Unlike most people, Harry can fall apart completely. When they come for him – the memories, the nightmares, the agonising hours of insomnia – it starts quietly, subtly, he doesn't want to wake Draco. Not at first. He's careful to muffle the sounds in his pillow.
Only they never stop there – he never stops there.
Like tiny pinpricks, Harry's shuddered gasps nudge Draco out of sleep. At first they are part of his dream, the backdrop of empty pages and colourless skies; then gradually they gain contour. Sharp, erratic lines. His own lucidity recedes until all there is are the sobs, stinging in the silence.
Draco rolls over, then, to watch Harry's strong back buckle under the weight of his grief. When he cries, he is a boy again. Fragile and lost in a cupboard. He's always facing away from Draco, fist pressed against his lips but helpless against his ragged breaths.
That first movement is the hardest – reaching out to him. Not to console him; Draco never does. He wouldn't know how. He wouldn't know what for. All he knows is that in those endless minutes in bed, Harry Potter surrenders. He gives in to nameless demons, to whatever is haunting him night after night, and falls apart.
Tonight, he is desperate. His breathing is choked, pitiful. Draco knows that under Harry's cheek, the pillow will be soaked.
He waits until the spasms seem unbearable, before he reaches for Harry's shoulder and pulls him over. There's nothing gentle about the gesture. Harry always looks at him with the same plea, the same capitulation.
Draco won't speak when thumbing away the freshest, warmest tear that just left the corner of Harry's eye; and he won't when he grabs Harry's wrists and pins them to the bed.
Liberates his constricted ribs. Harry breathes.
His face is wet, fringe sticky with sweat and snot gathered in his philtrum. His dark lashes are clogged with tears. This Harry is beautiful, because no one else gets to see him.
At this point, Draco's heartbeat accelerates and he gets hard. He nudges Harry's legs apart with one knee, bowing his head and touching his lips to Harry's ear. There's nothing to say, but Harry always stills as if listening. His chest keeps heaving even as Draco stretches out on top of him.
There are no words for what Draco feels. Some have promised him redemption, forgiveness, but what puts him at peace is this pliant body, this tear-streaked face at his mercy. He'll let Harry be the weak one. The one who wasn't chosen. It's the one thing he knows how to do.
No words are dropped, none at all.
Draco slicks his fingers with spit, touches Harry, touches him there, and another spring of sobs wells from the abused throat. Harry buries his face in the crook of his arm. Draco pushes his fingers inside. His eyes never leave Harry's face that is crunched-up in pain, distorted by phantoms they never talk about.
Neither of them needs to hear it.
Even when Draco fucks Harry – and he always does, he won't be able to hold back – the crying doesn't stop. Sounds of sorrow uttered between the slap of flesh and huffs of breath. The choir will spiral Draco's lust so high it's blinding and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Only Harry's burning body and urgent hands tell Draco that he is not the one who's hurting him.
He never asks who it is. Draco won't take the guilt, or revenge.
When Draco's climaxed, Harry's close and Draco will take him in his mouth until he comes, with a sob that sounds no different from the others. The sheets are crumpled and smell of sweat and sex and men. Draped across them in a boneless heap, Harry exhales and stops crying.
The switch between one Harry and the other goes fast like the blink of an eye. Draco knows this. He's wary when stealing a kiss – now, finally, the world is theirs alone – then rolls back over to his side of the bed.
This time, Harry will be the first to fall asleep.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: Crying
Date: 2011-10-07 11:38 pm (UTC)***
Unlike most people, Harry can fall apart completely. When they come for him – the memories, the nightmares, the agonising hours of insomnia – it starts quietly, subtly, he doesn't want to wake Draco. Not at first. He's careful to muffle the sounds in his pillow.
Only they never stop there – he never stops there.
Like tiny pinpricks, Harry's shuddered gasps nudge Draco out of sleep. At first they are part of his dream, the backdrop of empty pages and colourless skies; then gradually they gain contour. Sharp, erratic lines. His own lucidity recedes until all there is are the sobs, stinging in the silence.
Draco rolls over, then, to watch Harry's strong back buckle under the weight of his grief. When he cries, he is a boy again. Fragile and lost in a cupboard. He's always facing away from Draco, fist pressed against his lips but helpless against his ragged breaths.
That first movement is the hardest – reaching out to him. Not to console him; Draco never does. He wouldn't know how. He wouldn't know what for. All he knows is that in those endless minutes in bed, Harry Potter surrenders. He gives in to nameless demons, to whatever is haunting him night after night, and falls apart.
Tonight, he is desperate. His breathing is choked, pitiful. Draco knows that under Harry's cheek, the pillow will be soaked.
He waits until the spasms seem unbearable, before he reaches for Harry's shoulder and pulls him over. There's nothing gentle about the gesture. Harry always looks at him with the same plea, the same capitulation.
Draco won't speak when thumbing away the freshest, warmest tear that just left the corner of Harry's eye; and he won't when he grabs Harry's wrists and pins them to the bed.
Liberates his constricted ribs. Harry breathes.
His face is wet, fringe sticky with sweat and snot gathered in his philtrum. His dark lashes are clogged with tears. This Harry is beautiful, because no one else gets to see him.
At this point, Draco's heartbeat accelerates and he gets hard. He nudges Harry's legs apart with one knee, bowing his head and touching his lips to Harry's ear. There's nothing to say, but Harry always stills as if listening. His chest keeps heaving even as Draco stretches out on top of him.
There are no words for what Draco feels. Some have promised him redemption, forgiveness, but what puts him at peace is this pliant body, this tear-streaked face at his mercy. He'll let Harry be the weak one. The one who wasn't chosen. It's the one thing he knows how to do.
No words are dropped, none at all.
Draco slicks his fingers with spit, touches Harry, touches him there, and another spring of sobs wells from the abused throat. Harry buries his face in the crook of his arm. Draco pushes his fingers inside. His eyes never leave Harry's face that is crunched-up in pain, distorted by phantoms they never talk about.
Neither of them needs to hear it.
Even when Draco fucks Harry – and he always does, he won't be able to hold back – the crying doesn't stop. Sounds of sorrow uttered between the slap of flesh and huffs of breath. The choir will spiral Draco's lust so high it's blinding and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Only Harry's burning body and urgent hands tell Draco that he is not the one who's hurting him.
He never asks who it is. Draco won't take the guilt, or revenge.
When Draco's climaxed, Harry's close and Draco will take him in his mouth until he comes, with a sob that sounds no different from the others. The sheets are crumpled and smell of sweat and sex and men. Draped across them in a boneless heap, Harry exhales and stops crying.
The switch between one Harry and the other goes fast like the blink of an eye. Draco knows this. He's wary when stealing a kiss – now, finally, the world is theirs alone – then rolls back over to his side of the bed.
This time, Harry will be the first to fall asleep.
***