Title: Stirring
Author: Lorielen ([email protected])
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Draco/Lucius
Summary: A Malfoy's mind blends with his heart, more often than not, to form an indecipherable kaleidoscope.
AN: The situation was first shown to me in a RP session, long ago. Ever since it has played in my mind, but then I was rp-ing Draco and there was never a closure. This is how I think they'd work it out.
Two: this is similar to a monologue, or character study, even. As such, it's uneventful.

Stirring

Lucius Malfoy had a particularly promiscuous relationship with words. They were his plaything, his adored object of study, his best wielded ability. The whore he abused to suit his fancy, but that kept returning to him because he could play them better than any other.

He fairly enjoyed discussing, although his degree of satisfaction depended heavily on the topic - even though he had spectacular ease at changing it - and the fellow communicator, who, in his opinion, should be as easy to replace as the subject.

However, for all that was worth, Lucius loathed arguing with his son.

Draco was unlike Narcissa or Severus Snape, who could present him valid arguments, or even Voldemort, with whose lack of reason and objectivity he put up with often enough. The Dark Lord was a fine conversationalist, save for the thin ice of his person and his relationships. But the man was older than himself and Lucius had not brought HIM up, so there was no reason to feel devastatingly frustrated at occasional bursts of subjectivity or losses of temper.
Differently from Draco.

Draco shared Lucius' flawless appearance, his blood, his undeniable charisma. His bed.
Draco gave the best head ever and could trip over his own feet in a charming manner.
Draco would smile sweetly at him until falling asleep in the couch while waiting for Lucius to be done with paperwork.
Draco hated having his sleep interrupted unless there was a mug of steaming coffee or naked Lucius within arm reach.

Draco Lucifer Malfoy was such a temperamental, immature little sod at age twenty.

Lucius growled out what should have been an exasperated sigh. Such a lapse, although unforgivable, could be overlooked for he was currently alone. Working overtime in his private study, spared from his son's eyes and inarticulate sounds, which could unnerve Lucius into tugging on his own hair. It was beginning to grow greyish, though one could hardly tell due to the natural platinum shade.

Draco had noticed, and had teased him endlessly.

Lack of company was formidable, and yet terrible. Without any distractions, the most recent argument kept replaying itself in Lucius' exhausted mind.

Again, marriage had been the issue. Draco's non-existent marriage, actually, and the absolute lack of plans for it to happen anytime in the future.

To lead a Malfoy's existence was not, contrary to the deceivingly blatant, glamour and glitter only, Lucius remembered saying for what felt like the second thousandth time. You are perfectly aware of the fact that you're expected to produce at least one heir, among the number of duties and commitments to the name that makes you who you are.

He did not deem that an abusive request. Narcissa would be pleased with a grandchild, Lucius knew, and he did not look upon the idea without smiling himself. A son and a family for Draco would do him good, especially in regards to his temper and his notions of planning and responsibility.

Lucius knew he'd spoiled his boy, and once more regret it he had when Draco's face had turned into a gracious portrait of angelic, indignant and burning hurt.

"Am I simply a breeder, now? Just as any wife I come to have?"

Lucius had semi-patiently pointed out that, whilst he had been fortunate enough to find a mate and a match in Narcissa, that wasn't required from Draco.

"Loveless marriage... why don't you choose the bride yourself, then, Father? You might want to inspect her teeth."

Lack of respect towards his father, acid and poor sarcasm. Lucius had frowned, he had raised Draco better than that.

He had explained that he'd rather Draco chose himself, so as to increase the chances of marrying someone he actually liked, or loved, if lady luck was to smile at him anew.

"For someone who's held me and fucked me and whispered obsessively how you wanted me to belong to you and you alone, you sound eager that I find someone else to love and bed."

Lucius had known not whether to be wounded or spectacularly irritated. With extreme effort to keep from letting out a ring of expletives, he had coldly brought to attention that there needed to be no "else". That, just as his own marriage didn't prevent their relationship, Draco's wouldn't. Needn't to, at least.

During an excruciating length of time they had argued, Draco apparently offended by Lucius' lack of a shred of jealousy.

Had Lucius been calmer at the time, he'd have thought of the extraordinary manner on which Draco dealt with his Father's multiple lovers: being seemingly fine with it, contradicting his fiercely territorial nature. Moreover, ignoring the gigantic pride that was likely to be severely bruised.

There were times Lucius' own mind bent around the issue, and he alternately felt grateful Draco would go against himself in favour of his Father, or worried for the exact same reason. However, he could not stop being himself and wouldn't give up on any of his loves, for each was especial and important to him.

Had his mind taken that path, he probably would have considered Draco's insecurity in the equation. That trait of his son's, however unnerving and hidden, was a fact nonetheless and weighted heavily on Draco's temper and decisions.

The understanding of the mechanics of Draco's reasoning could only make Lucius that much more tolerant towards things he usually admonished. It didn't help any that, at times, he felt utterly frustrated for not having achieved to eradicate those flaws of Draco's.

Draco was his masterpiece, and Lucius despaired to see highlighted in him some of his biggest inner demons.

On such occasions, he felt crushed by the idea of having failed Draco. For the youth's flaws brought no bigger misery to any other than his son, and Lucius was inexcusably bound to that shiny and fragile, beautiful creature, so as to ache immeasurably when faced with Draco's suffering and sense of self-deprecation.
Draco's silent, cold-eyed suffering. White sparkles whizzing just under the surface, growing into volcano proportions at the smallest prod.

Such awful temper, really. Although it was admittedly easier to bend than the alternative: secrecy, locking inside of his little blond and paranoid head, closing to the world in the way of an ill-humoured oyster.

Around Lucius, Draco had once felt it was safe to display weakness. It had irked Lucius beyond words, on account of the implications on his own parenting. Startlingly negative results had led Draco to go through a phase of shielding his mind and heart's labours, as well as any trace of hesitance, from his Father to the best of his skill.
In that, Lucius had been an outstanding tutor and role-model, making it difficult even for him to second-guess his son when Draco's eyes went glassy and his voice, sharp and hollow.

Lucius hated it when Draco became marble-made before him. His chest lit ablaze with fury and ache, and he'd push at all the right buttons in order to make his son explode back into his fiercely alive self, feelings oozing from every pore. White-hot his Draco would become, gloriously untamed and his. Suddenly, impossibly quick, all and any argumentative skill Draco might have possessed would vanish and he'd shrink, scowling and utterly defenceless in front of Lucius' towering figure.

The older Malfoy would then be punched deftly by iron-fisted frustration. For, as he had told Draco repeatedly, it made no difference whether or not he would occasionally be right, if he could not talk his fellow conversationalist into it. It wasn't pleasant to deal with his child's wounded stare at those times, but Lucius had to imprint it in Draco's mind that he must be able to wield his words correctly.

Which made Lucius immeasurably annoyed by the knowledge that it was himself who made Draco act weak. Lucius knew, both by his son's lips and the tales of his many eyes and ears, that his boy had a perfectly Malfoy behaviour towards others. Draco was appropriately charmant, all smirking and sneering and vagueness and pale grace and the witty and slippery nature that were the family's most famous traits.
Around Lucius, however, there was none of that. Just Draco being overly emotional, and the sour truth that it was him who had cultivated the boy so, for he would not deal with having his son distance himself from him, with the loss of that unholy and ill brand of power he exerted over his heir.

He supposed he should feel flattered that Draco did not indulge in games with him; however, he was not, at any rate, surprised to have irritation uncurl in his chest. Indeed, it was quite frustrating to be deprived from the very thing captivated his interest in the young man.
Not pleasant, to be spared from Draco's conscious seduction, the vividly languid bending of concepts and ideas. Sincerity and stability were for arrangements; love was charmingly delirious, intriguing in the myriad of passions to be tasted rather than experienced. Draco fascinated him for he mirrored Lucius' own ability to remain delightful regardless of his deeds and words, which was owed to the subtle mystery that were his thoughts. It was wondrous to have Draco speak passionately of a point, and then chuckle amiably, eyes glinting over wine in feline pleasure at those who disagreed, disconcertingly rousing suspicion towards his belief in his own speeches.

His offspring could be most intriguing, and yet Lucius found himself grounded with a Draco in whose eyes doubts happened to cloud by. A painful stab in his adoration, and the scorn in his secretly offended eyes drew his child ever away, with scandalous displays of hurt that weren't but shadows of the very thing that ignited Lucius' attention.

He contemplated the notion that it was cruel of him to feel alive only by force of his beloved's distress.

Amusing choice of words, referring to his Heir as the object of his love. For he said it to Draco and himself so often that by now he was convinced it must not be true. Except in the joyous, vibrant times when he'd utter a colourful whisper of excessive thrill, watching his child fly solo. Conquer and break a fellow soul with silk fingers and a lashing tongue, and Lucius knew then why he had not yet sought to abandon his youngest lover. Draco still poised as a potential challenge, his maze of a mind the only Lucius acknowledged as worthy of having a chance to spar with.

But not in this nauseatingly flamboyant manner. Quarrelling was so... bizarrely plebeish.

...

It was just so absurdly easy to unwittingly hurt Draco, who wouldn't bring up his pain until confronted.

Draco had an irrational aversion to being confronted.

Draco had arguments that made as little sense as his actions and reactions, responses that were magnified, to well and ill.
Draco cried in silence with his door locked, annoying the shit out of his pragmatic Father who preferred to feel annoyed than overwhelmingly defeated.

Draco, whose mind and train of thought went in bloody circles, making it so darn near impossible for him to digest new information.

Draco stubbornly adored Lucius.

... which could be so disastrous, at times.

It was infinitely hurtful and a dozen different shades of infuriating; a slow manhandling of Despair and Exasperation, both of which cloaked disillusion.
Ultimately, it was a game he played. Lucius danced with the idea for a few instants, smiling discreetly. A waiting game; with his son the entertainment to be had rested not in breaking but instead in scaring Draco back into graceful predator-iness, into being worthy of devotion.

Bodily teasing between bedsheets was gross mimicking of their minds' fencing. Draco was fluidly admirable during bottoming and blinding, powerful to the verge of tears when he topped.

When either Malfoy stood on their own two feet and draped in elegant tailor-made robes, however, the youngest man's tongue would lose any trace of talent.

Loveless marriage implied Lucius didn't care for Draco's happiness. Now, a loving marriage meant Lucius didn't want him anymore. Why must Draco's mind be the seed of a climbing plant with thorns to squeeze his heart?

Truth was, had Draco any sense, he would never have allowed himself to love his Father so intensely.
The inverse did apply, Lucius acknowledged bitterly. So much time spent with useless teenage angst...

Yet, what was Draco but a product of Lucius' crafting? What was that immense love, but precisely what Lucius had encouraged with pleased smiles, his heart twitching at the sight of the young greyish gaze fixed on himself, worshipping and endearing? The whispered pleas, hot and making the window glass foggy against moonlight. The cradling of Lucius' head against a lean, muscular naked young chest, longish fingers intent on soothing his afflictions by massaging his scalp.

How scarily thin Draco had grown during his Father's short stay in Azkaban; how resembling of a scarecrow he had become, with shiny eyes framed by a frightfully pale and lifeless face. The bottom lip, red and swollen, forever the tale-tell of his afflictions.

Lucius ran a hand through his hair in a tired fashion. He'd told the boy a million times to quit chewing on his lip, to no avail.

Circular thoughts. Again the displaying issue.

Lucius was ready to rip some hair follicles with his bare and finely manicured hands when the door was opened, dramatically slowly, to reveal Draco's bright smirk. He inwardly braced himself, making his face stoic with the adequate slight tinge of irritation.

Corner of his mouth twitching downwards as his son approached, long-limbed fluidness, a dancer's body, responsive to Lucius' brushing of the correct chords. Slender shoulders, soundless steps, and the rosy whorish redness of his lips in that smirk that made Lucius' heartbeat fasten.

"I'll find a wife, and marry, Father..." Draco's smile was liquid, easy, warm as he bent over Lucius' mahogany desk nonchalantly and yet with such continental grace. "But I'm binding myself for love, only."

Simple as that, with exquisite lips curling easily around the words, all of Draco wearing a shiny smile.

Lucius cleaned his throat, ready to grudgingly show his disapproval on having that big a fuss made for so simple a decision, when he saw the slender palm uncurl before his eyes. Something silver rested on it, a small glittery object bearing the Malfoy crest.

"If you'd be so kind as to put it on me, Father."

Draco. Kneeling on his working desk, looking disrespectful and absolutely dashing. Extending the family ring to him.
Proposing.
Pro.
Posing.
Binding himself for love.

Sappy brat.

To his credit, Lucius kept the sneer and his hands from trembling as he quietly did as asked. His eyebrow was still raised in unspoken warning that his irritation had yet to dissipate completely. He was intrigued - but not disarmed - when Draco chuckled.

Rendered momentarily surprised when he was yanked forward by his tie, hot breath against his lips.

"You may now ravish the Heir."

-*-

Inwardly, Draco strangled a sigh as he caressed his Father's hairline, tenderly gazing at the man's relaxed features as Lucius slept draped partially on top of his son. Being blatant about his emotions was draining and despicable, but for as long as it would disgust his masochist lover and keep elusive the warmth-providing cinders of his talent and the silent promise of its unravelling, Draco would endure admonishment from his pride and conscience.

-*-

Fin