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.