It's not really in Lucca. It's a small villa in the foothills, tucked between rocks and vineyards, and the scent of honeysuckle is overwhelming. When Ron steps out on the loggia, there's a sea of blossoms: oleander, jasmine, and lavender, plus an undulating wash of flowers he's never seen before. "Sweet," he says, going for noncommittal. "Yours? When did you buy this?"
Draco doesn't answer immediately. The bees are really loud, Ron notices. "Some time ago." Draco doesn't meet his eyes. "The day Milan made their first offer." He looks a lot less imposing like this, shuffling his heel against Palladian stone.
"Why?"
"I thought... I thought you might like a get-away. Milano can be cold in winter."
That's what warming charms are for, Ron almost replies, before hearing the unsaid please. So he nods and slips his fingers around Draco's. "Thank you," he says, and flounders when Draco twists his grip to pull Ron close.
The move lands him nose first in sandal, face buried against Draco's neck. It smells different here, under a warm Tuscan sun. Mixed with Draco's salt and sweat, the miasma of cognac and power is gone: there's more iris now, and nutmeg, and something Ron can only describe as silk and velvet.
It should unnerve him more. But after a while of resting his head in the crook of Draco's neck, his perception shifts. He doesn't know why it's taken him so long to understand that it's a different smell: that, among the many shades of sandal, this is another nuance - something finer, gentler, with a hidden glow like rosewood.
Draco's hands move over his back; restless, hopeless strokes that turn feeble in the end. "It's yours, no matter what happens now." With us.
But. But, don't say that, he whispers in his heart. Eyes closed, he holds on. He can't remember when Draco started using the damned stuff. Can't say when it happened, without him even knowing. But sandal isn't sandal. And Draco isn't Lucius. "Why don't you show me around," he says. You could start with the bedroom. He doesn't say that; he kisses him instead.
pt 2
It's not really in Lucca. It's a small villa in the foothills, tucked between rocks and vineyards, and the scent of honeysuckle is overwhelming. When Ron steps out on the loggia, there's a sea of blossoms: oleander, jasmine, and lavender, plus an undulating wash of flowers he's never seen before. "Sweet," he says, going for noncommittal. "Yours? When did you buy this?"
Draco doesn't answer immediately. The bees are really loud, Ron notices. "Some time ago." Draco doesn't meet his eyes. "The day Milan made their first offer." He looks a lot less imposing like this, shuffling his heel against Palladian stone.
"Why?"
"I thought... I thought you might like a get-away. Milano can be cold in winter."
That's what warming charms are for, Ron almost replies, before hearing the unsaid please. So he nods and slips his fingers around Draco's. "Thank you," he says, and flounders when Draco twists his grip to pull Ron close.
The move lands him nose first in sandal, face buried against Draco's neck. It smells different here, under a warm Tuscan sun. Mixed with Draco's salt and sweat, the miasma of cognac and power is gone: there's more iris now, and nutmeg, and something Ron can only describe as silk and velvet.
It should unnerve him more. But after a while of resting his head in the crook of Draco's neck, his perception shifts. He doesn't know why it's taken him so long to understand that it's a different smell: that, among the many shades of sandal, this is another nuance - something finer, gentler, with a hidden glow like rosewood.
Draco's hands move over his back; restless, hopeless strokes that turn feeble in the end. "It's yours, no matter what happens now." With us.
But. But, don't say that, he whispers in his heart. Eyes closed, he holds on. He can't remember when Draco started using the damned stuff. Can't say when it happened, without him even knowing. But sandal isn't sandal. And Draco isn't Lucius. "Why don't you show me around," he says. You could start with the bedroom. He doesn't say that; he kisses him instead.