my favourite part [t.n]

bloom later

song: bloom later,  Jesse

August 2004

"I think your best option would be seeing someone for the turmoil — I mean honestly, Nott... if you want to keep it authentic here and let me give you my opinion, you have to listen." His childhood friend, Draco, had basically pulled that idea over on him. They considered plenty of options — options to help Theo see the world on full blast again, the shades of the sky he'd missed because he'd looked down at his feet far too many times and kicked at the barely noticeable pebbles that would crunch beneath his feet.

That was when he'd muster up the energy to walk at night. He wanted to feel the air hit his face, he wanted all six senses back. The first — the way the freezing wind would graze over his lips, making his cheeks tinge and the cells in his skin tingle. That's all he'd wanted.

He looked up at his old friend. Tried to let the heat of his piping-hot tea seep into the pads of his fingers.

Nothing.

A numbness he'd been so used to already.

"We've been over this one too many times, far more for my liking, mate. What would be your way of keeping it authentic? I'll try to listen, no promises though." He barely let the tea hit his tongue, sitting it down. He crossed his arms, leaning back in a small leather chair that sat hard on all fours in a muggle cafe they'd make trips to every weekend — well, when Theo could make it out of bed.

Draco adjusted swiftly in his chair. He propped his elbow on the round glass table in front of him, his chin resting on his knuckles.

He let out one loud sigh.

His mouth pulled into that familiar grin.

"We've come to these muggle cafes for years — the expensive ones with leather chairs and gold trim at the top of the ceilings, I don't think that's authentic if I might add. Nothing about these people shows me true authenticity. Not many do. But, there is someone, honestly, if I'm being any sort of frank right now, the tip of my tongue would very well be burned to a crisp if I kept it in  any longer. So, I'll tell you like it should be. Like you should've heard when we were in school, during the war and even before. There's a fine line between tranquility and someone who is meant to take a dose of the tragedy, one that causes the storm to never end. Your storm sits over your head, you took that dose, but you were never meant to feel it. You want the storm, but the storm doesn't want you. I've watched it for years grey over every word you've said, but it's the serenity in the after of the storm that's best fit with you, Theodore Nott."

Theo's eyes were glued open. He hadn't blinked. Not once, he had to let the words of Draco Malfoy simmer in his mind, yet again. These words had been different — ones that meant something far more. Far deeper, that he couldn't possibly reach himself.

He would never let his fingertips press lightly to the edges, tugging on what he deserved.

"I— your idea of authenticity is quite poetic, wherever did Draco Malfoy learn how to make words sound so pretty. "

"Pretty— You git, you heard me. That is what true authenticity is made of and I'm looking at the embodiment of that notion." Draco tilted his head, his other arm coming down with a loud thud to the glass.

Theo snorted, attempting to let the waves of anxiety settle somewhere else.

Then his voice slightly trembled and he said, "I appreciate your efforts in trying to get me to weep. We are in public, drinking tea at a muggle cafe, I'd prefer to be in a library with my head buried in a book that Granger has stuffed in my face for the hundredth time — the pages would appreciate the taste of salt rather than this bloody tea and my tastebuds."