Superpositional Reality Grenade (deliciouspear) wrote in lusteaters,
Superpositional Reality Grenade

TITLE: Derailed
SEMI-SEQUAL to “The Road to Hell”
(see for other fic)
RATING: Soft R at worst. Wangst.
THE PLAYERS: Oliver Wood & Draco Malfoy
(brief cameos by Fred Weasley & Angelina Johnson)
AUTHOR: Entwife
DISTRIBUTION: Just tell me!

SUMMARY: A diary entry about Oliver’s social quandries.

DISCLAIMER: "A Long Time Ago in a Galaxy Far Far Away, there was Hogwarts. And J.K.Rowling looked at it and saw that it was good. And all was right in the world. But then, we saw that Harry doth look upon Draco with lust, and that Ms. Rowling was not likely to include that in the next book, so we said “Screw it!” and wrote it ourselves, even though we do not make any money off of this. And all was right with the world."

NOTES: I don’t know if this counts as AU or not. It’s certainly a few years post-Hogwarts.


I realize I'm testing your patience with this one.

I've written about Draco all over these pages, and nothing ever happens because I'm a big dumb retard-o. And then he went M.I.A. (or, more properly, AWOL, for I never gave him leave to leave) for over a month and my mostly-imaginary relationship with him became 100% imaginary for his absence.

I have many friends with whom I cannot discuss Draco, because they would be angry with me. "Fer Fuck’s Sake Oliver! Do something about it! Stop whining and pining for god's sake!” Or conversely they would forget their fear of me for a moment, yell “FAGGOT!” and bash my brains out.

And I'm sure I have some readers that would like to hear a little bit about our consummation instead of always this endless, inept chase.
Perhaps you're one of them.

But there's something you don't understand.

You've never seen him.

You have never looked Beauty directly in the eye.

I'm not saying you don't know anyone beautiful, but he simply is beauty. I'd put a picture of him in the dictionary next to that entry — if I had a picture of him.

So I'm out Saturday at the nightclub where we used to hang out, many moons ago. This was the sixth or seventh week gone by where he didn't show up, and in this town, people have their regular hang-outs, so my
crusade was not boding well.

Till around 1:30am, I was standing by the bar chatting merrily with some friends when in he blows, and zooms past me to the toilets.

I was completely unprepared for it. He's the only person I have ever seen in my whole life who literally makes my knees weak, and I fell against the bar, clutching onto Fred, trying to regain my posture, if not my composure.

"You okay, Oliver?" asked Fred.
"Yah, I just … tripped on my feet. What were you saying?"

Presently, Draco comes out of the toilets again and zooms into the back theater where the glam music plays. I had to drift away from my conversation because I could not concentrate, let alone contribute any

I was Derailed.

I had to find a quiet corner and contemplate things. For while I always recalled how lovely he is, it had been so long since I'd seen him that I guess I just forgot how truly lovely he really is! I needed to reacclimate to his presence and beauty, essentially.

I think I once said that if our paths should cross again, my attack would be ruthless. I realized Saturday that I cannot attack him. He still renders me powerless.

As boring as it is to read about, I like it that way.

But I must give Draco his ode for today, for he earned it.

I watched him dance, or danced near him, but only in short spells for I could not take it for too long. Dance or stare for a minute, go away to a corner and breathe heavily, go back and dance for two minutes, go somewhere and cover my face and almost weep — bit by bit I "reacclimated" and could stay near him for longer periods of time.

When he dances, he's in his own little world, so I could be right next to him and he wouldn't even know it. That alone has its pros and cons. Easy, convenient gazing spot, affording the occasional dance-floor
bump, but not very good for conversation, which is where I need to go with him. At one point, he was sitting one out. I walked by and
waved and smiled. He returned the gesture. (I had to go lock myself into a toilet stall for five minutes after that.)

The problem with glam night is that the music is incredibly good. Thus, he dances a lot. And my only chance for a connection is during short spells when he sits one out.

I decided the best way to get near him was sit in a chair against a wall next to the chair with his stuff on it, feigning exhaustion from dancing, but really waiting for him to sit another song out. So I sat there, talking to passing friends, gazing at his luciousness, then, to my great horror, the worst of all possible things happened.

He ripped off his shirt and threw it at his empty chair adjacent to mine!

Okay, so really boys ripping off their shirts in nightclubs isn't so incredibly original in fag clubs, but it is a little rare in establishments that are not labeled "gay."

I was horrified to find that he had what I consider to be the absolute pinnacle of perfection in a male torso. All my torrid locker-room dreams come true. Slim and toned. Slight hint of six-pack abs. Built chest, totally smooth. Manly and boyish at once. Tight silver jeans clinging, by means of a green patent leather belt with silver grommets, tightly to undulating hips. Turning around, he flaunted his sinewy shoulders and those parenthetical, beautiful lower back muscles that eventually swoop and turn into a perfect ass.

Angelina, in whom I confide my passions, happened by just then.

"What the FUCK!" I said, motioning towards the half-naked Draco rubbing his hands through his hair, jumping and dancing.
"Ohhhh, Oliver," Angie commisserated, "you are in So Much Trouble!" She went away snickering to herself.

Eventually, he stopped dancing and came towards me, plunking down in the chair so close to mine. I could feel sweat from his shoulder coming through my shirt as we were pressed together. Of course, once again I
was shocked into complete silence, but bit the bullet and turned to him and made some opening of a conversation.

I remember very little of what was said. I only recall my internal dialogue urging me at all costs to continue talking.

Draco: "So have I missed much here in the last month?"
Oliver: "Typical club dramas. How's your little sick friend?"
Draco: "I don't think she likes me any more."
Oliver: "Why's that?"
Draco: "She says I do too many drugs."
Oliver: "That's a sliding scale — a variable from person to person…"

I lost him on that one. FUCK! If he's a dolt, I'm going to scream. Quick, think of something else!

Oliver: "The Gods, but do I need a drink. Can I get you something?"
Draco: "Uhhh, no, but thanks."


I didn't really want a drink. I just wanted to buy him one. Oh well, no turning back now. I fetch a beer. Takes forever. 4am is a crowded hour there. I come back and he had moved somewhere else. Saw him briefly at the other end of the club, then he must have left.


Oh well. At least he's alive. And maybe his comment about being gone for a month means he'll be back on Saturdays.

That would be an exquisite torment.
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