Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or an of the characters so sue me not for I have little except for this mind in my head.
Other things: This…came out rather morbid.. with slash nestled in it..
Pairings: Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott
Author's Note: This is the third of a series (Will You Remember & Withering Away). A brief moment, expanding on their relationship. Dedicated to the four people who have read these stories.
Blaise was feeding Nott again.
He had to. Otherwise the trays would always be left untouched.
It was an activity both had adjusted to. Better than tubes at least.
The nurses never made any comment. They simply picked up the trays and left. They never spoke a word to their patients.
Which was fine. They wouldn't have received an answer anyway.
After all, the pair didn't even speak to each other.
Instead the room was strung with silence. It hung in what nearly were cobwebs, the threads of voices.
Strawberries. Again. Not that either minded.
The doctors hoped that whatever 'miracle' that had led to the food being consumed would progress.
Really, for all they knew Zabini had burrowed a gaping hole in the bottom of his mattress and was supplying his dust bunny army with rations.
Nott had refused to be fed by hand. He just would not part his lips.
It was too much effort to attempt to force him to do so when he was quite willing with the other method.
Second to last one.
Blaise pressed his mouth against Nott's. Both stained. Only one open.
He pursed his lips, leaned forward. Hands placed on the mattress for support.
The morsel was wasting away, soon it was not even worth the exchange.
Hands shoved forward, crashing against him, locking his own arms to his sides leaving behind grasping, frantic fingers.
The world flashed black with a solid thud and a gasp.
Blaise's head hit the iron bed railing.
Searing pain shattered through his skull, a mesmerizing swirl. An unbeckoned mouth, so hungry. Ravenous. There was no begging. No pleas. No whimpers. No sound. Just power, forcing and demands. Opening with vicious need. Intruding. So utterly welcomed. The bruising, the battering, teeth carelessly scraping or perhaps with purpose, throbbing. Pulses rushing, stumbling to different rhythms. Entwining mercilessly.
And then it was gone.
Breathless, ragged, empty. Cold. Cold. Cold.
Nott had already retreated to his former position. Far away.
Blaise sat up, one hand tentatively entangled in his tresses, touching the back of his head.
Fingers returning mildly damp.