hackthis_archive | Trade

TRADE

Previous sections here
Chapter VII

Draco was not in shock.

People who were in shock didn't manage to find their way back to the high street, in the fucking rain, without asking for directions. People who were suffering some sort of psychotic break didn't get money out of the Barclay's cash point next to The King's Head (the swelling of his knuckles made this slightly difficult), nor did they manage to flag down the only available taxi in town (he didn't steal it from that woman with a pram; he was there first).

If Draco had been in shock, he would've taken the tube, like every other crazy bastard out there, and then he probably would've pushed some poor sod underneath a train or clubbed someone over the head with an axe. Not that Draco had an axe, but the papers were always full of people getting axed in an empty compartment because they'd fallen asleep with the wrong person.

There was a point, however, and it was that Draco was not in shock. His complete inability to form a coherent sentence or do anything besides fruitlessly wring the water out of his clothes was just a passing phase. He would be fine, because he didn't have any other choice.

He would stop shaking and cursing Harry under his breath. He would stop wondering how the father he had never known took his tea –- he would pull himself and his hair into some semblance of order, but if it hadn't been fucking raining it would've been a lot easier for him to retain his composure. The rain was one big cosmic joke that was being played on Draco just because he didn't believe in god, or gods, or witches or cults or Satan or magic or anything except himself and his family.

It was penance. Or it would have been if Draco had been Christian.

It was not fucking funny.

Nothing was terribly funny though, which was quite possibly why he started laughing so hard. He couldn't really contain it, though he didn't try terribly hard either. There was nothing else for it, but to laugh at the pointlessness, the ridiculousness of it all. Everything was a lie, or built on a lie, or existed within a lie: his mother, his father, Harry... Julian.

Anyone else would have cracked at this point -- but Draco was not anyone, so he was going to stop rubbing at the little red bloodstains on his cuffs. The harder he scrubbed the more Harry's blood bled into the tiny blue fibres of his shirt.

Harry wasn't even around, and he was still ruining everything.

Draco could fix this though -– he could fix himself. Several bottles of Tanqueray and some Class A drugs, and he'd be as right as rain, which was an impossibly stupid saying, but that was beside the point. Draco had heard of all sorts of clever ways to forget things that were simply too horrible to be remembered: repression, mind-wiping, marrying a mail-order bride, a three-week bender in Amsterdam –- except that this was going to require something much stronger.

Except this wasn't a moment as much as it was an entire lifetime of things he needed to forget about. He couldn't forget his twin, but he could erase certain things about him, much in the same way Julian conveniently had when he ran off to be an international man of mystery. If nothing else, Draco had learned how to be wilfully blind -– maybe that's what his mother had taught them more than anything else. It was all well and good to be a Malfoy, but if being a Malfoy wasn't what you thought it was, well -– then you needed to make it something else. His mother had made the business, even after his father had proven to be whatever he was. Julian was now a Sark, whatever that was. And Draco.

Draco needed his something else.

He needed Blaise.

But Blaise –- he'd really fucked that one up.

Slumping into the backseat of the taxi, which smelled slightly of fish and chips, Draco watched London pass by in a great wash of raindrops and blurred faces, and he wondered what he was going to do if Blaise wouldn't take him in. There was a great possibility that Blaise wasn't going to take him back. He wouldn't have taken himself back after that sort of row –- choosing some piece of arse over his best mate. The more Draco thought about it, that just wasn't on at all, which meant that even if Blaise did take him back, Blaise was going to make him suffer first. A lot.

Draco, however, had suffered enough for one day.

He didn't need to deal with Blaise after dealing with Harry and Julian. He didn't need anyone seeing him in the state he was in, but he couldn't be alone with his brand new life. Not yet. His head felt in danger of falling off his neck, and his hands were cold and cramped. His suit was sticking to him like a snakeskin, and he was shivering.

He sat upright and rapped sharply at the partition; he wasn't paying perfectly good money to freeze his dick off. He leaned forward when the cab driver slid the partition open. "It's a bit cold back here," he said crisply, "with the wind and the rain and the fact that I'm soaked and freezing my arse off; do you think it would be too much to ask you to turn on the sodding heat?"

"I think, perhaps, I could do that," the taxi driver said, giving Draco a quick glance out of the corner of his wire-rimmed glasses as he turned up Kennington Road.

"Thank you so much." Draco was unable to keep the snideness out of his voice, and he wrinkled his nose as he peeled off his ruined suit jacket and set it on the fold-down chair opposite him.

The suit was a complete write-off between the water and the blood, and he shivered inside the clinging cotton of his Oxford, resolutely not thinking of his brother or his lov –- that lying, scheming bastard who Draco was going to Erase from his mind forever.

Just as soon as he could get his blood out of the cuffs of his shirt.

"You look as though you could do with a cup of tea." The driver's voice interrupted Draco's reverie, and he glanced up to find the taxi driver eyeing him in the rear-view mirror. The driver's face was wrinkled, and his eyebrows were bushy and white with age. He seemed to be smiling at Draco as he drove, which was thoroughly uncalled for in such inclement weather, and Draco scowled when the taxi driver held a thermos up to the partition.

"My mother told me never to take tea with strange men," Draco announced, turning his head to look out the window.

The driver made a non-committal noise. "Perhaps a Wine Gum or some Chocolate Buttons then?"

Draco turned back to fix the driver with his most imperious stare, but the driver was focussing on taking them up Kingsway in the downpour and didn't seem to be paying attention.

The taxi lurched suddenly when the driver stopped the cab, and Draco pitched forward, almost falling directly into the partition.

"There are some people who think you're supposed to slow down when it's bloody well raining," he cursed loudly as he pushed himself upright – just what he needed at the end of the day: a stay in hospital.

"That's what safety belts are for you know." The driver's sing-song tone only served to abrade Draco's nerves, and he looked up from his place on his knees, ready to let the taxi driver have a piece of his mind, but he found himself unable to say anything when confronted with the driver's wizened visage and startlingly bright, white beard.

"Look," Draco began, pushing himself upright and sitting back on the bench firmly. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask you for it."

"Albus," the driver said with a smile, before turning away and taking off again, tyres spinning and squealing as they searched for traction in the rain. How he was managing to get from first into what felt like fifth so quickly, Draco didn't know, but he held on for dear life.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore," the driver carried on conversationally, looking back at Draco and taking several turns blindly much to Draco's increasing horror. "Now are you certain I can't interest you in a cup of tea? Judging by the state of your clothing; I would think you could do with a cup or two."

"My clothing is none of your concern," Draco snapped.

"Suit yourself, dear boy," Dumbledore said, smiling broadly at Draco while taking Upper Wolburn on three wheels. "I, myself, find a cup of tea can make even the most dreadful situations seem better."

Draco closed his eyes and pinched his nose. At this rate he wasn't going to have to deal with Blaise because he wasn't going to make it to Camden in one piece. "I am fine. I do not need to feel better," he said icily.

Dumbledore said nothing, but Draco scowled. He could feel the old man's disapproval, and it rankled. He didn't need some old coffin dodger giving him shit. His brother was Oedipus; his ex was going to be pigeon feed if he had any say; his best mate wasn't even talking to him –- and oh, fucking hell, he'd forgot about his business.

Grabbing his jacket, Draco felt about for his mobile. He found his keys, his wallet, three condoms, two packets of lubrication, two cigarettes –- one of which was broken, but no mobile. He could feel his chest tightening up again, and he took a deep breath, trying to fill his lungs and focus the way Padma was always telling him to, but -- fucking hell.

This was no way to run a business.

This was also no way to run his life, but he would have to deal with one crisis at a time.

"It helps if you breathe," Dumbledore said, slamming on the brakes and almost sending Draco headfirst into the partition again. "We're here."

Draco had never been so happy to see 250 Camden Road in his life. "It helps if you don't drive like a flipping lunatic," Draco snapped, grabbing his belongings and trying to get out of the taxi as quickly as humanly possible.

"Here," Draco said, stuffing a handful of bills through the partition as he stumbled outside. The rain hadn't let up at all, but anything was better than being cooped up with that crazy old man, and Draco juggled the items in his hands trying to find the keys through the rain streaming into his eyes.

"You'll find that your lot in life has a lot to do with your attitude," Dumbledore called out as Draco made his way up the path of Blaise's building.

"Piss off, you bloody fool," Draco muttered to himself, not turning around as the black cab drove off. Taking shelter in the recessed doorway, Draco yanked on his wrinkled damp jacket and stuffed his belongings back into their appropriate compartments. He didn't need some daft, old busybody telling him how to run his life; he was doing a grand job of cocking it up himself, especially since he couldn't seem to get his key in the lock of the front door.

All he wanted was to be out of the fucking ball-shrivelling London winter rain, but it seemed as though life was determined to piss on his head all fucking day long.

He was wet and cold, quite possibly in shock and most definitely feeling murderous, and all Draco really wanted, more than Harry Potter's head on a pike, was to be inside Blaise's building. For the life of him, however, he couldn't get the fucking key to fit in the fucking lock.

He kicked the door, slipped on the treacherous pavement, and nearly ended up flat on his arse. This was just too much ignominy for one day –- he could feel the hysteria crawling up his throat. He had to get a fucking grip –- he was a Malfoy. Malfoys didn't lose their shit all over the doorstep of 250 Camden Road. That was beneath them -– as apparently was B&E, unless the Queen was paying. Draco punched the door angrily, and immediately jerked his hand away at the shattering pain that radiated from his left hand up his arm.

The aches and twinges from his earlier assault on Harry flared up again, and Draco bit his lower lip hard to keep from howling at the pain. He felt dizzy from going too many rounds with his life and losing, and now he couldn't even let himself in Blaise's fucking building.

Draco rested his forehead against the door and sighed. He was not going to emote. He was quite possibly going to have to use the door as support to keep from falling over into a heap.

He grabbed the door handle firmly and felt it turn in the palm of his head.

It had been open all the time, all this fucking time that he'd been yanking and pushing and losing his fucking mind, the door had been open.

This time Draco was unable to control the hysterical laugh that emerged. His laugh was high-pitched, almost like a wail, and rather than thinking too hard about much of anything, he staggered up the stars to Blaise's flat.

A simple door had never seemed more welcoming and menacing at the same time. If Blaise wasn't home, Draco could simply go in and pass out on the sofa; Blaise could throw him out later. If Blaise were at home…

Draco shook his head -– he was a rational man. He had to think rationally. This was the only place he could go right now. He couldn't go to the office and let them see him in this state; it was out of the question. He couldn't go home to his flat -– he'd just been there before – before all that. No, he needed to be here, and he needed -– he needed a key that fitted the locks on Blaise's door.

"Blaise?" he called, jangling his keys and wondering, if perhaps, he'd tried the wrong one. "Blaise, my key's not working."

Draco repeated himself again, attempting to keep the desperation out his voice.

"Blaise?!" This time Draco banged on the door with his right hand, wincing when his fingers refused to close into a fist. His hand was dreadfully discoloured from, well, everything, and he used the flat of his hand to bang harder on the smooth wooden door.

"Don't be this way," Draco pleaded, the sound of skin and wood making a flat, slapping noise. "Blaise, don't do this to me."

"BLAISE ANTON ZABINI," he shouted desperately, kicking the door with his foot. "Let me in! Fucking hell -– let me in!"

Draco rested his head against the door. He couldn't think. Water was pooling in his ears and his clothing was plastered against his skin in cold layers. His throat hurt as though he'd been shouting at the top of his lungs for too long, which really, he had.

He couldn't do this. "Just let me in. Please?"

There was the sound of a chain being drawn, and Draco stood away from the door quickly, straightening his crumpled jacket in an attempt to make himself presentable. It took him a minute to realise the door in question was actually across the hall and quite possibly being drawn shut.

Fabulous, just what Draco needed, a noisy neighbour thinking he was a crazed stalker and ringing the police.

It would be the perfect end to a stellar day.

He could see the headlines in The Mirror the next day:

HEAD HOOKER CAUGHT STALKING LOVER
Head of Elite Escort Service Tries to Break into Lover's Flat. Claims He Lost His Key.

It was just too much, and Draco crumpled against the door as his knees buckled. He was wet, cold, exhausted, his head was throbbing. His throat was as raw as if he'd swallowed a tray of razors; his nose was running; and it was possible that he was going to lose everything he'd worked –- his mother had worked -- to build.

And he had just ruined his suit.

Someone had to die.

Things like this didn't happen to him, and when he woke up this would all prove to be a bad dream. He would be asleep next to Har -– he would be asleep in his own bed, and Blaise would be making breakfast in his kitchen. Julian would be firmly ensconced in the lounge, amusing himself by breaking into whatever high-tech safe Draco had purchased in a vain effort to thwart his kleptomaniacal tendencies.

There would be no dead fathers and no dodgy spy business. Blaise wouldn't have locked him out, and Julian would be yelling at Draco to get his 'lazy, pale arse out of bed' before he left to pick up Miss Reed, Lauren, from the airport.

But the cramping in Draco's stomach and his hands wouldn't let that be the truth, and the fading blood spots on the cuffs of his shirt refused to let him forget. If Julian hadn't figured out what Harry was up to… Draco didn't even want to think about what sort of craziness Julian was mixed up in.

Everyone was guilty. It was like being in a bad Agatha Christie knock-off. Julian had been doing god only knew what. Kingsley was fucking Muscle-for-Hire -– which was why Draco had hired him in the first place, but apparently, he was getting it from both ends, which was a bit too much information for Draco. Neville was –- well, Neville was apparently himself –- but also for hire.

Harry was...

Draco didn't really want to think about what exactly Harry was. Or had been. Or currently was. It was all incredibly vexing and incomprehensible and unnerving. It was flat out appalling and infuriating. Draco could feel his blood pressure notching up exponentially at a rather alarming rate. He wasn't certain whether he wanted to vomit, kill large groups of people with the flames coming from his eyes, or have a lie-down.

Possibly all three, but maybe not in that order.

And the worst bit -– as though there weren't already enough horrible things to contemplate –- was that he'd fallen for it.

He'd fallen for all of it.

His brother he could forgive. Malfoys looked after each other –- it was the golden rule of being a Malfoy and being a twin.

Kingsley and Neville he would kill.

But Harry.

Harry had made him into a fucking cliché, and even in the aftermath, he was leaving Draco with a self-loathing and defeatist attitude better suited to anyone else in the world than Draco Malfoy.

Blaise would have laughed himself stupid.

Blaise would never have fallen for such a thing in the first place.

He had fought with Blaise over Harry. He had told Blaise he thought Harry was a good man, a man worth being trusted. He had told Harry what he did. He, who hardly trusted anyone, had trusted this person. And he'd turned out to be a fraud, a liar.

He'd thought he'd had it all -– and now, well…

Draco was thrown off balance when the door opened fractionally, and he found himself eye-to-knee with very artistically frayed dark blue denim jeans.

"Dolce and Gabbana," Draco said, pushing himself upright and tilting his head back. "This year's spring collection; I'd know them anywhere."

Draco's head went a bit fuzzy as his eyes travelled past Blaise's groin, and he realised that Blaise wasn't wearing a shirt. His dark hair was tousled and his brown eyes seemed like big smudges. He looked like sex; and Draco was a fuckwit.

Trying to reconcile these things was a bit difficult at the moment, and Draco had to stop himself from physically recoiling at Blaise's glower. "What do you want, Draco?"

Draco got to his feet. "My key doesn't work," he announced as though this were a problem on par with world hunger and the appalling fashion sense of most of the colonies.

"That's because I had the locks changed." The decisiveness of Blaise's answer threw Draco off, and his stomach growled loudly at this pronouncement.

Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, and now this.

"If you'd be good enough to get off my doorstep." Blaise stepped back and began to close the door.

"I – I," and for the first time in the most hellish twenty-four hours ever, Draco stumbled over his words. "I needed to see you."

"I have nothing to say to you right now." Blaise blocked the entrance to the flat with his body, his arms crossed over his chest and his disdain palpable.

Draco tried to suppress the involuntary shiver that went through his body -– it had to be the wet clothes -- instead he stalled for time by rubbing the ache in the back of his neck. He ran an escort service; he dealt with unpleasant situations every day -– generally by delegating them to Blaise and Pansy -- but he could do this. Also, now was not the time to have an erection. "Obviously, you said everything you wanted to say yesterday, am I right?" he said.

"Don't patronise me," Blaise's tone was extraordinarily flat.

Draco straightened the lapels of his suit jacket, trying to keep his eyes above Blaise's shoulders. "I would never dream of doing such a thing," he said, offering Blaise a half-hearted smirk as he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make himself presentable.

Something flickered across Blaise's face, but then his mouth thinned into a hard line. "If you've come to sack me, just be done with it."

Draco could feel his eyes widening in shock as his blood pressure spiked. "Sack you?! I most certainly am not --" His voice dropped off suddenly. "You're -– are you saying you're going to quit? You can't quit! I forbid you to quit –- I won't accept your resignation. I'll have Severus sue you!"

Draco could feel his muscles burning and cramping as he ran his fingers through his hair. This was not going to be tolerated. It was one thing to lose a lover, it was something else entirely to lose Blaise. "I admit I'm not necessarily the most lenient boss, or even the most understanding, but you cannot quit; I won't allow it!"

Draco could feel the very last fibre of his nerves shredding, and it took him a full minute to realise he was practically hissing his words. He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled a shaky breath at the end of his tirade –- fully ready for another go if so required.

Blaise simply raised a slender eyebrow and uncrossed his arms. "So -- I'm not sacked. That's good to know -– it makes it much easier to leave. Now if you'd been so kind as to vacate my doorstep." Blaise made a tiny sweeping motion with his hands, and Draco rocked back on his heels and locked his knees together: Blaise was dismissing him.

Blaise was quitting.

Draco's worst fear had been not having a place to go; that Blaise would turn him away.

This was completely unthinkable.

"No," Draco said stubbornly, swaying slightly. There was a chill coming from somewhere, but he felt a bit warm, except for the cotton wool in his head. "I refuse to accept your resignation."

Blaise narrowed his eyes. "I am not resigning, Draco; I am quitting. Resigning is a pseudo-amicable parting of ways. Quitting is me telling you to fuck off directly."

Draco blocked the door as Blaise attempted to move back inside his flat. "You are not quitting," he said in a low, tight voice, struggling to contain his anger. "And I am not leaving."

"Don’t you have somewhere else to be?" Blaise asked. His tone was cool, crisp and completely professional; they could have been talking about the weather or the price of milk.

Draco didn't pretend to think over his answer. "No."

A muscle twitched in Blaise's temple. "What about your brilliant Mr. Potter? Surely you two have some shagging to do, some art gallery opening to attend or some performance to be seen at that we were suppose to go to."

"Harry's a lying, scheming, fucking tosser," Draco said amiably, as though they were talking over Chelsea's seasonal prospects. "I wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire."

A look of bemusement managed to flit across Blaise's features. "Well, that's quite a different song from the one you were singing the other day," he said, rubbing his mussed, dark spikes.

Draco's own snort made his ears ring. "Yes, I suppose you could say that."

Blaise's mouth was a thin line of disapprobation.

Draco sighed and leaned forward slightly. "Do you want to know why he's a deceitful, mendacious fuckwit who I'd castrate with a grapefruit spoon?"

Blaise did his elegant shrug as though it made no difference to him, and Draco took another step forward. He could smell Blaise – his skin was redolent of single-malt whiskey, cigarettes and the sandalwood soap he favoured. He smelled as though he'd been in a bar, and Draco's stomach clenched.

Clearly Blaise wasn't going to meet him halfway, and Draco's lips brushed the shell of Blaise's ear as he whispered, "It's because he's MI-6."

Blaise pulled back slightly, his eyes wide.

"That's right," Draco said sardonically. "I was fucking a special agent who, apparently, was after my brother, and not after my tax statements or my arse, and I didn't even know it –- "

Blaise said something, which unfortunately, Draco missed -- because he chose that moment to pass out.

Julian and Draco were feeding the ducks in St James Park, while their mother and Severus had a very tight-lipped discussion several metres away. At six years of age, Draco didn't know a lot about rows, but he knew when his mother was talking business because she got tiny lines across her forehead, which Julian spent time in the mirror trying to imitate.

Draco bent down to study an old football scar on his knee at the same time that Julian scratched a new rugby scar on his elbow. Draco protested loudly when his brother sprinkled crumbs on his head.

"That's not funny," Draco said, standing up and brushing the crumbs out of his hair.

"It's not funny to you," Julian said, his tiny pink mouth twisting into a smirk, "but I find it quite amusing."

Draco scowled. He hated being a twin; when he was older he wasn't going to have anything to do with his brother. When he was older; he was going to pretend to be an only child. He didn't need Julian, no matter what his mother kept telling them about twins being closer than other siblings.

Glancing at his mother, Draco turned back to Julian and pushed him hard. Julian pushed back; so, Draco pushed him again, watching as Julian lost his balance.

He stumbled when Julian grabbed his jumper and pulled him into the lake with him.

Draco gasped for air and flailed his arms, banging his forearm soundly on something hard and cold with absolutely no give. The pain rocketed up his arm quickly, and he cursed loudly, clutching his forearm to his chest.

It took Draco several seconds to realise he wasn't in the pond at the park, but up to his elbows in hot water in the bath. There was a brief moment where he tried, fruitlessly, to wrap his mind around the urban legend horror of waking up, naked, in a strange bathroom, and immediately he felt around to make sure he wasn't missing any body parts or internal organs.

Thankfully, however, there was a white cotton dressing gown hanging on the back of the door alongside a track suit jacket that Blaise wore when Draco forced him to play football in Hyde Park; this abated the clutching sensation in Draco's chest. He recognized the silver radiator that was clanking away in the corner and giving off heat, and he took several deep breaths as he looked around at his surroundings and tried to get a handle on himself.

He was up to his waist in warm water in Blaise's ridiculously large clawed bathtub; he had always mocked Blaise for having such a large bath -– he'd called it over compensating, and yet, now, well. He couldn't quite recall how he'd managed to end up in the bath, but that was obviously what happened when one blacked out from trauma. Draco could just imagine Blaise dragging him, unconscious, through his flat by his ankles and instinctively he felt for any large bumps on the back of his head.

His own clothes were nowhere to be seen in the pristine, white facility, but the toilet seat was up, and the entire room carried a faint hint of Blaise's aftershave and soap.

Covering his eyes with his hands, Draco slumped down into the bathtub. The water smelled of whatever dirty, sweat, blood and semen tainted water smelled of; and it was only when he splayed his fingers open that Draco realised there was a dry flannel on top of the mountain of products that Blaise kept on his bath tray.

There were Kiehl's products for the skin and hair, and coloured soaps and bath washes with names like Slammer and Narcotick and Back for Breakfast. Blaise was obviously a product addict, and Draco picked up several soaps and sniffed them curiously. None of them smelled just like Blaise, but they all seemed to interest Draco's dick, which was not what he needed at the moment.

He was not going to have a wank in Blaise's bathtub.

The idea had merit though, and god knew Draco could stand the release, but Blaise had changed the locks on his doors; and Draco had passed out; and there was the matter of whatshisname that Draco wasn't going to mention. Plus, Julian and his dead father –- and Draco's dick deflated just as quickly as it had got hard.

What, exactly, Draco needed at the moment was heavily up for debate, but rather than thinking too much about it, he flexed his sore hands, picked up the nearest bar of soap, which said 'NUDE' in large letters and his flannel, and began to scrub himself thoroughly.

The water grew cloudy and the white flannel quickly turned a dirty shade of pink as Draco scrubbed his arms and his legs and his chest. When the bar of soap slipped out of his grasp, Draco grabbed another bar, this one red and continued on with his bodily assault. Maybe if he scrubbed between his toes and behind his ears enough he could wash everything away.

Clearly organised religion was on to something with its baptism lark.

Rising up on his knees, Draco set the flannel on the bath tray and looked at the murky water around him. He smelled like cocoa butter and oranges, his fingers were pruney, and the water was almost opaque; he wasn't going to wash his hair in that water.

Reaching around the bath tray, he unplugged the tub and let it drain while he sorted through Blaise's endless array of shampoos and conditioners. How many products one man needed, Draco didn't know, but Blaise's assortment was dangerously close to rivalling his own.

Draco wrinkled his nose as the last of the water swirled down the drain, and reinstalling the plug, he turned on the hot water, sat back, and waited for the tub to fill.

"You looked like a drowned ferret." Draco hadn't even heard the door open, and he fumbled the shampoo and conditioner as he caught Blaise's piercing gaze in his periphery.

"I've had a very taxing day," Draco said, shooting a scowl in Blaise's direction before turning back towards the rapidly filling tub and the bottles in his hands. Blaise had pulled on a faded Rolling Stones shirt, much to the dismay of Draco's hormones. "Do not mock my pain."

Blaise's snort of derision made the heat rise in Draco's stomach. "If I don't mock you, I'll have nothing else to do; you wouldn't want that, would you?"

Draco's scowl deepened –- dredging up unpleasant memories from their school days was clearly penance for their earlier row. "The last thing I need is to be compared to a rodent."

"You can't have everything."

"Yes, I think I've learned that." Draco's body felt marginally more human than before; at the very least the filth was gone, but his dick was twitching with every step closer Blaise took.

Now was not a good time for a hard-on, and Draco tried to cover himself as Blaise crossed the bathroom, mug in one hand and two large fluffy towels under the other arm.

"Draco Malfoy learning something -- will wonders never cease?" Blaise dropped one of the towels on the floor next to the bathtub, and knelt down. His sardonic tone seemed to have restorative properties for Draco's body, and as Blaise leaned forward to turn off the taps, Draco discreetly dropped the flannel over his groin.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of intelligence," Draco snipped, swapping the offered cup of tea for the shampoo and conditioner.

"Yes, but it's so much fun," Blaise said thoughtfully as he set the bottle of conditioner down next to him. "Surely you're not going to deny me a little enjoyment at your expense –- go under."

Draco coughed as his tea went down the wrong way. "What?"

"Go under," Blaise made a dismissive motion with his hand. "Underwater, you berk, so I can wash your hair."

Draco licked his lips. Blaise had made his tea exactly as he liked it, white with two sugars. He could taste the sugar on his lips; that was what was making his pulse race surely. "I can wash my own hair," Draco pointed out, taking another swallow of his tea. He was too tired and too hungry to be proper about his sipping.

"With your hands in that state? I don't think so; and I'd prefer you not to waste my products trying to prove otherwise."

Draco suppressed the urge to hide his hands and instead glowered at Blaise, who rolled his eyes. "Any time now, Draco."

Blaise's impatient tone made Draco smirk, and he was just slipping under when he felt Blaise's hand on the top of his head pushing him down.

Draco struggled to keep the mug above the water as he went under, and popped back up the minute Blaise's hand released him. "Are you trying to drown me for my business, Zabini?" he sputtered, closing his eyes as water streamed down his face.

"Considering that I'm already running most of the company, that would hardly be an ambitious motive for murder, now would it? Come here." Draco tilted his head where Blaise directed and sighed as Blaise began soaping the shampoo into his hair.

Keeping his eyes closed, Draco took another mouthful of his tea. "Why does your hair smell like a Rastafarian?" Blaise asked conversationally, and Draco sighed.

"It's a long story."

"I've got all the time in the world," Blaise said.

"I don't think anyone has enough time for this story."

"Try me –- tilt your head."

Draco cocked his head to the left and finished the last of his tea. Blaise's fingertips were swirling patterns around the crown of his head, and the pressure was positively orgasmic. "I don't suppose I could get something to eat as well?" Draco opened his eyes tentatively.

"You're very demanding for someone who passed out on my doorstep." Draco flinched, and Blaise stopped and peered down at him. "I'm taking the piss, Draco," Blaise said, the worry line between his eyebrows standing out despite the lightness of his tone.

Draco nodded his head. "I know."

Blaise nodded back; he had soapsuds on his shirt. "Rinse."

Draco felt Blaise remove the teacup from his hand as he slipped under, and he sat up again, soapy water streaming down his back and chest. "That self-righteous, Arsenal-supporting, limp-dicked tosser works for the government," he confessed.

"It's not nice to talk about your brother that way," Blaise chided, shifting his weight and beckoning Draco back towards him with soapy hands.

"Harry fucking Potter," Draco spat, wiping the suds off his forehead before they could run into his eyes. "He fucking works for something called Special Branch; he was looking for Julian."

Blaise made a noncommittal noise as he scrubbed Draco's scalp, and it was on the tip of Draco's tongue to tell Blaise about Julian and their father, but some things were only meant for family. Pulling his legs up to his chest, Draco rested his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes again.

"I'm sorry things didn't turn out better," Blaise said after several minutes, and Draco opened his eyes and lifted his head in surprise. Blaise had nothing to apologise for –- if anyone should have apologised it was him, but Draco didn't think he knew how, and he slipped precariously as Blaise pushed him under the water and kept him there long enough to get all the soap out his hair.

"You are trying to kill me!" Draco gasped after being let up for air, completely forgetting Blaise's apology.

"I'm just trying to knock some sense into you," Blaise smirked. "The next time I tell you your priorities are wrong, listen to me."

"Who died and made you Severus?" Draco demanded, pushing the wet hair off his forehead.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "You did."

Draco pursed his lips. He knew it was always in his best interest to listen to Blaise; this debacle had just illustrated that more clearly. He obviously couldn't manage everything, or even himself, without Blaise's assistance, but there was no reason for Blaise to know that.

"I most certainly did not," Draco retorted, leaning over the side of the tub and grabbing hold of Blaise's belt loops, yanking him halfway into the tub.

Blaise grunted as one knee landed in the tub beside Draco's thighs. "These are fucking expensive jeans, you wanker," he snapped, grabbing the tub on either side of Draco's head for leverage. "Have you lost your fucking mind?"

Draco's leer was impossibly wide: he could feel it stretching the corners of his mouth. "Think about it," he began amiably. "My ex lover, who we will never mention again, works for MI-5—"

"I thought you said he works for MI-6."

"Don’t interrupt," Draco said pulling Blaise the rest of the way into the tub with a slightly manic grin. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted -- He Who Shall Not Be Named is a fucking communist spy; and my brother is just fucking madder than a March Hare."

"Don't insult the communists that way," Blaise said reproachfully, wrinkling his nose as he sat back on his haunches in the soapy water. His movements sent Draco's flannel floating away. "Also, you've completely fucking ruined my jeans."

"I'll buy you a new pair; I'll buy you two."

Blaise raised an eyebrow, but Draco was feeling magnanimous. Or penitent.

"I don't want jeans; I want a partnership," Blaise demanded, his brown eyes bright and sharp.

Draco pretended to think it over, only let out a grunt of pain when Blaise' right hand gripped a handful of his hair and pulled hard. "If you pull out my hair, I'll kill you," he warned.

"You're such a vain peacock," Blaise mocked, resettling himself on Draco's hips and sloshing bathwater. The pressure of Blaise's wet denim on Draco's groin made Draco's dick throb. The head of his cock was peaking out from his foreskin, and there was no doubt in his mind that Blaise was teasing him. It was unconscionable, this teasing. It was also tremendously hot, and Draco found himself flexing his hands, testing their stiffness before settling them on Blaise's hips.

"You're always threatening to kill someone," Blaise carried on, "and yet, here you are, sitting naked, in my bathtub, with no discernable weapons. I bet Julian doesn't bathe unarmed."

Draco scowled and tightened his hold on Blaise's waist. "Is there something you're trying to tell me, Blaise?"

Blaise gave Draco an enigmatic smile that was a perfect mirror for Julian's, and then made a point of looking Draco up and down, his gaze lingering on Draco's cock, which was waving the flag for getting off, again.

There was a part of Draco screaming about sitting naked in the bath with his best mate on his lap, but he couldn't be bothered to listen to it. When Blaise met Draco's eyes again there was colour in his cheeks, which made Draco's throat tighten. There were rules about this sort of thing; he was the one who had made them, but this was Blaise, and Draco had always wanted Blaise.

This wasn't something new; it had always been this way.

Blaise licked his lower lip and Draco's eyes drifted downwards towards his red mouth. "You didn't sleep with him, did you?" he asked distractedly.

"Sleep with who?" Blaise's curious tone made a muscle on Draco's bicep twitch.

"Julian."

Blaise's incredulous look said it all, but Draco felt that he had to ask. "Your brother is as straight as David Beckham; even I can see that. Now if you'd asked me if I were sleeping with Damon I might've had to say 'yes' but -–"

"You are not sleeping with Damon Albarn," Draco protested hotly.

"Not in the sense you're thinking of – you have a terribly filthy mind. Now if we were talking about Thom Yorke, I might have to call in my solicitor, but really, Draco." Blaise's reproachful tone didn't shame Draco in the least bit, and instead he leaned forward and rested his head on Blaise's chest. Blaise was warm and his shirt was soft against Draco's forehead; it smelled of fabric softener.

"You're being touchy," Blaise commented idly, rubbing his fingers through Draco's hair. "You must've had a very bad day."

It was there on the tip of Draco's tongue to tell Blaise everything: Harry, Julian, his father, his mother, his business, which he hadn't even called in to. Instead he said, "I thought I'd lost you."

Blaise pulled away slightly, trying to tilt Draco's head up to make eye contact. "You thought you'd lost me? What am I, some wayward ankle-biter?"

Draco chuckled despite himself, all the while trying to avoid Blaise's eyes. Too much trauma was bad for him; it made him honest, and now he'd clearly lost the plot.

"I meant who would look after the business if you left," he amended when Blaise took hold of his chin and forced Draco to look at him.

"Ah," Blaise said. "It's always about the business, is it?"

Draco tried to shrug, but couldn't bring himself to let go of Blaise. The water was cooling around them, and Blaise was warm; Draco slid his fingers under the hem of Blaise's shirt and rubbed his thumbs along the waistband of his jeans.

It wasn't always about the business, but Blaise was all Draco had at the end of the day. Of course he had his family, but this wasn't the same. Draco couldn't lose this, and he started when Blaise's lips brushed lightly against his forehead.

"C'mon, these trousers are killing me, and my legs are starting to cramp up," Blaise said leaning back and unplugging the tub. The faded, damp tee shirt rode up Blaise's stomach at the convoluted position, and Draco stared at the tiny trail of fine black hairs as Blaise pushed himself to his feet.

Draco felt Blaise slipping away under his hands, and he relaxed his stiff fingers for a moment before changing his mind and pulling Blaise back down.

"You're very funny," Blaise knelt on either side of Draco's hips, and gave him an indulgent grin, his eyes darting down to Draco's groin for a moment. "Now let go."

Draco narrowed his eyes and licked his lower lip. "No, I don’t think I will."

A look flashed across Blaise that seemed a lot like worry, but his grin just got wider. "You must be famished," he said, setting his hands on Draco's shoulders, ostensibly to push him away. "I'll fix you something suitably greasy."

Draco slid his hands up Blaise's back, resting his palms between Blaise's shoulder blades and pulling him forward. "I don't think what I want is in the kitchen."

It was Blaise's turn to narrow his eyes as Draco licked his lower lip again and leaned forward. Blaise's eyes were hooded from trying to track Draco's movements, and his eyelashes cast dark shadows in the hollows under his eyes. "Draco, you can't be -–"

Blaise's breath was warm against Draco's face, and his breathing hitched when Draco's tongue swept over his lower lip. Blaise's lips parted as though he were going to say something, but Draco brushed his lips against Blaise's mouth and he let his tongue flicker out to touch Blaise's.

It was much easier to get forgiveness than permission; and if Draco didn't hear Blaise say 'no' then he could pretend he had said 'yes'; so when Blaise made a strange keening noise, Draco took it as encouragement.

He moved his hands from Blaise's shoulders to the sides of his neck and pulled their mouths together easily. Their lips slid along each other, trying to find the right groove, and Blaise made a gasping noise as Draco's tongue brushed against his repeatedly.

Blaise tasted of whiskey and tea, and Draco made an encouraging noise when Blaise's fingers gripped the hair at the nape of his neck.

Draco had heard people talk of sparks and fitting and all sorts of romantic tripe, and he'd bought into none of it with good reason since snogging Blaise was none of those things. Draco had spent most of their friendship resolutely not thinking about kissing Blaise, and he realised as Blaise's grip tightened and they began kissing fiercely that anything he could've imagined would never have lived up to this.

This was going to be the best thing that ever happened to him -- and it was probably going to ruin them, but Draco just couldn't bring himself to care. He grunted when Blaise sat down abruptly on his lap and thrust against him, and he rode out the thrust, feeling his foreskin rubbing against the wet denim.

It was not the most pleasant sensation ever, in fact, it almost hurt, but a little discomfort never killed anyone. In fact a tolerance to pain was a good thing; it made you slightly insane (him) and homicidal (Julian), but to get Blaise naked, Draco was willing to suffer an indignity or two. Or three.

It wasn’t as though Draco was going to stop what they were doing; and he made an inhuman grunt when Blaise's hand insinuated itself between their groins, the slightly-calloused flat of his hand rubbing against the base of Draco's cock over and over.

Draco shuddered repeatedly at the little sparks of sensation that flared along his spine, running his hands over Blaise's neck and biceps as Blaise pulled his head to the left and to the right, thrusting his tongue in deeper and forcing Draco to keep up or withdraw and let Blaise take over.

Where Blaise had learned to kiss like that, Draco could only imagine, but that didn't seem like a particularly sane thought to have at the time. Rather than dwelling, Draco slipped his hands under Blaise's shirt and urged Blaise to thrust against him more.

Making out with Blaise in the bathtub was absolutely foolhardy, and not really comfortable considering it was a fucking cast-iron bathtub, but the idea of stopping never occurred to Draco. Stopping this was not an option, ever; especially considering how warm and smooth Blaise's skin was under his hands.

There were brilliant stretches of taut muscle in Blaise's lower back and abdominals, and Blaise shuddered when Draco pinched and rolled his nipples between his fingers, gently at first and then with more force.

Draco let out a thankful moan when Blaise's tongue flickered along the shell of his ear without ever going in. Draco hated it when people stuck their tongues in his ear, but this, this was fucking fantastic, and he kicked the bath tray over abruptly when Blaise's mouth closed over his Adam's apple and sucked hard.

The cacophony of falling products seemed to break the spell, and Blaise pulled away, dark eyes huge and his red mouth, swollen and wet. "No. No, I won't do this," he said, loosening his fingers from Draco's hair and trying to extract himself from Draco's clutches.

Draco could feel his eyes widening as he struggled to hold on. "Where the fuck are you going?" he said, wrapping one arm around Blaise's waist and grabbing at the arm Blaise was using to push him away. He just dodged Blaise's flailing fist.

"I am not some rentboy," Blaise hissed angrily as Draco tried to keep him contained. "I won't be your rebound shag."

Draco stared incredulously, opened his mouth to laugh, and then thought better of it. He could feel Blaise quivering in his grip; this was obviously a dodgy area. "You are not trade," he said tightly. "I know that; I've spent years trying to divert the punters who thought you were. Do you think I would let them have you if I couldn't?"

Blaise's face went blank, and he stopped fighting, instead choosing to look away. "I am not here for you to fuck out your frustration about Mr. fucking Spy Man. I am not here to mend your broken bits, Draco."

Blaise's voice was toneless and flat. His detachment made Draco's head hurt, and he squeezed his eyes shut instead of squeezing his fist since he was still holding Blaise's wrist. This was not the way to start a healthy relationship, not that Draco had any experience with such a thing since both his best mate and his twin were just as pathologically and emotionally stunted as he was; and his father was whatever, and his last lover was a lying prick, but still.

Draco opened his eyes, exhaled a shaky breath, and let go of Blaise. "I know that, and you know that," he said rigidly.

Draco's stomach cramped up when Blaise met his eyes; the colour in his cheeks was gone and he looked pale and drawn. Draco let out a long sigh as Blaise rubbed his wrist, but Blaise twitched when Draco cupped his face firmly and pulled him closer.

If he was going to fuck up; he wasn't going to do it halfway.

"You're not the rebound," he said very quietly, daring Blaise to meet his eyes. He could feel the muscles in Blaise's jaw clenching, even as they stared each other down defiantly. "You were never my second choice, and you know it."

Draco tried to keep his hands still, but his thumbs seemed to have a life of their own, brushing against Blaise's cheekbones as though trying to construct a muscle memory for future reference. "Tell me you want me," Blaise demanded.

Draco couldn't keep the smirk off his face. "Feeling a bit underappreciated, are we?", he said, but when he closed his eyes to kiss Blaise, he found himself being shoved backwards in the tub. Draco saw spots when he hit his head on the edge of the tub, and he grabbed at Blaise, hearing the worn cotton tear under his hands.

Being on his back in a wet tub was not Draco's ideal location for anything, but he arched upwards as Blaise shifted his weight and frowned. "That was my favourite shirt," Blaise said, even as he pulled the remaining scraps of cotton over his head.

Draco stared very hard for several minutes, taking in the tanned skin and the light smattering of hairs leading down to the waistband of the wet trousers. He kept ogling until he realised that Blaise was watching him curiously. God only knew what was on his face, and he cocked an eyebrow in amusement.

"I'll buy you another one," Draco parroted his earlier sentiment as Blaise tried to arrange himself over Draco in the tub. "I'll buy you whatever you bloody well want," Draco amended as Blaise leaned down and nipped at his shoulder with sharp teeth.

"That's what I want to hear," Blaise said encouragingly as Draco struggled to unfasten the buttons of Blaise's jeans. "Tell me more."

"This is the worst place possible for sex," Draco complained even as he craned his neck at an awkward angle so Blaise could nip under his jaw. Blaise's hair was soft along Draco's chin as he mouthed at the sharp jut of Draco's collarbone, and Draco took a moment, his fingers stroking the soft skin of Blaise's hip and feeling the curl of wiry pubic hairs, to appreciate the fact that not only was this insane, but that it was actually happening. Draco wanted it to happen -- very fucking badly.

If he could have this with Blaise, then the rest of it really didn't fucking matter. Of course they would both have to quit M.E., Limited since fraternisation between employees was strictly prohibited; Pansy would have to run the business. Blaise then went and ruined Draco's one reflective moment by running a fingernail along the underside of Draco's cock; Draco almost swallowed his own tongue

"Shut up and be useful," Blaise ordered, pushing himself up with his hands so Draco could get his jeans down over his hips. Draco bit back a scathing reply when he realised that for all intents and purposes he was naked in the bathtub with someone he had wanted for a very long time.

Shoving the wet denim down hurriedly, Draco spread his hands along Blaise's backside, squeezing and feeling toned muscle underneath his palms. He made encouraging noises when Blaise's cock bumped against his own.

"Fuck," Blaise hissed, trying to support himself on the slippery porcelain; Draco licked his lips. "Next time we do this in a bed."

"You're so sure there's going to be a next time?" Draco asked casually, releasing Blaise's backside and sliding his hand between them to squeeze Blaise's dick, his thumb teasing the foreskin back and forth.

Blaise grunted as he thrust into the circle of Draco's hand. "You fucking owe me a next time," he gasped as Draco rubbed his thumb just under the head. "I fucking own you."

Draco made a derisive noise, letting his actions speak for him as he squeezed and stroked again, letting his fingers caress and tease. Blaise's cock was slightly thinner than his own, but perhaps the slightest bit longer, which he would never admit to.

Draco watched enrapt, as Blaise panted above him in time with the motions of Draco's hand, slower and then faster and then slower and then a little slower than that. "Stop fucking around," Blaise's tone was all desperation and Draco leered.

"Who owns whom exactly?" he asked, attempting an innocent panache. This may have been their first time together, but Draco knew pent-up frustration when he saw it. There was sweat beading along Blaise's upper lip and his hairline, his hair was a mess and his face was flushed -- he looked like the most debauched person Draco had ever seen.

Draco could feel his own cock twitching and jerking wetly in neglect against his stomach, and strangely enough he didn't mind.

Blaise was clearly addictive, and it was Draco's turn to groan when Blaise leaned down, spreading his weight out so that Draco's hand was trapped between them.

"'Property of Blaise Zabini' is going to look magnificent on your arse," Blaise said in a guttural tone, and Draco shuddered hard.

"Shut up and get me off," Draco hissed against Blaise's ear, but when Blaise moved again Draco insinuated his other hand between their bodies and began rolling Blaise's balls back and forth between his fingers.

"Yesss!" It was Blaise's turn to speak in a sibilant tone, and Draco smirked victoriously as Blaise whimpered and froze, his back arching as he came over Draco's fingers and wrist.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, there was no time for Draco to revel in a job well done. He almost bit through his own tongue when Blaise spit into the flat of his own right hand and then wrapped it around Draco's cock, stroking forcefully, and letting his thumb work the foreskin as Draco wriggled beneath him, trapped by Blaise and the stupid fucking tub.

There were lubrications for this sort of stuff, but they could worry about those later, and unlike Draco, Blaise didn't seem terribly inclined to tease. He seemed to know exactly what Draco would like.

One minute Draco was getting Blaise off, and the next Draco's legs were hanging over the side of the bathtub as Blaise stroked Draco's cock ruthlessly, and his fingers found that perfect spot right behind Draco's balls.

Draco flailed inside the confined space, using the tub for leverage to push back into Blaise's talented hands as he manipulated Draco's prostate and left Draco panting and whinging, alternating between trying to get closer and scrabble away from the intensity.

All Draco could manage was an 'ungh' noise when Blaise demanded that he come; and when Draco finally did come, his entire body cramped up as though giving itself over entirely. Despite the cramping, Draco's orgasm was the most blissful thing ever until he slammed his head in the floor of the tub so hard he almost passed out, again.

His heart was racing as though he'd just played 90 minutes plus overage at Stamford Bridge, and he grabbed at Blaise blindly, pulling him down and kissing him messily. There would be plenty of time for finesse and technique later; right now, Draco just wanted Blaise's mouth on his.

It took Draco some time to stop snogging Blaise like a desperate man, and it was only when he pulled back to breathe that he felt the pins and needles shooting through his arms and his back.

"Can we please go to bed now?" Draco asked, resolutely ignoring the way Blaise was curled up against him, and the way Draco's own bruised and stiff fingers were shamelessly stroking Blaise's hair.

Blaise propped himself up on one arm and raised an eyebrow. "Ready for round two already?"

Draco laughed even as exhaustion settled into every fibre of his body. "I was born ready; I thought you knew that."

Sex with Blaise was nothing like sex with Harry. While Harry had been a good lover, very inquisitive and interested in what Draco wanted; he wasn't terribly adventurous. If he wasn't certain that Draco might want something, he asked; Harry always tended to ask, and while Draco felt this was good as he enjoyed being catered to, he'd wanted Harry to take charge like the night in the tunnel. But Harry seemed to run hot and cold too much (obviously being a spy had him confused); he would be bold and then uncertain, and Draco didn't need that. He was going to get off, no one had to worry about that; the only question was how.

Blaise, on the other hand, was much more like Draco in bed. He did what he wanted, and expected his partner to do the same. He wasn't inconsiderate inasmuch as he knew what he liked (rimming, fingers, blowjobs, having his balls licked. Draco presumed the list went on and on and on; he planned to find out) and made it happen. Draco needed that.

Many, many hours later Draco rolled onto his stomach to go to sleep, folding his arms underneath his pillow and turning his head away from Blaise to look out of the window. Light from the moon was filtering in through the leaves of the tree outside, and Draco turned his head back when he felt Blaise's fingers gently stroking between his shoulder blades.

The tips of Blaise's fingers drew pattern after pattern, almost like a mathematical formula, and his features were softened with the indolence of the well-fucked. Draco blinked slowly as he studied Blaise in the soft lighting; Blaise's eyes seemed to glow with some emotion Draco didn’t want to over-think, and Draco mentally kicked himself for sounding like a lovesick girl. His eyes fluttered closed again when Blaise's hand slipped along the nape of his neck and threaded through his hair. The bedclothes rustled with Blaise's movements, and Draco smiled when Blaise's mouth pressed against his own.

"You're not going to go all funny on me now, are you?" Blaise asked, his words spilling into Draco's mouth as Draco parted his lips.

Blaise could've been talking about anything from That Person Who Draco Would Not Speak of Anymore, to well, anything else. Draco opted for the least complicated option. "Why would I go funny just because I'm shagging my partner at work after I explicitly said there was to be no shagging at work," he offered.

Draco frowned when Blaise didn't snog him again, but instead laughed against the side of his neck. "The only person minding that rule is you, correction -- was you."

Blaise's breath was warm, and Draco couldn't even summon enough indignation to sound upset, but he tried. "I expect you to sort out Roger and Hannah, you know."

"Yes, but then what do you plan to do about Pansy and Kingsley?"

Draco rolled over, dislodging Blaise, and pushed himself up on his elbows. "Excuse me?"

"And what about Theodore and Neville?" Blaise lifted his head and looked back intently, his dark eyes daring Draco to disapprove.

"Theodore and Neville?" Draco parroted disbelievingly. "What the hell is this? We're not running a fucking dating service!"

"Stop trying to pretend to be appalled," Blaise patted Draco chest as Draco collapsed back onto the pillows. "You can't sack everyone, unless you plan to sack yourself as well."

"Oh for fuckssake," Draco protested feebly.

"Yes, quite. Any other brilliant plans, fearless leader?"

Draco let his noise of derision answer for him as Blaise rested his chin on Draco's chest. Much of Blaise's body was plastered alongside his, and yet, Draco didn't feel terribly compelled to get away. "Are you accusing me of over-reacting?" he asked, watching the way Blaise's eyelashes created shadows on his cheeks. "I'll have you know that I am the calmest, most rational person I know. Apart from you -– and Julian. And my mother."

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Your eyes'll get stuck up there if you're not careful," Draco said, wondering if he'd missed something when Blaise chuckled.

"You're clearly delusional from too much sex," Blaise said, shifting slightly as Draco reached for him underneath the covers.

"And this is a bad thing?"

"Point taken," Blaise said around a yawn.

"Past your bedtime, is it?" Draco spoke around an answering yawn.

"Shut up and go to sleep, you insufferable berk," Blaise commanded, closing his eyes.

Draco was going to say something, but his smirk was wasted if Blaise wasn't looking, so instead he closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

--Chapter VIII---

+ This entire section is dedicated to the very brilliant and snarky

ethrosdemon, who can consider this payoff for all her suffering, especially since she beta read it twice. Also, this would never have been possible without the guidance and support and picking of

oxoniensis (Yes, sweetie, kleptomaniacal is a real word). Thank you, ladies.

+

serialkarma, please note Teh Porn of Distraction

+ All soaps and products mentioned herein can be purchased at Lush.

Soundtrack provided by: Rufus Wainwright 'Waiting for a Dream'; Turin Brakes 'Self Help'; Travis 'Re-Offender'; Placebo 'Pure Morning'; The Rolling Stones 'You Can't Always Get What You Want', and the very beautiful, Elbow 'Switching Off'

Current Mood: busy
Current Music: David Gray 'Knowhere'/ Prince 'I Could Never Take…'

Page 1 of 3 << [1] [2] [3] >>

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

ravurian

Well, as usual: guh. That's pretty much all. Except, oops, now I'll have to figure out who Blaise is and make a picture with him in it...

Um. That's not the last of Harry, is it? ::sigh:: Heh.

From:

mereol.livejournal.com

Blaise is Marcus Schenkenburg (minus pamela anderson and her hepatitis) in my head. holyhotnessbatman.

(no subject)

From:

k-glorificus.livejournal.com - Date: 2005-05-03 06:14 pm (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

From:

mereol.livejournal.com - Date: 2005-05-03 06:31 pm (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

From:

hackthis.livejournal.com - Date: 2005-05-09 05:45 pm (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

From:

ravurian - Date: 2005-05-09 05:56 pm (UTC) - Expand

From:

blueandomlettes.livejournal.com

Dude i love the sex as contest to see who is in charge scene. Soo hot and soo totally right for both of those characters. Also yay im the first one to leave a comment, so let me just say again that I love this story with all its cross over insanity and the fact that it really is crackfic ( hello dumbledore as cab driver is INSPIRED). Anyway write on ( get it i made a stupid pun :-p )

From:

Educated Black Person, Esq., A.A., B.A., MBA, Ph.D., RN, NAACP, AAA

Trade – Chapter VII

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags