[Fic] Burning Bright, Harry/Draco
Oct. 29th, 2011 01:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sirona_ficsTitle: Burning Bright
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Word count: ~1,900
Warnings: Mild drug use (marihuana), alcohol, UST.
Summary: Draco just wants to get away from the UK, take a break and figure out a few things, not least put paid to his embarrassing unrequited crush. Things don't quite go according to plan.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
altri_uccelli, for my prompt post from last week (this is the original thread). She asked for "Harry and Draco run across each other in a gay club in Amsterdam, neither having known the other was gay." This is the cleaned-up version (and boy, did it need cleaning up, oh god, I'm sorry, altri_uccelli, all those typos. /0\)
Draco walks through the hot pink door with more apprehension that he'd have ideally liked to feel. It's still so new, this freedom he feels, to explore whatever the hell he wants, acknowledge the persistent, no longer grudgingly content to be silenced part of himself. London had been a bust the one and only time he'd tried it, too loud, too brash, too in-your-face for someone who has yet to figure out what he wants, where he fits within this new label he finds applies.
Amsterdam, though. Well, that's different. 200-odd miles might as well be a world away for the difference it makes to the way he feels, looser and more open, t-shirt and skin-tight jeans natural where before he would have felt naked without his robes, constantly on edge from the chance of someone recognising him. Here, the latter at least is notably less likely.
He looks around, lets the heavy thump of bass in the air sink into his skin, warm his blood to near-boiling, raise goosebumps over his bare arms and speed up his heartbeat. Exhilarating, like a release, the way his breathing runs shallow, the more and more frequent press of bodies against him, a brush at the small of his back, the muscles of his outer thigh. Men and women's eyes slide over him, lingering, sending warmth coursing all over his skin. Daringly, he returns a few glances, lets his own gaze touch an arched throat here, the curve of a muscled shoulder there, a tattooed bicep just on the edge of the dimly-lit area around the bar. His fingers itch to touch; he feels almost skin-starved -- and likely is, after the past two years of utter hell.
He swats that thought away like an annoying gnat, set on enjoying the freedom of anonymity while he has it. His long, languid strides bring him to the bar; he waves towards a bottle of some kind, liquid white and shimmering under the blue spotlights. Smirnoff, the red label declares, Ice blocked out underneath it. Well, isn't that perfectly suited for the 'Ice Prince of Slytherin'.
He sips -- it's light, sparkling, lemony with a bite. He likes it. Turning, he braces an elbow on the bar, relinquishes the reigns of control, releases his mind from its cage. There's a sweet, musky scent in the air; he knows that smell, all the better from a week spent in this city. The club is thick with it, people's movements lazy and loose on the dance floor, touching everywhere they can without getting thrown out for it. Draco lets his eyelids droop, the muscles of his neck roll as he watches the sidelines, scouts out a space to lean away from the worst of the crush. There's a spot towards the back, free for the moment; he makes a snitchline for it, taking care not to bump into anyone too hard. There are people in the small alcove nearby, a group of them; the scent lingers heavy over their heads, billowing into strange shapes as Draco passes. For a second, just a brief one, his steps falter at the sight of a head of dark, messy hair, a familiar body curved forward, listening attentively to a stranger talking. Then Draco shakes himself -- impossible, he should know better. Worse, he's letting himself think of him again, and that has to stop. Hadn't he come to Amsterdam to get his hopeless crush out of his system?
Then again -- if you can't have the real thing...
Draco slips gracefully around the edge of the booth, taking care to cant his hips invitingly. Oh yes, this is just what he needs, thank Circe.
And then the man looks up, and Draco nearly chokes on his own spit, because it can't be. It fucking can't be, Merlin, how is this fair? Surely his eyes are making a fool of him. Must be the smoke.
But no. No, because when has Draco's life been easy, ever?
"Draco," the man--Potter--says cheerfully, voice ever so slightly slurred. "Is that really you? What the hell are you doing here, mate? Ah, never mind, pull up a chair, take a load off. Buy you a drink? Hey, everyone," he says loudly, not waiting for Draco to answer (probably a good thing, he'd be waiting a while. Draco's not sure he remembers how words are supposed to work), "this is my mate Draco, from the UK. Went to school together. Bloke's a fucking genius."
Mate? Genius? What is Potter smoking--oh, never mind. Of-fucking-course it would be just his luck to run into Potter hundreds of miles away from home, in a--wait.
Potter smiles happily up at him, eyes nearly dark with how dilated his pupils are. He's high. He's fucking high, the Saviour of the Wizarding World is high and probably drunk, too, it's the only explanation. Draco holds himself stiffly, all the looseness gone from his muscles until he feels like he's going to break if anyone touches him. Potter's grin doesn't fade, but it gains an edge that Draco recognises from years and years of watching him every spare moment he got.
"I can hear you thinking from over here. I truly hope you're not about to say any of that out loud."
Draco wants to splutter, wrestles his control back with an effort that shouldn't be so draining. You're the sodding Saviour, should you be doing this? he wants to say, and Is that any kind of example to set, Potter?, and How come I never knew you had it in you? In the end, though, he keeps quiet, catalogues the changes in Potter from the boy--the man--he last saw at the Malfoy hearing in front of the Wizengamot, standing up for a family that has brought him nothing but pain. The Potter before him doesn't seem to remember--or care about--any of that. His hair has grown out into even more of a bird's nest, glasses different, more suited to his grown-up face. And what a face it is, Draco thinks wistfully, taking another long drink from his bottle. Potter's eyes flick to his mouth, and when Draco would have expected him to look back up, Potter doesn't. Bucking every single belief Draco has ever held about him, that's the bastard's way. No, Potter's eyes linger over his lips, eyelids drooping when Draco slips his tongue out to lick off the stray drop he can feel try to trail down his chin.
Fucking hell. Potter looks like sex personified. Which brings him back to the original question.
"You do know what kind of club this is, don't you, Potter?"
The words, meant to be scathing and snide, come out more curious than anything. Fifth-year Draco would have been mortified. Post-war Draco is tired enough of the old feud that he doesn't even blink.
Potter is quiet for a moment, gaze still focused on Draco's lips before slowly rising to look Draco in the eye. The challenge in Potter's eyes is unmistakable. The silence draws taut between them before Potter breaks it.
"Oh, I'm sorry, were you expecting an answer? I rather thought that was a rhetorical question." His voice, Merlin, Draco can feel it even with the growling thrum of the music, low and slightly husky, languid, faintly mocking, not enough to get Draco's hackles rising. Draco finds himself smirking back.
"You may have a point," he allows. "You too, huh? Never would have pegged you for one, what with the Weaslette hanging on your arm like it's going out of fashion. Possessive, that one. How'd she take it?"
Potter's eyes glint for a moment; danger skitters down Draco's spine. It's... exhilarating; he feels alive for the first time since a sooth-filled room, flames licking the soles of his boots.
"Well enough," Potter says, not losing his relaxed stance, but enough of a warning in his voice to prevaricate any further discussion on the matter. Draco's not especially interested in following that conversational track; but just for a moment, he considers going through with it anyway, just to bait Potter, see those eyes flashing again.
Draco considers, for quite the first time, that he might be in a bit more trouble than he'd anticipated when it came to Potter -- or, rather, the things Draco wants to do where Potter is concerned.
He's been quiet for too long; worse, he's been so deep in thought that he's lost track of where his eyes have landed. When he blinks, he finds himself staring at Potter's mouth, red and shiny from the pull he'd just taken from his own bottle, smirking slightly. That look, it should not be allowed; Potter should not be able to look like this, reckless, tempting, almost debauched. Fuck, Draco wants to taste that mouth.
Potter's knee bumps against his when he shifts to let a man slide out of the booth they sit at. His legs splay wide open, the man's body momentarily cradled between them. Draco may have blacked out for a moment, because when he gets his bearings again he finds Potter grinning at him filthily, the glint of a sharp canine bared to the hazy light. Draco feels restless, skin too small for his body, jeans digging uncomfortably into a cock that hasn't been listening to sense for a while now. Potter's eyes slip lower, drag over his body like a physical caress, come to a stop over his crotch. Draco wants to grab him, manhandle him until Potter straddles his lap; wants to push Potter down on the worn velvet seat and climb on top of him, press down, bite at that spot under Potter's chin until Potter sighs and lets his legs fall open again, for Draco this time.
Bloody fuck, what is in that drink?
Potter bites at his lower lip, drags it through his teeth, lets it slip out flushed red, faint teethmarks showing. "You wanna get out of here?" he says, confident and so, so damn tempting.
Likely it's just the drugs and alcohol talking; even more likely, they'll both wake up tomorrow morning and be horrified about it (though for quite different reasons, Draco imagines). But Draco's feeling reckless, a little wild, if he's honest, and fuck, he'll take that chance.
"Hell yes," he says, and Potter--Harry--smiles at him, startlingly bright; all of a sudden that boy Draco's known and wanted for years is there again, underneath the sensual front, and he looks like all his Christmases have come at once. And damn, how is Draco possibly supposed to resist that? "Let's go, Harry."
Harry reaches over and lets their fingers tangle together, just a little, a kind of tentative that cracks right through whatever shell Draco still clings to desperately, old hurt and anger and hopelessness dissolving into fine dust at Harry's touch.
"Okay," Harry breathes, and Draco doesn't think he's imagining the relief in his voice, the bright happiness in his smile. Whatever tomorrow brings them, Draco can--will--deal with, for the chance to keep this, see where it goes, where it takes them.
-----
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Word count: ~1,900
Warnings: Mild drug use (marihuana), alcohol, UST.
Summary: Draco just wants to get away from the UK, take a break and figure out a few things, not least put paid to his embarrassing unrequited crush. Things don't quite go according to plan.
Notes: Written for
altri_uccelli, for my prompt post from last week (this is the original thread). She asked for "Harry and Draco run across each other in a gay club in Amsterdam, neither having known the other was gay." This is the cleaned-up version (and boy, did it need cleaning up, oh god, I'm sorry, altri_uccelli, all those typos. /0\)Draco walks through the hot pink door with more apprehension that he'd have ideally liked to feel. It's still so new, this freedom he feels, to explore whatever the hell he wants, acknowledge the persistent, no longer grudgingly content to be silenced part of himself. London had been a bust the one and only time he'd tried it, too loud, too brash, too in-your-face for someone who has yet to figure out what he wants, where he fits within this new label he finds applies.
Amsterdam, though. Well, that's different. 200-odd miles might as well be a world away for the difference it makes to the way he feels, looser and more open, t-shirt and skin-tight jeans natural where before he would have felt naked without his robes, constantly on edge from the chance of someone recognising him. Here, the latter at least is notably less likely.
He looks around, lets the heavy thump of bass in the air sink into his skin, warm his blood to near-boiling, raise goosebumps over his bare arms and speed up his heartbeat. Exhilarating, like a release, the way his breathing runs shallow, the more and more frequent press of bodies against him, a brush at the small of his back, the muscles of his outer thigh. Men and women's eyes slide over him, lingering, sending warmth coursing all over his skin. Daringly, he returns a few glances, lets his own gaze touch an arched throat here, the curve of a muscled shoulder there, a tattooed bicep just on the edge of the dimly-lit area around the bar. His fingers itch to touch; he feels almost skin-starved -- and likely is, after the past two years of utter hell.
He swats that thought away like an annoying gnat, set on enjoying the freedom of anonymity while he has it. His long, languid strides bring him to the bar; he waves towards a bottle of some kind, liquid white and shimmering under the blue spotlights. Smirnoff, the red label declares, Ice blocked out underneath it. Well, isn't that perfectly suited for the 'Ice Prince of Slytherin'.
He sips -- it's light, sparkling, lemony with a bite. He likes it. Turning, he braces an elbow on the bar, relinquishes the reigns of control, releases his mind from its cage. There's a sweet, musky scent in the air; he knows that smell, all the better from a week spent in this city. The club is thick with it, people's movements lazy and loose on the dance floor, touching everywhere they can without getting thrown out for it. Draco lets his eyelids droop, the muscles of his neck roll as he watches the sidelines, scouts out a space to lean away from the worst of the crush. There's a spot towards the back, free for the moment; he makes a snitchline for it, taking care not to bump into anyone too hard. There are people in the small alcove nearby, a group of them; the scent lingers heavy over their heads, billowing into strange shapes as Draco passes. For a second, just a brief one, his steps falter at the sight of a head of dark, messy hair, a familiar body curved forward, listening attentively to a stranger talking. Then Draco shakes himself -- impossible, he should know better. Worse, he's letting himself think of him again, and that has to stop. Hadn't he come to Amsterdam to get his hopeless crush out of his system?
Then again -- if you can't have the real thing...
Draco slips gracefully around the edge of the booth, taking care to cant his hips invitingly. Oh yes, this is just what he needs, thank Circe.
And then the man looks up, and Draco nearly chokes on his own spit, because it can't be. It fucking can't be, Merlin, how is this fair? Surely his eyes are making a fool of him. Must be the smoke.
But no. No, because when has Draco's life been easy, ever?
"Draco," the man--Potter--says cheerfully, voice ever so slightly slurred. "Is that really you? What the hell are you doing here, mate? Ah, never mind, pull up a chair, take a load off. Buy you a drink? Hey, everyone," he says loudly, not waiting for Draco to answer (probably a good thing, he'd be waiting a while. Draco's not sure he remembers how words are supposed to work), "this is my mate Draco, from the UK. Went to school together. Bloke's a fucking genius."
Mate? Genius? What is Potter smoking--oh, never mind. Of-fucking-course it would be just his luck to run into Potter hundreds of miles away from home, in a--wait.
Potter smiles happily up at him, eyes nearly dark with how dilated his pupils are. He's high. He's fucking high, the Saviour of the Wizarding World is high and probably drunk, too, it's the only explanation. Draco holds himself stiffly, all the looseness gone from his muscles until he feels like he's going to break if anyone touches him. Potter's grin doesn't fade, but it gains an edge that Draco recognises from years and years of watching him every spare moment he got.
"I can hear you thinking from over here. I truly hope you're not about to say any of that out loud."
Draco wants to splutter, wrestles his control back with an effort that shouldn't be so draining. You're the sodding Saviour, should you be doing this? he wants to say, and Is that any kind of example to set, Potter?, and How come I never knew you had it in you? In the end, though, he keeps quiet, catalogues the changes in Potter from the boy--the man--he last saw at the Malfoy hearing in front of the Wizengamot, standing up for a family that has brought him nothing but pain. The Potter before him doesn't seem to remember--or care about--any of that. His hair has grown out into even more of a bird's nest, glasses different, more suited to his grown-up face. And what a face it is, Draco thinks wistfully, taking another long drink from his bottle. Potter's eyes flick to his mouth, and when Draco would have expected him to look back up, Potter doesn't. Bucking every single belief Draco has ever held about him, that's the bastard's way. No, Potter's eyes linger over his lips, eyelids drooping when Draco slips his tongue out to lick off the stray drop he can feel try to trail down his chin.
Fucking hell. Potter looks like sex personified. Which brings him back to the original question.
"You do know what kind of club this is, don't you, Potter?"
The words, meant to be scathing and snide, come out more curious than anything. Fifth-year Draco would have been mortified. Post-war Draco is tired enough of the old feud that he doesn't even blink.
Potter is quiet for a moment, gaze still focused on Draco's lips before slowly rising to look Draco in the eye. The challenge in Potter's eyes is unmistakable. The silence draws taut between them before Potter breaks it.
"Oh, I'm sorry, were you expecting an answer? I rather thought that was a rhetorical question." His voice, Merlin, Draco can feel it even with the growling thrum of the music, low and slightly husky, languid, faintly mocking, not enough to get Draco's hackles rising. Draco finds himself smirking back.
"You may have a point," he allows. "You too, huh? Never would have pegged you for one, what with the Weaslette hanging on your arm like it's going out of fashion. Possessive, that one. How'd she take it?"
Potter's eyes glint for a moment; danger skitters down Draco's spine. It's... exhilarating; he feels alive for the first time since a sooth-filled room, flames licking the soles of his boots.
"Well enough," Potter says, not losing his relaxed stance, but enough of a warning in his voice to prevaricate any further discussion on the matter. Draco's not especially interested in following that conversational track; but just for a moment, he considers going through with it anyway, just to bait Potter, see those eyes flashing again.
Draco considers, for quite the first time, that he might be in a bit more trouble than he'd anticipated when it came to Potter -- or, rather, the things Draco wants to do where Potter is concerned.
He's been quiet for too long; worse, he's been so deep in thought that he's lost track of where his eyes have landed. When he blinks, he finds himself staring at Potter's mouth, red and shiny from the pull he'd just taken from his own bottle, smirking slightly. That look, it should not be allowed; Potter should not be able to look like this, reckless, tempting, almost debauched. Fuck, Draco wants to taste that mouth.
Potter's knee bumps against his when he shifts to let a man slide out of the booth they sit at. His legs splay wide open, the man's body momentarily cradled between them. Draco may have blacked out for a moment, because when he gets his bearings again he finds Potter grinning at him filthily, the glint of a sharp canine bared to the hazy light. Draco feels restless, skin too small for his body, jeans digging uncomfortably into a cock that hasn't been listening to sense for a while now. Potter's eyes slip lower, drag over his body like a physical caress, come to a stop over his crotch. Draco wants to grab him, manhandle him until Potter straddles his lap; wants to push Potter down on the worn velvet seat and climb on top of him, press down, bite at that spot under Potter's chin until Potter sighs and lets his legs fall open again, for Draco this time.
Bloody fuck, what is in that drink?
Potter bites at his lower lip, drags it through his teeth, lets it slip out flushed red, faint teethmarks showing. "You wanna get out of here?" he says, confident and so, so damn tempting.
Likely it's just the drugs and alcohol talking; even more likely, they'll both wake up tomorrow morning and be horrified about it (though for quite different reasons, Draco imagines). But Draco's feeling reckless, a little wild, if he's honest, and fuck, he'll take that chance.
"Hell yes," he says, and Potter--Harry--smiles at him, startlingly bright; all of a sudden that boy Draco's known and wanted for years is there again, underneath the sensual front, and he looks like all his Christmases have come at once. And damn, how is Draco possibly supposed to resist that? "Let's go, Harry."
Harry reaches over and lets their fingers tangle together, just a little, a kind of tentative that cracks right through whatever shell Draco still clings to desperately, old hurt and anger and hopelessness dissolving into fine dust at Harry's touch.
"Okay," Harry breathes, and Draco doesn't think he's imagining the relief in his voice, the bright happiness in his smile. Whatever tomorrow brings them, Draco can--will--deal with, for the chance to keep this, see where it goes, where it takes them.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-28 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 07:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-29 02:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 07:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-29 08:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 07:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-29 09:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 07:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-29 01:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 07:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-29 02:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 07:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-29 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 07:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-29 07:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 08:09 am (UTC)Heee, I shall leave that to your more-than-capable imagination! ;D Suffice to say that I do not believe in sad endings, so you may feel free to extrapolate from there!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-29 10:15 pm (UTC)Not going to repeat my outburst from after my initial read, but on rereads I was really struck by the physicality of it. You say Draco is touch-starved, and the way you write it I can feel it, too---the way his breathing runs shallow, the more and more frequent press of bodies against him, a brush at the small of his back, the muscles of his outer thigh. Men and women's eyes slide over him, lingering, sending warmth coursing all over his skin. Daringly, he returns a few glances, lets his own gaze touch an arched throat here, the curve of a muscled shoulder there, a tattooed bicep... And then his and Harry's mutual physical awareness and mouth-staring...mmmmmmmmm. So good. ♥ ♥ ♥
no subject
Date: 2011-11-01 08:11 am (UTC)God, I know. I can just imagine Draco's past two years, all frozen within himself, contained, a shell he put up to protect himself from the horrors around him. And I can imagine him shying away from any touch, hiding himself. POOR BABY. D: No worries, though, Harry will sort him out soon enough! :D
no subject
Date: 2011-11-16 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-19 09:58 am (UTC)