Attraction

Sometimes, Draco liked to be surrounded by people, know that he was in the centre of attention, know that he was in everyone's sight, suffocate himself with the presence of other bodies, be loud and arrogant and a show-off, just to make him forget how lonely he felt. Other times, he accepted his situation, drew away from other people, slunk away, knowing that once he was out of their sights, people would forget about him and wrap himself in his thoughts before the mere lack of people around him made him act out again, push himself into the open again, expose himself for all the world to see him if they so wish, because that would mean that he was at least seen, and noticed.

Draco clung to other people because it kept him sane, kept him knowing that he wasn't utterly insignificant, utterly useless, worthless, or at least, kept him from acknowledging it to himself, even if he really knew that it was true. Keeping busy, being with lots of people, that chased all those thoughts away, at least partially, at least some of the time. It was his method of hiding from himself without literally hiding.

Draco smiled and swept his hair back like his heart wasn't breaking, like absolutely nothing was wrong, like he was utterly confident that he was going to arise to his challenge and being the Dark Lord's most favoured one. He ignored the brush of darkness which lurked beneath his eyes from too many horrors imagined and not enough sleep, and jutted his chin out a little more so that everyone else would ignore them too.

Whoever invented Silencing Charms had Draco's eternal gratitude, for it was thanks solely to those that no one knew when Draco woke up screaming at night, sweating, full of both memories too harsh to play out properly in Draco's mind and imaginings of that which was to come. It was the Charms that made the double bed with its green canopy both Draco's sanctuary from prying eyes, and his cage from which he could neither touch nor be touched, silencing any reaching out to the exterior he tried, and keeping anyone from knowing just unlike his façade he really was.

Before this, Draco hadn't particularly noticed. Denial was a wonderful thing, but unfortunately usually linked to fear, or guilt, or anger. In Draco's case, it was fear, fuelled by anger. It seemed incredulous, to him, that someone could attract so much attention, yet shied away from it like a skittish pony. What was more, it seemed incredulous that someone could attract so much attention unintentionally.

It simply wasn't fair, when he had to work to keep himself at the front of people's mind, he had to bribe them, give them gifts, flatter them just to make them realise that he was still there. The point which was really the last straw for Draco was that he was attracted. Talk about natural attraction; no one failed to glance up whenever he entered, whenever he did something, because everything he did was so important, and yet it was only made important because everyone noticed it; Draco was completely aware of this catch-22 and it infuriated him, and it attracted him just that bit more.

This obviously didn't help Draco's situation whatsoever. His swings from obnoxious to withdrawn only became more extreme, often switching completely from one to the other, hating one, then the other, then both, caught in a vicious cycle of his own manipulations. He would have given anything to swap positions, to be watched all the time, scrutinised at every opportunity, wanted all the time. Except he had nothing. Nothing to offer, nothing to appeal, apart from his usual, obnoxious nature, and as he had learnt from previous experience, no one wanted that; that he was forgotten so easily was proof of that.

Trapped. Draco felt so trapped, so confined; yet so oddly free, as if he had been a marionette and someone had cut his strings, so that he didn't know what to do, couldn't actually do anything, and once again, so lost. He didn't want to return home; it wasn't much of a home anymore. He had been invaded there, his safety and innocence taken away. That place, once so rich and warm to him, was only a hollow shell of its splendour grandeur, without his father there, and his mother only lifelessly doing what she was told. That place was associated with darkness and pain and hopelessness now; he wouldn't feel comfort in that house anymore, for a house it was; not a home.

So the boy stayed at school that Christmas, the bleak weather rather fitting his bleak mood. The hordes had gone to their own loving families, leaving the blond with nothing but the silence of his own broken company. It was peaceful, but Draco couldn't accept that peace within himself; he felt that peace was only a distortion of lack. Lack of happiness, lack of sorrow. Lack of attention, lack of solitude. Lack of everything he needed, wanted, and lack of everything he didn't. Though there wasn't anyone for him to impress, that didn't stop him from impressing anyway. Perhaps if he was just a little louder, gave out a few more sweets, people might trail towards him. Trail towards him with so much more effort than he took to have people practically flocking over him.

Draco ceased to care who trailed towards him anymore. Beggars couldn't be choosers, especially if they were starved, not literally, but for attention, any attention, be it positive or negative. He didn't even care that he was attracted, in a morbid, pitying way. When he came up after one snowy afternoon however, actually approached Draco, the Slytherin was startled, almost in shock. He wouldn't have thought that his pathetic signals for attention, his meagre light in the dark would attract such a powerful moth, so to speak. He hadn't ever thought himself to be worthy of a person who could easily attract attention himself. That in itself was somehow a circular argument, with him attracting him, and him attracting him, and far too many 'him's in the equation; the mere thought of it made Draco's perception spin.

There was more which made Draco's perception spin too. The look in his eyes, which told him two completely contrasting things, that he was pitied, looked upon as something to feel sorry for, somehow degraded, and also that he wasn't pitied, because it was not thing he wished to be. Draco weakly leant against a wall, trapped so much more physically than he had ever previously felt, and yet so liberated from his own persistent thoughts for a while.

Not only a while. Longer than a while. For the entirety of the period spent looking at him, really looking at him, because he was looking back -or was he looking first? The entirety, which lasted a whole ten seconds, and yet a whole lifetime too. Then, strangely enough, he found himself pitying him. Surely Draco was the one to be pitied, yet drowning himself in the gaze of those eyes made him feel pity too, and not for himself. There was a whole story etched in those eyes of green, and it took all of ten seconds, and a lifetime, to read that story, and sympathise, and realise that it was his own story. Almost.

Almost, but not quite; the story starred a different person, someone so much alike and yet unlike Draco that he shivered when he realised just how alike. The storyline isn't exactly the same, yet the clear characterisation is the same, the feeling and depth of meaning the same. The story remained unfinished, and Draco someone knew how it would end, because he would be the one to end it.

He was wrong earlier. Draco was wrong when he though that he had nothing to give, nothing to offer of any worth, that anyone would possibly want. Only minutely wrong though, because there was only one person who proved it wrong. That minute part was all that Draco wanted though, a small but firm part of him knowing that he's not completely disregarded by any and all of any importance. Loneliness was something which could only occur with a grand total of one, and now there are two.

There wasn't much said, much exchanged, but everything was understood clearly; there was simply no need for words. Draco felt that this was the most precious part, that this part made the whole exchange worthwhile. It wasn't just a simple understanding of respective situations, but an understanding and collaboration of situations. It could only be a collaboration, because just by involving one the other, one became the other. It wasn't that one comforted and the other was comforted. It was that both needed to be comforted, and out of the void from which both had thought nothing more could be wrangled; there came just enough comfort to settle thinly over both. And thinly it was. The world hadn't been set to rights; there was no sunshine or rainbow in sight, and yet now, now there was... no loneliness.

Draco wondered where all his time had gone. Christmas was supposed to be the time where he spent all day working, real quality time with no lessons interrupting or curfew. Instead, it was mostly spent lying on a cold stone castle floor, looking across at him. He reached out a hand until it just brushed his, and felt the minute slide of skin over skin, abstractly painting patterns onto the soft canvas with a finger. Occasionally, a he smiled, a slow spread of pleasure crossing his lips, and he would receive a smile in return, one which was not liked his, tired and somewhat bitter, but completely open, frank; tired yes, but still hopeful. It made Draco think that perhaps his might be like that one day; perhaps his muscles would relax from its constant sneer and actually show some emotion which he actually felt. Draco thought that one day, perhaps he might actually feel some emotion worth smiling for.

There were days they didn't sit opposite each other, but rather, side by side, shoulders just touching, thighs just touching. Occasionally, Draco would tip his head down to rest, feeling the hard collarbone against his cheek, nuzzling it. Less occasionally, Draco felt a head tip onto him, and revelled in the scent and sight of freshly washed black hair contrasting against his pale skin. There wasn't all too much said; in fact, there were almost no verbal exchanges between them, which was certainly a change from the past. There wasn't a particular need for words; they spoke with their eyes, and the subtle movements of muscles in their faces.

It was with reluctance that Draco wrenched himself up to the Room of Requirement, but he knew that burying his head in the sand and trying to ignore what was blatantly in front of him wouldn't work. He also knew that he couldn't do it; he didn't have sufficient skills to fix this, in time, before his mood swung again, into regression, hiding. Being with him was a risk to both of them, but Draco especially; he probably shouldn't continue it, but he couldn't not.

Drao wasn't surprised that he was attracted to him, since he had been for years, angry at and jealous of him. Sometimes, when thinking to himself, that annoyed him. It annoyed him that he was just like everyone else, not individual at all but one of the common rabble, flocking around. That he, Draco Malfoy, had managed to attract him back though... that was the miracle. No one liked Draco; they only bore with him because he held something over them, had something they didn't. Even fewer were actually attracted towards him.

That he was attracted to Draco... that made him feel special.

The Christmas holidays were only two weeks; Draco had barely made any progress, and yet, he felt that this holiday had somehow been lifted out of real time. It had been a period of solitude, something different, something better than usual. It would have to end, he supposed. He didn't want it to end. Glancing into those green eyes the day before everyone else came back, Draco knew that he didn't want this to finish either. Because if it ended, it would not only be an ending to a period of time, but a finishing of it; it would be finished and there would be nothing else about it, ever.

Draco stretched out his hand, like he always did -funny how two weeks had suddenly become 'always'- and didn't just brush the other boy's hand this time. He laid his own, pale hand into the other. He squeezed lightly, only a small pressure applied, and suddenly, he found himself falling, tipping forwards; his hand had been grabbed and pulled, causing a knock-on effect with his entire body. Their usual mesmerising calmness had been broken, and Draco found that he was sprawled over the other body, a warm, hard surface beneath his chest, rough fabric under his open palm, legs entwined with his, and that smooth skin stretched taut over a neck placed perfectly for his cheek to settle in.

"Is it sex you want?"

The words drop like anchors in the hazed and startled silence, a low, rough voice unaccustomed to such words, the vibration thrumming through the throat so that Draco felt it on his cheek. The tone was neutral, yet Draco knew that the question itself was not neutral, not by any stretch of the imagination. He repositioned himself into a somewhat more comfortable position- as much as he is allowed, for his hand is still being held onto, and pulled close.

Draco closed his eyes for a moment. Yes. It was sex he wanted. Perhaps. He had imagined this over a thousand times, how he would be undressed, touched- no, caressed, kissed all over to close the wounds which were not visible and yet still so obviously there, then the rush of emotion which came with being possessed, claimed, taken as something... of worth, and then his part of that story written in those eyes would be etched there forever, as though etched in green marble, a fact, something he could put testament to, that he had mattered to someone, be it a lifetime, or a day. He didn't want it to be just a day though.

"No."

Silence again. Draco felt movement beneath him, and balanced his weight so that the other boy could break free; the hand which emerged from between them curled around his head and... petted. The implication of the word 'petted' sounded rather comforting to Draco; a 'pet' was something which was of value, no? The slim fingers weaving through his silky blond hair felt soothing, anyhow.

"So what do you want?"

Again, neutral. Not even really a question, much less curiosity injected into it. Draco knew, again, that there was so much more than was revealed though. Probably came from his experiences of revealing nothing, yet having everything bubbling beneath the surface, fighting both to be uncontained, free to reveal itself, and yet also buried as deep down as possible, for the shame that would be triggered by its release. He leaned into the touch, the warmth emanating from the body; his fingers curled into the fabric of its own accord, and he felt his entire body tightening over the other boy, as if to stop him from escaping should he try to do so.

"This."

The body beneath him tensed too, but... no. Not tensed; merely a tightening, in exactly the same way as his. Warm arms curved across his back, now preventing him from escaping, but Draco didn't want to escape. Finally. There was finally somewhere he didn't want to escape from. He sighed heavily, yet also peacefully, in relief. Relief. That was something he hadn't felt in a while.

"Okay."