Yuuri despises socializing with people he doesn’t know, but his unconventional family and marriage is one of the hottest gossip topics in town especially among the other mums. One day, he decides to just fuck it all…and sorely regrets it afterwards.
Draco feels a tremor tear through him. His fists are clenched, his jaw muscles tense, his chest tight, his knees wobbly. He’s breathing heavily as his stomach twists viciously, the hot feeling inside it beginning to spread, infecting the rest of his body. Like venom. He stares down the empty corridor, lit by torches. His vision blurs, little spots appearing in front of him. He feels dizzy. He wants to scream. He wants this feeling inside of him to take physical form, so he can punch it, destroy it.
He wants the rage to leave his body.
Well, what Draco really wants is the cause of his rage to go away. How many letters from his father is he supposed to receive calmly, while Lucius keeps going on and on about how disappointed he is in his son, not sure if he can be even called his son any longer.
Draco feels sick. His stomach gives another twist, but Draco refuses to show weakness. He will not be sick. No. He hears, rather than feels, his jaw cracking as he tenses his muscles further. His arms are shaking now. Unthinkingly, he turns to the wall and punches it. Hard. He feels no pain, but there’s another cracking sound.
Draco feels his eyes sting, which only makes him angrier. This will not make him cry. He will not spill a single tear over this. And yet, he can’t seem to stop the hot tears from running down his cheeks.
He startles when he hears footsteps echoing off the walls. He hastily wipes the tears away with his sleeve and looks up. Of course. Of course it has to be Potter!
“Malfoy.” He sounds puzzled. “What are you doing here?”
Draco doesn’t answer and averts his eyes, in fear of Potter noticing he just had a moment of weakness.
“Malfoy,” Potter repeats. Draco feels a new surge of anger course through him. He wants to hit Potter. Hexing him wouldn’t be gratifying enough. He wants to physically injure him with his hands, his whole body.
Before Potter knows what’s happening, Draco lunges at him. His fist connects with his jaw and Potter stumbles backward. He blinks a few times, obviously flabbergasted and blinks at Draco stupidly. After a moment, he frowns.
“What the hell, Malfoy?”
Draco lunges at him again, trying to land a punch. His vision blurs once more, making it difficult to see where to hit Potter. But it doesn’t matter. Draco doesn’t care which part of Potter he will injure, as long as it hurts. He wants Potter to hurt as much as he does.
But Potter is fighting back. He hits Draco in the stomach, making him flinch. He welcomes the sharp pain. It numbs the other sensations in his body. It doesn’t last long, though. Once again, he feels detached from his body.
Draco’s not sure, but he thinks he got Potter on his shoulder and punched his chest, knocking the breath out of him. When Draco starts whirling around again, striking out in an uncontrolled manner, he suddenly feels arms encircling him, clutching him.
“Damn it, Malfoy, stop,” Potter shouts. He tightens his grip, trying to get Draco to stop moving. Draco fights against the restraint, tries to break free, but Potter is apparently stronger than him.
“Bloody hell, I heard you’ve been starting fights lately for no apparent reason,” Potter squeezes out while Draco still tries to get him off him. “What is the matter with you?”
Draco just grunts and tries to shove his elbow into Potter’s side. He fails. When all his attempts fail, he finally slumps down. Potter, surprised by the sudden extra weight, tumbles and they both go down.
Draco needs a moment to realise he’s half sitting in Potter’s lap, his body still somewhat encircled by Potter’s arms. It’s too much. Draco can’t take this. The hot tears he spilled earlier are nothing compared to what’s happening right now. He’s choking on his own sobs, every inhale torture to his lungs.
He can’t even win a fight against Potter, Draco thinks bitterly. Is his father right? Is Draco really a disappointment? Draco is faintly aware that he’s heaving and puffing, his chest aching.
“Malfoy,” Potter says quietly, uncertainty clear in his voice. He hasn’t moved his arms and Draco wants to slap them away, because the warmth that’s seeping through his robes is too bittersweet for him to bear. It’s not Potter’s intention to comfort him with this proximity.
“Your hand,” Potter suddenly mutters. Draco looks down at it. His hand his bruised and swollen, the skin on his knuckles cracked. He still doesn’t feel any pain. He’s just numb, like most days lately, not in control of his own body.
He hates that he can’t get up and just leave. He’s still sitting in Potter’s lap, sobbing like a child. Draco feels a tentative finger under his chin and tries to jerk his head away, but Potter’s grip is firm. He forces Draco to look at him and Draco can do nothing against it. He stares at Potter as several emotions pass over his face. His eyes are wide and his mouth opens to release a warm puff of breath. Draco feels it on his face and it’s like Potter has struck him.
The aching in his chest worsens and Draco breaks down completely. He lets his head fall down, not caring where it lands. The fingers under his chin disappear, as Draco’s head hits something solid. Potter’s shoulder, he realises, when something soft tickles his ear. Potter’s hair.
Draco knows this is wrong. He knows Potter is getting a glimpse of something, Draco has been trying to hide from everyone. He can’t show weakness. He just can’t.
He isn’t sure, at first, if he’s imagining something pressing into his back and the warmth on his cheek, until he tries to turn his head and finds that he can’t. Because Potter’s cheek is pressing into his, his arms are around Draco once more. He’s drawing circles on Draco’s back with his palms
Draco really does know this is wrong and he has no idea what possessed Potter to actually try and comfort him, but when Draco feels a warm hand move over his head and begins stroking his hair, Draco closes his eyes and decides that, just for tonight, he will forget about everything that is wrong.
Imagine after Jack and Bitty come out, Jack posts a bunch of videos vlogging his morning surprise on his and Bitty’s anniversary on his Snapchat stories (which is basically old and dusty and unused because you know the guy only keeps the app for Bitty), and the videos go as follows:
1. The camera is too close to Jack’s face. There is shuffling in the background as Jack adjusts the angle until you realize the that Jack’s in his bedroom, and Bitty’s in a lump beside him, with covers up to his ears that’s drifting up and down to indicate his breathing.
Jack whispers to the camera, “I don’t make videos, that’s more Tater and Bits–Eric’s thing, but, um, it’s 5 AM on a Saturday, and today is our anniversary.”
2. About 20 seconds of Jack trying to leave the bed without disturbing Bitty. Bitty snorts about three times and you hear Jack catch his breath and freeze.
“I made it out of the bedroom. I’m going to make him breakfast in bed so, uh, hopefully that goes well and uhm…the kitchen doesn’t…catch on fire…not that it’s a possibility. I can make breakfast. Usually just eggs though.”
3. The kitchen is a mess. There is pancake batter and flour on the counter and a few floppy, pale prototypes in varying degrees of roundness in a pile on the island. The next shot is just Jack’s grimace.
“So Eric can make biscuits from scratch–actually, he can make a lot of things from scratch. So, uh, I’m trying to make pancakes from scratch, because Eric has banned Bisquick from the house…um, I got Maman’s recipe the other day, but it’s not going too well? I’ll clean up though, Eric won’t notice a thing.”
4. Throughout the cooking adventure, Jack manages to flip a pancake over without a spatula, and the camera records Jack’s pleased mumble of “Yesssssss.” He narrates a bit of college life and what he eats usually, but it’s mostly quiet with the occasional “Oh, God” when he accidentally knocks something over.
“Eric makes it look so easy. He used to bake pies all the time when we were in Samwell. I mean, he still does. Oh, and it’s 6:21. Still plenty of time….I used to wake Eric up at 4 in the morning for, um, checking practice. I think he’s always hated me a little for that. And this is karma getting back at me. I’m going to flip this now.“ The camera shows the pan again, and on this flip, the pancake lands on the edge of the skillet, mushy-side down. Jack uses his fingers to peel the pancake off and set it in the middle. “Oh, shi–no. I can fix this. Good as new.”
5. The final product is a nicely arranged meal of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon, with orange juice and coffee on the side. Everything is on the tray, and a vase of roses are next to it. Jack flips the camera over to give it a thumbs-up and a goofy smile.
“Done. Finally. The kitchen is intact, which is, um, always a good thing. I put a lot of creamer and sugar in the coffee, because Eric doesn’t like black coffee. It’s just sugar at this point, I think. Um, it is 7:02 on Eric’s day off from the bakery, so he usually sleeps in ‘til 10. Hopefully he doesn’t kill me for this.”
6. Back in the bedroom, Bitty is rubbing his eyes and squinting, his golden hair a mess and still cocooned in the safety of his blankets.
“Jack, honey, why are you up so early? Did you go jogging?” He yawns. “This is an ungodly hour, Lord, I don’t know how you do it.”
Jack’s voice comes through, soft and adoring, “Happy Anniversary, Bits.”
The video cuts off Bitty’s gasp when he notices the breakfast and flowers, “Oh, happy an–oh my God, Jack, you didn’t–?”
7. The last video is Bitty tucked under Jack’s chin, his face burrowed in the hollow of Jack’s throat. Jack is grinning like he just won a Stanley.
“He cried,” Jack says, like he’s proud.
“I did not,” Bitty’s muffled voice says. “You just surprised me.”
Jack presses a kiss to Bitty’s hairline and mumbles something. Bitty burrows in closer, if that is even possible. If Jack had been any louder, the viewers would’ve heard a low “I love you so much” in French.