Happy Springsmut, melfinatheblue! Author:stonegrad Recipient:melfinatheblue Title: Rhapsody in Black Rating: R Pairing: Lucius/Draco Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: They call him devoted, when they manage to call him anything at all - these days it's mostly sidelong looks and sharp nods and yes, they're afraid of him now, aren't they? They're afraid of him now... Warnings: Incest and a slight touch of angst Word Count: ~3,300 Author's Notes: Not quite what I had in mind, but I hope you like it anyway. All lines in bold were quoted from 'You are Jeff' by R. Siken, and any mistakes left in this are entirely my fault.
Rhapsody in Black
1. Hold onto your breath.
I. Spring, and the doors of the Manor are thrown wide open, a young boy standing at the top of the steps in little more than a smile – his blond hair is tousled, hanging in his eyes, swept up at the back, and Lucius can't help but run his fingers through it before he lifts the child into his arms.
Soft laughter, and Draco rests his head against one silk-clad shoulder; the fabric of Lucius' clothes is delightfully cool against his naked skin, flushed the faintest shade of pink by the sun.
"Where's mother?" he asks, innocent, curious, and Lucius settles himself down in the shade, Draco curled up in his lap, half-closed eyes fixed on his father's face.
"In Toulouse," Lucius replies, and there's a hand at the back of Draco's neck, a thumb making small circles in the fine hairs; he tilts his head into the touch, pulling at the top button of his father's shirt with small, nimble fingers.
"She won't be away for long," the elder Malfoy continues, and Draco leans in to press his chin to the chest he's just exposed, lips brushing the hollow where the sharp collarbones meet – when he speaks, his breath flutters across the pale skin.
"S'okay."
Lucius makes a sound low in his throat, rolling his head to one side; his eyelids are heavy.
Draco smiles, pressing himself closer, and his voice is muffled and nearly unintelligible when he says, "I don't miss her."
II. Drenched to the skin, breathless, beautiful – Draco throws his arms around his equally soaking father, and the pair tumble back into the study in a whirl of wet black robes and pale skin.
"This is most undignified," Lucius says, falling back onto the couch and taking Draco with him. "Malfoys don't fool around in the rain like savages."
"Yes we do," Draco replies, trying to peel off his clothes and brush hair out of his eyes in the same movement – he wriggles, manages to get one arm out of it's sleeve, and promptly gets himself hopelessly tangled in the rest of the fabric.
"We just don’t do it where people can see us," he adds brightly, lost somewhere in an expanse of black silk, but for a tuft of messy blond hair sticking up from the space that Lucius assumes is the collar.
Though, truth be told, it's rather hard to tell.
III. Spill of soft golden light across his face as he cracks open the door, and Draco is aware of the piercing silver gaze inspecting him for long moments before his eyes adjust enough to actually pick out his father amongst the silk draping the bed.
"Draco?" not angry; not anything, really - Lucius' face is perfectly bland as he snaps shut the book he was reading, putting it down on the nightstand with a dull thud.
"Couldn't sleep," Draco mutters with an apologetic shrug, head tilted to one side, blond hair in his eyes – there is an uneasy question tacked onto the end of his words, guarded like things should never be between them.
Lucius' eyes narrow, and there's a rustle of fabric and the faintest whisper of sound as his bare feet meet the lush carpet; Draco stands uncertainly on the threshold for a moment longer, then takes a deep breath and steps inside, the door closing behind him with a firm snap.
"Mother…" he starts, and then trails of with a choked noise, turning his face away from his father; only a sudden sense of anxiety-born hyperawareness lets him know that Lucius is moving towards him, a flash of pale cream in the corner of one eye. "I went to ask her about tomorrow and there's… someone in there and…"
Presence at his back, a voice saying "Hush" - almost an order - and the next second Draco has turned and buried his face in his father's side, feeling the press of one naked hip against his chest, the heat of Lucius' body seeping through the thin material of his nightshirt – he shuts his eyes.
"But she's g—" Draco continues, voice muffled, and there are fingers carding through his hair, curling around the back of his neck; they squeeze, and he halts mid-word, heart racing.
"It's alright," Lucius murmurs into the pause, and he's moving again; moving until the back of his knees hit the bed and he sinks down onto it - Draco lets himself be pulled up onto the tangle of silken black sheets and into his father's arms without so much as a word.
"Can I sleep with you?" he whispers after a moment, and Lucius' chuckle reverberates through his body and brings with it a warmth that makes him go completely boneless; makes everything okay again.
"As if I'd let you get away from me now," Lucius purrs, and his lips are soft against Draco's cheek as the lights go out.
IV. Sheen of sweat in the darkness, and Draco kicks off the covers with an annoyed growl, delighting in the rush of cool air that eases the flush of his naked skin – even one thin sheet is too much in the unseasonable Wiltshire heat.
Soft breath of laughter, and a palm is pressed to his stomach as the mattress dips and moves; a moment, and then Lucius is above him, blond hair tumbling down to tickle his cheeks, lips curled into a smirk.
"How about a cooling charm?" Draco asks, half a plea and half a sullen, teenage demand; he's asked this question before - multiple times through the summer – and sometimes, Lucius even agrees.
A simple shake of his father's head, and he lets out a despairing sigh, stretching and using his feet to remove the last of the covers, letting them slip to the floor in a rustle of fine cloth.
Lucius quirks his head to one side, then lets himself drop back down onto the bed; in the moonlight, his skin is so pale it seems nearly translucent.
Draco presses his cheek to the pillow, eyes on his father, and takes a breath. "I'll miss you when I go back to Hogwarts," he says after a moment, and wonders idly in the silence that follows whether he should really be feeling so comfortable confessing such a thing, in the situation he's currently in.
A small, thin smile, and Lucius leans over to kiss his forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back.
It is all the answer Draco needs – and more questions than he can possibly comprehend quite yet.
V. It happens by unconscious arrangement – there is no talk that takes place, nothing to say that they have come to any conclusion at all bar the fact that Draco is getting older… too old now to lie naked in the moonlight, skin to skin, cheek to chest, legs intertwined.
Peace has always been fleeting.
His father isn't home tonight; he's gone, leaving just a memory of a hand in the small of Draco's back and the brush of lips against his forehead, the sharp curves of a mask under his fingers; an edge of razorblade steel to those silver eyes that promises everything.
He knows what's happening, knows more than he ever lets on - worries more than he will ever say.
Nothing is okay these days.
2. Leave the lights on.
VI. Slosh of water over the side of the boat and he turns his head to one side, takes a breath, while the grizzled man at the helm peeks at him from under his hood and asks "You alright there, Mr. Malfoy?" - and Draco nods sharply, just once, but doesn’t open his eyes.
"It ain’t gonna get any better," he adds, as if Draco wants to listen, as if he’s interested; as if he doesn’t already know that the closer they get the more his heart is trying to climb up his throat, trying to escape because it hurts where it’s at.
There’s no reply, and even if there were, it would be interrupted by the slap of wood against wood as they hit the dock, the whistle of a rope through the air and the clatter of Draco’s boots on the pier because he needs to move, dammit!
He doesn’t have his wand on him – can’t bear the thought of having to hand it over, so it’s still lying on his pillow where he placed it this morning – but checking in still takes too long, and he’s trying so hard not to fidget that by the time he’s through with it he knows there are exactly 48 flagstones on the floor of the room he’s waiting in, that the ground is sloped and the wall on the right is approximately four centimeters smaller than the one on the left in order to make the roof level; that the ceiling used to be white, but isn’t any more, and…
"Mr. Malfoy? Guard Weston will show you to your father’s cell now – if you'll just make your way through into the hallway."
A flinch as he bites his cheek to keep the retort in, and Draco inclines his head to one side without a word before he turns towards the door he's been trying not to stare at – he pushes it with his index finger and his thumb, watches it swing inwards, and takes a step out into the shadows where the guard is waiting.
No words – or, at least, none that he catches as he follows, through a thick set of heavily warded doors and then everything's so close, it's closing in and he can't think, he can't breathe; he's disorientated, but straightens his spine and raises his chin and doesn't, doesn't stop…
VII. Strange, how the world around him distills into a single point of focus – a sole figure sitting one moment on the edge of a worn cot and the next rising smoothly to meet him, damp hair clinging to his cheeks, to the expanse of throat and collarbone exposed by the low neckline of the prison uniform he's wearing; even here, he's still Lucius.
He's still his father.
Cool fingers nearly brush Draco's cheek, and it doesn't matter that he can't go any closer, because the guard is watching and if they touch they'll surely give something away - doesn't matter that it's cold and he's numb and what little sliver of sky he can see through the small, barred window up in one corner is grey and getting darker; it doesn't matter - he smiles.
"How are you?" he asks, and Lucius shrugs and tips his head to one side in a motion that Draco remembers from all the other times he's asked a question he can't bear to hear a truthful answer to – and he knows his father is lying when he says "Well enough," but that's okay because he's feeling a little disconnected right now and it's only the voice that he wants to listen to, anyway.
"You haven't visited," Lucius whispers, so low that Draco cannot decide whether he's hearing it or pulling the words from the suddenly glassy, nebulous depths of his father's half-closed eyes – his heart twists, face moving subtly until he can feel the pressure of fingertips against his eyelashes as he blinks, the stunted heat radiating from Lucius' palm bringing warmth to his cheek.
"I couldn't," he replies, just as softly, tongue moving over his lower lip, strangling his pride for a moment because right now it won't help him. "They wouldn't let me," he adds, and it's a movement of lips with no noise connected - but he sees the flitter through his father's eyes, a quirk to one corner of his mouth and it's a single sliver, a heartbeat of emotion only he recognizes; it hurts.
Draco closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and the air moves as Lucius lowers his hand, takes a step back; leaving him feeling suddenly lost, desolate, unbearably alone.
But the masks aren't allowed to break – not here.
VIII. Draco doesn't know when Azkaban becomes so familiar to him, but that's what it is - and because he's not so flighty, he starts to notice things a bit more. Small things he overlooked before - the way the light spills across the floor in a grid because of the bars, the way the sea takes over conversations, loud as it slaps against the rocks somewhere nearby…
Just the small things… and some of them are even important.
Like the little slips where Lucius will ask something like 'What was her name again?' or 'Where was that?' and he'll freeze, his stomach will lurch, he'll feel sick - and his father will take one look at him and brush it off like it doesn't matter that he's forgotten his wife's name, or the place they went to in the south of France every summer until Draco was twelve.
But it does matter, it does.
When he's at home - and he doesn't think of it that way, not when it's empty like it is these days; always empty, even when he's got company, because company doesn't count… because home isn't where the friends are, it's where the heart is, and his heart isn't here at the moment, it's somewhere else entirely.
When he's at this home-that-isn't-home, the days play through his head and it makes him feel dizzy, like he's lost too much blood, like he hasn't been eating… and maybe he hasn't.
"The world likes to break beautiful things," he says, and presses pale fingertips to the window, watching the rain run down the other side of the glass - there are shadows twined through his hair, curled against the right side of his body; his eyes are dark.
It is the first time he has spoken in what feels like forever - the other figure in the room lifts his head from his hands, startled.
"What's that mate?"
Draco blinks, lips pressing into a thin line; the faint moonlight drains his skin of color, deepening the fine white silk of his shirt to the grey of used dishwater.
Silence.
3. Keep talking.
IX. His mouth is dry – there are no more words left, no more words to counter the sudden bitter twist to his father's lips and he feels like some part of him has fallen into place, like he's woken from some strange, fuzzy dream and everything is suddenly sharper.
A single flash of emotion; that's all it takes.
He leans forwards, sees the faintest hint of trepidation in Lucius' eyes, and knows that this is it – this is what it all boils down to, all that matters.
Just this. Just them.
And he's terrified, terrified and elated and there's this warm feeling in his chest alongside the sudden constriction of his airways and he can't breathe; feels like he doesn't need to, anyway – such things are too mundane in this moment, this moment where he reaches out and twines his fingers through his father's hair, pushing it back away from his face and paying the action far too much attention. Lucius doesn't move, but for a flicker of his eyes as they slide from Draco's face to his wrist, mere inches away.
A moment of thick, uncomfortable silence so unnatural to them that Draco feels an edge of desperation creep into his thoughts – a sudden ache to release the tension; he moves forwards again, bends until his lips brush the curve of Lucius' cheekbone and in the secret, intimate space the tumble of his hair hides from the guard, his tongue form the words he's been waiting to say all his life.
"I love you Father," he sighs, and his forehead is resting against Lucius' permanently damp hair, one palm pressed to back of his father's neck, fingers digging lightly into the skin. "I love you… and I want you so much."
X. The first time Lucius kisses him - really kisses him - Draco remembers nothing of the world except how the grey light streaming through the barred window catches on the side of the battered cot nearby, illuminating the worn hollow carved out by decades of bodies curled up on it's surface, weathering the rough wood down to a smooth, polished sheen.
He does not even notice the chill, the damp cling of his robes, the way the guard's face goes red before he shouts out; there's only heat – brilliant white-hot heat that burns it's way up his spine and he parts his lips, tongue curling around his father's, hands balling the prison uniform up in his fists as he pulls Lucius closer.
A moan, quickly bitten back – he knows what he has to do.
Draco tears himself away, stumbles, and catches himself with one hand against the wall. "What the hell!" he rasps. "I'm your fucking son!"
Lucius tips his head to one side as he frowns, taking on the air of a man who suddenly finds himself in a world he can't quite understand.
"You're what?"
A flash of warmth through those silver eyes before they turn glassy, and Draco cannot decide if he wants to laugh, cry, or do both at the same time.
XI. Heart-wrenching grief is disturbingly close; but he is determined, and not even months of intensive trials can change that – he will not leave his father to the mercy of Azkaban.
Especially since he knows that Lucius is not really pretending – that, instead, he has managed to draw back into his mind, waiting for a small trigger, a moment too great to allow him to remain there. For now, Draco is dealing with a man who truly cannot remember, except on a distant, subconscious level; his only true solace is that he knows exactly how to draw him out again when the time comes.
The game is easy to play, when you know the rules… when you know how to bend them.
"What you are asking is immoral," they say, and yes, yes, he knows it is – but that doesn't change anything.
Draco takes a breath, straightens his spine; there is a furious heat to his gaze when he lifts it from the papers piled on the table in front of him.
"If I can no longer be his son, then at least let me be his lover," he says coldly, certainly, defiantly. "I am not going to lose him again."
Bitter twist to his lips, and he shrugs one shoulder elegantly.
"I think it's time you realized that."
4. I'll keep walking towards the sound of your voice.
XII. Hand around Lucius' wrist, and he tugs them both down onto the couch, closing his eyes for a moment to delight in the way the fire warms the right side of his body, catches in his father's hair and it's blinding, bright and brilliant and they're free…
They're free.
Draco opens his eyes again with a smile, and rests both palms against Lucius' chest, pushing him down gently into the mass of cushions; he leans in, rubbing his cheek against the smooth silk of the white shirt.
"I believe," he begins softly, and undoes the button at his father's collar with a flick of two fingers; pale lips trace the skin he's exposed. "That it's time to bring you back again."
Lucius frowns up at him, the firelight dazzling his eyes, as Draco presses a series of open-mouthed kisses up his neck, lingering on the curve of his jaw before moving to those parted lips – slick curl of tongues, and he runs his fingers down to slide under the waistband of his father's trousers.
An eternity of heat, and when he pulls away Lucius is smirking and everything's the way it's supposed to be.
"Welcome home," Draco whispers, and kisses him again.