Sixth Year Open
by Silvia
i want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees
- pablo neruda
Draco can taste summer still in the first weeks of the school year, clinging damply to the moss that blooms under every surrounding shaded tree. There's the smell of it in the shallow grooves between stones, earth packed in tight and sharp scented -- saltine sweet. It tastes like over ripe honey, growing sour and thick on the back of his tongue, and he sucks on it while leaning forehead first against the dormitory windows. His fingers trace the bottom crack of the windowsill, where thin afternoon air is sneaking in.
Air trickling over his fingertips, and he can imagine it's breath. Hot, shivery fall feel in his spine at that: the thought. It could be Potter's mouth and he would pry, dig at it, press down, and slide a thumb in to stroke at the back of his throat. Pretty dry, clutched gasp. Imagines holding that bottom lip down with a knuckle to wedge a second finger in. Imagines that mouth pried open for his cock, wet choked needy sound Potter doesn't mean to make, wet sloppy mouthing forward, trying for more, tilting and screwing his head to and fro to take it.
Summer lingers, golden, around the edges. The lines of the lips, their hands, all gilded in soft, hazy fantasy yellow. Pictures sear and move languid and molten across his mind like lava. Crackle with a center of autumn. Glow.
There's something about the image, something that keeps him coming back, nudging the base of his palm into his lap as the window cools his cheeks, keeps the flush off.
If they ask, he can say it's the swallows he's watching.
He watches, that's what he does, and no one questions.