warning
short fic. slash. PG-13?

disclaimer
characters and general situations belong to J.K Rowling & Co.
my undying gratitude belongs to laur for the betaing.
present situations... well they belong to me.

author notes

written for Armchair "Across a Crowded Room" Art/Fic Challenge. my assigned pic was Fany's "Bridge Sketch".

you can see it here: http://www.gunsandhandcuffs.org/hdbridgesketch.jpg

 

Under the Bridge

by blue

 

§§§

 

The flat has huge windows. Outside the windows there's a bridge. Under the bridge there's a river.

 

The bridge is old, rusting away. Not artistic. Just an ugly post-industrial relic.

 

The river is a joke. Its water is dark, thick, still. During winter it doesn't freeze. Too much exhausted oil.

On sunny days it gives the surface a strange greenish-blue shine.

 

Today there's no sun but a fine rain. The bridge rusts away a bit more. The river is just plain black.

 

And Draco can't see the bottom.

 

§§§

 

When Harry bought the flat, the windows had curtains. But they were old and dusty. They made Draco sneeze and, though he said nothing, his puffy nose and his watery eyes spoke volumes.

So, in less than a week Harry resolved to bring down the curtains and burn them.

 

They haven't been replaced since.

 

From outside, the windows appear as disturbingly big eyes, clear or darkened, depending on the weather.

To Draco, they appear as disturbingly open eyes, always watching him, digging holes in his flesh.

 

He turns his back at them and throws another stone in the river.

 

It digs a hole in the dark water that closes almost immediately.

 

Draco's holes, instead, never close.

 

§§§

 

When Harry isn't at work, he is in bed. When Harry isn't asleep, he is making love with Draco.

 

He makes love with Draco and sighs and whispers and whimpers and moans.

 

Draco does nothing.

 

He stays. Still. As the water under the bridge.

 

§§§

 

Usually, Draco is on the bridge. Looking down and throwing stones. Throwing stones and looking down.

 

Usually, Harry leans his head against the glass of the window and watches him.

 

Sometimes, Draco places his hands on the rusty railing and leans out until his feet leave the ground and his balance depends completely on those hands and on that rusty railing.

 

Sometimes, Harry leans his head against the glass on the window and holds his breath.

 

The river is ten metres under the bridge.

 

Draco thinks that it's a good jump.

 

Harry thinks that he doesn't want to think about it.

 

§§§

 

Nobody knows what's wrong with Draco. Not even Draco.

 

The war is over. His family is gone. His name is clear. And Harry is by his side.

 

There should be nothing wrong. But evidently there is.

 

Because sometimes Draco lies on the bed for hours, staring at the ceiling.

 

After the first two hours his body temperature begins to drop. At the third, he's strangely similar to a breathing corpse. Paradoxically.

 

When Harry finds Draco this way he hurries with a blanket, with a hug, with whispered worries.

 

"What's wrong?" Harry asks.

 

Draco doesn't answer. Because honestly, he doesn't have answers.

 

But he stops staring at the ceiling. Because nor has the ceiling.

 

§§§

 

Draco doesn't speak often. The rare times he opens his mouth and says something, Harry listens intently.

 

As soon as Draco leaves, usually for another trip to the bridge, Harry walks to a certain piece of furniture, opens a certain third drawer on the left and takes out a certain pen and a certain spoilt exercise book.

 

Then he walks into the kitchen, sits down at the table, opens the exercise book and writes down Draco's words.

 

When he's finished with it, he closes the exercise book, gets up from the table, walks out of the kitchen, puts the pen and the exercise book back inside the third drawer of that piece of furniture, closes the drawer and walks away.

 

Sometimes weeks pass without a word leaving Draco's pretty but useless mouth.

 

Sometimes Harry takes the exercise book and reads it instead of writing in it.

 

Draco's words said with Draco's voice ring in his brain.

 

And for a while the silence seems less heavy.

 

§§§

 

Often enough, Harry cries himself to sleep. Draco can hear him from outside the closed door of their bedroom. He listens to him until there's something to hear.

 

But nothing more.

 

Often enough when Harry is asleep, Draco enters the room and kneels on the floor, next to Harry's side of the bed. He watches Harry sleep until his knees are sore and his legs are stinging.

 

But nothing more.

 

Often enough tears leave tracks on Harry's cheeks. Crying leaves his breath rasping. Bitterness leaves wrinkles at the sides of his mouth. Draco, on the other hand, leaves an empty space in his flesh.

 

But nothing more.

 

And this is not enough.

 

§§§

 

Lately, Draco wonders what would be like falling into that black water. He wonders if it would swallow him like the stones he's used to throw. He wonders if he would be able to move his arms and his legs in there or if the thickness wouldn't permit it. He wonders if he would sink then, and touch that bottom he has never seen. He wonders how many thoughts he would have the time to think while the water fills his mouth, his lungs.

 

How many thoughts before darkness fills his mind.

 

He wonders if Harry would be his last thought.

 

Then he wonders if his body would remain under water, stuck in its stickiness. He wonders if it would ever come back to the surface.

 

Because Draco thinks it would be disgraceful re-emerging blue and dirty and swollen with death.

Maybe with his face contorted in panic, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open in a suffocated scream.

 

Draco really hopes that in this case he's going to stay forever under water, under the bridge.

 

§§§

 

Harry hopes things will change soon. Because he can't really stand them anymore.

 

He tries. He really tries to understand. But it's harder and harder.

 

Draco is further and further.

 

And Harry is just so damn tired.

 

§§§

 

Today, watching Draco lean out the railing, Harry doesn't hold his breath.

 

He doesn't pray for the railing to resist.

 

He doesn't hope that Draco will come back from his usual trip to the bridge and unusually, suddenly, miraculously, will talk to him.

 

He does nothing of this. He watches instead. Detachedly.

 

Harry watches and his eyes see the obvious: Draco defying gravity.

 

Harry watches and his mind states the obvious: he's going to fall.

 

Harry watches and his mouth expresses the obvious: "He falls."

 

His breath fogs the glass and Draco seems to disappear for a while.

 

Then, when Harry's view is clear again, what seemed to be has become what is.

 

Draco has disappeared from the bridge.

 

§§§

 

The water is cold. Not like Harry.

 

The water is unforgiving. Not like Harry.

 

Sticking, suffocating, caustic, mocking.

 

Not like Harry. Not at all.

 

Draco sinks. And drowns. And his last thought is Harry. His last thoughts are Harry.

Just Harry. Just as Draco supposed.

 

Sometimes it's good to know you were right from the beginning.

 

But not this time. Right now, as he sinks deeper and deeper, it's just a faint consolation.

 

§§§

 

Harry runs. He jumps down the stairs and blindly crosses the street where - thanks to whatever god up there is watching him - no cars ever pass by.

 

He runs to the water, eyes stubbornly focused on the ripples quickly disappearing.

On the infrequent bubbles of air.

 

He doesn't bother pulling off his shoes. He lets the water fill them as he fights against it, advancing slowly, so damn slowly, towards the point where there were ripples.

 

It's just still water under a bridge now.

 

But Harry doesn't want to think about it. He can't.

 

There's only one thing in his mind now. There has always been only one thing.

 

Draco.

 

§§§

 

"Breathe -"

 

Thump.

 

"Damn you - breathe -"

 

Thump, thump.

 

"Please -."

 

Maybe it's the desperation in those words. Maybe it's the anger in those blows against his chest, right on his heart. Maybe it's the warm air forced down his throat, into his throbbing lungs.

 

Or maybe it's just Harry calling him.

 

Calling him back.

 

Draco breathes. He coughs and throws up dirty water and opens his eyes.

 

Harry is kneeling on him, pinning his hips down, his hands against his chest. His hands that are trembling.

 

His hands that suddenly shoot up, the left one grabbing the collar of his shirt, the right one slapping his cheek, hard.

 

Draco's skin stings, making him sure that he's still alive.

 

§§§

 

Four days later, coming back home, Harry announces that they are leaving the flat the next day.

 

Draco just nods and finishes cooking dinner.

 

While eating, Harry says that they're going to stay in a hotel until they find a new house.

 

Draco looks up from his plate and into Harry's eyes.

 

"I could take care of it."

 

Harry stares at him until his fork slips from his fingers, clatters on his plate and skitters to the ground. Then he moves to get up.

 

"Leave. I'll take another."

 

Harry dares a faint smile. Draco smirks and hands him a clean fork.

 

That night, while Draco is sleeping next to him, Harry gets up. He looks for the exercise book. He finds it. And he burns it to ashes into the kitchen sink.

 

§§§

 

For the last time Draco walks towards the bridge. But he stops before mounting it.

 

He watches the water. Still as always.

 

He thinks at what happened while he was under there. It was dark and he can't really remember that well, but he's sure that he's lost something.

 

Something heavy, that Harry couldn't drag with him when he dove for Draco and pulled him out, back.

 

Hands stuck in his jeans pockets, Draco wonders what it was and he's so deep in his thoughts that he doesn't feel Harry approaching.

 

He flinches when hands gently grab his shoulders.

 

"Time to go," Harry says. His breath is warm against Draco's neck exposed skin, but his lips are warmer. Harry's lips, which Draco can feel smiling.

 

He founds himself happy for that silent happiness.

 

Draco turns and kisses Harry on the mouth. Then it's really time to go and they leave the place without looking back.

 

Not at the river. Not at the bridge.

 

And not at whatever it is what Draco left back in his journey underwater.

 

For he doesn't miss it. And nor does Harry.

 

So, probably, it'd better stay where it is. Underwater. Under the bridge.

 

§§§

 

.stop.