The Inkwell
Draco was unaccustomed to the amount of emotional turmoil he was presently experiencing. Well, he had been, anyway, before he’d met Tom. Tom who hadn’t contacted Draco in a week, damn him.
Thoughts of Tom plagued him everywhere. Of Tom quiet and beautiful, of Tom on fire with his own brilliance, of Tom savage in his lust. He could barely concentrate for two minutes together.
Not that that mattered much, aside from Draco’s own peace of mind. He was what Pansy lovingly called a “vice-whatsit” at the Malfoy Company, meaning that his primary job was to be his father’s son. He saw people before Father did, sounding them out and buttering them up, preparing them to taste for negotiations with Father. He had long lunches. He wrote elegant reports. He fired important people when Father didn’t feel like firing them, and pre-screened applicants for positions before Father interviewed them. It would be demeaning work if it weren’t so goddamned convenient.
Anyway, Draco probably wouldn’t do it if he didn’t enjoy it at least a bit. After all, he had no real need to work. Part of him thought he did it just because he looked so good in professional dress.
Whatever his motivations for keeping it, he wasn’t doing much at his job right now. Just brooding in his office and drinking half a fourth martini at his business lunches. It was all right; it was fine. He still looked good doing it.
Nonetheless, it was not the ideal state of things. And when Tom walked into his office unannounced, Draco felt his lungs fill, and it was as if he were breathing for the very first time.
“What brings you here?” Draco asked, trying and failing to keep his tone cool.
“Do you have it?” Tom demanded. The relief of seeing him fading, Draco noticed that Tom looked furious. Well, when had Draco ever had luck? Aside from being born a Malfoy--even he would admit that was a stroke of good fortune.
“Pardon?” Draco asked.
“Something of mine is missing,” Tom hissed. He was approaching the desk now--walking around it--backing Draco into his chair, getting in his face.
“Darling,” said Draco as dryly as he could, “it was you who didn’t call me after the other night.”
Tom backed off slightly, looking almost disgusted. That hurt Draco, and struck up a momentary urge in him to hurt Tom back.
“In my locket,” Tom ground out, “there was a photo.”
“You know I wouldn’t touch that gauche piece of work,” said Draco almost without thinking. Well, he’d been storing that one up for a while, hadn’t he? But Tom didn’t seem to be angry. Instead, he stood up straight, looking down at Draco.
“In future,” he said, “I’ll thank you not to speak so carelessly. I expect better decorum from any boyfriend of mine.”
Draco felt as if an electric shock were running through him. He didn’t think he could have spoken if his family fortune depended on it.
Tom leaned over Draco again and threaded his fingers in Draco’s hair. “If you see it, do please return it to me,” he said.
Draco was breathing hard, but tried to keep his mind on the conversation, knowing how much rode on it. “What’s it a photo of?” he asked.
Tom didn’t answer, instead leaning in to kiss him. Immediately, a groan escaped Draco, and he tilted his head back so Tom had better access. He’d missed this. It hadn’t even been a week, but he felt as though he’d been dying of thirst and had finally been watered. Like he’d been wilting but had found the sun. Then Tom’s hand grasped his cock through his trousers, and nothing, nothing, nothing had ever mattered this much.
A sharp tug on Draco’s hair told him Tom was trying to coax him into a standing position, and, shakily, Draco obeyed. He made short work of Draco’s trousers, then bent him over the desk. He produced lube from God knew where and prepared him with almost cruel efficiency. Draco was so absorbed in wondering whether Tom had planned this that he didn’t even hear the condom wrapper tear, and in an instant nothing mattered any more, because he was complete, because Tom was there with him. The rocking against the desk was uncomfortable, but Draco was grateful for the bruises he’d have later, because they would be reminders that Tom had been here. Even if Tom decided to starve him again, he’d have them. And it didn’t matter when he knocked down and shattered an heirloom crystal inkwell reaching for purchase he wouldn’t find. Nothing but Tom would ever matter. He loved Tom. He knew that about himself. He knew how sick he was, and it didn’t matter to him.
“Fuck,” Draco said after they were done, “I have a three-thirty. Look at this fucking mess.”
“I’ve no doubt you’ll manage,” said Tom, zipping up his trousers with unfair composure.
“I suppose, but you’d best get a move on if I’m to get myself together in time.”
“All right then.” Tom swaggered up to Draco, kissed his cheek, and whispered in his ear, “See you tonight, love.”
Draco knew better than to ask what they’d be doing that night. He was sure he’d be informed eventually. And anyway, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to speak again, because had Tom really just said that?
Tom, who smoothed his shirt and walked out of Draco’s office, not a hair out of place. Tom, who wanted the photo Harry had left in his locket. Tom, who--
Who wanted Harry back.
Draco swore and stumbled to his office’s little en-suite loo. He couldn’t believe he’d broken that heirloom fucking inkwell.
~
Since he’d arrived early to the pub, Draco saw Harry walk in and go to order a drink.
“Don’t bother,” he said, coming up to him. “This won’t take long. C’mon.” He led a perplexed Harry back to his usual booth.
“Finally going to give me the photo, then?” Harry asked between his teeth.
“Yes,” said Draco simply, and produced it from his wallet. He handed it over to an astonished Harry.
“What’s the catch?”
“None,” Draco said, “though I should warn you. Tom knows about the photo. He was looking for it.”
“Looking for it?” Was it Draco’s imagination, or did Harry look a bit pale?
“Yes,” said Draco.
“Fuck,” said Harry. “Why can’t it just be done with?”
Again, Draco felt a swell of sudden fellow-feeling for Harry. It was disconcerting.
“That’s not how it works,” said Draco, a bit of his own misery creeping into his voice. “I don’t know if he ever--”
“Hello Draco, Harry,” a voice interrupted him. And without so much as a by-your-leave, Tom slid into the booth on Harry’s side.