HP fic: Where all trains go

Posted on January 23, 2004
Filed Under My HP fics |

Harry/Draco, NC-17, 1045 words. Angst, PWP. Written January, 2004.

“Only double solitudes, coupled on a narrow bunk, will remain imprinted on the non-existent map of train-shags, and will be locked in the deepest layers of memory. Sense memory.”

AUTHOR: pj

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all associated characters from the Harry Potter universe are the property of J.K. Rowling and various publishers including Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. It’s just a product of my wild imagination.

FEEDBACK is appreciated.

My hearty thanks to the absolutely great beta-reader Oldgentleman for her patience and advice, for non-sweetness, understanding and amazingly thorough work. Thank you!

Another basket of thanks goes to Isiscolo for “semi-betaing”, advice and honest opinion.

I

My fingers are sunk up his arse; the palm is nearly in too. He isn’t writhing. He is spread bonelessly before me – legs obscenely thrown wide apart. His arms are flung out and his head is thrown back, throat exposed and the sharp angle of his Adam’s apple showing.

The sound that reverberates from his throat is threatening to dispel me. It’s a continuous, uninterrupted, low groan without breaks for the changes of breath – hoarse and suffocating – in; bellowing and tormented – out. I almost feel like I can touch it. It peels skin off my chest and shoulders. I know it’s not the roar in my ears. It’s his breathing. The heaving of his ribcage tells me this.

His chest is glistening. So are his legs. So is his transparent pale throat. He’s soaked with sweat. He’s all smeared with spunk and lube, everywhere up to his armpits. The sharp smell of fresh sweat on wet dark locks in his armpits gives off the taste of tears. I’m all covered with spunk and lube. My face is all smeared with my own saliva.

His skin is soft. His lips, which I can’t see from behind the breaking line of his jaw, are swollen. If I could see his eyes, they would also be soft in the frame of wet lashes. Short-sighted eyes. Eyes like these are always soft when without glasses. I can’t see them. Even if the angle let me see, he can’t open them; he’s too spent even to move his eyelids. I forget how stubborn and unyielding he is outside this bed. How strong and proud he is. How tired.

I can’t tear my eyes from my hand plunging hard and steady in his slack, stretched hole. It dawns on me that the fingers clawing and tearing at my nipple in rhythm with my hand inside him are mine. He’s motionless. Only his knees are quivering, ever so slightly. The skin on my fingertips is wrinkled from being inside him, as if I had been in the hot bath for too long.

I’ve been in the hot bath of him for so long. Less than a year is left.

I bend down to press my mouth to him. He doesn’t need any more stimulation. I think he might black out or go mad if I give him more. I’ll go mad if I don’t press my face to his wet, slippery skin. The muscles of his stomach contract weakly. He sprays at my face, his arse feebly squeezes my hand and I’m coming, spending myself on the sheets. I didn’t realise I was pumping myself.

I slide my mouth all over his sticky stomach, pressing my tongue into bitter, salty, sweet puddles, sucking them clean from coarse dark curls. He’s all limp and open for me. He seems semi-unconscious. He is. If I withdraw my hand from him, all will stop dead. The magic lasts while I bathe my hair in his sweat. If I disentangle myself from him, the walls of the school will tumble down.

I strive to memorise his scent, to keep it fresh in my nostrils until the next time we are lost to the world. If I can’t touch him, I’m lost.

II

He stills me. The train has come to a halt and the useless morons in the neighbouring compartments can overhear us. He thinks shagging on the train is embarrassing. He’s afraid to be heard.

I’m leaning over him on my arms. Neither of us moves. I watch him in the patch of light from the window - he slowly relaxes and closes his eyes.

I could tell him that there is no sense in his fears: on every train that crawls through the night, there’s a compartment where two people wake their neighbours with their screams. On every train there are two who live on stolen moments - escaping to the alternate universe of their entwined bodies. Trains cross countries and continents, trains arrive and depart. People from the next compartment will dissolve in a crowd, will be absorbed by their own small, senseless lives. Only double solitudes, coupled on a narrow bunk, will remain imprinted on the non-existent map of train-shags, and will be locked in the deepest layers of memory. Sense memory.

He looks too young and unspoiled under me. I feel wretched and sullied. I am. I am cleansed and forgiven when I sink onto him. Into him. Even if only for a fleeting hour when we are hidden from them. It’s strange to feel so much older than someone my own age.

His skin is too smooth. And soft.

He makes me feel as if I’m a different person. With his lanky legs and arms, he wraps me in melancholy when I hover over him and can’t turn my head away. Somebody else might feel the things that fill me.

Nobody else will know what it’s like to have him. Nobody.

The train creaks and tugs. Lights flutter and creep from his face into the corner. I can’t memorise enough of him to live until the next dusty closet or temporarily unoccupied dormitory.

I descend on him and press my lips to his silent mouth. He watches me. His eyes of our nights aren’t green. The lights are always dim. Green eyes belong to the Wizarding World’s prodigy. Defenceless, dark, short-sighted eyes belong to my lover. Belong to me.

We never speak about feelings. Both of us believe there are no feelings. There are not. Only five senses that sing and cry out while we are glued to each other. We rarely ever speak at all. He doesn’t have a habit of exposing his soul. Neither do I.

I trace my mouth over his face. He closes his eyes.

Malfoys don’t speak of feelings.

If I lose him, I’ll go mad.

I probably already am.

Fin

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