Red Wine - White Linen | D.M

19

An eye roll.
That's what I was greeted with.

A fucking eye roll, like I was the invader, not the invadee.

"If you thought I was just going to go back to bed after your little, let's call it, episode? Yeah, that, well you're wrong."

I stifled a laugh, taking in the obvious. This was all a sick joke, a taunting. Fun and games.

He must have sensed this and his face altered, his guard slipping, just a little, showing an emotion that I've never seen appear on his face. Slight, ever so slight panic, though instantaneously it was dead and buried.

He manoeuvred quickly, sitting up and guiding his legs round so his feet were placed on the floor, hands holding up his weight, slightly behind him.

"I'm not fucking around." His words were abrupt, none more than his usual aloof tone.

There was a long pause. I didn't notice, my head felt heavy, it ached.

I studied his familiar features with scrutiny, wondering when they became so familiar.
"What are you really doing in here Draco?"

He briefly placed his head in his hands releasing an audible exhale.

"I can't- I" he stands, stiffly tracing his jaw, almost scratching. "You can't just do that." He hisses.
"Bleeding hell, what am I supposed to do knowing you're next door committing acts of self harm and trying to make yourself vomit."

I just stare, he looks odd like this, agitated and slightly fretted, another first.
He was always dramatic. Was. Past-tense, because two years ago he built a concrete wall to conceal behind, no one goes in and nothing and no one comes out, it banishes any hint of emotion trying to make way to surface. But when it does show, I can see. The erosion shows, not of the wall but of himself. The war, Voldemort, I don't know, but it's abraded him. He's a shell of a person. And god does it lure me.
Yet the wall stands tall, impossibly tall.

He continues.
"I can't fathom for the love of me why, why I can't just ignore this, you, but I just cant." He rolls his tongue in his cheek. A new expression to add to my mental list.
"I don't get it, why are you doing that."

I fiddle with my hands, picking at the skin. "Doing what?"

"Why are you trying to make yourself sick, you don't need to do that."
The bite to his words was the only reason why this conversation was still durable, usually people speak to me with a sham concerned tone, the kind they talk to children with.

I take the opportunity to drop on my bed, I didn't want to be centre of attention anymore, I wanted to be face down in my sheets. I force a laugh. "I don't quite meet up to my standards."

"It's not fucking funny." He pinches the bridge of his nose, another reoccurring action.

I feel like I'm being told off by a parent and it's taken me by surprise. Out of most, Malfoy, I would thought to have been the one to mock along with me, at me.

I huff, defensive now that I've been yelled at. "why do you care?"

"I don't." He throws back quickly, bitterly.

"Then leave."

"Fine."

Although this conversation was bemusing and It was lacking in strength, his company was somewhat comforting for some peculiar reason. The slight sensation of an idea, the idea being that he might of had a shred of worry, a slither of care, now ceases to be visible. I was foolish to have even pondered and it left a sour taste in my mouth.