The Scent Of Malice | drarry

thirty five | he's my ecstasy

The two boys lay there side by side in the grass for a while, fully dressed again but more than slightly rumpled up, watching the clouds drift blissfully over their heads.

Harry's head was dangerously close to Malfoy's shoulder, their hips and waists and ribs aligned  so perfectly it seemed criminal not to touch, their hands just heartbeats apart - but they didn't touch. Not yet.

There was a light breeze in the air which ruffled  the wildflowers and sent a heavenly sweet scent over the scene, and birds could be heard singing softly in the trees above. A small shade was cast in a diagonal blanket over their bodies, and it was cooling and calm.

"This is a good spot," Malfoy admitted quietly, taking in the elements. "And it's ... it's a good day. I didn't think I could have those any more."

Harry's eyes pricked with tears of sympathy. "You should always have good days," he whispered.

I love you, you sad, broken mess of a person, his brain added belligerently. I love you so much I forget to breathe. I want to give you all the good days in the world.

"I want my art stuff," Malfoy announced after a second, staring at Harry with a strange expression. "I don't want to talk about what you've seen in the book, but I - I can't just not draw you, the way you look right now."

Harry's heart fluttered. "How do I look?" he mumbled, slightly scared of what he might hear in the answer. Please don't hurt my feelings.

Malfoy paused. He wondered if he should tell Harry the truth.

You look perfect, he thought, you look like hope, or at least you could do, if you weren't so blurred by whatever it is in my fucking brain that wants to hate you so badly.

You look like all the words my tongue doesn't know, the ones my ears won't let me recognise in your voice, though my heart knows the truth in them so well.

You look like something I'd die for.

But he didn't quite manage to say that. Instead, "You look sun-strewn," he replied quietly. "And vulnerable. You look like you shouldn't be looked at, like it would hurt if I did for too long. You look like you've just been fucked, and like you liked it. You look like ... you look like someone who wants to save me."

"I am that person," Harry whispered. "And you know what I think, don't you?"

Malfoy nodded awkwardly. "I don't want you to say it, though."

An uncomfortable silence ensued, the unsaid three words ringing in the air like a chapel bell. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Harry cleared his throat. "Those paints, then," he offered, an attempt to move on from the awkwardness.

Malfoy nodded. "Accio paints, Accio brushes, Accio art book," he said, not meeting Harry's gaze.

As soon as the items landed in his lap, he opened the book roughly to find a clean page, and began to sketch. Quick, fluid lines over the paper, only glancing up now and again to capture the thoughts on Harry's face.

Harry watched in awe as his own image began to reflect back at him off the page.

"Is that really what I look like?" he asked.

Malfoy ignored him for a second, his hand moving faster.

Then, "It's similar," he responded. "I can never capture much of you. But I get the sense."

"Are you going to write on this one?"

"That's none of your business." Cold, closed off again. Harry could tell he'd gone too far.