Autumn Reunion

Disclaimer: These are J.K. Rowling's characters and universe. I'm using them without her permission. No real people were harmed in the writing of this story.
Note: Written for the Autumn Cestfest on LJ. The prompt is a haiku byJohn Bailey.


~*~

Autumn Reunion

falling leaves
hide the path
so quietly

With trembling legs, hiding that fact so that he won't appear weak, he walks closer to the man standing under the tree. The low afternoon sun paints his hair in radiant gold, giving him an aura of rich life and splendour. He appears thin, gaunt, from this distance, the black travel cloak pulled tightly around his frame to shut out the slight autumn chill. Draco can't yet see his face, since he's turned the other way, seemingly studying something in the distance, but he knows who this is; he would recognise him anywhere.

Yet, it is still somewhat of a shock, seeing his dream, his goal, his past and his future, present in the deserted park of this once mighty castle, its ruins casting a jagged silhouette against the sky. It is strangely fitting, though, but it terrifies Draco. Will the man be as broken as the stronghold had been in the last battle it had seen? Will he remember his son? How much has the long ordeal and maltreatment taken out of him, has his strength been strained until it snapped and then was torn, gutted? Have they disfigured him, branded him, tortured him? There had been so many rumours, and even though Draco knew that most of them had most likely been designed for the sole purpose of scaring him and others into doing what was right and good and noble in some people's eyes, in the end they had got to him, sinking their claws into him and making him fear the day when it would all be over.

He had received a note, delivered by a nondescript owl. The handwriting had been precise, thin and ... efficient. It was the thought that had struck him as he opened the envelope and read the few words that marked the thick card stating a location and a time. No more.

Perhaps he should have ignored the message, burned it and forgotten it, but he couldn't. There was something compelling about the clipped words, the green ink that Draco knew must be expensive, the quality of the card – all things that he didn't consciously think of, but that added their weight to his intuition. Despite the suspicion that it could be a trap, for what purpose he did not know, Draco knew that he would be there. The location itself had puzzled him, and made him wonder. Would the non-Apparition wards still be functional? If so, he could be in grave danger if he went. And still, the message had beckoned.

The ground is flecked gold from the leaves falling from branches that prepare for the long sleep of winter, to recuperate and find new energy to burst into life and strength once again, and they muffle his steps, sticking to the soles of his shoes. Will I find riches... or decay? thinks Draco as he closes the distance to the waiting man. Another leaf falls, lazily traversing towards the ground, but its journey is cut short when it encounters the paler gold of long hair and nestles among the strands, perhaps content with its fate. Draco almost stops, his fingers itching to pull that leaf free, to return the perfect symmetry to the figure. There is a weight in his chest, making every breath slow, deliberate, because it is no longer automatic, careless. He is acutely aware of his senses now, of everything around him: the crinkle of dead leaves, the sound of a bird calling from afar, the smell of autumn and damp soil and grass... The man slowly turns his head towards him, and Draco does stop, his heart in his throat.

His fear is unwarranted. The face that is presented to him is tired, worn yes, but so familiar, and the eyes that meet his own are the same blue-grey that he remembers. They study each other for what seems to be an eternity, but in truth is no more than seconds. Then Draco moves forward again, faster now, closing the gap between them until they are only a foot apart.

He tries to speak, but his throat is constricted and words are impossible. For another age-long second they study each other's faces for signs, for familiarity, for suggestions, for excuses, for emotions... But it's all unnecessary when Lucius raises his arms and opens them invitingly, and Draco takes that last step forward, into his father's embrace to bury his face against the older man's neck.

"Father," he whispers finally, his nostrils filled with Lucius' scent -- a scent that awakens memories, that has his body reacting even before his emotions have time to settle and catch up with the experience. After another moment, one of his hands wanders slowly down Lucius' back, feeling the thin body under the cloak. No matter how rich and warming the fabric, it can't hide that Lucius Malfoy has grown thinner, that he isn't in perfect health anymore. "Oh, Father," Draco breathes again, fear once again mingling with the relief he's feeling.

"Shh, Draco," comes the reply, the familiar dark notes like a soft caress, and Draco shivers as Lucius' arms tighten around him, showing him that there is still strength in his limbs. "It's all right."

"But--" Draco pulls back a fraction to look at his father, to meet the sharp gaze. "You're so thin..." He can feel the bones in Lucius' shoulder when he moves his fingers over it.

"Nothing that a few good meals and a warm bed cannot cure, I'm sure." Lucius smiles at his son and pulls him close again to rest his cheek against the shorter blond hairs.

The mentioning of a bed acts as a catalyst for Draco and the emotional tension of far too many months seem to converge in his groin. He's so close to Lucius, and when he shifts his hips slightly, his hardening prick brushes against the older man's thigh, drawing a low moan from Draco. He wonders briefly how his blood can be so hot all of a sudden, how his heart can be thumping so wildly and spreading the feverish heat all through him so quickly, but then he feels cool fingers against his cheek, his face is tilted up and the thought is forgotten.

"Draco?" How Draco has longed to hear his name spoken like this -- carefully, measured, softly... He presses his lips against Lucius' -- carefully, measured, softly... that is what he intends, but the heat inside him flares up into passion and instead he kisses hungrily, intently, greedily, pressing his body against his father's -- and Lucius kisses him back, fuelled by the undeniable need in his son.

"Father," Draco moans between kisses and can't help but rub more intently against Lucius. When the cloak opens, he can feel that his father is as affected by the kisses as he, and the lustful groan that reverberates in the chest his arms are encircling when he presses his hard prick against equally hard flesh encourages Draco even more. He wants to say that he's longed for Lucius, and he has – in every way possible – but that means that he will have to put distance between himself and the soft heat of his father's mouth and tongue, so it will have to wait. Perhaps Lucius understands, Draco thinks, because it certainly feels as if he has longed for him in turn.

Their movements grow more desperate, their breaths shorter, and Draco's mouth finds the curve of his father's neck. He latches onto the soft skin, licking, nibbling, and sucking, not caring if he leaves a mark – perhaps even wanting to do so – and moans loudly as the friction against his prick sends tingles and sparks through him.

Does Lucius feel it too? Draco fervently hopes so, because he realises that shameful as it may be, he's sure to come in his trousers unless they stop very soon. But Lucius doesn't seem to want to let Draco go; he slides his hands down Draco's body and grabs his slim hips, pulling him even closer, increasing the delicious pressure and friction. Draco can't stop, doesn't want to stop, and pants against Lucius' neck as the tension coils up in his groin, as his balls tighten. His fingers are bunching the fabric of the cloak as he grabs it harder. It's too much, and at the same time it's too little. For a horrible moment despair clings to his gut, but then Lucius whispers in his ear, "Come, Dragon... come for me," and Draco gasps as spasms shake his body and his prick pulses hot and wet in his trousers. Somewhere far away, beyond the roaring in his ears, he can hear his father groan, rubbing harder against him until there's a low moan, a moan that Draco had feared he would never hear again, a moan of lust and satisfaction... and then they both grow still.

Under the almost naked tree, the two figures cling to each other, relaxed now, but still holding on tightly. Their kisses are softer, slower, and they take the time to reacquaint themselves with each other now that the first desperate frenzy of their reunion has passed.