whitmans_kiss | Fic: HP, (rl/sb, bz/dm) drabble, "la tormenta ya tendrá que pasar / the storm will yet pass"

Title: "la tormenta ya tendrá que pasar / the storm will yet pass"
Word Count: 500
Author:

whitmans_kiss
Rating: PG-13
Contains: angst, sexual images, one instance of strong language
Characters; Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Remus/Sirius
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no profit from this piece of fiction. All characters are of legal age.
Summary: Draco is a bit of a voyeur.
Author's Notes: For

toujours_nigel; thank you for letting me borrow Draco and the second person for a while to get back in the angstbucket saddle. Much love for you and the boys.
Draco POV.
Lollyverse

You watch them, sometimes, when they think no one but the elf is watching, the way Mother Wolf leans over his books, leans forward for his tea, leans back into the touch Sirius Black traces loosely along his shoulders before resting strong fingers on the fine, thin skin of Lupin’s neck.

You watch as a kiss pressed just in front of Lupin’s ear is accepted as an invitation for another, the sort of kiss you’ve always wanted to give Blaise but know you never can, because you know you don’t have the comfort of retiring to bed, knowing that twenty minutes later, he’ll slide in beside you and curl an arm around your waist, where it’ll stay until morning.

Sometimes, you have to close your eyes against the easy way that they hold each other in the kitchen; pass the potatoes, please, while Sirius makes a pass at Lupin. Again. What’s Lolly made for dessert? Remus John, Loony Professor Lupin, drizzled in chocolate sauce and spunk. You pretend to gag on your spoon while Potter turns the exact shade of red to match the cherry whose stem Lupin has just tied in a knot with his tongue.

But once, you catch them dancing — the door’s open, and it’s like seeing Lupin naked, dressed only in a long-sleeved undershirt and pyjama bottoms that clearly belong to his partner, the emotion playing just as nakedly across his face as he smiles, as they fucking glow in the candlelight – there are candles lit, for gods’ sake. And Sirius, too, is beautiful, watched through Lupin’s eyes like this, like he’s the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen, like he isn’t crudely tattooed and still half-wasted, like love is, in fact, a tangible thing that he’s currently performing a slow waltz with as though it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And perhaps that’s what bothers you the most, that it’s so easy for them to dance with the door open, when you have it locked and warded four different ways before you allow yourself to lay a hand on Blaise. When they kiss briefly hello, and all you can think of is how every kiss of yours is somehow a goodbye; when their embraces linger because they have the time, not because they’re trying to steal it.

You can’t help but overhear them, unashamed as they are, planning a vacation to Greece, to the islands where they’ll take their second or sixty-fifth honeymoon, laughing about lovemaking long past and long overdue, but your mother’s voice rings between your ears, saying that if you roll your eyes at them one more time, they’ll get stuck turned back that way and you’ll be forever cross-eyed and disfigured. So you leave them to their happiness and for once don’t wretchedly wish for a typhoon to conveniently crop up over the Mediterranean, because an idea flickers once, madly, in the back of your head, and you’re too distracted by the thought to do much with it except stare.