Where Dark And Light Don't Differ; NC-17 Title: Where Dark And Light Don't Differ Author:stonegrad Pairing: Lucius/Draco Rating: NC-17 Warnings: Incest, minor character death, some dark themes Summary:Draco Malfoy - a fall in six acts.
Notes: A Post-OOTP AU. Title filched from 'Immortal', headers from Richard Siken's 'Dirty Valentine'. Beta'd by Kristin and, although she claims she was half-asleep when she did it, all the remaining mistakes are still mine.
Where Dark And Light Don't Differ
Act one:There are so many things I'm not allowed to tell you
"Where is he?"
Curl of fog about his ankle, the softened slide of the point of his toe carving a gouge in the mud underfoot, and Draco shakes hair from his eyes and turns his face away.
"He'll be here;" softly, with conviction, gaze locked on the rolling stretch of pebbled beach rising through the mist, the low slap of waves ringing harsh and heavy to one side; he presses his chin firmly into the white fur of his scarf, burrows his fingers further into the pockets of his cloak, and sighs. "He'll get out."
There's a harsh snort in reply, sounding just a little too loud against a faded backdrop of the turbulent North Sea; it grates on the sudden not-quite-silence, and Draco's lip curls upwards, into an expression so familiar to the speaker that he follows it up with a faint chuckle.
"I should hope so," Potter says, and frowns slightly, mirth forgotten. "Not that I can quite believe that I'm actually endorsing a prison escape, by a Death Eater of all people."
Draco shrugs – The Order's involvement is a moot point, really. "You can't win this war without him," he states for the third time in as many hours, directing it towards the rest of the group and not just the Boy Who Lived in the vain hope that it will sink in this time. "He's the most powerful Dark wizard in Britain."
"Aren’t you forgetting Voldemort." It's Granger - of course – and she doesn't even bother to turn her head to look at him, all her attention instead focused on the beach where shortly, hopefully, his father will be arriving.
"He's somewhat hard to forget," Draco replies snidely, narrowing his eyes. "Though the only reason he isn't already dead is because Potter here is the only one who can kill him." He pauses, tilting his head to one side as he mulls over the thought. "Who the hell came up with that stupid prophecy, anyway? This war could have been over ages ago."
Shacklebolt shoots a pointed look back at Draco over one shoulder, his lips curling into something that might just be a half-smile. "And your father the Dark Lord, perhaps?"
"A questionable accusation;" cool, starkly upfront, with a lingering taste of annoyance on the tip of his tongue – his father is no cardboard cut-out of a villain, and it rankles him that they perceive him that way, though in the end he knows it is for the best that the Aurors are so easily fooled.
Cold slap of waves on the shoreline, the brush of hair across his jaw as the wind swoops in from over his right shoulder – Draco tunes out the reply with skill only the truly convicted can lay claim to, and focuses instead on the steady drag of air through his lungs, searching for any form of shadow within the mist; the boat must be here by now, surely?
A sound, barely so much as the whisper of cloth against skin, behind and slightly to his right – it's enough.
"Waiting for someone?"
Tilt of the head, glance back, and Draco smirks as his companions flourish their wands and spin in a flair of heavy winter robes and sparks; from beneath his lowered lashes, Lucius looks them top to toe, the wind biting a smear of colour into his cheeks, the hem of his damp black coat gathering sand. And he is the same, or close enough, to when Draco last saw him – the high flare of arched cheekbones, silvered flash of sharpened irises, white-blond hair braided slick down his back. The same down to the fine white trickle of scar tissue over the ridge of his collarbone, peeking up sharply where the neckline of his shirt has pulled to one side, the pale skin glistening with beads of sea-spray.
Though he can see, when he looks closer - focuses hard enough that the barriers his father has around him seem like tangible things of magic rather than of the mind – when he does that, Draco detects the hint of stiffness in an otherwise languid pose, the way the fingers of one hand have curled in ever so slightly, as if to make a fist in order to relieve the pain. Broken ribs, probably; he'll help fix them when they finally get time to be alone, but not yet.
There can't be any sign of weakness, not here, not now.
"You would think that, wouldn't you?"
Act two:I touch myself, I dream.
There is something unearthly about all that merciless grace, something that he can't put his finger on, that isn't made to be understood, only appreciated – and feared by all but a few. Draco, wand clutched in his fist, back to the wall, sweat making his shirt cling to his skin, isn't afraid, but he knows he's the only one in the room who feels that way.
Smoke, grey, shimmering, billowing up around his toes and pressing thick against the closed windows, the figures within it smudged into shadows, the taste of burnt cloth in the back of Draco's throat; a spell takes the sting from his eyes, another to allow him to breathe properly, and he doesn't look away from the tall, swirling silhouette of his father back-dropped by fire and wand-light – he doesn't give a damn where Potter's ended up.
Lucius looks ethereal, made up of blurred half-movements, barely visible, the white of his skin dusted grey, lips drawn back first into a snarl and then a smirk, then filtered away by another plume of light.
There's a voice, jagged, barely discernable from the roar of flames crashing against wards; Draco manages to catch only the tail-ends of Potter's spells –cendio, -upefy, -ego, but he's not really listening to them anyway. Lucius, for his part, is mostly silent but for the occasional bark of laughter, ringing crisp and clear, ricocheting off the walls and bringing a not-quite-uncomfortable warmth to the base of Draco's spine.
Another booming impact, and the walls shiver, the wards waver and flash and hold, and Draco turns his head to one side as a wave of heat sears through his cooling charm; beside him, or not quite, the rest of the Golden Trio are all squared shoulders and slitted eyes and how do you think he's going? – it's bloody hot in here; oh, oh, he's hit him, has he? – no, no he hasn't – you can do it! – come on Harry, come on! – just stun the fucking bastard already!
The smile that pulls at his lips feels like a victory, because Potter's not going to win this duel, is never going to beat Lucius in all these long practices. Though he knows that's not the point – all Potter has to do is learn how to survive long enough to see the Dark Lord killed and, possibly, manage to make it out at the end of the fight alive. And the Order threw him into this room with Lucius to show him exactly how damn hard that's going to be.
There's a second of silence within the smoke, the flash of a figure that must be Potter, crouched low to the ground, and then the briefest glimpse of his father, straight-backed, prowling, all blank and smooth and tight as a coiled spring; a jet of light streaks over his shoulder, throws sudden light through his eyes, and Draco sees his lip curl before he's swallowed into the grey haze again.
He wonders how long it's going to last, this time; wonders what spell it will be that will end all this; wonders if he'll get a turn today. Tries to figure out if he'll press himself up against his father in amidst the smoke where no one will be able to see them, twine around him like he used to when he was young, when Lucius would pull him into his own bed because he couldn't sleep and his body would be wrapped up in his father's like somehow they were both boneless, melting into each other, so close he could never tell which heartbeat was his.
He wonders if anyone can tell that he's hard; figures they could, if they looked at him, but doesn't care all that much, in any case.
The smoke clears, only briefly, and Lucius is closer to him than Draco thought he was, wand in one hand, smile spreading slow and seductive over the curve of his lips, one glance shot back over his shoulder and Draco's breath catches in his throat, his hand spasms around his wand, itches because those grey eyes are dazzling and beautiful and for a moment the only thing he can think is he knows, oh god he knows - but then Lucius is looking away again and all he can see the flex of muscles beneath a white shirt turned transparent, the black smear of the Dark Mark showing under a sleeve, the ribbon in his hair. And then the smoke is closing in again and he can't see anything.
Not that he needs to see – not really. He can imagine the way the fight is going: Potter, scrambling and sweating and dizzy, desperate, fire at his back and predator at his front, movements all quick and jerked because his muscles are screaming and he's out of breath… and Lucius, Lucius: hot and cold and bright and black and waiting, stalking, wanting; blood thrumming, magic singing through the air between them, wordless, flowing, loving every minute of it because this is part of him, this is just another part of him and no one else can every truly understand that.
Draco takes a deep breath, glances to the side to make sure no one is watching him, and slides his hand down to the front of his trousers, arching his hips forwards as he curls his fingers around the outline of his cock; reality wavers, focuses again on the smoke turning everything grey, and, somewhere beyond that, the darkened smear of movement he knows is his father.
His grip tightens, ruthless, quick because he doesn't know how long this is going to last, because he doesn't want anyone to see him, and by the time the smoke has cleared enough to give him a glimpse of Lucius again he's already pitching over the edge, coming hard and hot, teeth in his lower lip, moan smothered by the crackle of magic slamming into the wall a meter from his head.
And Lucius' eyes are on him, his body curved half-way into another movement, hair shaken loose from it's braid, twisting over his collarbone, his cheekbones graced with a flush; savage and gorgeous, white skin burning, laughing, spinning away from him and swallowed again before he has time enough to blush.
A sudden flash of light, and there's Potter, thrown ten feet through the air like a rag doll, Draco's eyes fixing on the distorted arch of his back as he slams into a Cushioning Charm nearly cast too late – the sudden silence seems unnatural, the air cleared with a spell until it's just a room, grey stone and blank walls and the windows closed against the wind. Lucius' voice is cutting through the stillness, sharp as broken glass.
Act three:Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour,
The pulsing silence seems to hang in the air for an eternity, the bright light spinning, blooming into the hot, sudden space where his father had been but isn't, the dull roar of impact sounding delayed; dirt slaps him hard in the cheek, a rock clips him in the shin, and for a long moment he feels himself flying, thrown from his feet, twisting, palms slapping so hard against the ground his arms shake – every breath he takes tastes like fury, and fear.
Draco pushes himself back onto his feet, hair in his eyes, blood beading on his bottom lip, turning in time to catch the way Lucius' lips curl around the last syllable of Kedavra, one arm extended, the flash echoed through the grey of his narrowed eyes; and Draco is moving before the body has fallen, smoke in his eyes, tuning out the screams in favor of the labored rush of his own breathing as he runs.
"Where's Potter?" he yells, but his father can't hear him; is busy, anyway, tangled and twisted and coiled into a fight with another Death Eater, tumble of bodies into the dirt, and Draco doesn't stay to watch the neck snap because he can't think of that, there's someone coming up to him and… wham! Solid weight of a person slamming into his side, the smell of burnt flesh, and Draco feels his whole body jolt with the force of it, consciousness wavering, barely aware of the way he brings his wand up, the point of it pressed against a broad chest; and he doesn't hear the words that leave his mouth, but he feels the magic flare under his skin, feels the force of the spell throw them apart. The ground under one shoulder as he rolls, swearing, and then back onto his feet and running again. Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't…
A glimpse to one side, and there's his father, spinning away from a jet of light, snarling, lunging, a flash and the hot splatter of blood against the side of Draco's face and god damn it don't stop, keep running Lucius is moving again, outpacing him, ducking another spell and there's the bright white-light of him illuminated in green and don't look, don’t fucking look another body flying and Draco is saying "Incendio" to the person leaping in front of him before he even knows he's taken a breath.
And there are more of them, always more, just a flood of them, pressing in on every side and Draco can't see Lucius anymore though he knows he's there, he's nearby - but there's no time for looking because there's smoke and fire and dirt on his fingers, blood in his mouth, the edge of his robe singed, muscles screaming as he tears his wrist free from Rabastan's grip, dives to the ground and feels more than sees the light tear through the space he's left.
He doesn't know where Potter is – has no idea what's happening with the Dark Lord; doesn't give a damn, because he's scrambling at the dirt and getting to his feet and there's the hot flash of a spell inches from his back, the impossibly high note of a scream in the distance and a glimpse, just a second, of Lucius sinking a knife into the white skin of Rabastan's neck and look away, damn you, damn you the dark circle of Rabastan's mouth forming a word he never gets to finish, the rush of blood from between his lips and keep moving then Draco is running again.
It's dark; the smoke is thick, burning his eyes, and he can hardly see but he keeps going anyway, hand clenched around his wand so hard his knuckles are white, trying to hear his own voice screaming spells, fighting to keep his feet – the world is tilting, reality spinning into a blur of fire and light, deafening, straining, and oh fuck there's Potter, wand to wand with the Dark Lord, spells flying and he can't watch, has to keep moving, can't be a target.
Don't stop, don't stop, move, damn it, move!…
There's heat at his back, another opponent appearing ahead, and Draco lunges forwards like a hound released from the leash, ducking under the first spell, deflecting the second, watching the light bloom from the tip of his wand and the fire leap up the black robes – got to cast something else, anything else, and end this!
It's not the first time he's said it, not tonight; not the first time there's been green light reflected in his eyes and a body thrown away from him, the slap of it hitting the ground that he can't hear but can imagine well enough. No time to think, don't think…
He moves, he stumbles, tries to catch himself, nearly throws up when his head connects with the ground, but can't, can't move, can't think, can't breathe.
Act four:pretending that this skin is your skin,
He wakes to the feeling of winter rain on his face.
It is not a pleasant feeling, by any means - the water is bitterly cold, and the heavy drops numb his skin within seconds - but it is a feeling nonetheless. Proof enough of his own continuing existence and that, right now, is nearly all he needs. Nearly.
Draco takes a shallow breath when the spinning in his head has settled - feels nothing but a dull throb of cramped pain lance through his calf and the distant ache of his battered body, and breathes deeper with more than an edge of relief. Around him, the air still crackles with residue magic, raising goose bumps on the exposed flesh of his arms; he blinks once, twice, and then finds his voice.
The ground beneath him is hard, unyielding, turning quickly to mud; he wipes a trembling hand over his face, and levers himself gingerly upwards, slitting his eyes against the driving rain – the sky is the grey of used dishwater, and every breath tastes charred and underlined with just the faintest trace of half-cooked meat; if he only had something in his stomach, he knows he would be throwing up right now, but he isn't and he's glad for it.
His wand is laying next to him, slicked with streaks of blood, the tip half-buried in the dirt; he pries it loose, cleans it somewhat ineffectively on the equally dirty shreds of his robes, and weighs the solid weight of it in his palm – cool and glistening and tangible.
But not what he's looking for.
Nowhere in sight; not even close enough for Draco to feel him, to feel the comfort of his pulsing gravity, the ache of his magic prowling along the edge of his mind, the yearning pull to melt and meld and just be… oh god… "FATHER!"
He scrambles to his feet, wavers, nearly falls, vision tilting into threatening darkness before firming again – all he can hear is the pounding of rain, the dull rumble of thunder somewhere far off in the distance, and there, there, the tail-end of a yell from someone who must be inside the castle, looming up sharply at his back.
Lucius won't be there. If he's alive, he'll be out here, out here with the bodies, out here with the blood and the pain and looking like he belongs in all the chaos and destruction and death – Draco isn't naïve enough to think that his father doesn't like it, because he's sure he does, just a little, just a tiny bit.
Where is he? Where is he? Where is he… where is… where…
On his first step, he stumbles, hair plastered flat to his head, run of droplets down the curve of his jaw; and the mud is too slippery and his balance isn't very good right now and there's this void where his thoughts are supposed to be, and he should be afraid or sickened or anything, anything to go along with the sheer panic running through him. But there's nothing, there's absolutely nothing.
He's seen death before, of course, could see the Thestrals on the first day of his first year at Hogwarts, even if the only thing he can remember now is the limp curl of Abraxas' fingertips on the starched white hospital sheets, the way his father's lips turned up just a little bit in one corner. But forward, further, to the cooling body strewn across the gravel path, the flash of green imprinted on his eyes, the anger he could feel burning sharp and hot through Lucius' body when soft lips pressed against his forehead… and forward, again, again, to the glint of light off the knife-edge and the carpet stained red, the way Aunt Bellatrix's laughter had echoed and his mother's face had tightened.
And yes, he has imagined this, the battle, the Final Battle, but the reality isn't the same as his nightmares. There's more blood, more invisible trip-lines of wards and traps crisscrossing across the butchered ground, more rain ringing off steel – a lot of Death Eaters aren't adverse to using knives when a spell just doesn't seem personal enough.
Lucius used knives, he remembers, can see that playing through his head even when he doesn't have his eyes closed; the fluid stretch of forearm and blood arcing out in slit-throat unison, the curve of a snarl, the pulse of magic echoing the air like the strings of a violin. Just his father and a long dagger with runes etched into the steel, and Draco scans what ground he can see through the rain, half-hoping to see it.
Nothing. Well, not nothing – never nothing – but not what he wants to see - and there's desperation clawing at the pit of his stomach, bile at the back of his throat, hands shaking; whole body shaking like a leaf in fact, but he can't just stand here and not do anything. He can't. He won't.
A direction, any direction, out towards where the fight was thickest, where the corpses are torn by claws as much as spells, by werewolves and Death Eaters turned savage; you can tell the ones the Order killed, if only because they are still mostly intact. This is where his father will be – this is where he was before, anyway, where Bellatrix was, where Snape was. The Inner Circle fractured and at each other's throats, if only because no one else could take them on - if only because they were the only ones on the battlefield quick enough to get away with torture when the powers that be demanded death.
Three more steps, four, five, and any second now, any second and yes, yes, there! The sudden low shiver of a presence at the edge of his mind, the weight of an invisible gaze rocketing down his spine - warm, bright, unmistakable. There is a sharp jolt in his chest as his heart beats faster, and he moves as swiftly as he can with mud and blood and bodies underfoot; five meters, seven, ten, twelve, and there's heat blooming at the base of his skull and he can feel the distance closing like a vice, drawing him on through the driving rain, half-blind, unsteady.
Movement, ahead, blurred by water but real, definitely real, and Draco feels as if his lungs are going to burst because there's no way he's wrong; there's no one else in the world who makes the air feel like that, like it's full of lightning, like the magic in his blood is spilling out, loose and fluid and pulsing like a heartbeat. Both hands on the ground, half-way into a crouch, the rain making the blood streaking his hair turn pink, the porcelain-white curve of his neck bared, gloves gone, missing robes and down to only a once-clean shirt and black trousers that cling tightly to the stretch of his legs, the faint glint of steel on his boots; there's no one else in the world like that.
Lucius comes, wavering, onto his feet, and Draco knows before he even manages to get close enough to touch him that there's something wrong, that he's in pain; just something in the set of his jaw, in the angle of his body, the way his head turns - and then there is only the stumbling lurch of his steps and, seconds later, the solid weight of him wrapped tight within Draco's arms.
Act five:these hands your hands,
They heal him and drug him with enough potions to knock out three men twice his size, but even then it takes a while to work. Lucius has a naturally high tolerance for many things, Dreamless Sleep and Restorative Draughts among them - though it is certainly a mixed sort of blessing.
Draco presses his palm to the door, focuses as the wards shiver and throb against his skin, an undulating pressure spreading in a slow crawl up his arm like an electrical current; they won't hurt him, and he knows it, but Lucius' magic is loose, and strong enough in small doses – these wards are huge.
That, and he's not entirely sure that he'll be able to handle what he's about to find; if he'll be able to keep his restraint, keep the mask firmly in place, especially before the man who knows him better than anyone else will ever be able to, asleep or not.
He takes a breath, another, rests his forehead against the cool wood as he pulls down the handle and lets the door swing open just enough to allow him to slip through.
There is warmth, the fire roaring, the curtains shut tight and it's hot and he doesn't know if he's going to be able to breathe and there's his father, pale on the bed, drawing his gaze; and then he can see only the long white lines of a single leg bared to the heat, naked and gleaming, the corner of the black sheets bunched over the curve of a muscled thigh, barely concealing the sharp angle of his hip – and not enough to hide anything above it.
Draco's eyes trace the musculature of that stomach, rising and falling in slow, faint motions with every breath; travel, with no small amount of wonder, up the long grooves and sloping planes, catching now and then on the fine white scars creeping across the skin like ivy, where the tail of the whip coiled around his father's side to bead blood over his ribcage. Up, slowly, to find the dipped curve at the point those ridged collarbones meet, the stretch of a pale, unmarked neck; the loose tangle of Lucius' white-blond hair coiled over it and drawing his gaze further along, to the point of his jaw and the aristocratic angle of one cheekbone, the other pressed firmly into the pillow.
Here, he lets his attention rest, traveling idly from the arched line of a blond eyebrow, the obscenely delicate flare of white eyelashes lying against the silk of his skin, the slightest parting of those lips with no flicker of a smirk in sight – his father looks softer, yes, but only in the way of rapier sheathed in thin velvet.
He sighs, wistfully, half ashamed that he cannot find the self-control to turn his head away. Who could? This is but the slightest glimpse into a mystery, an enigma, a puzzle that only creates more questions and has no answer. A moment he knows he owes entirely to the potions lacing his father's blood – if it were any other time, Lucius would have woken before he had even managed to open the door…
This might be the only chance he's ever going to get.
The impossible closeness of their situation starts a humming in his blood, a spike of dizzying vertigo, and all that is left is the pull of Lucius' gravity and the knowledge, so bittersweet, that he could turn away now. Just one step, back through the door, and this never happened, he never saw, never wanted, never needed…
But he can't.
Quietly, one hand moves behind him, fingers curling around the door handle and easing it down, pushing until the lock catches and the wards hiss back into place; Draco takes another long breath, and lets his thumb run along the wood as he lets go. No turning back now.
Three steps forwards to fling his cloak over the back of a chair, and two more to the side of the bed, his breathing quickening with every movement, heart thumping, mouth gone dry, sweat on the back of his neck – he can feel himself trembling with something akin to fear as he reaches out to bunch a corner of the entirely un-tucked sheet within his fist, searching for some sort of anchor, stability of any kind.
Slowly now, cautious, quiet, afraid and elated and oh god one finger trailing along the arch of a pale foot, sliding up to find the vein at the back of Lucius' ankle, to rest upon the smooth skin so lightly he does not know if it counts as touch at all. Just a spider-trace of his palm up slow along the curve of one calf, watching the muscle tense ever so slightly at the contact, marveling at the fact that the hairs are so fine and pale that he can't even see them, can barely feel them – thumb to the pulse at the back of a knee, over a thin scar only the tiniest bit higher up, and he knows there is a line, a line he's going to cross very soon, if he hasn't already.
Draco leans forwards further, balancing himself with his free hand, splayed across the space bordered by angled thigh and toned stomach; precarious, but he doesn't care because his cock is hard and his head is spinning, the world is tilting, and this is all that matters.
Slip of his fingers, sweat down his spine, and the heat makes his head spin just a little bit more than it already is, hand moving slowly up the back of a pristine white thigh, knowing there are knife-marks on the other, wondering if the sheet bunched over Lucius' hips will fall away when he touches it – hoping it will, because he wants to see it all, all the sweat and skin and silk and scars, stripped of every barrier bar the ones that never, ever come down.
Lucius moves in his sleep, fluidly, softly, eyelashes fluttering, and Draco's hand slides higher, up under the sheet, well and truly over the invisible line of propriety, gaining purchase on the sharp point of one clearly defined hipbone – if he were to look up, to tear his gaze away from the sight of black silk spread over his knuckles, he might manage to see the faintest sliver of grey and the dark smear of dilated pupils focusing beneath those heavy eyelids.
His father makes another movement, one leg slipping on the fabric covering the mattress, the pale stretch of white neck bared further to the kiss of air so hot it sears the skin; the muted hiss of a breath being drawn between perfect teeth. A thrill of fear crawls down Draco's spine, but he doesn't move away, doesn’t move at all. Lucius tilts his hips, back arching in a long, languid curve, the points of his shoulder blades digging firm into the bed, and his eyes flash open the same instant that Draco's hand looses purchase on his hip and slides down to brush the tip of his flushed cock instead.
The world stops.
Lucius doesn’t say anything – his face is perfectly blank, masked, and the heat of his body seems to burn even more than the fire roaring in the grate, so terribly close; Draco can feel the hard length of his father's cock branding the skin of his palm. His throat closes over – breathing doesn't seem necessary, and he's not certain that it's entirely possible, anyway.
"I," he chokes, and gets no further – for an instant there are tears blazing in the corners of his eyes, clinging tenuously to his eyelashes, but they dry up as quick as they come; even knowing the inevitable, the fall of a hammer upon the anvil, he finds the sight of that darkened gaze, pupils ringed with a thin line of grey, is enough to mute the agony that has coiled in the pit of his stomach.
Flash of a pink tongue, the soft sound of the mattress moving, and Draco nearly overbalances when the elegant fingers of one hand curl about his forearm, a thumb pressing into the vein running along the underside, the muscles of Lucius' stomach flexing in the most unbelievable ways as he raises himself easily from the bed - so close now that their chests are nearly touching, faces mere inches apart.
Draco doesn't dare to risk so much as a glance; he closes his eyes, body tensing, not knowing what he is expecting but afraid all the same, because, oh god, he's ruined it. He's ruined everything.
Breath warms his lips, brings goose-bumps to his skin even though the room is like a furnace, and he knows, he knows that mouth is only centimeters away, so near he can feel his father's nose grazing his cheek, a lock of that white-blond hair clinging to the sweat on his own jaw. Oh, god, he's ruined everything.
"I won't stop," Lucius whispers, low, like the flitter of air slipstreaming off the curve of a wing. It's a warning, but not the one he's expecting, and Draco opens his eyes and his mouth at the same time in order to say 'what' or an inelegant 'huh' or anything, anything, but instead there's the hot press of a mouth to his and the flare of lightning across his skin and, sudden-but-not, the movement of a tongue trailing his bottom lip and then slipping inside. Curling around his own, slick and too-warm, and Draco feels himself falling forwards with such distance that it's as if he's not inside his own skin anymore; feels hands on him, steadying him, drawing him closer, but he can't think and he can't breathe and he thinks this might be what dying feels like…
The moan that rises from him seems as if it is being wrenched from the back of his throat, harsh, unexpected, the shock of it making him fumble, hand slipping against Lucius' cock; and the low growl that his father makes in reply sounds as if it should be impossible, too primal and predatory by far, his hips slanting upwards into the contact, tongue moving once more to find Draco's reddened lower lip before his teeth sink into it, not quite hard enough to draw blood.
He reaches out, blindly, feels skin and scar and muscled shoulder beneath one palm and throbbing heat under the other, the sound of a cracking joint ringing dull and hollow when he twists his wrist and firms his grip; against him, Lucius feels like coiled wire, hard and smooth and hot, too hot.
The teeth in his lip retreat, and that mouth goes with it – not far, not far at all, Lucius' breath shivering across his cheekbone, that smirk so close it's out of sight; and Draco does not hear himself make any sound as they part, though he knows he has, shifting minutely to get both knees onto the bed, watching the firelight flicker and shift and swirl and turn his father's eyes glassy, too full of reflections to name what lies submerged beneath.
Fingers along his arm, curling around his wrist, sliding up under the cuff of his white shirt until it's flesh against flesh, and then higher, pulse to pulse; blood humming against blood, a flash of magic between them - and he can see it now, the silvered cast to Lucius' skin, the lazy unraveling of sparks trailing down the side of his father's jaw. And there is a tongue flickering out to touch the middle of his upper lip, the hiss and spark of a fire burning without fuel in the room beyond, the amused puff of air against his face that turns itself into the press of a partly-open mouth to his cheek; the air between them throbs like a conjoined heartbeat, and he's hard, aching, going to explode at any second and oh god…
He takes a breath, slides his thumb up the base of Lucius' cock, and leans forward to bury his smile in the creamy juncture of neck and shoulder, a trickle of sweat making its way down from his temple; muscle tenses under his lips, his father's body arching up against him yet further, the fingers around his arm tightening and then relaxing. The serpentine hiss of a bitten-back moan seems somehow sharper than any blade could ever be.
There - bruises being pressed into his skin, darkening, blooming under the soft pads of Lucius' fingers like blood through cloth; and there, hard white leg twining around his own, fluid stretch and curve; and... there, heart pounding, cramp beginning somewhere in the ball of his foot; and now… hot velvet head of his father's cock in his loosely clenched fist, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sidles further onto it, the taste of sweat and black leather and wine on the tip of his tongue, underscored by something bitter and medicinal.
"Lie down," he whispers, and the hot rush of Lucius' breath sounds like laughter, the firelight ringing off the angles of his face, over the quirked line of his lips, absorbed into the sheets under them and oh Merlin but he's beautiful, so beautiful when he lowers himself onto the bed like that, all bright and hot and burning.
Draco settles himself, lying half-draped over one pale thigh, cheek pressing into the firm muscle of his father's stomach, feeling a hand resting oh so lightly on the back of his neck; his eyes, narrowed to slits, are focused on the long, impossible stretch of those legs, the hard cock curved upwards with his own white fingers curled around it – he strokes it slowly, tip to root and then back up again, listening to the silence where a breath ought to be, but isn't.
"Are you –" Draco begins, hand stilling, but doesn't manage to continue; Lucius' hips jerk upwards sharply, a low moan filling the air between them as nails dig in lightly either side of his neck. He closes his eyes, and fights back the urge to laugh. "Impatient much?" Just a murmur, and he tilts his head so he can press his lips to the hot skin of his father's abdomen, so he can trail is tongue down the dipped curves of those defined muscles, silk-smooth, sheened with a layer of sweat; his cock throbs, the air burns his lungs, and it's too hot to be this close but he's not going to move away.
He twists, and Lucius moves with him, one leg sliding between his own until there's pressure against him and it's his turn to moan, eyelids fluttering down, open mouth resting just beneath the older man's navel, thumb traveling up the underside of the cock still within his grip; when he finally manages to gain his equilibrium back, he ducks his head down and it's his tongue that traces the path instead.
"Draco." Low, soft, and he glances up because he can’t help himself, because it's impossible to resist; Lucius tilts his head on the pillow, eyes closing, neck arching, the light shattering on his pale hair, strewn across the sheets in long coils. The high arches of his cheekbones are tinted with the faintest shade of pink – Draco shivers, presses his forehead into the crease of Lucius' thigh, and tries to remember what breathing feels like; wonders, briefly, what will happen if he passes out.
Instead, he moves his head again, splays his fingers over the scars on his father's hip, tosses hair from his eyes and presses the flat of his tongue to the base of Lucius' cock, drags it up slowly; tastes something bitter and dark and addictive, and when he reaches the head he parts his lips even more and locks them around it, hollows his cheeks as he slides down as far as he can go without choking. Lucius lets out a growl, fingers tangling within Draco's hair, body arching, the muscles in his thighs contracting as he forces himself not to thrust his hips upwards into the soft, wet heat.
He moves slowly, cautious at first, trying to find a rhythm, swirling his tongue, lips meeting the fingers he wraps around the base, breath shuddering; it doesn’t take long for him to find his pace, though the throb of his own cock is distracting and the harsh pants of Lucius' breathing even more so. His fingers are slippery with sweat, sliding off his father's hips, but he doesn't worry.
There is no passage of time; reality hangs, a single minute draws out, lengthens, and he has no idea how long it has been, doesn't give a damn. All he knows is the soft slide of a cock between his lips, touching the roof of his mouth, hot and heavy and like silk against his tongue – and under him, Lucius is straining to hold still, his head thrown back into the pillows, mouth open. His skin is so hot it burns, and Draco knows that he could come from this, from just lying here and doing this because fuck the sounds Lucius makes are incredible.
The hand in his hair tightens, tugs, and he pouts when he allows himself to be pulled off, panting, dizzy, about to complain when he feels fingers tugging at his shirt, nimble and quick and he's definitely done this before it's being peeled from his skin, pushed over his shoulders, tossed aside so that Lucius, half-risen from the bed, can drag him upwards and lock his mouth on the arc of his collarbone.
Draco lets his head fall back, moving his leg so that his knees come down either side of Lucius' hips, his spine arching, breath catching; the mouth bruises just as much as the hands did, marking him along the line of his shoulder, biting into the juncture of his neck, laving a tongue up the side of his throat until he can feel the shiver of Lucius' breath against one ear.
"Are you still breathing?" he purrs, and there's no way he's not smirking, there's no way - and Draco wants to tell him so except there aren't enough words left, only whimpers and moans and the feel of a body against him, of the rough lines of scars under his palm as he digs his fingers into Lucius' back.
A palm on his cheek, and he tilts his head, feels the brush of Lucius' lips against his own, resting there lightly for a second before they part and there's the dark, enveloping heat of his father's mouth, the second kiss just as brilliant as the first, just as slow and consuming - and he's hard, so hard, desperate for some friction but not willing to break away from this. Never, ever going to be willing to break away from this.
"Fuck," he pants, pushes his hips down, feels a jolt of magic skittering up his spine, the heat of Lucius' cock against the fabric on his thigh; can feel him everywhere, everywhere – every nerve, every pore, every blood vessel. The shivering of Draco's body when both hands cup his face, briefly, before one palm slides down his neck, past the hollow of his throat, along the curve of his chest and the flat of his stomach, two white fingers dipping beneath his waistband and just resting there, burning their presence into him, branding him. "Fuck, please."
Laughter, the torturously slow flick of his trousers being undone, and, rich and dark and perfect against his throat, Lucius saying "That's right, Draco. Beg me for it."
Act six:these shins, these soapy flanks.
Dusk spreads soft and slow over the horizon, thrown over the dark silhouettes of horses grazing on the plain, spilling like gold over the white steps leading down into the gardens, catching on the dust spinning lazily where the French doors would be, were they closed instead of open. The pillows are warm in the small of his back, the bed dipped with his weight, silk sheets smooth against his naked skin – sitting on the top of the steps, Lucius throws his hair back over one shoulder, the fabric of his half-undone breeches tightening over his thighs, white fingers curled around the violin. His eyes are nearly closed.
Draco smiles, tilts his head to one side, listens for the first slow drag of the bow and the low whisper of his father's voice, speaking in that curious mixture of languages he uses whenever he's too focused on the progression of the scale to bother picking just one.
There's the quiver of a rising note, the sound of Lucius releasing a breath and constant, always, the soft thrum of his magic responding in time to the flick of fingertips over the coiled strings; Draco knows it, has always known, has reached for it from his crib in the moonlight even when he couldn't hear the keys of the grand piano, has learned to dance to it in the ballroom when it was the trembling, aching tenor of the viola - has curled his fingers around his cock and moaned to the distant, shivering scale of the violin, the same violin, when it crept through his open window as the sun sank and the war seemed suddenly distant, far away rather than close enough to suffocate.
He knows this – it's as much a part of his father as the cruel hiss of hot blood against a blade, as the violence and the arrogance and the shimmering, boiling heat beneath the ice. The hard press of that body and the bruises it makes betrayed, always, by the flash of light that lances through those eyes as Lucius deems the time right to turn to liquid around him; the way steel turns to silk and pain turns back to pleasure and the addiction, the addiction inside of Draco just flowers and puts out more leaves and grows, keeps growing.
Can't have one side without the other; would burn up, burn out, because Lucius is a man of extremes, never does anything by half-measures, could drown a man in affection just as easily as water. Balance. Love and hate, pain and pleasure, hot and cold; anything and everything and nothing…
Now, finally, finally, Lucius fits the violin into place, lock of hair curled against his cheekbone, fingers on the wood and the first sweet, proper strike of the bow; the flex of muscle in his shoulders, taut as the strings, and the briefest press of eyelashes against his skin, a flash of silver under his hands and the liquid flood of music into the pause where Draco's breath ought to be but isn't, trapped partway up his throat instead.
It's not a slow piece, not at first; starts strong and quick and jumping, low to high and rising, rising, ringing hot, those white fingers flying, smooth curl of one corner of Lucius' mouth, head dipped and hair falling back over his shoulder and then… slowing, slowing, sliding into the lower register, dipping as the light fades into grey half-night and the sun peeks, flashes, falls below the horizon – just one long, sinking note to ring through the Manor walls in time with the shadows, and then…
The slow climb of the scale, arch of one eyebrow, soft flick of a finger against a string and the spill of music down the steps and into the waiting night.