Fic: Symbiosis (Draco/Lucius)
Jun. 24th, 2012 09:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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hp_rarefestTitle: Symbiosis
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stonegrad
Prompt: #93 - Lucius is a sociopath. There are consequences.
Pairing: Lucius/Draco
Word Count: 1,653
Rating: R
Warnings: Non-graphic incest, possible consent issues - given the subject matter, the amount of mindfuckery is very much up for personal interpretation - and a fictional depicition of a sociopath which is probably very inconsistent with reality
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: This is what I like to call 'the birthplace of the massive sociopathic!AU', and as such I'm terribly fond of the ideas behind it despite the fact that it's nothing like what I intended to write, and nowhere near as long (expect the massive fic-child of this experiment to make it's appearance at a later date). Much love to my beta, for both the insistent prodding and the correction of my many wayward tenses.
Summary: His father is a force that Draco is learning to live with.
There are things Draco that knows that he doesn't – can't (wouldn't) – ever say.
There are also things he never even tries to hide, but that no one ever seems to notice; that people don't care to understand, or maybe just can't. If he's honest with himself – and he is, most of the time – nearly all of these overlap.
(He has a dream in which everybody knows what's going on inside of him and he doesn't care; he has a dream in which his entire body is on fire and he's never felt more alive; he has a dream where he's several million different pieces of himself, scattered throughout the world like grains of sand.
He has a dream where every part of his body is marked with his father's name, over and over, and that when he dies and his skin falls away even his bones are carved with it.
Even when he's not dreaming, he thinks he wouldn't mind.)
Despite what anyone thinks, these are the facts: Draco loves his father. Lucius loves his son. And no one seems to realize what this truly means.
+ + +
(He thinks that if Lucius were telling this story the paragraphs would begin and end with a description of his skin, every point of punctuation the lingering ache of each bruise or bite mark, the parentheses a click of his teeth around another wrecked and shivering moan.)
+ + +
His father likes to watch him. This is a fact, as familiar as breathing.
Of course, he watches everyone, but never in the same way as he watches Draco – as if he's a mystery Lucius is trying to unravel, attempting to pick apart and put back together. Most people aren't puzzles to him. (He reads them so quickly, knows how to use them, and gets bored with them almost in the same breath. It's not that interesting unless it's difficult.
Other people are inherently disposable. Draco is not.)
There's a strange sort of reassurance and a certain sense of pleasure that Draco gets from it – the staring, the assessing, the way his father barely seems to blink when he does it. Even in the way his eyes glint when the light catches through them, blazing through the irises in a manner that makes him look slightly inhuman. How every so often he'll come to sit down with him, to curl his hand around Draco's wrist, or press a palm to his chest, or just lean forward and rest his chin on his interlinked fingers and watch him breathe like somehow it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen.
+ + +
When he is fourteen Lucius tells him, honestly, that sometimes he wants to get inside his skin and feel him breathe from the inside out. Draco smiles at him, then closes his eyes and drops his head onto his father's shoulder, committing the words to memory.
He knows that his father could kill him, could tear him into pieces, could break him apart and stitch him back together. He also knows that this will never happen, though he couldn't tell you why.
(Draco has a dream where they're both in each other's skin as well as their own, heartbeats and breathing perfectly in synch. He has a dream where this is his reality.
He wakes up, and not much changes.)
+ + +
They try not to speak on the days Draco has to catch the train to Hogwarts – not even the first time, when he's eleven and feeling strangely sick at the prospect of leaving home. Instead, they orbit around each other, watch each other with the sort of wariness of two cats passing each other in a back alley. Communicate almost entirely through some strange non-verbal language Draco isn't even sure he actually knows, let alone understands. Not that it matters, because he realizes this:
His father loves him.
His father wants him to stay.
His father doesn't say goodbye because that would imply that Draco is leaving, and he's not – not in any of the ways that matter, anyway. He wouldn't. They both know this so utterly it barely even deserves a mention. But they are still very, very careful not to touch.
(Draco occasionally ponders the idea that if he did by some mad whim actually leave, his father would find him. Would hunt him down, get him back, or kill one or both of them while trying. The idea doesn't bother him, though sometimes he thinks maybe it ought to.)
+ + +
Lucius has a way of getting under people's skin that's more of an art form than an action; has a way of crafting himself - designing his tone, his expression, his mannerisms – just right so he can slip through the cracks, pour himself through them like salt on a wound. Draco isn't always an exception, though he gets off lighter than most.
They argue about Draco's friends, his tutors (they argue, sometimes, about how totally impossible everything is, just because sometimes Draco just gets mad at him for being who he is and sometimes Lucius feels like ripping someone apart). Draco is always vicious and dramatic, battering himself bloody on his father's implacable sense of rightness, his complete lack of conscience. His absolute need to be the only person in the world that Draco notices (his mother fled from it, after a while, and sometimes, just sometimes, he understands exactly why she would.)
He slams the door on his way out of the study.
(But he always comes back.)
+ + +
There are three instances where things go wrong and he misses the train; the last time he doesn't get to Hogwarts until four days into term. He knows with absolute certainty that the first two are undoubtedly his fault - for touching, for speaking; for letting his father get away with keeping him to himself, even though he should – does - know better.
But the third one is not.
It's not a surprise – he doesn't see it coming, but that doesn't seem to matter, because even when his father pushes him back against the banister, leans over him, presses their mouths together, Draco isn't fazed by it. Perhaps he should be (but everyone knows that he is very much his father's son).
Lucius kisses him hard, open-mouthed, his tongue sliding across the edge of Draco's teeth, fingers twisting in his hair and holding his head still with enough pressure to make moving away an impossibility. Not that he's trying - Draco is kissing back, leaning in, his hands against his father's chest, threaded tightly through the fabric of his robes.
This is not the start of something. It's more like the middle, and a little like the end.
(When he was fourteen Draco had a dream that his father was inside of his skin with him. He is sixteen the first time this turns into something more than that.)
+ + +
The truth of it – the somewhat frightening part - is that there is no decision to make. Not when it all comes down to it.
(His father is a sociopath, and Draco is something else entirely.
This is something he is learning to live with.)
+ + +
Draco is rarely physically violent, but he does hit his father once, when he's nearly seventeen. An open-palmed slap to the chest, both hands against bare skin, lips twisted back around a snarl; enough force behind it to shove him back against the wall, to bruise the pale skin of his shoulder-blades a dark and mottled blue. He has enough of his father in him to know that his anger is, for the most part, completely irrational. This does not make a difference.
(He also has enough of his father in him to push the boundaries, even when he shouldn't)
"Do you think that's funny?" he spits, curling his hands into fists just to stop himself from going for his wand. "Do you think this is some kind of game?"
Lucius smirks, briefly, but he's frowning slightly too; this is an expression Draco recognizes instantly – a little bit patronizing, rather distanced, faintly annoyed with the apparent absurdity of other people's emotion. He wants to hit him again.
He tries to. His fist never connects.
(His father never hurts him in any way that Draco really cares about.
That doesn't mean it's always painless.)
Afterwards – once he's been shoved down to the floor, wrists trapped beneath his back; once he's been bitten and scratched and fucked like that, totally vicious, bruised and raw and utterly possessed – Draco untangles himself and reaches up to twine his fingers through Lucius' hair, pulls him down, presses a kiss to his bloodied bottom lip and smiles. Wry, long-suffering, knowing he's totally lost.
"It's not as much of a game to me," he murmurs, thumb sliding over one cheekbone, arching forward to press their lips together again. Closed-mouth, affectionate, a mere few seconds of contact; his father's body is relaxing above him, starting to weigh him down, bruises flaring in pain as his back and hips press against the wood. He thinks he might like to just stay like this for the rest of his life. "I don't want you to end up in Azkaban."
The sound his father makes might be a laugh.
"I won't." He sighs, cocks his head to one side, brushes hair from Draco's eyes with one finger – smiles, like lightning, a brief flash of white as he shows his teeth. "They won't catch me."
+ + +
(This is how it is, he thinks: his life is the moment when you're lying on the bottom of the pool and staring up at the sunlight dappling the water, so empty of everything except yourself, so calm you think you can breathe.
Suspended, a lifetime that narrows down to that one last heartbeat right before you open your mouth.)
Author/Artist:
stonegradPrompt: #93 - Lucius is a sociopath. There are consequences.
Pairing: Lucius/Draco
Word Count: 1,653
Rating: R
Warnings: Non-graphic incest, possible consent issues - given the subject matter, the amount of mindfuckery is very much up for personal interpretation - and a fictional depicition of a sociopath which is probably very inconsistent with reality
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: This is what I like to call 'the birthplace of the massive sociopathic!AU', and as such I'm terribly fond of the ideas behind it despite the fact that it's nothing like what I intended to write, and nowhere near as long (expect the massive fic-child of this experiment to make it's appearance at a later date). Much love to my beta, for both the insistent prodding and the correction of my many wayward tenses.
Summary: His father is a force that Draco is learning to live with.
There are things Draco that knows that he doesn't – can't (wouldn't) – ever say.
There are also things he never even tries to hide, but that no one ever seems to notice; that people don't care to understand, or maybe just can't. If he's honest with himself – and he is, most of the time – nearly all of these overlap.
(He has a dream in which everybody knows what's going on inside of him and he doesn't care; he has a dream in which his entire body is on fire and he's never felt more alive; he has a dream where he's several million different pieces of himself, scattered throughout the world like grains of sand.
He has a dream where every part of his body is marked with his father's name, over and over, and that when he dies and his skin falls away even his bones are carved with it.
Even when he's not dreaming, he thinks he wouldn't mind.)
Despite what anyone thinks, these are the facts: Draco loves his father. Lucius loves his son. And no one seems to realize what this truly means.
+ + +
(He thinks that if Lucius were telling this story the paragraphs would begin and end with a description of his skin, every point of punctuation the lingering ache of each bruise or bite mark, the parentheses a click of his teeth around another wrecked and shivering moan.)
+ + +
His father likes to watch him. This is a fact, as familiar as breathing.
Of course, he watches everyone, but never in the same way as he watches Draco – as if he's a mystery Lucius is trying to unravel, attempting to pick apart and put back together. Most people aren't puzzles to him. (He reads them so quickly, knows how to use them, and gets bored with them almost in the same breath. It's not that interesting unless it's difficult.
Other people are inherently disposable. Draco is not.)
There's a strange sort of reassurance and a certain sense of pleasure that Draco gets from it – the staring, the assessing, the way his father barely seems to blink when he does it. Even in the way his eyes glint when the light catches through them, blazing through the irises in a manner that makes him look slightly inhuman. How every so often he'll come to sit down with him, to curl his hand around Draco's wrist, or press a palm to his chest, or just lean forward and rest his chin on his interlinked fingers and watch him breathe like somehow it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen.
+ + +
When he is fourteen Lucius tells him, honestly, that sometimes he wants to get inside his skin and feel him breathe from the inside out. Draco smiles at him, then closes his eyes and drops his head onto his father's shoulder, committing the words to memory.
He knows that his father could kill him, could tear him into pieces, could break him apart and stitch him back together. He also knows that this will never happen, though he couldn't tell you why.
(Draco has a dream where they're both in each other's skin as well as their own, heartbeats and breathing perfectly in synch. He has a dream where this is his reality.
He wakes up, and not much changes.)
+ + +
They try not to speak on the days Draco has to catch the train to Hogwarts – not even the first time, when he's eleven and feeling strangely sick at the prospect of leaving home. Instead, they orbit around each other, watch each other with the sort of wariness of two cats passing each other in a back alley. Communicate almost entirely through some strange non-verbal language Draco isn't even sure he actually knows, let alone understands. Not that it matters, because he realizes this:
His father loves him.
His father wants him to stay.
His father doesn't say goodbye because that would imply that Draco is leaving, and he's not – not in any of the ways that matter, anyway. He wouldn't. They both know this so utterly it barely even deserves a mention. But they are still very, very careful not to touch.
(Draco occasionally ponders the idea that if he did by some mad whim actually leave, his father would find him. Would hunt him down, get him back, or kill one or both of them while trying. The idea doesn't bother him, though sometimes he thinks maybe it ought to.)
+ + +
Lucius has a way of getting under people's skin that's more of an art form than an action; has a way of crafting himself - designing his tone, his expression, his mannerisms – just right so he can slip through the cracks, pour himself through them like salt on a wound. Draco isn't always an exception, though he gets off lighter than most.
They argue about Draco's friends, his tutors (they argue, sometimes, about how totally impossible everything is, just because sometimes Draco just gets mad at him for being who he is and sometimes Lucius feels like ripping someone apart). Draco is always vicious and dramatic, battering himself bloody on his father's implacable sense of rightness, his complete lack of conscience. His absolute need to be the only person in the world that Draco notices (his mother fled from it, after a while, and sometimes, just sometimes, he understands exactly why she would.)
He slams the door on his way out of the study.
(But he always comes back.)
+ + +
There are three instances where things go wrong and he misses the train; the last time he doesn't get to Hogwarts until four days into term. He knows with absolute certainty that the first two are undoubtedly his fault - for touching, for speaking; for letting his father get away with keeping him to himself, even though he should – does - know better.
But the third one is not.
It's not a surprise – he doesn't see it coming, but that doesn't seem to matter, because even when his father pushes him back against the banister, leans over him, presses their mouths together, Draco isn't fazed by it. Perhaps he should be (but everyone knows that he is very much his father's son).
Lucius kisses him hard, open-mouthed, his tongue sliding across the edge of Draco's teeth, fingers twisting in his hair and holding his head still with enough pressure to make moving away an impossibility. Not that he's trying - Draco is kissing back, leaning in, his hands against his father's chest, threaded tightly through the fabric of his robes.
This is not the start of something. It's more like the middle, and a little like the end.
(When he was fourteen Draco had a dream that his father was inside of his skin with him. He is sixteen the first time this turns into something more than that.)
+ + +
The truth of it – the somewhat frightening part - is that there is no decision to make. Not when it all comes down to it.
(His father is a sociopath, and Draco is something else entirely.
This is something he is learning to live with.)
+ + +
Draco is rarely physically violent, but he does hit his father once, when he's nearly seventeen. An open-palmed slap to the chest, both hands against bare skin, lips twisted back around a snarl; enough force behind it to shove him back against the wall, to bruise the pale skin of his shoulder-blades a dark and mottled blue. He has enough of his father in him to know that his anger is, for the most part, completely irrational. This does not make a difference.
(He also has enough of his father in him to push the boundaries, even when he shouldn't)
"Do you think that's funny?" he spits, curling his hands into fists just to stop himself from going for his wand. "Do you think this is some kind of game?"
Lucius smirks, briefly, but he's frowning slightly too; this is an expression Draco recognizes instantly – a little bit patronizing, rather distanced, faintly annoyed with the apparent absurdity of other people's emotion. He wants to hit him again.
He tries to. His fist never connects.
(His father never hurts him in any way that Draco really cares about.
That doesn't mean it's always painless.)
Afterwards – once he's been shoved down to the floor, wrists trapped beneath his back; once he's been bitten and scratched and fucked like that, totally vicious, bruised and raw and utterly possessed – Draco untangles himself and reaches up to twine his fingers through Lucius' hair, pulls him down, presses a kiss to his bloodied bottom lip and smiles. Wry, long-suffering, knowing he's totally lost.
"It's not as much of a game to me," he murmurs, thumb sliding over one cheekbone, arching forward to press their lips together again. Closed-mouth, affectionate, a mere few seconds of contact; his father's body is relaxing above him, starting to weigh him down, bruises flaring in pain as his back and hips press against the wood. He thinks he might like to just stay like this for the rest of his life. "I don't want you to end up in Azkaban."
The sound his father makes might be a laugh.
"I won't." He sighs, cocks his head to one side, brushes hair from Draco's eyes with one finger – smiles, like lightning, a brief flash of white as he shows his teeth. "They won't catch me."
+ + +
(This is how it is, he thinks: his life is the moment when you're lying on the bottom of the pool and staring up at the sunlight dappling the water, so empty of everything except yourself, so calm you think you can breathe.
Suspended, a lifetime that narrows down to that one last heartbeat right before you open your mouth.)
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Date: 2012-06-25 09:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-26 02:50 pm (UTC)