My entry for the @drarrymicrofic challenge. Prompt was Luna by Bombay Bicycle Club. "I'll wear you for the night
Colors fading, frayed at the sides, Oh why is your face so pale and white?" so obviously I went for a vampire carrying a bunch of flowers.
“I didn’t think vampires were supposed to be cold all the time,” Harry said, as he shut the kitchen window.
Malfoy shrugged further into his cardigan—deep pockets, nubbly from too much wear, wool that Harry would call orange and Malfoy would probably say was tangerine, or marigold, or coral, but whatever it was, it made Malfoy’s mouth look very red—and buried his pale fists in the acres of sleeves.
“Not all the time,” Malfoy said succinctly, not looking at Harry, and Harry felt himself grow hot with the memory of the night before, felt the throb of a sick sort of lust in his carotid, realised he was stroking the bruise around the hot twin points of the puncture marks.
“Are you thirsty?” Harry asked, waving towards the kettle before letting his hand drop with a vague sense of mortification.
“I mean… I’m thirsty,” Draco said. “I could drink.”
He turned away abruptly to fiddle with the bunch of flowers he had brought with him, and was still clutching defiantly as though daring Harry to mention it. Harry had been trying to find a vase when he’d seen that Draco was shivering.
Draco was still now, but his face was very pale above the chaos of colours; his orange cardigan, and the prim geometry of the ruffled red camellias, the curling purple tongues of tulip petals, a feathery riot of ferns, and something vicious and spiky the same blue as the opening sky of the mornings that Draco always slept through.
“Love in a mist,” Draco said, fingering the ragged petals, mouth thin and perplexed.
“Are they for me?” Harry asked, and Draco made a small irritated noise and slapped the whole lot of them down onto the kitchen table, and within two strides he crossed the kitchen. He moved so fast these days.
He took Harry’s face carefully in his cold hands and kissed him uncarefully. His mouth was hot and shocking, and Harry felt himself tremble.
“I could drink,” Draco said again, and smiled for the first time since he arrived; something small and promising, the barest scrape of an incisor.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want…” Harry didn’t want to finish, didn’t know what might come out of his mouth when Draco was so near, so infinitely touchable. He could feel his own pulse kicking, the sudden rushing realisation of how close to the surface his blood ran.
“I’m always thirsty,” Draco said, and then, as though he knew that wasn’t the answer Harry had wanted to the question he hadn’t asked, “Around you, I mean. I’m always thirsty around you.”
“Okay,” Harry said quickly, voice shaky around the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Okay.”
He tipped his head back, dizzy with the smell of crushed petals and the thunder of his own pulse and the feel of Draco’s cool, questing thumb at the bared hollow of his throat. Through the kitchen window he could see the last tendrils of purpling sunset slowly curling into darkness.
