Tainted Love

Regards

DRACO

Draco stared at her letter for a long time, hardly daring to believe that it was real, that these were her words. But they were, or at least someone had replicated her handwriting so perfectly that they had basically become her.

It was easy to see how hurt she was. That was the thing about Iris -- it was always easy to see how hurt she was. It had been almost gratifying at the beginning, evidence of his power over her. He supposed it was still evidence of his power over her, but now he no longer wanted it to be.

The kind thing to do would be to not write her back at all, to let her move on as she requested. Draco had never worried about being kind before. Nobody had ever been kind to him, nor should they have been.

He still wasn't sure whether kindness was something he cared about. But he knew he didn't want to hurt her, whatever that meant. He knew he wanted to be gentle.

That in itself was selfish. To prove that he was different he needed her to acknowledge it. And she couldn't acknowledge it without seeing him again, seeing him in the capacity that he wanted, and if he demanded that from her he really hadn't changed much at all.

The simple truth of the matter was that Iris had to be in his life if he wanted to feel as if he had any purpose at all.

Strange, the emotional bonds you can form with someone in a year. This time last year, September -- he had already touched her. She had already touched him, more like. They were fucking in alleys and lifts. He was thinking of her body in abstract ways, ways he allowed himself to deny.

He treated her like plastic, like something moldable, like a doll made for him to play with. Something he would eventually grow out of, get tired of playing with. Something that he would find tacky and childish and stash away in a box.

Iris could have been using him in the same way. Just sex. That's what they agreed upon from the start. But Draco knew she wasn't, and he had known she wasn't even then.

There was always something more with her, something she saw in them that he hadn't. Beneath the surface, away from the world of his actions and words. She used to try to hold his hand.

Iris never had to learn how to be gentle. She never had to wonder whether she was kind.

You can probably guess what that's worth. She spoke so simply and Draco tried not to read into it. James Graves was everything she had ever wanted. He was so American, so outspoken and charming. So fun to be around, everyone said, a real treat.

Iris needed that. Something lighthearted. After him.

And yet, the way she wrote about him was so unfeeling. So carelessly revealing of the fact that she didn't love him. So why was she with him, then? To have someone to fuck? To make Draco jealous? Maybe. If so, she had played it well.

He thought it was more likely that Iris just wanted companionship. Someone she could call to be in her bed, someone she could think about at night before sleeping. She didn't have Draco for that anymore -- if she came back to him, she would do so believing that he was using her again.

Writing to him meant she was allowing herself to be sad, to feel used. So it would be unfair to write her back, to continue the cycle she so clearly felt trapped in.

So many things in the world are unfair. Draco would rather just be honest.

Iris, I'm sorry. If I didn't need to write you back I wouldn't. Things are different here, too. I work a lot less often. It's hard for me to get myself to try. Apologizing to you again feels shallow but I hope you know that I am sorry. I miss you. House is strange without you. It was strange those last two weeks, too. I wish I could explain what was going through my head but I don't quite understand it myself. And I've already blamed too much on my father. I hope work is different in a good way. If it's not, you don't have to work. Draco.