Knots In Our Heartstrings [Dramione]

Monstera

When Blaise sliced off the tip of his finger whilst poorly peeling potatoes, Draco was quick to mutter a little, "Accio," under his breath, holding out his hand in wait for the potion.

When the sound of glass colliding with wood and the shattering smash, splat, and drip of thick sticky liquid rang out the room, swiftly followed by Blaise's laughter, Draco shot a stinging jinx across the table, snapped his fingers and listened for the heavy drag of a door opening and then repeated, "Accio," in an admittedly far firmer tone, once more. The potion quickly nestled neatly into the palm of his waiting hand, fingers delicately wrapped around the thin glass neck of the vial, and his thumb already pushing at the cork.

When Blaise grinned menacingly across the table at him, eyebrow quirked, lips taught and tongue tucked between his teeth, his blood seeping into the chopping board, and dressing the chunks and ribbons of potato peelings that scattered it in a deep red dew, Draco set his sights on a gourd that sat on a shelf just behind his head and muttered another quiet, "Accio."

Only when the gourd flew off of the shelf and smacked into the back of Blaise's head with a firm thunking sound, did Draco slide the little vile of generic healing ointment he'd concocted up a few weeks ago across the table to him.

Blaise snatched it reluctantly, unstoppered it, taking the cork between his teeth as he dribbled out two drops onto the end of his index finger. The raw flesh smoked slightly as soon as the first drop came into contact with the bloodied skin, and he dropped the vial, spat out the cork and sunk his finger quickly into his mouth.

"Fucking bastard," Blaise muttered when he finally pulled his finger from his mouth once more. He inspected the tip with a frown for the briefest moment, before breaking into a shit-eating grin. He pressed his thumb firmly into the newly regrown flesh, pinched it once between his teeth, and then danced his fingers across the surface of the table, tapping away a heavy drumming beat as he did so.

Blaise continued to hum giddily, drumming his fingers against the table when Draco swept up his chopping board and potato peelings, rising from the table and tossing the ones that weren't stained with blood into the little copper bucket for composting, and feeding the ones that were into the fire. He took the chopping board to the sink, letting it rest under the tap as he turned on the water, and grabbed the scrubbing brush, wetting the bristles under the running stream before lathering it just slightly against the soap dish. He scrubbed firmly, his back turned to Blaise, as the drumming tune against the table continued on behind him.

"I'll take a bottle of that," Blaise hummed, "If you've got any going spare."

"Help yourself," Draco grumbled, and continued to scrub until the blood was gone.

"Well, aren't you just generous." He could almost hear the grin seeping into every word. Sometimes it baffled him how he could have ever forgotten the thick honeyed cadence of his tone, and then he considered whether the reason he'd forgotten it was because he'd intentionally suppressed it, buried away the playful lilt that was an inevitable precursor to something that he'd rather be left unsaid. "But you don't half have your dick in a twist today."

Draco rinsed the final soapy suds off of the chopping board, and set it to dry – he'd oil and polish it later, and it would be good as new. He turned off the tap and spun, plucking a teatowel off of the window sill and took to drying his hands with it as he leaned against the counter.

He raised a brow, finished drying his hands, hung the tea towel over the side of the sink, and said, "I don't think that's how that saying goes."

Blaise shrugged, plucked an unpeeled potato from the table in front of him and tossed it into the air before letting it fall back into his palm. "I thought you'd appreciate me not implying that you wear ladies' undergarments."