angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2004-12-18 01:51 am
angelgazing) wrote2004-12-18 01:51 am
Entry tags:
- fic,
- harry/draco,
- hp
fic: hp; drug; r
title: Drug
rating: R
author: me
e-mail: angelgazing [at] gmail [dot] com
words: 1,344
notes: Written because of/for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
opiumcoffeebean and Brown May Be Sweeter, She Will Supply which everyone should know and love. F-locked until she gives it the ok. (There is some blantant word/phrase stealing.) I have no summary, find one for me? Quickly edited, mistakes should be pointed out to me, please, if you would.
warnings: This is very different than my usual style. Very different.
The sin of secrets left unsaid lies hatefully beside him. Content and wrong, warm and soft inside him.
It's cold fingers tangled tight in white-blond hair, like something sin divined, slick and tired, lazy he pulls hard. Pulls him up and makes up his mind. Says, "Nothing real is real. It's all a lie."
There's laughter, cold and broken—his and everyone's now, (everything is here) here everything is shattered, lying as he does in pieces on the splintered wood floor. Worn hands warn with fingers like ice, dancing up his spine. "You think?" is asked, like conversations long and too rehashed.
"There's hate," he answers, clenching fingers just that too hard, the wince it gets is something divine. He surges, laughs, the mirror on the dresser holds their reflections too still, hazy with flecks of white. "That's real."
And Draco laughs against his stomach, twists and turns beneath fingertips, trapped by nails in scalp and heels in calves. "Full of shit," he hisses, bares teeth against his belly and there's never a flash of fear from anyone anymore.
Fear died like they did, maybe, but no, he remembers, he thinks they're still alive.
Gray eyes dance like sin in sunlight burning, turning black, bleeding smoke and lighting everything on fire.
He shifts, pulls again and digs in deep, free hand sliding, slipping over dirty sheets. He can't get a grip. "Filthy," he whispers, smirking, and turns his head. Drapes closed over boring, boarded windows, sunlight still sinks through, burns his eyes but not his skin, unusual in its truth.
"Beauty," is the counter, the next step being made. Talking like a dance of taking, like the battles in the war. Lips against his elbow, soft against soft skin, like something new and old.
Magic lies in ancient things, new things lie in dirt. Grim and grin, grind it in, make it old, give it power. They laugh together madly, like it ever fucking mattered.
Secrets hide in everything said, like, "Does God exist, do you think?" and "Do you? Do I?"
Color dreams of black and white, angry, hissing sounds, the things it wants to be. The way the gray fades things to less and less. Burns and bleeds it all until it's dry, there is where red's green envy lies. White and numbing, they float on things they can't divide. Black, Draco laughs, like the color of his eyes.
"It's a truth universally known that truth is a lie."
(The devil was an angel too, until he told the Lord, "I won't stand for your hypocrisy" and crashed down hard, with clipped wings, angry. Mad. On the ground he laughed, and dusted off his clothes. Looked at the stars and shook his fist, said, "This is how battles are won." The earth quivered and thunder rolled across the blue-black sky, God smiled down like love divine, shaking in his boots. He said, "Satan, you forget, I created you too.")
The beginning was the end, and Draco laughs when he says it. Curl fingers and make him writhe, say, "You were mine first." Like winning doesn't matter, they lie in losing and end results. Dirty with shame that they don't have, loudly praising useless, pretty things as they roll on plastic bags.
They bathe in dirty water, shivering in the cold. Lies lie in skin marks, burns and bruises and scars of things that—(his teeth are needles and needles feel like his teeth)—truth cannot stand to try and find.
Angry colors wear black in defiance, say, "Look at me, I'm mourning." Morning laughs and wears pink, says, "Boys, you are so queer. You can't mourn winning, and life ain't yours to waste."
"Reckon?" he asks, and the sky doesn't answer. Draco slides his mouth along, tongue dragging as he whispers how he likes the taste. Fingers curl, clutch and whine. Sharp like ice and they don't look for things that they don't want to find.
Draco breathes and it costs him, again and again. They never ask if it's more than he can afford.
Fingers wrapped tight around his spoon, cold and all alone. He shivers, then, and touches places and he never should have known.
(Flame is something they can touch. Laugh as they do like, don't you wish you were us.)
The mirror mocks them in the quiet, too pale and thin and broken. They shiver, cling, bruise as bones meet and knock, rattle in flesh cages they try slowly tearing apart. "You think this is real?" the mirror asks, and so they turn their backs.
Shiver in the moonlight, silver burning slivers of things that they can't be. Laughing in the dark at things that they don't see. "Life is impossible to live without," he says, head thrown back in wonder. Here they don't hear anything but each other.
(Lights dance in time with the beating of their hearts on the ceiling, they fly without their brooms, and fuck instead of holding on tight.)
"The worst thing you've ever had?" is asked, like, tell me the best ones first.
Secret saints, sly and cunning, whisper prayers above their bed. The dull brass angels sing their hymns and nothing ever goes wrong. (Unless you count the everything that has.) They slip to sea, and salt burns their skin, says, "Look, this is what it takes for your soul to be cleansed."
The tide slaps their feet, their calves, their thighs. Hits their hips in quiet sighs. They float on the edge of being devoured as they bathe in filthy water. The serpents slither silent round their (k)nee(s)d, and they'd sell their souls if they were theirs to give for just one more chance.
He tells stories of the sound of a razorblade on glass. Drinks it in with both sitting in his lap. Breathing is easy, but flying is sweeter, is the thought, it doesn't get hard until the crash. The pun is bad enough to make him laugh.
They walk loudly in the dead of night. Prowl empty streets with empty pockets and stand with open arms in the middle of the road for nothing like, please, give me what I need.
They pass a sign that reads, "God Is Love." (They believe in neither. Believe in nothing that isn't the thereness of each other and the nothing of their thereness.)
A woman says to them once, "I'll pray for your souls."
"What makes you think my soul needs praying?" Draco asks, barks a laugh and hides behind dark glasses. "What makes you think a soul's worth saving?"
Want is what they have and have is what they want. Got 'em both for a Galleon on the corner, dark ally too inviting. Just a little something more to help to stem the bleeding of more than blood is worth. Break it down, again, yeah, that's really all they need.
Whispers flirt, first in the land of agains and ends. Say, "You aren't worthy of this, you know, bliss is above you."
They laugh again, dirty and wrong, answer, "We fuck bliss, you know. Like it more beneath us," as they crush poppies in their fists.
Satan sits at the foot of the bed, says, "Doubt the curve of the moon, I dare you."
So they doubt the curve of the earth and their spoons, always aim for something bigger than the dare, more than the moon. Hold up two fingers crooked and grin. Say, "Look where you are, look at what you've become now. Think you've got the nerve to do it all again?"
Spend more money than they've got, live in a broken home, they smile like it's more, better than they've known. Hide beneath the blankets, (home is the dark) and block out the sight.
Bend and break the broken, it's easy. They shudder as the colors wrap round them, lean closer, just a little closer. No, a little closer now. Draco sighs content discontentments against the curve of his mouth dropped open.
(They come undone together, and it's more than Draco ever thought he wanted.)
Or read it backwards
rating: R
author: me
e-mail: angelgazing [at] gmail [dot] com
words: 1,344
notes: Written because of/for
opiumcoffeebean and Brown May Be Sweeter, She Will Supply which everyone should know and love. warnings: This is very different than my usual style. Very different.
The sin of secrets left unsaid lies hatefully beside him. Content and wrong, warm and soft inside him.
It's cold fingers tangled tight in white-blond hair, like something sin divined, slick and tired, lazy he pulls hard. Pulls him up and makes up his mind. Says, "Nothing real is real. It's all a lie."
There's laughter, cold and broken—his and everyone's now, (everything is here) here everything is shattered, lying as he does in pieces on the splintered wood floor. Worn hands warn with fingers like ice, dancing up his spine. "You think?" is asked, like conversations long and too rehashed.
"There's hate," he answers, clenching fingers just that too hard, the wince it gets is something divine. He surges, laughs, the mirror on the dresser holds their reflections too still, hazy with flecks of white. "That's real."
And Draco laughs against his stomach, twists and turns beneath fingertips, trapped by nails in scalp and heels in calves. "Full of shit," he hisses, bares teeth against his belly and there's never a flash of fear from anyone anymore.
Fear died like they did, maybe, but no, he remembers, he thinks they're still alive.
Gray eyes dance like sin in sunlight burning, turning black, bleeding smoke and lighting everything on fire.
He shifts, pulls again and digs in deep, free hand sliding, slipping over dirty sheets. He can't get a grip. "Filthy," he whispers, smirking, and turns his head. Drapes closed over boring, boarded windows, sunlight still sinks through, burns his eyes but not his skin, unusual in its truth.
"Beauty," is the counter, the next step being made. Talking like a dance of taking, like the battles in the war. Lips against his elbow, soft against soft skin, like something new and old.
Magic lies in ancient things, new things lie in dirt. Grim and grin, grind it in, make it old, give it power. They laugh together madly, like it ever fucking mattered.
Secrets hide in everything said, like, "Does God exist, do you think?" and "Do you? Do I?"
Color dreams of black and white, angry, hissing sounds, the things it wants to be. The way the gray fades things to less and less. Burns and bleeds it all until it's dry, there is where red's green envy lies. White and numbing, they float on things they can't divide. Black, Draco laughs, like the color of his eyes.
"It's a truth universally known that truth is a lie."
(The devil was an angel too, until he told the Lord, "I won't stand for your hypocrisy" and crashed down hard, with clipped wings, angry. Mad. On the ground he laughed, and dusted off his clothes. Looked at the stars and shook his fist, said, "This is how battles are won." The earth quivered and thunder rolled across the blue-black sky, God smiled down like love divine, shaking in his boots. He said, "Satan, you forget, I created you too.")
The beginning was the end, and Draco laughs when he says it. Curl fingers and make him writhe, say, "You were mine first." Like winning doesn't matter, they lie in losing and end results. Dirty with shame that they don't have, loudly praising useless, pretty things as they roll on plastic bags.
They bathe in dirty water, shivering in the cold. Lies lie in skin marks, burns and bruises and scars of things that—(his teeth are needles and needles feel like his teeth)—truth cannot stand to try and find.
Angry colors wear black in defiance, say, "Look at me, I'm mourning." Morning laughs and wears pink, says, "Boys, you are so queer. You can't mourn winning, and life ain't yours to waste."
"Reckon?" he asks, and the sky doesn't answer. Draco slides his mouth along, tongue dragging as he whispers how he likes the taste. Fingers curl, clutch and whine. Sharp like ice and they don't look for things that they don't want to find.
Draco breathes and it costs him, again and again. They never ask if it's more than he can afford.
Fingers wrapped tight around his spoon, cold and all alone. He shivers, then, and touches places and he never should have known.
(Flame is something they can touch. Laugh as they do like, don't you wish you were us.)
The mirror mocks them in the quiet, too pale and thin and broken. They shiver, cling, bruise as bones meet and knock, rattle in flesh cages they try slowly tearing apart. "You think this is real?" the mirror asks, and so they turn their backs.
Shiver in the moonlight, silver burning slivers of things that they can't be. Laughing in the dark at things that they don't see. "Life is impossible to live without," he says, head thrown back in wonder. Here they don't hear anything but each other.
(Lights dance in time with the beating of their hearts on the ceiling, they fly without their brooms, and fuck instead of holding on tight.)
"The worst thing you've ever had?" is asked, like, tell me the best ones first.
Secret saints, sly and cunning, whisper prayers above their bed. The dull brass angels sing their hymns and nothing ever goes wrong. (Unless you count the everything that has.) They slip to sea, and salt burns their skin, says, "Look, this is what it takes for your soul to be cleansed."
The tide slaps their feet, their calves, their thighs. Hits their hips in quiet sighs. They float on the edge of being devoured as they bathe in filthy water. The serpents slither silent round their (k)nee(s)d, and they'd sell their souls if they were theirs to give for just one more chance.
He tells stories of the sound of a razorblade on glass. Drinks it in with both sitting in his lap. Breathing is easy, but flying is sweeter, is the thought, it doesn't get hard until the crash. The pun is bad enough to make him laugh.
They walk loudly in the dead of night. Prowl empty streets with empty pockets and stand with open arms in the middle of the road for nothing like, please, give me what I need.
They pass a sign that reads, "God Is Love." (They believe in neither. Believe in nothing that isn't the thereness of each other and the nothing of their thereness.)
A woman says to them once, "I'll pray for your souls."
"What makes you think my soul needs praying?" Draco asks, barks a laugh and hides behind dark glasses. "What makes you think a soul's worth saving?"
Want is what they have and have is what they want. Got 'em both for a Galleon on the corner, dark ally too inviting. Just a little something more to help to stem the bleeding of more than blood is worth. Break it down, again, yeah, that's really all they need.
Whispers flirt, first in the land of agains and ends. Say, "You aren't worthy of this, you know, bliss is above you."
They laugh again, dirty and wrong, answer, "We fuck bliss, you know. Like it more beneath us," as they crush poppies in their fists.
Satan sits at the foot of the bed, says, "Doubt the curve of the moon, I dare you."
So they doubt the curve of the earth and their spoons, always aim for something bigger than the dare, more than the moon. Hold up two fingers crooked and grin. Say, "Look where you are, look at what you've become now. Think you've got the nerve to do it all again?"
Spend more money than they've got, live in a broken home, they smile like it's more, better than they've known. Hide beneath the blankets, (home is the dark) and block out the sight.
Bend and break the broken, it's easy. They shudder as the colors wrap round them, lean closer, just a little closer. No, a little closer now. Draco sighs content discontentments against the curve of his mouth dropped open.
(They come undone together, and it's more than Draco ever thought he wanted.)
Or read it backwards