Easy Mistakes

SIGHT (Part 1/5)

--Butthole Surfers

HARRY’S POV

It’s one of those nights where a person could honestly believe there never was and never would be a night as beautiful as this one. A shaft of full-moonlight falls coldly through the leaded-glass window and casts dark lines like bars, disrupting the easy illumination. The light is broken anyhow, tripping over the bedside table, falling onto the floor and finally jumping to the end of the bed. The sheets and bedspread are disarrayed, only partially covering our two bodies. Your foot glows an oddly soft, fuzzy white where the winter moon shines on it. That’s how your skin is—soft, fuzzy in some places. Your stomach and face, legs and arms. I study you for a long minute, or maybe it is more. I concentrate on the curve of your cheeks, the sharp tip of your nose, delicate arch of light eyebrows, the dark fringe your eyelashes cast on your cheekbones, the thin lips that pout even in sleep. Some might say you look like an angel in this light; your silver, fine hair falling about your face in a shattered halo—I know better.

It’s an easy mistake to make until your eyes open. Hostility, coldness and arrogance all in one cobalt gaze. A flash of fury every once in a while, then quickly chased into shining, onyx pupils; hidden away. Your limbs that right now are languidly sprawling, covering as much space as possible, blurred in fast and hard motion as slap and punch land in places tender and vulnerable. Your mouth, now in a slight smile, becomes hard and spits insults and stinging comebacks. If they saw you as I see you, they would not make this mistake.

Nights like these, I stay awake, observing and absorbing the calm after the storm. It’s so still and this is how I love you.

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TOUCH (Part 2/5)

As the morning light starts to lighten the sky and room, I pull the heavy curtains around my bed closed, sealing Draco and me in a second, moonless night. It’s so dark, that for a second I feel as if I’m blind or that I’ve closed my eyes without noticing. I wait, a little anxiousness tugging in my chest, while my eyes adjust to the darkness. I’ve never liked the dark; it feels too close, as if I’m crammed back up in the cupboard under the stairs. A part of it might be that I’ve always trusted my sight more than my sense of touch.

I pull my knees to my chest in memory, scared to reach out or move for fear of meeting some strange presence with my searching hands. I sit as still as I can, careful not to disturb Draco’s slumber. He hasn’t moved from his sprawled position on his stomach, and his breaths are steady and slow. After a few more moments, my eyes begin to "see" again, though my vision is blurry and everything is in a slightly subtle chiaroscuro light, whether from lack of sleep or insufficient light—I can’t be bothered to be sure.

Now that I can see the figure of Draco, I reach out a tentative hand, leaning forward against my knees and the slightest bit to the side. My hand hovers above his silky hair, almost touching—but I pull a little away, hesitating. I don’t want to wake my false angel and face a hard, questioning gaze. Deciding that to touch him softly while he lies in his state of innocent sleep is worth the possible consequences, I reach out once again. Still not touching, I move my hand in close proximity down from his head to the back of his neck and over one of his shoulders to his elbow. I can feel my eyes wide open and realize I’ve been holding my breath, and my lungs are burning. Letting a slow, silent breath out, my hand continues its hovering trek, crossing the void between his elbow to the side of his back, a little below the shoulder blades and then down his bare spine.

At the base of his back, I still my hand and slowly, deliberately close my eyes. I can feel the air move between his bare skin and my palm—there’s a soft tingle and I sigh, staying in this moment for just a little longer. Lowering my hand slowly, so slowly, that I’m not even sure if I’m actually moving, the tingle increases to almost an outright electric current. Finally, the relief of skin on skin. His skin is cool under my warm, dry palm. I leave my hand in this spot for some time, feeling his skin become warm under mine, and moving my fingers only slightly to see if this small movement will wake him. I have a feeling that 76 trombones could be blaring "God Save the Queen" and he wouldn’t wake, but if I were to so much as breathe too hard on him, he would wake up and punish me for my indulgence and give me a Heero Yuy death glare.

Possessing a kind of smoothness, his skin feels nearly perfect. I decide to take yet another chance and slide my hand slowly over and down to his waist. It’s softer here and the flesh is not as firm. When he is in motion, this part of him usually feels solid and undulating as his muscles tense and stretch with his every stride or turn of the torso. I give a tiny squeeze and have to stop myself from laughing in pleasure. Instead, I give out a short burst of breath and smile. A feeling of possessiveness comes over me and I feel myself craving more of this divine and sinful feeling. A little less hesitant now, I slide my hand up his side and cut across his wide shoulders and back track to rest for a moment between his shoulder blades. His skin here is smoother than the rest has been; covered in soft fuzz and protected from the rubbing of clothes by his shoulder blades. It is slightly warmer here and for the first time on my hand’s journey, it gains warmth from this cove. My hand is flat, and I assert a slight amount of even pressure. I can feel the rise and fall of his breathing and the tremble his heart beat send through his chest.

I open my eyes slowly and watch as my hand moves with his breathing and notice that our breathing is in sync. I get an odd feeling of reassurance in my stomach and I relax the rest of my body a bit more, sliding my legs out towards the end of the bed. I simultaneously slide smoothly down to be within better reach—the morning sun is starting to invade the room more thoroughly, and I feel disappointed that the rest of this journey has to be a bit more rushed and cursory. Moving my hand up to the base of his neck, I turn on my side, propping my head up with my free hand. The tips of my fingers gently play with the ends of his hair. My mind flashes back to sitting on the lawn of Hogwarts, where I liked to brush my hand over the tips of the soft, new grass, the cool spring wind rushing between my palm and the earth.

Bringing my mind back to the present, my fingers have stopped moving and are now tangled in the silkiness of his hair. Hungry for a bit more contact, I move my hips so that they are even with the side of his and put a foot gently onto his calf. But it’s not enough—I slide my leg over his and entwine it endearingly. He moves a bit at this and grunts. I freeze, hoping that I have not woken him. I remain motionless, even holding my breath for a bit until I am sure he is not awake. In his movement, he has moved closer to me and now his leg is pressed between my knees and ankles.

He’s so relaxed. There couldn’t be a tense muscle in his body right now. It’s hard to believe that Draco could ever relax. Sure, he strides around easily, gracefully even, during the day, but underneath all that calm, his muscles are always in taut control—purposefully making his movements smooth. But now, he’s off his guard, and his muscles don’t even react to being touched. Sometimes, when he’s drifting off to sleep I can feel his muscles one by one relax. It’s like seeing ice melting, crumbling into water. He’s always so smooth and cool, even when he’s sleeping.

For a moment, I am conscious of how rough my hands must feel on his skin. The calluses hardened on my palms and fingers from manual labor at the Dursley’s in the summer and Quidditch during the school year. I don’t like the thought of feeling rough to Draco’s smooth, but what bothers me more is the idea that I could be unable to completely feel him truthfully, the way he really is, through such hardened and thick skin. I can feel my mouth pull into a slight frown. I feel a bit disappointed that I might never truly feel Draco with my own hands.

I slide my hand back down his spine and let my arm lay possessively around his waist. I could never have enough time to explore him, but I am satiated now and I nestle my forehead into his side and then rest it below his shoulder blade.

This—this is the final great sensation; my head moving with every breath, feeling every heartbeat through my ear, unhearing, my cheek against warm, powdery skin, feeling his downy, delicate and solid leg between mine, my hand resting on the ribs of his side, my body flush with his, exchanging warmth.

Next chapter: Sound