Jon: A domain of the corruption. You can smell the rot here…

1.2k rated M for the wonderful @phasyvision17​ who asked for prompt no. 3. Or: the one where they’re professional dancers in a popular TV show, and Harry’s pining would win first place. Possessive, jealous Harry. Also, Draco in a bodysuit. With feathers. 

The problem was, keeping his eyes away was impossible, even if the sight made his blood boil in his veins and his head ache. The sheer brilliance of it – Draco’s graceful body swerving, bodysuit tight on his muscular form, the feathers adorning it making him something mythical, unreal. The light hitting his face, eyes determined and bright, skin shining with effort. The way every turn, every stretch of his beautiful body felt purposeful, intent. So bloody gorgeous. Even if the fact he was dancing with someone else –

This was ridiculous; Harry couldn’t possibly be jealous of this. They were both competing with different partners, they had to. That’s the way the fucking show worked. But seeing Draco, his Draco, spinning into the arms of another man, looking so stunning it melted Harry’s stupid little heart – he just couldn’t look away. Draco was magical, mesmerising. The music crescendoed, tension rising in the room as Draco spun faster, faster, arms up in the air – his partner lifted him, one leg rising impossibly high, foot in a perfect point – those large hands on Draco’s silver bodysuit, not Harry’s, holding him up – then releasing, thank fuck. Harry could feel the ripple of excitement through the crowd watching, hear the murmur of appreciation from the judges. Then, just as the music came to a stop, Draco made a little twirl, landing right in his partner’s waiting arms.

That twirl. Harry felt anger rise within him, tight in his fists, unreasonable and overwhelming. Then the lights flickered back on, the judges were speaking – the host said something funny, apparently, because Harry’s partner elbowed him in the ribs with a smirk. Harry couldn’t hear. Didn’t really care to, either. He was waiting, very impatiently, for the fucking judges to fucking shut up, and then – aw, fucking finally, Draco walked off the stage, still beaming and glittery with excitement.

Harry pulled him aside before he could even blink, hauling him through the set until he finally found a place deemed private enough. Draco, to his credit, didn’t seem all that perturbed. He kept a pretty straight face on for someone bodily thrown into a broom cupboard.

“So I take it you liked my performance,” he said, shadow of a smile on his face.

“It’s mine.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Keeping the growl contained in his throat took effort. “That twirl you did in the end. That’s my move. You stole it from me.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco’s eyebrows knitted high on his forehead, “but are you saying you invented the act of twirling?”

“No. I’m saying that that move, it was mine. You know that. Everybody fucking knows it. And you did it with someone else.”

“Well, we’re not dancing together anymore,” Draco had the gall to say. “This is for charity, Harry.”

“Fuck charity. No, wait, I don’t mean that, I just –“ Harry closed his eyes, turned his face away, furious with Draco, with himself, with the whole thing. “I… shit.”

“An apt summary, yes.” It sounded like Draco was smiling, but Harry wasn’t brave enough to check.

How could he put it into words without sounding like a total lunatic? How could he possibly describe it, going from sworn-dance-enemies in rival companies, to sweaty-messy-frotting between show rehearsals, to this tight-crushing-need in his chest? How could Harry ever tell him how much – how nothing in this would ever be quite enough without him? How painful it was to have to watch him taken away without being sure – without knowing for certain he’d come back?

[Gif description: Cristobal Rios in an orange hat with two feathers in it and a green suit with fur over one shoulder doing a little dance. End gif description]

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