; the protective ward rippled and fell into place. "Or we could meet somewhere else."
"It's more convenient here." Draco took off his cloak and shot George a knowing look. "And it's your place."
George blinked. In the next beat, his lips curved into a crooked smile. "Okay, you got me." He took Draco's cloak and left it by the cash register on the counter. "Want a drink?"
"Maybe later."
"Hmm, I'll have one myself."
George whipped a bottle of rum out of thin air, took a swallow, and absently wiped the mouth of the bottle with his thumb. Clad in a plain white T-shirt and black jeans, he cut a sharp and monochrome image in the midst of bright coloured products and garish displays. Draco's gaze lingered over the sinewy arm, the broad shoulders, the exposed collar-bones, the freckled face. There were dark circles around George's eyes, shadows that never seemed to fade.
Leaning against the counter, George eyed Draco's white shirt and black trousers, and a smile played upon his lips. "We could've been mistaken for a couple," he said in half jest.
"Yes, wouldn't that be hilarious," Draco mumbled.
He perched on a wood-and-glass display case and took in the clutter around him. Not much had changed in the shop since the last time he came by. Perhaps not much had changed since the time George Weasley lost his twin and partner in crime—not that Draco could tell either way. There was something vaguely morbid about his being here and George wanting him here in this playhouse of a shop where Fred Weasley once walked.
"How's business?" Draco asked.
"Blooming like a balloon. People are stocking up for the school year." Leaving the rum on the counter, George went up to Draco and stepped into his space, their bodies almost touching. A whiff of shea butter and skin musk coiled around his body and Draco's senses. "Been busy?"
Draco heaved a breath. None of it ought to matter—George's gaze, his voice, his body heat, his scent. And it had not mattered when George Weasley was nothing more than a memory that might or might not have happened. "Been working."
There was a flicker in George's eyes. "Were you supposed to work tonight?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm here." Tired of talking and tired of thinking, Draco grabbed George by the nape and prodded George's shin with his foot. "You didn't tell me to come here so that we could pour our bleeding heart out to each other for the rest of the night, did you?"
A strange look crossed George's face before his lips curved into a smirk. Leaning in, he slipped his arms around Draco and pinned him against the display case. "You know, I'm done playing nice anyway," he purred, his warm breath brushing against Draco's lips. "I'm going to make you cry and beg for mercy tonight."
"Spoken like a true sadist."
With that Draco silenced George with a kiss. A beat later, George deepened the kiss and tangled his tongue with Draco's. Snaking his arms around George, Draco felt a quiver of desire inside him and a thrill trailing down his back. As George slid his knee in between Draco's thighs and eased them apart, Draco slipped his hand under George's shirt and traced his spine. A sound that might have been a chuckle or a murmur escaped George's mouth and into Draco's.
A moment later, they drew apart to catch their breath. With a look Draco could not read, George gazed at him for some time before pressing a light kiss on the corner of his mouth, a gentle gesture contrary to his boastful words. It left Draco's skin tingling, a tingling not unlike that from a spell. He missed this—whatever this was between him and George. When George reached out to him and started unbuttoning his shirt, Draco reached out in turn and unzipped George's jeans.
Night fell. Silence stretched, heartbeat by heartbeat, breath by breath. Sprawled on the display case like a merchandise waiting to be sold, Draco let George rest on top of him and absentmindedly stroked his damp red hair. The rush and the heat of the moment had faded, leaving behind a familiar emptiness in his body and in his mind. Not wanting to move, he lay where he was, dishevelled and entangled with George, listening to the sound of rain and to his and George's breathing.
The painted ceiling above them was a kaleidoscopic explosion of fireworks and paints. Perhaps it was not far from the truth. Draco wondered if George had laid down like he did and contemplated the psychedelic vision from the same angle. He wondered if George had brought any potential lover over to his after-hour playground and shown them the same sight. No, it did not matter, he told himself.
At length, George got off him and pulled him along. Sitting up on the display case, Draco gazed at the man before him: the tousled hair, the veiled eyes, the slightly parted lips on the verge of speech. Without a word George slipped his arms around Draco's waist and pressed their foreheads together. "I like you, Draco," he whispered. "So does my cock."
Letting out a breath, Draco draped himself over George and closed his eyes. Sweet nothings after sex held little meaning, he knew, and he let George's words sink into the sea of his consciousness, into the depths that no one could reach. "That last line is redundant," he muttered.
George chuckled. "We don't always see eye to eye, my cock and I."
"You could use that as a slogan for your new line of adult toys," Draco quipped as he hooked one of his legs around George, keeping him there.
"Hmph, not a bad idea." There was a note of amusement in George's voice. He ran a hand along Draco's hip and thigh and back again, as if following a path to his train of thoughts. "I'll name one of our products after you. The Saucy White Shirt? The Boning Blond? What about the Toffish Todger?"
"It says more about your taste than your product."
"Can't deny that." When George leant in and kissed his neck, Draco tilted his head slightly and swallowed his unspoken words. Time came to a halt for a heartbeat of eternity. "Got work tomorrow?"
"It starts at eleven."
"One of your other jobs?" Draco made a vague sound, neither confirming nor denying George's conjecture. A lull fell between them for a moment or two like a veil. "Want to stay overnight?"
"Are you feeling lonely and horny without me?" Draco said in half jest.
A low chuckle sounded from George's throat, his lips lingering over Draco's. "Maybe I am," he breathed, and not for the first time, Draco felt something stir inside him, an itch lurking at the edge of reason he was in no hurry to appease. "Fancy staying?"
"If you'd make breakfast in the morning."
After disentangling themselves from each other, they cleaned up and got dressed. Draco smiled ever so wryly when he saw bottles of love potion glowing in the display case where he and George had been shagging. As if sensing Draco's gaze, George said casually, "Care for a bottle?"
"I can get by without it."
George whistled before taking Draco's hand and leading him further into the entrails of the shop, putting out the lights as he went. Beyond the gaudy joke shop proper was the more subdued Defence Against the Dark Arts room, and through the concealed door was a drab and dimly lit maze of shelves and boxes and bare brick walls.
It was here that he had sex with George for the first time, Draco remembered. He had expected curses and heated words and being beaten to a pulp; he had not expected George to proposition him. He doubted George had meant for it to be anything beyond a game of dare, a means of humiliation, a momentary lapse in judgement, an impulse to stave off boredom and loneliness, a half-hearted attempt at revenge, a one-night stand.
Draco had not meant to come back here after that night, and yet here he was again, like one of those people who only remembered another warm bed and another warm body on lonely, sleepless nights. Was it loneliness or lust or guilt about the past or something else entirely that compelled him to keep seeing George? As he felt the grip and warmth of George's hand, Draco pushed aside his musing and followed George to an old arched door.
Passing through the door, they climbed the spiral staircase and reached George's flat. The living room was a rustic, homely affair with a large bay window and ambient lights. The windows were open, and a pleasant chill trickled into the room. The blackened, melted remains of a cauldron lay on a charred tabletop like some avant-garde art piece.
"You've been busy experimenting, I see," Draco remarked.
"I have a flair for blowing things up is all. Sometimes the result turns out all right and I can sell it downstairs." George grinned. "Do you want something to drink? I have rum, gin, brandy, firewhisky, butterbeer, coffee, black tea, camomile tea, hot chocolate, milk, and the clearest and chilliest water you can get this side of Diagon Alley."
"Do you have lemon and honey?"
Some time later, they sat together on the sofa, their arms almost touching as they nursed the hot toddy Draco had made. The sound of rain filled the space and the silence between them, a comfortable silence that set Draco at ease. His gaze wandered from the puzzle boxes on the mantelpiece, the paintings of birds and forests on the wall, to the shelves overflowing with tattered books and rolls of parchments. There were no photographs in the living room—or in George's bedroom for that matter.
Perhaps George put them away before Draco came over; perhaps there were never any displays of photos in the flat to begin with. Draco did not ask, and George did not tell.
After taking a sip of the warm drink, George let out an appreciative sigh and contemplated the amber liquid in the cup. "Wish I could drink this every night."
"Come by the club some time, and I'll make one for you."
"Yeah, and I'd have to pay for it." With an all too cheerful smile on his face, George turned to Draco and nudged Draco's leg with his foot. "Will you accept my body as payment?"
Draco cast a glance at George's throat, collar-bones, and a glimpse of bare skin beneath the wide-neck T-shirt. A flicker of warmth came over him, and he could not be sure if it was because of George or the drink. "I'm open to negotiation outside of work." A beat. "Have you been sleeping much lately?"
Falling silent, George studied Draco's face as if studying the shape of his words, and his smile became ever so wry. "Are you worried about me?"
"You aren't getting any younger. Not that I'm any better."
George chuckled, and his expression softened. "Let's turn in for the night. And before I forget, your breakfast order, sir?"
Draco gave it a few seconds of thought and opted for a safer choice. "Eggy bread and bacon."
"Very well, sir. I prefer something sweet myself."
They moved to George's bedroom. It was as Draco had remembered: walls painted in the deep Prussian blue of the sea; furniture made of sturdy, solid cherry wood; a desk strewn with parchments and notebooks and writing tools; and a colourful handmade quilt draping the neatly made bed.
Without ceremony George pulled off his jeans and T-shirt, and he sat down on the bed, his smile laden with meaning. "So, to sleep or to shag—that is the question."
Without a word Draco stepped over George's clothes on the floor, straddled George on the bed, and tumbled with him onto the mattress. George's smile faded, replaced with an earnest look Draco had seen from time to time, but its meaning eluded him. What was on his mind, Draco wondered as he looked into George's eyes and saw his own ghost reflected back at him.
A pair of hands groped Draco's buttocks and distracted him from his musing. Draco narrowed his eyes, though in truth he did not mind. "It seems you are enjoying yourself," he drawled.
"Quite. I missed this."
As if to emphasise his words, George fondled Draco's backside for a few moments more before resting his hands on the small of Draco's back. "This." His hands glided upwards to stroke Draco's nape and hair, his touch affectionate and intimate. "This." With one hand he caressed Draco's cheek, his thumb brushing against Draco's lips; with his other hand he touched Draco's crotch, his gaze meeting Draco's. "And this."
Sucking in a deep breath, Draco did not lean into George's touch, but he did not move away either. "Any other things you missed?"
A hint of a smile touched George's lips. "There's more." And Draco, turning impulse into action, kissed the smile and the jokes and the teases and the words of affection from George's lips.
A world of blue and grey opened up before Draco's eyes when he woke from a quicksand dream, a dream he could no longer recall upon waking. As his mind caught up with reality, he looked beside him. Huddled under the warmth of the quilt, George was fast asleep, his breathing even and slow. Draco checked the time—nine past six. Resting his head on the pillow once more, he dallied in the comfort of George's bed and George's body heat.
At length, he slipped out of bed, gathered his things, and left George's room. Closing the door behind him, he found his gaze drawn to the other closed door at the far end of the narrow corridor, where the shadows were deep and dark. Behind the door was probably Fred Weasley's old room, and the closed door felt like a silent rejection. He doubted Fred would have been pleased to see him walking around naked in the flat. With a sardonic smile on his lips, he turned away from the door and stepped into the bathroom.
Showered and dressed and fully awake, Draco went to the living room and cleared away the cups from last night. The scent of George's soap enveloped his body, a scent reminding him of George's taste in his mouth. A heartbeat later, he collected his thoughts and opened the windows wider to let in some fresh air.
The morning was slate grey with a light drizzle and a touch of chill. Stillness hung over Diagon Alley like a canopy. Somewhere, a bird chirped, but that was all. Leaving the windows open, Draco rolled up his shirt sleeves and put on the horrid magenta robe George had left lying about on a chair. The sleeves were on the shorter side, but it would do.
When he went into the kitchen, a pale light flickered to life, illuminating a narrow but functional kitchen. Rummaging about George's pantry, he took eggs, bacon, a tomato, an apple, milk, butter, and half a loaf of bread. When was the last time he made breakfast for someone, he wondered as he beat the eggs in a bowl, and he added milk and a pinch of salt. He had never cooked for George before, and before George... He pressed his lips together. Some things were better left forgotten.
He fried six strips of bacon and split them between his plate and George's. He soaked four slices of bread in the egg mixture and fried them in melted butter. He garnished his own plate with sliced tomato, George's plate with half of the apple slices, and munched on what was left of the apple. Not knowing how sweet George liked his eggy bread, he left it at that.
Out of habit he washed the pan and the dishes, returned everything to where they belonged, and wiped the counter and the stove top. With a spell he kept George's food warm and protected from curious insect. With that done he made a pot of Earl Grey tea, took off George's robe, and charmed it clean lest George find out he had used his uniform as a makeshift apron.
The pleasant aroma of cooked food stirred up his appetite. Carrying his breakfast and tea to the living room, he shot a wary look at the melted cauldron on the wooden table. He suspected it amused George to leave the ruin of his experiment on display. Settling for the coffee table instead, he sat down on a plump floor cushion and started on breakfast. The eggy bread tasted all right, though he had forgotten to add black pepper.
There were noises coming from the corridor, bare feet padding across the wooden floor. George emerged a beat later, looking ruffled and harassed in his underpants. When his gaze fell upon Draco, he let out a breath, and his usual smile slipped into place. "Morning. Mm, smelling good."
"Good morning. Your breakfast is waiting in the kitchen."
A sheepish look appeared on George's face. "And here I thought I'd get up early to make you the Weasley breakfast special."
Draco had no idea what a Weasley breakfast special was, and at the moment he was not sure he wanted to find out. "Maybe next time," he heard himself say. George flashed him a smile and disappeared into the corridor once more.
By the time George sat across from Draco with his breakfast and tea, the sky had just begun to brighten. Taking a sip of tea, Draco cast a glance at George's plate. George had added a generous amount of syrup and what appeared to be ground cinnamon on his eggy bread, which he ate with more relish than Draco had expected. He doubted it had much to do with his cooking skill, however.
"So you can cook," George said in between bites.
Draco thought about the man who had taught him how to cook; in the next beat, he let it go. "Just simple dishes. My ex taught me the basics."
There was a flicker in George's eyes, but it might have been an illusion and nothing more. Lost in thought, he chewed his food slowly before he swallowed. "Your ex doesn't know what he's missing," he said after a moment of silence. With a quirk of a smile on his lips, he fixed his dark eyes upon Draco. "I think I just might fall for you."
Draco met George's gaze for a heartbeat or two and looked away. Somewhere down in the alley, a voice was saying something he could not catch. He could not tell if George was joking or not, but his heart skipped a beat all the same. Taking another sip of his lukewarm tea, he contemplated this trickster of a man who could switch from joking to flirting to serious to perverse to affectionate to raunchy within a few breaths. And beneath it all...
"Perhaps I like you more than you think," Draco whispered.
The look on George's face was one Draco had never seen before—he did not mind seeing more of it. "We need to fuck right now," George said simply, his voice husky and raw.
"We can't. I have work and so do you."
George blinked as if work were an alien concept to him, and a familiar crooked smile touched his lips. Reaching across the coffee table, he ran his fingers over strands of Draco's hair before his hand glided downwards to stroke Draco's cheek. "We'll save the fun for next time then."
Would there be a next time, Draco wondered as he leant into George's touch and closed his eyes. How long would this strange relationship of theirs last? Would either of them still remember much about their countless-night stand together when they were busy living their lives apart from each other?
Something was stirring inside him, like a small bird wanting to take flight. It did not matter, he told himself. He should enjoy it while it lasted. "You'd better tell your owl to stop shedding feathers all over my floor," he remarked before meeting George's gaze.
George chuckled, but there was an undercurrent in his gaze, a hidden message, a veiled emotion, a suppressed impulse. "Yeah, I'll tell him that." And Draco, holding George's hand as he would hold onto a memory he wanted to keep, laced their fingers together and let himself fall.
Finis.
A/N: The word "lethobenthos" comes from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. I'm second-guessing that the word is formed by combining "letho" (or "lethe", meaning oblivion) and "benthos" (depth of the sea), which gave me the idea for this story. Thank you for reading.