Draco Malfoy (apellon) wrote in regulation, @ 2008-03-21 08:25:00 |
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Current music: | grizzly bear - knife |
can you feel the knife?
Who: Draco Malfoy and Nicolas Vaisey
Where: Draco's Muggle flat in Islington
When: December 2002
What: Set shortly after Draco's release; where Nicolas shows up unexpectedly, Draco is not quite himself, and will later wake up to find a house elf running around in his home.
Rating: PG-13 for blood, bad language, mentions of mild sexuality
Status: Closed; complete
There was a more-than-half empty bottle of Merlot sitting on the edge of the dark-wood coffee table, and the glass that stood next to it had not been touched. Draco had no idea why he even bothered taking it out - the glass, of course, not the bottle. He'd been drinking the cheap wine straight from the neck and the little paper label around the top was beginning to get sticky where he'd missed a drop or two.
The light in his tiny Islington flat was dim - he only had a tall lamp on in the corner of the room living room and it cast a sickly orange glow over everything. Anything else was left in grey shadow. There were no inbetweens. Music hummed out of the small Muggle stereo propped up on the fireplace mantel, soft and mournful despite the clinking lilt of the piano. Debussy had always been so fucking depressing, even when his mother guided his tiny hands over the grand piano at the Manor. Back then it sounded like rain pit-pattering off of a tin roof, and Draco had always hated the rain. Now it sounded like a storm.
Three and a half months. Three and a half months he'd been out, working, adapting himself to suit the dismal culture that surrounded him. Back then he never knew what to do with a CD; now he knew they had multiple uses - music and a coaster. What a strange little world the Muggles lived in.
He slumped back on the soft material of his dark grey couch in a way that would never have been accepted as proper five years ago, and had long since found that being "proper" was overrated. By a Quidditch mile.
The clock on the little blinking display at the top of the stereo told Draco it was almost ten, and he had to squint to make sure he was reading it properly. His head spun with the weight of alcohol and while he was sure he'd bought the stuff to feel better, he could have sworn he felt like shit. His left arm was cradled on the point of his left knee and he studied the etchings there carefully, tracing the outline again and again with the point of a blunt kitchen knife, watching the reflection of it flicker as it caught the light of the lamp behind him. A silver lighter was wedged between his teeth and lips as he considered the snake and skull carefully, remembering the way it used to move, when He was still alive. Now it was still, but it hadn't disappeared. Draco had hoped that, on the day of the Dark Lord's death, his Mark would die, too. Clearly, that had been wishful thinking.
In one fluid movement, even with the alcohol slugging through his system, Draco sat up and used the lighter to burn the edge of the knife, watching the metal turn brown before letting the flame drop with a sharp hiss. The handle was too hot.
The knife fell onto the coffee table with a loud clatter and Draco yanked his shirt off, pulling it up over his head and not even bothering to flatten his hair as he wrapped a sleeve around the knife's silver handle, picking it up with a determined, tight-lipped expression. The fingers of his left hand trembled as he let his arm rest against his knee again, but his right hand was surprisingly steady as he slipped the sharpest edge he could find into the first layer of skin, right by the snake's tail, peeling it up and away and clenching his teeth as blood bubbled out from underneath.
Nicolas has been intending to see Draco for months. The first he'd stopped himself, unsure if he was really what the older man needed right after being released. The second brought no visit because he had received a promotion and more work came with it. The third was because he feared he'd say something wrong, or that Draco would even remember him, despite having been at every public preceding of the man's trial. But at the beginning of the fourth month after Draco's release, Nicolas asked after the man when lunching with Blaise Zabini. It was from him that Nicolas learned where Draco's flat was.
After that, it had still taken a week before he decided to visit the man, one of the few he had always admired and the war did nothing to taint that. He still believed the Ministry had been wrong in their sentence, and harboured a bit of that resentment despite working for them now.
He Apparated outside of Draco's building, a large, dusty tome held in his hands, cloak blowing slightly in the wind and whipping around the legs of his suit trousers. The suit and cloak were a deep blue, offset by a lighter shade for his oxford shirt and boots. He knew it wasn't muggle garb but he owned nothing else. He was just lucky enough that he didn't pass anyone on his way up. Not only would his outfit seem a bit garish to them, but the old potions book from his family library would also seem out of place.
With a deep, calming breath, Nicolas knocked on the door. As soon as his fingers left the dull wood, he wiped them on his pant leg, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles before tucking back his hair. He knew Draco was home because he could hear the soft strains of Debussy through the thin walls of the place. After a moment without answer, he tried again.
The knife made the same clattering noise as it fell from Draco's hand and onto the slate flooring, bouncing slightly before disappearing under the couch in a flash of silver, a dotted, bloody trail left in its wake. He was panting harshly through his teeth, the sound of each breath pained and tight. The little flap of skin he'd managed to cut out of his arm was lost, probably stuck to the jagged edge of the knife, and the wound that was left behind yawned open like a little mouth, bubbling blood down the side of his arm, thick and warm.
The end of the snake's tail was missing and along with the pain, Draco felt uncharacteristically elated, relieved. Hastily, he grabbed his shirt from the coffee table and draped it over his arm, covering the blood, not bothering to look down and watch as the red seeped through the thin, white material. His walk to the door was slow and meandering - apparently standing up quickly was not good for an intoxicated head, and in those thirty seconds he could have sworn he got twice as drunk as he'd been when sitting down.
He propped the door open carefully, prepared to come face to face with the old woman from upstairs. Instead, his eyes honed in on two swirling pools of dark brown, like the chocolates his mother used to hide from Lucius, the ones that he'd found hidden under some pots in the House Elves' quarters.
The smile that spread across his face when he heard slow footsteps approaching faltered slightly at the sight Draco made. His hair suck up slightly, and his eyes seemed too unfocused to Nicolas. His mouth opened slightly in a small 'o', almost making him look like a fish if not for the concern clearly shining in his eyes.
He looked like Draco and not Draco all at once. It wasn't the same, swaggering, self-confident boy he remembered looking up to for all those years. He still had his sharp good-looks, but it seemed roughened some how over the harsh years. His mouth closed again as his eyes tripped down over bared skin before falling upon the white material that was darkening.
"Merlin, Draco--what happened?" His fingers tightened on the book with one hand as the other reached out, stopping just short, fingers flexing as he glanced up, realizing he had no permission to do so and dropped his hand to his side, though his expression didn't change from concern and something that couldn't quite be characterized as pity but something much more empathetic in a small way.
The shirt on Draco's arm drooped a little before falling away with a soundless ruffling of fabric, landing on the floor between them. The mark on Draco's arm looked angry, blacker than it'd ever been, and with a quick glance down at it Draco realised that the ink that had drawn the tail was forming again over unhealed tissue. Horror laced with his surprise and he blinked, stumbling back into his home and yanking the door open wide with him.
"Vaisey," he muttered hoarsely, his mouth twisted in pain despite the lazy quality of his eyes. "Come in, party's just getting... started..."
There was a moment of hesitation clear on Nicolas' face, his own eyes wide now as his eyes flickered from the mark up to Draco's face, one arm tightening on the book as though it offered security or advice. Part of him suddenly wanted to flee, to come back at another time. But the better part told him to stay, to try and take care of Draco and keep him from harming himself more. Being called by his last name stung more than it probably should have, but the pain of it couldn't even register over the surprise and worry and uncertainty already on his face.
"Thank you," he murmured softly, eyes dropping to the blood stained fabric laying partly over his boots before returning to the mark, as though drawn by a magnet. Even as he stooped slightly to pick the shirt up rather than step over it, his eyes were on Draco's arm, on the ink and blood, and he had to work to suppress a shudder as he stepped inside without even a glance around them.
"I tried to cut it out," Draco said matter-of-factly, closing the door unsteadily after Nicolas and pressing his hand against his forehead as a severe wave of nausea washed over him. Swallowing back the salty taste that had gathered over the surface of his tongue, he turned and brushed past the younger man, into the living room proper and picking up the Merlot from the coffee table. "Drink?"
Debussy's Reverie filled the gaps of silence between them, and it suddenly struck Draco how absurd it sounded; it was calm and water-like between the maelstrom of blood and alcohol. Christ, he should have been listening to Stravinsky.
The tips of his ears coloured slightly, realizing how terribly rude it was to stare even with his concern. Nicolas glanced down at his own hands, one lost amongst the fold of his cloak and knuckles white on the other. "No, thank you," the words lilted out, wondering how much the man had drank as he still stood where he'd come in.
"Can I--do you mind--I can do something for that, if you like." The words were quick despite the few stumbles, only hoping the blond would allow for his help. Because somehow, it was even worse to him that this was something Draco did to himself and his contempt for the situation the Ministry had put the man, and many others, in began to churn in the pit of his stomach.
Draco snorted, but it was stilted as a brief moan of pain escaped his lips. With a wince, he knocked back a swig from the bottle before setting it back down and heading toward his friend again, gently prying the book from him with his good hand. "What's this?" he asked curiously, his left arm throbbing, a sharp ache that he could feel all the way to the bone.
The book almost fell from his grasp as he reached up and cupped the back of Nicolas' neck, pulling him forward so that he could press their foreheads together in a gesture that he'd never practiced in Hogwarts. "Good to see you again," he mumbled, his tongue thick, words slow and laced with ache.
As Draco threw back a swig, Nicolas allowed his eyes to briefly scan the flat and it made that almost pitying feeling rise up again. It was just so--small and common and muggle. And it was the last thought that suddenly made him feel as though he'd made an error with his gift. While choosing it, he'd forgotten about the ban on magic usage Draco was under, and that he was without his wand. But being surrounded by everything non-magic made him remember that threefold. "It's a Potions books--it belonged to my great, great, great grandfather--lots of interesting things--I had thought you'd like it but if you don't--" he cut himself off to keep from rambling, and because the next action from the other man surprised him.
He was tense at first from surprise at the impropriety of it, but remembered that it did not matter now, not here. Relaxing, his eyes fluttered closed for a moment, the air between them seeming thicker with the wine Draco had been drinking. "I'm sorry it has been so long," he whispered in return, though the pain in the words were not missed. "Please let me heal that," he asked again, softer. If they were to talk, he wished it without the physical hurt tainting the tones of Draco's voice.
The blond's fingers slipped away from Nicolas' neck in a brief moment of clarity, his eyes blinking and cheeks flushing with mild embarrassment. Where was his Merlin forsaken pride? Had he lost that too, in prison? He looked down at the book - the title was hard to make out and he ran his fingers over the gold lettering, feeling a surge of nostalgia grasp hold of him, tight. When he spoke again, his voice was alarmingly tremulous, quiet.
"I can't heal it myself," he admitted with a sharp sniff, tilting his head back and regarding Nicolas with as much cool calm as he could in his state. "I should really go to a professional the next time I fancy it removed."
His head dipped forward, dark hair falling over his face, over his eyes. He'd seen the flush and wondered if his if his admission had been too much, or if the book was as disliked as he suspected it might be, or if his offer was out of place. Perhaps that was why he often found himself ignored, never learning what he should say in certain situations and when. His fingers fumbled slightly with the fastenings on his cloak, suddenly too hot in it as he took it off, folding it over one arm before finally glancing up at Draco through the black fringe of hair.
The fingers of his free hand tugged at the edge of the cloak that hung down, fingers gliding over the hemmed edge idly. "That sounds like a rather better plan," he agreed, not voicing that it seemed removal was impossible if cutting it out hadn't seemed to work. He wanted to ask again to help, but he didn't think it right for him to press it.
It was Draco's pride that stopped him from asking Nicolas outright for help. His arm hurt like hell, but the blood was beginning to clot and it would soon turn into an ugly scab before leaving an even uglier scar.
Clasping the book in both hands, he slowly made his way around the couch and setting it on the coffee table, picking up his bloodied shirt and not even bothering to put it back on. He forgot that he didn't share a dorm with Nicolas, and the furthest state of undress he'd ever seen him in was probably the sleeves of his school shirt tucked up over his biceps during summer months at Hogwarts. He'd always been too embarrassed to use the showers in the Quidditch changing rooms; getting a hard-on while sharing a wash with his male team-mates was, he believed, severely frowned-upon.
"I think I've had too much to drink," he muttered, slowly folding the shirt.
There was just the barest hint of a smile, the closest appearance of one since Nicolas' arrival. "I'd be rather inclined to agree," he murmured, looking pointedly at the bottle and untouched wine glass.
His eyes still couldn't help but focus on the pale skin of Draco's chest that he could only imagine before, and he couldn't help but stare for a moment before catching himself, eyes dropping down again. It was guilt causing looks he remembered from the years of Quidditch, being the last in the showers and trying not to think of the others as they towelled off. He immediately reminded himself of Draco's injury rather than his shirtless state.
"Perhaps you should be getting to bed?" he suggested, no hint of anything tawdry, though he did hope that convincing Draco to go to bed would give him the opportunity to at least do something for the man's arm.
"Are you trying to take advantage of me, Nicolas?" It was the first time he'd used the younger man's given name and it was said with a smirk, a half-tease, the tiniest hint of a sparkle glittering behind pained, drunk eyes. He left the bottle on the table - he'd clean it up in the morning when his head no longer felt like it was ready to float from his shoulders and join the moon in the sky. "Bed sounds marvellous," he added with a groan, spinning on his heel and stumbling over something as he headed down the short length of his living room and into the adjoined bedroom.
The pink from the top of Nicolas' ears quickly spread, cheeks flushing and his head bowed, hair falling forward to try and cover it. His eyes widened slightly, because it wasn't at all how he meant the statement. "I--wha--of course not, Draco. I just--it seems sleeping would do you better than--than staying up and talking with me." The words kept halting and it seemed like broken strains of a song almost. Slowly he followed after the blonde at a distance, or as much could be given in the small space.
Draco snorted, collapsing head-first onto the bed with half of his clothing still on, the bloodied shirt still crumpled in his right fist. "Relax, you silly Hufflepuff," he murmured, voice muffled by the pillow beneath his chin. "I'm just.. teasing..." He knew that when he would wake up the following morning, not only would he be met with a bitch of a headache, but the shame and humiliation of having someone watch him make such a mess of himself. Like he hadn't done enough of that already.
Nicolas flushed even brighter at the Hufflepuff comment, tucking back his hair nervously, constantly as he stepped into the bedroom. He saw the way Draco was crumpled on the bed and frowned. Reaching out, he tugged on the shirt lightly, trying to ease it from Draco's fingers. Idly he wished that Blaise had come with him--he knew Draco better than Nicolas did, and likely would be a better help. But all he could do was think of what the older man would do in his place. He was already making mental notes of what would need to be done, to hep Draco like he wanted and partly felt obligated to. And needing to look at Draco's arm, of course, was at the top of his list. "Can I get you anything? Something for you arm?" He tried the offer one more time, though intended to help whether he had the permission or not now.
The blond pressed his frown into the pillow underneath him. "For fuck's sake, Vaisey, if you want to fix my arm, go ahead and do it, for crying out loud." The words were pulled from him in slurs but there were sharp undercurrents to his vowels, which turned the remark from teasing into something that was far more cutting. Much closer to the old Draco his friends knew from Hogwarts.
As stinging as the comment had meant to be, it actually caused that ghost of a smile again. Because this was more like the Draco he knew and it was some comfort, something bespeaking to the fact the man hadn't been completely broken down. Pulling his wand from his cloak, he knelt beside the bed. Healing charms weren't exactly his forte, but he knew them well enough. He could at least heal the thing to the point where it wouldn't scar. Gingerly he turned Draco's arm, staring at a moment at the dark ink still visible under clotted blood. He murmured something softly, cleaning the excess blood off before whispering another spell, watching the skin knit back together and the ugly clotting disappear. The skin was still a bit of an angry pink and likely would be tender, but he hoped it would feel markedly better. He tucked his wand away and let his fingers slip from Draco's arm, standing and moving toward the door of the bedroom.
"I'll have to visit again, when you feel more up to the company," he said softly, seeming as he was making ready to leave, though really having no intention of leaving until the other man was asleep.
By the time Nicolas had spoken, however, Draco was snoring loud enough to wake two dead armies in Egypt. He was still lying face down on his bed, his body limp and practically spread-eagle, palms turned upward by his sides. Tomorrow morning would certainly be interesting; doing everyone's dirty work at the Ministry was bound to be ten times more interesting with a hangover.
The bit of a smile spread some, though there was still sadness about the edges. It was something to see a hero fallen--but the man hadn't fallen all the way nor was he completely lost in Nicolas' eyes. He just needed people to be there for him, whether he said it or not. Because Nicolas himself knew what it was to be alone and ignored and the awfulness of it. He'd be sure Draco would have a friend in him. Carefully stepping down the hall, he slipped his cloak back on and apparated straight home.
After rummaging through his potion stores and scribbling a quick note on parchment, he called one of the house elves, Tingley and gave her two vials and the note. The big eared creature looked confused at her orders but went to fulfill them none the less. At least now when Draco awoke, the mess he'd made of his apartment would be cleaned, and he'd have a Hangover-Curing Draught and a Pepper-Up Potion to help with the worst of what he felt in the morning. Those were left beside the bed, Nicolas' note with them.
'I suppose I decided to take advantages, but not as you thought. Tingley should still be here when you wake, and will make breakfast if you wish it. If not, she will be returning home here when you dismiss her.
I know a lot has happened Draco, but you still have friends in some of us. Remember that.'
~Nicolas B. Vaisey