A Dark Time For The Light

29

Six o’clock the next morning next morning saw them both under the shower. Half past and Draco tipped into Marcus’ car. Seven and an extremely tired Harry walked to the meeting spot near the bunker to team up with Seamus and Dean. Seamus giggled, “No need to guess what you were up to last night”. Harry grinned, “If I fall into my paint, come and get me out before I drown”. They all laughed as Cellan pulled up.

Dean introduced Seamus to the group and they set off. Their destination was a renovated block of mansion flats in an exclusive neighbourhood.

That night felt strange. The flat had next to no furniture. Nothing to cook on and no Draco. It felt awfully big and lonely. Harry wasn’t used to the regular sounds around him, yet. He jumped when the central heating boiler fired. Started at a shout of laughter drifting up from the street outside. He ventured out and found a Chinese restaurant, reasonably priced. He treated himself to a meal, leaving a generous tip and left, full up. He couldn’t look into many shop windows as he strolled, too many had roller-shutters down. He crossed the road on his way back up the street then ventured into a small pub a bit further along. He dipped in and ordered a pint. The pub was quiet and the barmaid was in a mood to chat.

“Haven’t seen you round here before”. Harry smiled at her, “Just moved into a flat up the road about four days ago. I’m just exploring the area”. He took a couple of long swallows of his pint. Just the right temperature. He noticed they also kept guest beers from small local breweries. This was no fancy bar, this was a real pub. He glanced at the menu chalked on the board and decided that here was where he would have his Sunday dinner. The barmaid introduced herself and they chatted for awhile, then Harry lifted a copy of the evening paper from the small rack affixed to the pillar and found himself a table.

He’d read the sports section and was feeling quite mellow. He was alone in his section of the pub and didn’t mind a bit. Half-way down his third pint he drew out his phone and called Draco.

“Hi, how’re you doing, babe?”. Draco sounded flustered, “Had a brilliant journey here, slept all the way. Dumped my bag in the caravan me and Marcus are sharing and then we’re put to work straightaway. Apparently, they need this place ready in six weeks instead of eight and there’s tons of work to do. The salary may be great, but I’m looking at twelve, fourteen hour days. There’s a big bonus for us all, though, if we get this place ready in the six weeks. We’ve met the duchess and some of her prize chickens. She’s a headcase, Harry, she really is”. There was a chuckle down the line.

Harry murmured, “Missing you, babe”. “Miss you too, love, but I must get back to work. We’re on ‘til 10 tonight”. Harry chuckled, “Don’t let them work you to death, babe. Can I call you tomorrow?”. It was Draco’s turn to chuckle, “Anytime you like, Harry. Anytime. I love you”. Harry murmured, “I’ll always love you, babe. Night night”. He closed his phone feeling lonelier than ever. He finished his pint and rose, placing his empty glass on the bar. He grinned at the barmaid, then left.

He let himself into the flat and winced at the brightness of the bare bulbs, the paucity of furniture, then grinned as he resolved to have the place all sorted by the next time his lover returned. First thing they needed was dimmer switches in the rooms. He popped a can from the bag of carry-out and turned on the radio. He undressed and climbed into his sleeping bag. His phone rang again. Draco.

Twenty minutes later left them, if not sated, then at least able to sleep, murmuring final words of love into each other’s ears, they closed the connection and each imagined that he slept in the arms of the other.

That weekend, Harry had had every intention of going to the large furniture warehouse store on the edges of London and stocking up their house, but they knocked off at four and by five Harry was on a train heading north. By nine-thirty he was tipping into Draco’s arms on Buxton station, then Marcus gave them a lift back. They called into a pub in Bakewell where the others were gathered and Harry was welcomed enthusiastically. As the pub closed, they all made their way back to the site. Apart from the bulk of the House against the sky, Harry didn’t get a proper look at his lover’s workplace until the morning.

With a “Don’t make too much noise”, Marcus retired.

Draco dragged Harry into the end bedroom and closed the door. He didn’t turn any lights on as he pulled Harry to him. They kissed long and hard, tinged with desperation. Hands everywhere. Clothes shed. “God, I’ve missed you, my Dragon”. As Harry was laid out over the bed, Draco covering him, joined from nose to toes, they devoured each other in the dark, trying not to rock the caravan too violently, then not caring as they rode out the ecstasy, both stifling each other’s screams as they came. Murmuring their love for each other amidst sweet kisses, they slept.

They surfaced about lunchtime the next day showered and dressed. Harry noticed the slight smudges under his lover’s eyes. His salary may be brilliant, but his beloved was going to work. This was no sinecure. Draco showed him around, the workshop and the Gallery itself, now packed with visiting Muggles beyond the thick red velvet rope. Shrugging, Draco took him round, pointing out the history, the Delft tulip vases from a time when tulip bulbs were priced higher than gold. Harry was getting a tour of the Long Gallery that the Muggles envied. Perhaps this boy was a relative of the family showing a friend from School around. His manner seemed so assured as he pointed things out, that several Muggles on the tour party lingered to listen to those clipped aristocratic tones. Harry caught the eye of one of the Muggles and grinned.

Draco took Harry into the site office, a prefab tucked around the back of the house and showed him an array of photos on the wall that Jacinta had taken to record the project for their portfolios. There was one that made Harry pause. Draco with a sheet of gold leaf held in tweezers in one hand, the other holding a tiny paintbrush. He was looking at the camera, smiling. He was working on a complicated piece, partly done, the gilded areas gleaming in the flash from the camera. Two tiny lights in Draco’s eyes. When he wasn’t looking, Harry eased the picture from the wall, stripped it of it’s lump of Blu-Tack and stuck it in his pocket.

Marcus was in Sheffield for the rest of the weekend, so the boys had the caravan to themselves. They were all taken into Bakewell to a restaurant that Jacinta had decided, due to their suddenly extended hours, the company was going to treat them. They all laughed and agreed. Harry diffidently offered to pay his share as he didn’t work with them. Jacinta brayed, “Fuck off, Harry, you can just eat Marcus’ share”. And that was that.

There was a small group of caravans that the workers stayed in. They were lucky. They were only a team of seven, so two each bunked in the big six-berth ‘vans and Jacinta had grabbed the two-berth for herself. Harry knew that if his team were working here, all eighteen of them would be sharing the same four caravans at a lot higher density. He sighed with envy at the latitude allowed to artistic workers even though they felt hard done by.

In minutes there was a small fire lit and one of the boys, Stefan, had produced a guitar as first cans then discreet joints were passed around. At some point during the proceedings, Harry had gathered Draco into his arms and no-one gave a damn. They both felt very relaxed. Stefan was regaling them with funny folk songs. Draco felt Harry shift behind him, sit up. There was a pause in the music. Harry reached out to Stefan and took the guitar.

Draco sat up to one side as Harry re-tuned expertly. He watched. Agog. Harry performed a few warm-up exercises with his fingers and wrists, “Sorry folks, I’m a bit rusty”, and played. A few short instrumental pieces to warm up, then a folk song, The Hangman and the Papist, that he sang with such passion, Draco was open-mouthed and awed. Harry sang the next song looking directly into Draco’s eyes, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Big Love by Fleetwood Mac. Although he’s a loads better guitarist than I’ll ever be”, he began to play the large twelve string guitar and sing and Draco was lost in his lover’s eyes. His own started to tear. Harry had told him that he played guitar, but Draco had never heard him before. He was brilliant. The others plainly thought so, for when he’d finished that song and tried to hand the guitar back, Stefan had uttered, “No, no. Play some more. Please. You’re bloody good”. So Harry thought hard and came up with another couple of tracks. Draco was in bits as he played Joni Mitchell’s ‘Woodstock’.

The group applauded as Harry handed the guitar back, blushing. Draco flung his arms around his beloved, “Fuck. I knew you could play, love, but I had no idea....”, his voice faded. By the dancing firelight, he could read the look in Harry’s eyes and they excused themselves and spent the night in the dark, in each other’s arms, trying not to scream, although as the dawn broke they flung caution to the winds and howled each other’s name as they came, Draco’s turn to top, so he climaxed deep in Harry, who screamed as he messed Draco’s belly and chest. For the second time that night.

They collapsed against each other, exhausted and laughing, but staying with it, both enjoying the afterglow, giggling and gossiping, until they both kissed each other silly and fell asleep.