forced | d.m.

06.shame

January '01 | H I M

The world seems blurry.

That's what Draco prefers. World blurry, worries blurry, problems blurry.

Life blurry.

But thanks to the extra glass he didn't get to drink, he can walk up the steps to the estate's entrance without falling.

Draco got distracted before he could touch the next full glass of whiskey at the bar table, which would have been his... who the fuck knows. He stopped counting at four.

Blaise warned him not to give in, to not listen, but the temptation was too big.

And he doesn't regret it one bit.

He looks up at the big door waiting to be entered. So fucking big, just like their overly massive, hollow, cold place of a 'home'. What are all the rooms for? So much stone for two lonely souls.

A laugh is passing his lips at the extravagant idiocy of his controlled life.

Draco grimaces when the front door shuts quite loudly due to his slowed reaction time. Barely taking three steps inside, his eyes meet the sweet, demure hazel ones as she is passing the entrance way.

Maybe he does regret it. Only a little.

"Shit," he hisses drunkenly through his teeth, though loud enough for her to hear with the constant penetrating silence surrounding them.

She wasn't meant to see him—not like this. It's past 2 a.m. What is she doing up so deep in the night?

He runs a hand through his awfully messy hair as her eyes roam over his form. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

Silence.

Even in the darkness he can tell that she sees it. She doesn't say anything, but approaches him. First as though testing if it is okay, then not giving a shit about it at all.

Worry is carved into her delicate features as she reaches a hand up to his face, his bleeding and blooming nose. Bleeding and bruised lip. Some cuts.

The crease between her perfectly plucked brows deepens with each wound. "What happened?" The question is a mere whisper and it makes him feel weird in the gut.

"A bar fight," his voice is hoarse and deep.

She is definitely disappointed by that answer. Disappointed in him. Also because of the alcohol in his breath.

He knows how much she hates his drinking but when it makes things easier, then it's hard to stop.

Completely taking him by surprise, Althea shrugs the coat off his shoulder, hangs it on the coathanger and tells him to follow her without as much as sparing a glance.

He, on the other hand, has all eyes on her backside. Is that rude? That is rude. But it jiggles so perfectly with each step.

She leads him to their ensuite bathroom and again, tells him to sit down, to which he obliges. Somehow.

Watching her wet a cloth over at the sink, he wonders how someone can look so sexy in a fluffy loungewear set. The shorts are... short, exposing her lean legs and almost more. He finds himself wishing for them to be even shorter.

Althea has always made his head spin.

He got himself the hottest, most sexy woman as a wife—but she is not his. It is it's own sort of torture, to live with your eptitome of beauty and brain and character.

Before he knows it, his legs are open for her to step between and with her fingers lifting his chin, she does a delicate job at cleaning up the half dried blood.