Dove is heartbreakingly beautiful when she wears hope on her face. The worried lines of her face soften and so does Draco’s resolve. Whatever hope he has left for stirring up trouble boils away beneath the scorch of the demon’s embarrassed cheeks. He does not always say yes, but when he does, it uses all of his saved up self-restraint.
“Let’s go, then,” he demands, though the touch he presses between her ears is affectionate and gentle.
Draco sets a hurried pace through the jungle trees of Ischia. He doesn’t say much as they search, content to allow this joy to dangle painfully between them; and, if he says too much, something like “I’m happy you’re happy” might fall out and . . . Draco might be forced to feel a complex emotion beyond fury and depression.
“I think I hear it,” is what comes out instead, rather dryly.
The crash of the water grows louder as Draco rushes closer. Exhilaration steals the air from his lungs when they come upon the ledge—because he has never seen beauty like this, but mostly because he feels his own pleasure over how his twin must be feeling now. He places a piercing gaze upon, locking his thoughts onto hers.
Rarely does Draco wish another had his ability to read others like books, but now he does. He wishes Dove could understand his searching gaze, that she could just pluck the answer out of him like he can do to her. This discomfort bubbles angrily in his stomach, but he does eventually turn away.
“Why’d you wanna come here, anyway?”
@[Dove]
