![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
So gonna post about the concert tomorrow. But now... I have a gift. Thanks to Fire and Coffee for help in editing. ♥
Title: Still Tender
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R
Summary: Harry deals with the aftermath of his actions. Part three after Downpour and The Quality of Ice.
Dedication: This fic is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dracofiend, one of the queens of infidelity!fic. Hon, I am so sorry that you didn't get your story remixed for coffee's exchange. This is my present to you, in hopes that it makes up for it a tiny lil bit. ^_~ And... because you were wondering what happened to them.
Disclaimer: The boys don't belong to me. I seem to enjoy torturing them, though... *hides*
ETA: mobi and epub versions of this series available for download here
...
Still Tender
It was getting late. Harry swirled his wine glass and pondered whether or not to put more wine in it. It was a rich purple colour, and he had long since forgotten exactly what it tasted like in favour of the warm buzz it provided, but he remembered a silky, almost too-sweet flavour coating his tongue.
Decided against it.
Changed his mind and gestured for the wine. Ron glanced his way, looked confused for a moment, and then grinned and stretched across the table. Harry took the bottle. "Cheers."
Hermione's cheeks were flushed, the pale green of her dress setting off reddish highlights in her hair. She popped an olive into her mouth and kept talking. Harry watched the bulge in her cheek with a flutter of fondness.
"I've not had a chance to go back. But I assume it's still there." She swallowed. "I highly doubt any wizard would know what to do with a screwdriver even if he or she picked it up."
Draco's smile was half-cocked. It might have been a smirk to anyone else, but Harry knew Draco's face almost better than he knew his own, and his partner had not smirked since the wine had been brought out. No, this was simple contentment. Malfoys were very good at designating multiple emotions to few expressions; Harry still understood the littlest quirks and was glad of it.
"I suppose it depends on the type of screwdriver," Draco said easily. Hermione tittered in belated realisation. Harry had to fight his own grin. Oh, yes, there were definitely some screwdrivers that wizards were well aware of. Harry hadn't had one in quite a while, but that didn't mean he couldn't remember the burn.
When her laughter finally died down, Hermione scooted her chair back and rose from the table. "Oh, nearly forgot. There's coffee. Chocolate cake? It's from Ron's birthday, but I'm sure we can manage."
Draco shook his head, and Hermione looked to Harry. He smiled at her wearily. "No, thank you, Hermione. You've stuffed me more than enough tonight."
Thunder rumbled distantly outside and the hiss of rain increased for an instant against the windows before dying away. Ron got up and stretched, scratching at his head. "Well. I'll have some. Ingrates."
"Takes one to know one, Weasley," Draco said, idly playing with his fork. Ron's lip curled sarcastically and he walked into the kitchen. Harry watched him go, wondering at the lack of tension. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour. Or maybe Ron really didn't mind Draco anymore, although Harry doubted it. It might be the meal, or the knowledge that Draco's presence tonight wouldn't end for Ron once the cake was eaten and the coffee drunk. Yorkshire was too far from which to come and go in one night, not counting Apparition.
But Hermione had offered the guestroom over a week ago, and Harry didn't feel lucid enough to Apparate anyway. Or willing enough. Besides, they were here to see Yorkshire for the next week. Going back home every night was absurd.
Draco asked Hermione a question, and Harry took the moment of respite to sigh. Perhaps he should have taken that cake. Or that coffee. It would be nice to prolong dinner.
He wasn't exactly dreading the climb to the guestroom, the closing of that door behind him and Draco for the night. But he wasn't comfortable with it either. At least here there was talk, however stilted it might grow between Ron and Draco, however much Hermione drank to lighten the mood. Harry feared he'd not been much of a help tonight, but Draco was in his element, as he always was with company. As well as he knew Draco's expressions, it was still difficult to tell when his lover was actually sincere about enjoying the company, or just being polite enough to fool said company.
Harry smirked. Took a sip of his wine. Lover. Very interesting. It didn't really apply, did it? They hadn't done anything that fit even remotely under that rubric for over a month.
It wasn't hard to favour the new order of things anyway. They may not have been physically intimate in a month, but they hadn't had a huge row in a month either. Nothing to compare to what had happened before, at any rate. Small spats; it was to be expected, as if bottled things were suddenly fizzling over, a little too much to be contained any longer. Harry would have been more worried if the arguments hadn't occurred, if he felt the two of them had lost the ability to talk at all. But he could make little of the silences now, and he longed, more than he longed for sex or for communication, to know what Draco was thinking of all of this.
Well. At least he didn't leave you. There's something.
It was gratifying to know that he had not stepped completely over the line a month and a half ago in that pub, that he'd been intelligent enough to give them both some breathing room. Draco had been angry. Betrayed. But not enough to disappear from his life. It had been such a fine, gossamer-thin line, and there were still nights when Harry woke sweating, wondering if he had in fact crossed it somehow. Convincing himself over and over again that he hadn't had been tedious and nerve-wracking. But Draco had not walked out, and that, in the end, was always the insurmountable proof that he’d stopped before what they had was irretrievable.
If he had gone further, actually accepted the man's invitation to come home with him... Harry had no doubt in his mind that Draco would have left.
A difficult lesson to learn. Most people only managed it after they had violated things beyond repair. Harry sipped his wine and thought how lucky he was to be in the minority this time around.
Ron came back in with a heaped plate of cake and two forks. Hermione took one, bestowing a peck on her husband's cheek, and Harry snagged the other before Ron could grab it, and took a bite.
"Hey!" Ron tossed a napkin at him. "Arse."
"I'm a guest," Harry feigned in a wounded tone. Hermione laughed outright, but it was Draco's chuckle that warmed Harry's ears. Harry relinquished the fork to Ron and watched his friend dig in, leaving Hermione to snatch bites wherever she could. It was rather funny, and dangerous, to watch them, knowing they hadn't the faintest clue about the emotional baggage they were hosting tonight. Almost as if he knew a secret about Hermione and Ron instead. He'd wanted to tell them, back when he ached daily with what he'd almost done and what he had done, ached so much he knew he couldn't utter a single word about it to anyone anymore, even Draco. And Draco hadn’t been a fit person to hear it anyway. It had been on the tip of Harry's tongue to beg Draco's forgiveness ten times over, but he had absolutely no place unburdening himself to Draco beyond what he had already done. Anything more would not have been for Draco, but for himself, his own well-being and peace of mind, and a part of Harry wasn't ready to have any sort of the peace of mind that his partner might offer.
A part of him was still convinced that he deserved whatever Draco decided he had earned.
Draco's approach, if there was even one to speak of, had been gradual and so vague that Harry couldn't see a pattern to it, or any progress being made. They'd kissed. Several times over the last month. Draco was not afraid to lay his hand on Harry's shoulder or to bump his fingers when he passed him the salt over dinner, but Harry could see it was not purposeful. Rather, it was absentminded, as if Draco had decided not to depart from their usual routine. In the beginning, that first week especially, there had been some hesitation afterward, a quick flicker of eyes as if Draco were rethinking the contact they’d just made. But after that week, it was just the contact. No emotion either way. Harry couldn't decide if he liked or disliked that.
But he had come to the conclusion long ago – the second Draco had kissed him the night after their row – that he was no longer a player in this. Draco would approach him, or he wouldn't. Draco would be the one to instigate anything physical that happened.
If he wanted to.
Harry drained the last of his wine, glad that the other three were still conversing relatively comfortably without him. True, he wondered more and more often as the days and weeks stretched on whether or not Draco would actually do anything. What was stopping him. But Harry had no business trying anything, and he had thought about that, too, about pushing Draco against a wall one night and seeking the final collapse of his barricades through his mouth. As enticing as it was, the thought sickened him. He, force Draco to accept him again? He had no right.
It was especially hard to deal with that because he knew it was his own fault. That he'd backed himself into this corner.
He missed Draco. Gods, he missed him. He missed his smell, the salty taste of his sweat, the strange, unique flutter of his heart during foreplay. He missed being able to feel over Draco's body as if it were his own, knowing all the curves and dips and creases, the scars, knowing what each one could do to the other man's breathing, the dilation of his pupils. Regret was finally striking in its hardest, most final way – the utter loss that he had cultivated, the loss of touch – and Harry's pain had changed along with it into something dull and ever-present.
Waiting, for any sign of alleviation. Not willing to hope enough to disappoint himself later.
He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there contemplating his wine and the tap of Draco's fingers against the tablecloth, when Hermione finally rose again with a breathy exhalation. "Alright then. It is late. It's almost bloody early, it's so late."
Harry smiled, unable to keep hold of enough of his misery to stop. The room was too warm, his friends’ smiles too bright. And Draco... looked serene. For once. Harry's chest twinged. How long had they scuttled around each other? Coloured even the lighter moments with that glaze of tension? It felt odd not to sense it now; it had been so long in their home that Harry didn't remember not feeling it.
Maybe that was a sign he hadn't wanted to contemplate.
Ron unfolded himself from his chair, plucking his wife's fork from her fingers. "Hermione bought a bloody dishcleaner. Dishwasher? Something like that. I've no sense of it, bloody thing makes a load of noise."
Hermione glared at him, picking up the empty wine bottle. "Maybe if you'd retain my instructions for once..."
Ron's answer was a shrug and a grin as he left the room. Draco got up, smoothing the front of his shirt. The candlelight shone a pale gold against his hair, glinting off a wayward strand behind his ear. Harry watched him for an entire three seconds before realizing he really had no reason to stay seated. Hermione headed for the kitchen, a stack of empty plates in her hands, but turned back when she reached the door. "Harry? You remember where the room is, right?"
Harry grinned at her and nodded. "I do retain your instructions, Hermione. Unlike some people."
Ron's good-natured grumble sounded from the kitchen. Hermione returned Harry’s smile mischievously. "Alright then. Shall I call you down for breakfast or were you going to be off early?"
Harry opened his mouth, but Draco's voice sounded from behind him. "Breakfast would be lovely."
Hermione nodded in answer and went into the kitchen. Harry watched her go, watched her all the way to the pristine white sink, watched as Ron turned away from the dishwasher and wrapped his arms around her. He planted a noisy kiss on his wife’s cheek, and Harry could hear her berating him about what would befall him if he made her drop her dishes.
It hurt to watch.
Maybe they did know, at least a little. A suspicion. Hermione had always been observant, and Ron... Well, Ron was Ron. Harry worried his lip with his teeth, listening to them banter over the sound of running water. They didn't know. He wasn't even sure he wanted them to know. There was no need to give Ron another reason to be pissed off at Draco.
But then... Harry couldn't really be sure that Ron would be on his side if he knew the truth.
He forced his eyes away at last, back toward the hallway and the stairs beyond in the darkness, and saw Draco watching him from the doorway. The other man looked away almost immediately, and began to make his way down the hall. Harry followed silently.
***
The room was cramped and cozy, and Harry bumped his shins against the bed frame as he moved around it toward where his overnight bag lay. The floor creaked underfoot as he walked, and then more loudly when he knelt to gather his pyjamas. He heard the thump of Draco’s bag on the bed, and the snap of buckles.
“Didn’t know Granger could cook,” Draco said. Harry heard the shuffle of clothes. He fought the urge to turn around, instead grabbing the worn t-shirt he’d packed.
“She’s a good cook,” he answered. And then felt stupid because it was a dead-end. Another dead-end in a cul-de-sac of conversation. Stifling a sigh, he sought out his toothbrush, and then gave up and decided to go without. He hadn’t the energy for it tonight, or any night, and this time he just couldn’t force himself to walk down the long hallway past the bedroom Hermione and Ron shared to the bathroom. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from looking in, seeing how they arranged their lives together.
Draco rummaged through the pockets on his bag, the floor groaning as his weight shifted. Harry bit his lip, imagining the smooth slope of those shoulders as Draco undressed, the sensuous arc just above his backside. Pyjama bottoms slung low over slim hips. Harry shut his eyes and tugged his own shirt up over his head, then pulled his night shirt on. After a moment’s hesitation, in which the sounds from Draco’s side of the room had all but ceased, Harry loosened his belt buckle and slid his trousers off. Kicked them aside and pulled the pyjamas on.
When he finally summoned the courage to turn around, Draco was facing away from him, fingering through one of the side pouches of his pack. The yellowy-orange glow of the single bedside lamp cast warm curvatures of light over his bare throat and arms. Harry looked down, fumbling for the drawstring of his pants.
“How do you feel about Leeds tomorrow?” Draco asked. Harry blinked.
How on earth could he sound so normal when Harry could barely even string a thought together? He felt his ears turning red and cleared his throat, hoping he would be coherent when the words came. “Sounds fine.”
“The Wizarding quarter’s one of the oldest in the world.” Draco didn’t look up, but Harry could hear the question in his voice. He nodded.
Draco nodded as well and began closing up the pockets on his bag.
Gods. They might as well argue and have it over with for the evening. Harry resisted rubbing his temples. That wasn’t the answer; another argument would do them no good. But at least… at least then Draco was passionate about something, even if it was no longer Harry. At least then they talked, and most of the time it was the truth, not these shallow questions and answers scattered here and there. Small talk. It got nothing done, made no progress.
With arguments, Harry could fool himself into thinking they were making headway. But that was most likely a joke as well. There had been no noticeable change in their manner toward each other over the past month, not that he could see. Just a whole lot of quiet, broken by twitchy snapping and growling. And then fading into quiet again.
He longed for their spats like some ridiculous addict. Addicted to fighting with Draco; was that what they had been reduced to? And was it wrong for him to both love and hate that at the same time? Draco’s fervent sniping, his clipped, sneering words, were becoming their new routine.
The problem was not the little fights, though. Harry could meet Draco word for word, jibe for jibe, most days. But there were times when he could hear that extra edge to Draco’s tone, that razor thinness that warned him to be silent, scared him into letting Draco’s defensiveness die away unanswered. Something much bigger lurked beneath the small tiffs, almost surfacing from time to time.
Harry knew they weren’t comfortable enough for that yet, to yell at each other like that again. They needed to fight. Needed it. But another big row like the ones before… Harry couldn’t stomach the thought of what it would do to them. How easily it would tear apart the frail ties still holding them together.
Harry shoved his bag into the corner and went over to one side of the bed, turning back the covers and climbing in. The mattress squeaked, and the plush of it cradled his body soothingly. He settled on his back and watched as Draco moved about the room, laying his bag on the chair in the corner under the window and shutting the door.
Would Draco have preferred a bed to himself? Or his own room? Harry’s throat tightened. Well. There had been no way to arrange that short of telling Ron and Hermione the whole sordid story. Harry took solace in the fact that as small as the room was, the bed was large and springy. Plenty big enough for two people to sleep.
Harry shut his eyes and waited for a few moments before he felt the bed dip. Draco tugged on the duvet and then stopped moving. For a long while there was silence. Harry was tempted to open his eyes. He knew Draco had not lain down; he could feel the tension of the mattress in all the wrong places. But before he could crack an eyelid, Draco shuffled again, easing himself down onto the bed.
Could they do an entire week of this? He’d thought it a good idea, to get away from home and all the memories lurking there. The constant weight. But nothing was different here. Just another set of walls, a differently scented bed and unfamiliar pillows. Again, Draco stopped moving, and this time Harry felt sure the other man was looking at him. Waiting for him to say something, perhaps. But Harry couldn’t summon the courage.
The light clicked off and Harry opened his eyes. The room was filled with cool blue shadows. He felt Draco settle back onto the bed once more. Harry looked upward, glad of the cocoon of darkness. The light made him feel so exposed, as if Draco were staring him through and through, passing judgment. He turned his head slightly and listened to the in-out, in-out of Draco's breathing. Uneven. A soft sigh.
The house creaked and settled. Harry heard Hermione and Ron's door close down the hall, then the muted murmur of voices. What were they talking about? Dinner? Whatever they were going to bother themselves with tomorrow? Draco lay very still next to him, but Harry could feel that he was not asleep, or even drifting. It was too still, too quiet, and Harry felt a burst of sadness. They could talk, but they couldn't talk like that, about the trivial, stupid things. Again, he could see what he had injured laid out before him, all the horrid little details and burned bridges.
For one terrible moment, his throat hurt. Harry clenched his jaw, feeling his lips tremble. No. No, he wasn’t going to act like this, not here, not tonight. Not ever. He had no place behaving as if he was the one who had been wronged. Like some sort of spoilt child. He’d caused this. And he would damn well live with the consequences. Harry stared at the ceiling, willing his eyes to lose focus, his mind to go blank and leave him alone to sleep for a few hours.
Draco shifted again suddenly, letting out an abrupt exhalation. Harry heard him fumble, the clink of metal on metal, and the lamp clicked on again, blooming yellowish light back into the room. Harry squinted. Draco ran one hand through his hair and turned over.
Moved over. Draco's body was warm and solid, flush with his side. One slender hand settled on Harry’s shoulder, cupping gently. Draco stared down at him, eyes shadowed strangely from the light. Harry's heart thudded.
"Harry," Draco murmured. Licked his lips. The hand on his shoulder rose and fingers quivered against his cheek. Harry looked at Draco's hand, unable to face that gaze, and then forced himself to meet the other man's eyes again.
"Draco, what—"
Draco shook his head. Looked straight into Harry's eyes and shifted closer. There was no room for this to be a mistake anymore, some miscalculation on Draco's part that would soon be corrected. Apologized for. Ignored. Draco's eyes swept Harry's face. Harry swallowed, embarrassed at the sound it made, suddenly completely unsettled. Gods, was Draco really that close? Touching him like this. But Draco wasn't done; he curled fingers down Harry's cheek, leaned in, and brushed his lips with his own.
Harry was too startled, too... unbalanced to respond. He could taste the wine on Draco’s lips, and the soft breaths skating over his mouth. Lemon. A hint of garlic. Draco pulled away for an instant, and then returned, and this time the kiss was firm, coaxing. Harry opened his mouth before he could think and Draco’s tongue touched lightly against the underside of his lip, then deeper.
The hurt burst inside him so suddenly he almost gasped. Gods—What was happening? Harry’s entire body was telling his brain to shut up, shut up, finally he’s come round, and it felt like the sting of sharp glass and the heat of the sun all at once. Harry stroked Draco’s tongue tentatively with his own and was unprepared for the fervor with which Draco deepened the kiss. Harry made a small sound and grasped at the bed, at anything, and found Draco’s arms. Held there and tried to make sense of it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t… think past the familiarity of Draco’s mouth against and within his, the agony of that touch and taste. He hadn’t felt it in months but his body had not forgotten it and now it roared into his memory so fast he nearly choked on it. Draco’s leg brushed his, moved and settled over his, and Harry’s chest cinched unbearably.
After an eternity of panting and kisses, lips touching and lifting, fitting together and parting into the opaque quiet, Draco pulled back. His mouth hovered a few inches over Harry’s, and Harry struggled for breath, struggled to keep the world from tilting. His heart was beating faster than he felt was possible, and a funny sort of elation riddled through him, filling all the holes and pooling in the cracks and fissures there. But—this was… had to be wrong. Even tasting Draco in his mouth, smelling that familiar, gods, intoxicating scent all over again, breathing it like air—Draco only a hand’s reach away and pressed against him as if they’d never been apart—Harry couldn’t make it fit. He struggled to find words, questions to make sense of it.
Draco lifted a finger to Harry’s lips, and stroked his chin with one thumb. “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
Harry could barely speak for the incredible lump in his throat. Had to be a dream. “What do you—what are you talking about?” he managed.
Draco’s eyes glimmered. Darted away and then back again, caressing Harry’s face even as his fingers did the same. “Harry. It’s okay.”
He leaned forward cautiously, and Harry had time enough to watch Draco’s pupils grow larger before their mouths met again, tentatively, and then forcefully. Draco made a sound deep in his throat and pushed up, sliding across Harry until there was nothing but heat beating into his chest through the thin shirt, and Draco’s hair drifting in tickling tendrils against his face. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and kissed Draco back hard, wrapping his arms around the other man.
Oh… He didn’t care why. He didn’t. Only that Draco was here, right here letting him hold his body to him. Kissing him again. If he woke up in the next minute, it wouldn’t matter because now… now it was enough.
Draco broke the kiss with a ragged gasp and pulled back, leaning on one elbow. His chest expanded and contracted against Harry’s, heaving puffs of air that shivered against his cheeks. Draco shut his eyes for a moment and Harry could see him trying to collect himself. “Harry…” he whispered, and then fell silent.
And then Draco pulled back further, and for just an instant, Harry’s chest squeezed in a horribly familiar way. But the other man only felt behind him and then flicked something through the air in the direction of the door. It took Harry a moment to recognize Draco’s wand in the odd light. He felt the ripple of a silencing spell.
Draco stretched up and set his wand down carefully next to the pillows. His eyes found Harry’s for a long moment, and then he lowered his hands and slid them under the edge of Harry’s shirt.
The implications of it hit Harry like a splash of icy water. He shivered. “Draco… Here?”
Draco nodded, looking down at him intently. “Yes, here.”
There were so many reasons not to. Hermione and Ron in the next room. It wasn’t even their house, their bed, and Draco hadn’t even acted like he wanted this, he’d given no bloody warning, and Harry couldn’t think. Couldn’t think past the disbelief of Draco’s fingers stroking through his hair, or the warmth of Draco’s limbs tangling with his.
He wanted to ask if Draco was sure. To give him reasons all over again, remind him of why… Harry blinked rapidly. It would be too hard to have this and then watch Draco back away again in the morning, or even… even a few minutes after they’d finished. But he couldn’t speak. Draco’s eyes flickered, reading his face. He slid Harry’s shirt up, baring his chest to the cool air of the room. He bent, and Harry felt soft breaths against his skin, teasing around a nipple. He bit his lip, trying to center himself. But it was utterly impossible. He’d been without Draco for far too long and now—
So intent was he on what Draco was doing to his chest that he almost missed it when the other man moved again. He swung one leg over Harry, straddling his hips. Harry could feel the pocket of heat warming between their bodies, feel the shift and slide of Draco’s pants against his stomach. Harry choked and Draco leaned in once more and took his mouth in a kiss, tonguing him open and sucking on his lower lip. Draco settled back slightly, his full weight at last resting on Harry’s groin, and Harry couldn’t stop the surge of arousal. It raced through him, stabbing at the still-tender wounds. He groaned helplessly.
Draco fingered his pants-waist, tugging the string loose and drawing them down his hips. Harry almost cried at the sensation of hands against his skin once more, Draco’s hands, down there, kneading into the hollows of his hips and clenching lightly at his thighs. His body bucked uncontrollably, and Draco lifted himself, reached back and pulled Harry’s pants completely off before settling down again. Harry could feel the hard length jutting into him from inside Draco’s pyjama bottoms. The thought was heady enough to nearly bring him over.
Draco gazed down at him, never breaking eye contact as he lifted his shirt over his head and let it fall somewhere to their side. He bent again, fitting himself down onto Harry’s body, and nuzzled his throat. The skin of Draco’s chest was too hot, beating into Harry like a second pulse, and then Draco slid, rocked forward, rolled his hips, and Harry’s heart slipped, stuttered. He sought with his hands, felt over the curves of Draco’s back, the firmness of muscle and the lean ribs just beneath the skin. It wasn’t enough, and he stretched lower, under the band of Draco’s pants, and felt Draco gasp.
“Gods—”
He wasn’t sure which one of them said it. Draco continued that careful, agonizing roll of his hips, and Harry worked a hand into soft blond hair and twisted his fingers there. Draco let out a hiss. He dropped his head to the side and tongued Harry’s throat. Slow, sensuous sweeps, leaving wakes of cooling flesh. It was so intimate Harry opened his eyes.
“Draco…” he breathed. Draco shook his head silently against his throat. One pale hand climbed up and tangled fingers with Harry’s. Draco lifted his head and stared at him from a face that was wide open, cracked around the edges. His grey eyes were luminous.
And all Harry could think was how he’d hurt him. Been weak enough to succumb to another man, and then brazen enough to tell Draco about it. Pushed them to this end of not speaking or touching or kissing, watched the trust he treasured so much fall from Draco’s eyes completely.
“Draco, I’m—” Couldn’t say it again. “Can you—ever—”
Draco nodded jerkily, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes, Harry. Shh. Yes.”
For a moment, Draco simply held him, one hand entwined with his, the other cupped against his face. Harry struggled to reign himself in, listening to Draco’s panting.
It was a little too hard to process right then; Draco’s words echoed in Harry’s head, hinting at a peace he hadn’t felt for months, but Harry just couldn’t reach out and take it. Couldn’t… accept the full impact of what those words might actually mean.
Draco nudged his nose against Harry’s cheek. Pressed an open-mouthed, lingering kiss there. Harry squeezed his fingers, wanted to turn into that kiss, but was suddenly too afraid to move.
Draco’s hand left his face and fumbled above his head again. Harry heard him whisper, and felt another tingle of magic slither over his flesh. Still clasping his hand, Draco sat up and shimmied free of his pants. Harry drew his knees up to balance him, and watched, his heart in his throat, as Draco reached behind himself. The blond bit his lip once, twice, hips shifting restlessly; in spite of everything, Harry felt his arousal skitter higher.
He couldn’t watch. He was too close already.
It took a mere moment. Then Draco was leaning forward again, disentangling their fingers and clutching Harry’s hip instead. He brushed trembling lips over Harry’s chin, and Harry could feel the rapid heartbeat pulsing through Draco’s thighs into his own body.
Draco took a short breath and sat back slowly. His grip on Harry’s hip was so tight it hurt, but – oh gods – Harry shut his eyes against the painfully familiar tightness of Draco’s body enveloping him. Nothing compared to this, the hurt was nothing. Harry could take anything Draco dished out if it meant being able to feel this again.
Had he… He’d really thought he never would.
It was bubbling up; Harry couldn’t control it. He bit his lip again, desperate to keep it down, out of sight, but it was too late. The burn in the back of his throat scorched, clotted his lungs, stabbed at his eyes. No, please…He didn’t want…
The instant Draco began to move – rising shallowly, thrusting down and forward with a lost sorrow on his face – the first tear spilled out of Harry’s eye and down his cheek.
Draco’s eyes met his, clouded and vast. He raised a shaking hand and wiped the tear away. Cupped Harry’s face in both palms and touched their foreheads, moving their bodies together all the while. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he breathed, “Harry—I’m s… so sorry…”
Harry shook his head. Hated himself. Why couldn’t he just hold his composure for one damn minute, during this of all things, why was he blubbering like a child? All he could feel was the sheer, elemental heat of Draco’s body around him, the slick rise and press, the slide of sweaty thighs against the tops of his legs. The incredible squeeze as Draco moved, shifted and rolled. He reached, clutched at Draco’s back and tried to speak but nothing came out.
Except a sob.
“Draco,” he managed. A shattered word that his lover breathed in on the next kiss. Draco’s mouth moved desperately against his, tongue dipping, seeking. The kiss ached, and Draco broke it with a pained whimper. As if, whatever he’d been looking for, he hadn’t found it. He hugged himself to Harry, chest to chest, all dampness and movement and heat, and rocked against him steadily. Harry mouthed his shoulder, pressed his lips there and shut his eyes, feeling the restlessness in his muscles rising, the tingling beginning to whisper around the fog in his brain.
At last, Draco shuddered violently and drew up, bracing himself. The movement changed, sped up and became less rhythmic. Draco’s face was a sea of pleasure-pain, eyes hooded, then squeezing shut, darting open again. He was slipping; Harry could see it all over him, smell it, hear it in every stifled gasp. The bed creaked and cracked, but it didn’t matter, didn’t even signify, because Harry couldn’t help it; couldn’t stop. Draco keened low in his throat and rolled his hips down hard. Harry watched his lover’s mouth sag open. He bit his lip against a moan and nudged Draco forward, and his lover’s body rose up and arched beautifully. Draco gasped out his name and collapsed back down, kissing him, unable to hold it as they thrust, panting in ragged little hisses against Harry’s mouth.
It tore him down, rushed in and swept Harry’s thoughts right out from under him. Draco made a soft, strangled sound, made it again, again, Harry caught his mouth and tasted sweat, tasted that tiny, relentless mewl, grasped Draco to him, chest to chest, felt Draco’s body trembling, right on the verge—
Harry fell over first, bucking helplessly, shuddering in jerks and wordless cries. Draco let out another strangled sound, lost it in a hiss, and tightened unbearably around Harry. His fingers burrowed into Harry’s shoulders and he came, all spasms and shivering, and Harry could do nothing but ride it, aching, over-sensitized, unable to breathe. His hips jerked against Draco’s once, once more, and Harry collapsed back on the bed.
His face was wet. Cold in little rivulets. Harry screwed his eyes shut and tried to breathe. He felt Draco slump down on top of him, thighs still clenching around his hips in short, sharp bursts. Harry stroked over the skin of Draco’s leg and felt goose-bumps riddling his flesh. Draco’s skin was hot, a mass of twitches. He couldn’t stop shaking. Like a creeping roll of thunder, Harry saw it, the toll this was taking on Draco. It was enough to snatch his breath away. He buried his face against Draco’s throat and inhaled, kissed, tasted the racing pulse beneath his tongue. He could still feel where their bodies joined, the intense heat of Draco’s skin slick against his own.
Eventually, his lover’s breathing slowed. Draco moved gingerly, parting them at last, and slumped down half-across Harry’s chest again. Harry slid an arm around his shoulders, too tired to think about whether it was a good idea or not. Draco’s hand moved again, felt around for his wand, and whispered an exhausted cleaning spell before all the tension went right out of his body and he sagged on top of Harry in a boneless heap.
For a minute, all Harry could hear was Draco’s quiet breathing and his own. He might have fooled himself into believing the other man asleep, but he could feel the wakefulness in Draco, the butterfly brush of eyelashes over his chest as he blinked.
Harry didn’t want to think past this moment, into the next few hours or days. The blanket of heat curled around him, the drying sweat on their bodies, the faint smell of intimacy, and Harry held onto Draco, afraid to move, to shift the balance even the slightest bit.
But Draco did shift, minutely. His shoulders rose and fell once, and Harry felt the touch of lips against his chest, fleeting and warm.
* * *
It was the cool air that woke him. Rain-washed, fresh and tinted with winter. It fluttered through his hair like wayward fingers and Harry opened his eyes.
And found himself alone.
Time seemed to pause there in the room; the sallow shift of light and tug of the breeze were inconsequential. Draco’s pillow was still indented, and a stray blond hair arced over the pillow case. But the space was already cold. Harry swallowed. His fingers flexed over the sheets. They looked very white.
Gods. He hadn’t wanted… Harry drew a deep breath. He hadn’t wanted to wake up like this.
There was a noise elsewhere in the room; someone made a soft sound. Harry rolled over, squinting blearily, and saw Draco crossing the creaking floor from the open window. He was dressed, a pearl-white jumper with a high collar settled snuggly about his throat. Black trousers and bare feet. It took Harry a moment to comprehend that Draco was still in the room, still here, and in that moment, Draco knelt on the bed and crawled across to him. He eased down atop the duvet and gathered himself tight against Harry’s body. Draped one arm over his chest.
Harry felt velvety cashmere over his skin. The sudden warmth made him shiver.
“You’re awake.” It was a soft murmur, in tones Harry knew well. The light in his eyes sharpened and he shut them. Draco hadn’t… gone. His voice, familiar and tinged with faint concern, banished the possibility of a dream. Harry nodded.
Draco said nothing. His fingers drifted along Harry’s side in languid sweeps.
Harry hesitated, but in the end he couldn’t help himself and lifted a hand to return the caress, fingertips sinking into the indescribable softness of Draco’s sweater. Draco smelled clean, of fresh air and rain.
He’d been standing in front of the window. The image formed again in Harry’s mind, pushed out at first by the confusion he’d felt at waking alone, then hearing, looking to see Draco there. The chilly air swirled through the room, bringing the lilt of pine. Draco’s feet were cold through the duvet and Harry shifted his own feet to fold the coverlet over them.
Draco’s hand climbed up over his chest and throat to cradle his neck. His thumb brushed over Harry’s jaw.
“Too cold?” he asked quietly.
Harry shook his head. “No.”
Draco nodded. Harry summoned his thoughts. “What time is it?”
“Half nine.”
They had to get up. Or Harry did. Draco had obviously been awake for some time. Standing at the window staring out of it. Harry both wanted and didn’t want to know what he’d been thinking about.
There came a rich creaking, far off, and Harry realised it was coming from beyond the door in the hallway. The approaching pad of footsteps, and then a soft knock on the door. Hermione’s voice came, muted. “Harry? Draco, breakfast is ready.”
Draco got up, taking the warmth and leaving Harry to stare after him, and crossed to the door. He opened it wide enough not to elicit curiosity, but not enough for Harry to see Hermione.
“We’ll be right down,” he said. “Harry’s getting dressed.”
“Oh, alright then,” Hermione responded genially from out in the hallway. “I’ll put tea on.”
Her footsteps receded and the door clicked shut. Again, Draco was back, lowering himself onto the bed and enfolding Harry in his arms. Harry circled his fingers around Draco’s wrist and shut his eyes. He felt his lover’s exhalations huffing against his neck. Thought he should speak but didn’t have the first idea what to say.
Draco’s grip tightened and Harry heard him sigh. “It’s okay, Harry. You don’t have to say anything right now.”
Harry nodded, raised a hand and stroked Draco’s fine golden hair. The strands slipped over his fingers. Draco rubbed lightly over his chest and didn’t speak again.
~fin~
...
Part 4: Inevitable
...
...
...
Thanks for reading!
Title: Still Tender
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: R
Summary: Harry deals with the aftermath of his actions. Part three after Downpour and The Quality of Ice.
Dedication: This fic is for
dracofiend, one of the queens of infidelity!fic. Hon, I am so sorry that you didn't get your story remixed for coffee's exchange. This is my present to you, in hopes that it makes up for it a tiny lil bit. ^_~ And... because you were wondering what happened to them.Disclaimer: The boys don't belong to me. I seem to enjoy torturing them, though... *hides*
ETA: mobi and epub versions of this series available for download here
...
Still Tender
It was getting late. Harry swirled his wine glass and pondered whether or not to put more wine in it. It was a rich purple colour, and he had long since forgotten exactly what it tasted like in favour of the warm buzz it provided, but he remembered a silky, almost too-sweet flavour coating his tongue.
Decided against it.
Changed his mind and gestured for the wine. Ron glanced his way, looked confused for a moment, and then grinned and stretched across the table. Harry took the bottle. "Cheers."
Hermione's cheeks were flushed, the pale green of her dress setting off reddish highlights in her hair. She popped an olive into her mouth and kept talking. Harry watched the bulge in her cheek with a flutter of fondness.
"I've not had a chance to go back. But I assume it's still there." She swallowed. "I highly doubt any wizard would know what to do with a screwdriver even if he or she picked it up."
Draco's smile was half-cocked. It might have been a smirk to anyone else, but Harry knew Draco's face almost better than he knew his own, and his partner had not smirked since the wine had been brought out. No, this was simple contentment. Malfoys were very good at designating multiple emotions to few expressions; Harry still understood the littlest quirks and was glad of it.
"I suppose it depends on the type of screwdriver," Draco said easily. Hermione tittered in belated realisation. Harry had to fight his own grin. Oh, yes, there were definitely some screwdrivers that wizards were well aware of. Harry hadn't had one in quite a while, but that didn't mean he couldn't remember the burn.
When her laughter finally died down, Hermione scooted her chair back and rose from the table. "Oh, nearly forgot. There's coffee. Chocolate cake? It's from Ron's birthday, but I'm sure we can manage."
Draco shook his head, and Hermione looked to Harry. He smiled at her wearily. "No, thank you, Hermione. You've stuffed me more than enough tonight."
Thunder rumbled distantly outside and the hiss of rain increased for an instant against the windows before dying away. Ron got up and stretched, scratching at his head. "Well. I'll have some. Ingrates."
"Takes one to know one, Weasley," Draco said, idly playing with his fork. Ron's lip curled sarcastically and he walked into the kitchen. Harry watched him go, wondering at the lack of tension. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour. Or maybe Ron really didn't mind Draco anymore, although Harry doubted it. It might be the meal, or the knowledge that Draco's presence tonight wouldn't end for Ron once the cake was eaten and the coffee drunk. Yorkshire was too far from which to come and go in one night, not counting Apparition.
But Hermione had offered the guestroom over a week ago, and Harry didn't feel lucid enough to Apparate anyway. Or willing enough. Besides, they were here to see Yorkshire for the next week. Going back home every night was absurd.
Draco asked Hermione a question, and Harry took the moment of respite to sigh. Perhaps he should have taken that cake. Or that coffee. It would be nice to prolong dinner.
He wasn't exactly dreading the climb to the guestroom, the closing of that door behind him and Draco for the night. But he wasn't comfortable with it either. At least here there was talk, however stilted it might grow between Ron and Draco, however much Hermione drank to lighten the mood. Harry feared he'd not been much of a help tonight, but Draco was in his element, as he always was with company. As well as he knew Draco's expressions, it was still difficult to tell when his lover was actually sincere about enjoying the company, or just being polite enough to fool said company.
Harry smirked. Took a sip of his wine. Lover. Very interesting. It didn't really apply, did it? They hadn't done anything that fit even remotely under that rubric for over a month.
It wasn't hard to favour the new order of things anyway. They may not have been physically intimate in a month, but they hadn't had a huge row in a month either. Nothing to compare to what had happened before, at any rate. Small spats; it was to be expected, as if bottled things were suddenly fizzling over, a little too much to be contained any longer. Harry would have been more worried if the arguments hadn't occurred, if he felt the two of them had lost the ability to talk at all. But he could make little of the silences now, and he longed, more than he longed for sex or for communication, to know what Draco was thinking of all of this.
Well. At least he didn't leave you. There's something.
It was gratifying to know that he had not stepped completely over the line a month and a half ago in that pub, that he'd been intelligent enough to give them both some breathing room. Draco had been angry. Betrayed. But not enough to disappear from his life. It had been such a fine, gossamer-thin line, and there were still nights when Harry woke sweating, wondering if he had in fact crossed it somehow. Convincing himself over and over again that he hadn't had been tedious and nerve-wracking. But Draco had not walked out, and that, in the end, was always the insurmountable proof that he’d stopped before what they had was irretrievable.
If he had gone further, actually accepted the man's invitation to come home with him... Harry had no doubt in his mind that Draco would have left.
A difficult lesson to learn. Most people only managed it after they had violated things beyond repair. Harry sipped his wine and thought how lucky he was to be in the minority this time around.
Ron came back in with a heaped plate of cake and two forks. Hermione took one, bestowing a peck on her husband's cheek, and Harry snagged the other before Ron could grab it, and took a bite.
"Hey!" Ron tossed a napkin at him. "Arse."
"I'm a guest," Harry feigned in a wounded tone. Hermione laughed outright, but it was Draco's chuckle that warmed Harry's ears. Harry relinquished the fork to Ron and watched his friend dig in, leaving Hermione to snatch bites wherever she could. It was rather funny, and dangerous, to watch them, knowing they hadn't the faintest clue about the emotional baggage they were hosting tonight. Almost as if he knew a secret about Hermione and Ron instead. He'd wanted to tell them, back when he ached daily with what he'd almost done and what he had done, ached so much he knew he couldn't utter a single word about it to anyone anymore, even Draco. And Draco hadn’t been a fit person to hear it anyway. It had been on the tip of Harry's tongue to beg Draco's forgiveness ten times over, but he had absolutely no place unburdening himself to Draco beyond what he had already done. Anything more would not have been for Draco, but for himself, his own well-being and peace of mind, and a part of Harry wasn't ready to have any sort of the peace of mind that his partner might offer.
A part of him was still convinced that he deserved whatever Draco decided he had earned.
Draco's approach, if there was even one to speak of, had been gradual and so vague that Harry couldn't see a pattern to it, or any progress being made. They'd kissed. Several times over the last month. Draco was not afraid to lay his hand on Harry's shoulder or to bump his fingers when he passed him the salt over dinner, but Harry could see it was not purposeful. Rather, it was absentminded, as if Draco had decided not to depart from their usual routine. In the beginning, that first week especially, there had been some hesitation afterward, a quick flicker of eyes as if Draco were rethinking the contact they’d just made. But after that week, it was just the contact. No emotion either way. Harry couldn't decide if he liked or disliked that.
But he had come to the conclusion long ago – the second Draco had kissed him the night after their row – that he was no longer a player in this. Draco would approach him, or he wouldn't. Draco would be the one to instigate anything physical that happened.
If he wanted to.
Harry drained the last of his wine, glad that the other three were still conversing relatively comfortably without him. True, he wondered more and more often as the days and weeks stretched on whether or not Draco would actually do anything. What was stopping him. But Harry had no business trying anything, and he had thought about that, too, about pushing Draco against a wall one night and seeking the final collapse of his barricades through his mouth. As enticing as it was, the thought sickened him. He, force Draco to accept him again? He had no right.
It was especially hard to deal with that because he knew it was his own fault. That he'd backed himself into this corner.
He missed Draco. Gods, he missed him. He missed his smell, the salty taste of his sweat, the strange, unique flutter of his heart during foreplay. He missed being able to feel over Draco's body as if it were his own, knowing all the curves and dips and creases, the scars, knowing what each one could do to the other man's breathing, the dilation of his pupils. Regret was finally striking in its hardest, most final way – the utter loss that he had cultivated, the loss of touch – and Harry's pain had changed along with it into something dull and ever-present.
Waiting, for any sign of alleviation. Not willing to hope enough to disappoint himself later.
He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there contemplating his wine and the tap of Draco's fingers against the tablecloth, when Hermione finally rose again with a breathy exhalation. "Alright then. It is late. It's almost bloody early, it's so late."
Harry smiled, unable to keep hold of enough of his misery to stop. The room was too warm, his friends’ smiles too bright. And Draco... looked serene. For once. Harry's chest twinged. How long had they scuttled around each other? Coloured even the lighter moments with that glaze of tension? It felt odd not to sense it now; it had been so long in their home that Harry didn't remember not feeling it.
Maybe that was a sign he hadn't wanted to contemplate.
Ron unfolded himself from his chair, plucking his wife's fork from her fingers. "Hermione bought a bloody dishcleaner. Dishwasher? Something like that. I've no sense of it, bloody thing makes a load of noise."
Hermione glared at him, picking up the empty wine bottle. "Maybe if you'd retain my instructions for once..."
Ron's answer was a shrug and a grin as he left the room. Draco got up, smoothing the front of his shirt. The candlelight shone a pale gold against his hair, glinting off a wayward strand behind his ear. Harry watched him for an entire three seconds before realizing he really had no reason to stay seated. Hermione headed for the kitchen, a stack of empty plates in her hands, but turned back when she reached the door. "Harry? You remember where the room is, right?"
Harry grinned at her and nodded. "I do retain your instructions, Hermione. Unlike some people."
Ron's good-natured grumble sounded from the kitchen. Hermione returned Harry’s smile mischievously. "Alright then. Shall I call you down for breakfast or were you going to be off early?"
Harry opened his mouth, but Draco's voice sounded from behind him. "Breakfast would be lovely."
Hermione nodded in answer and went into the kitchen. Harry watched her go, watched her all the way to the pristine white sink, watched as Ron turned away from the dishwasher and wrapped his arms around her. He planted a noisy kiss on his wife’s cheek, and Harry could hear her berating him about what would befall him if he made her drop her dishes.
It hurt to watch.
Maybe they did know, at least a little. A suspicion. Hermione had always been observant, and Ron... Well, Ron was Ron. Harry worried his lip with his teeth, listening to them banter over the sound of running water. They didn't know. He wasn't even sure he wanted them to know. There was no need to give Ron another reason to be pissed off at Draco.
But then... Harry couldn't really be sure that Ron would be on his side if he knew the truth.
He forced his eyes away at last, back toward the hallway and the stairs beyond in the darkness, and saw Draco watching him from the doorway. The other man looked away almost immediately, and began to make his way down the hall. Harry followed silently.
***
The room was cramped and cozy, and Harry bumped his shins against the bed frame as he moved around it toward where his overnight bag lay. The floor creaked underfoot as he walked, and then more loudly when he knelt to gather his pyjamas. He heard the thump of Draco’s bag on the bed, and the snap of buckles.
“Didn’t know Granger could cook,” Draco said. Harry heard the shuffle of clothes. He fought the urge to turn around, instead grabbing the worn t-shirt he’d packed.
“She’s a good cook,” he answered. And then felt stupid because it was a dead-end. Another dead-end in a cul-de-sac of conversation. Stifling a sigh, he sought out his toothbrush, and then gave up and decided to go without. He hadn’t the energy for it tonight, or any night, and this time he just couldn’t force himself to walk down the long hallway past the bedroom Hermione and Ron shared to the bathroom. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from looking in, seeing how they arranged their lives together.
Draco rummaged through the pockets on his bag, the floor groaning as his weight shifted. Harry bit his lip, imagining the smooth slope of those shoulders as Draco undressed, the sensuous arc just above his backside. Pyjama bottoms slung low over slim hips. Harry shut his eyes and tugged his own shirt up over his head, then pulled his night shirt on. After a moment’s hesitation, in which the sounds from Draco’s side of the room had all but ceased, Harry loosened his belt buckle and slid his trousers off. Kicked them aside and pulled the pyjamas on.
When he finally summoned the courage to turn around, Draco was facing away from him, fingering through one of the side pouches of his pack. The yellowy-orange glow of the single bedside lamp cast warm curvatures of light over his bare throat and arms. Harry looked down, fumbling for the drawstring of his pants.
“How do you feel about Leeds tomorrow?” Draco asked. Harry blinked.
How on earth could he sound so normal when Harry could barely even string a thought together? He felt his ears turning red and cleared his throat, hoping he would be coherent when the words came. “Sounds fine.”
“The Wizarding quarter’s one of the oldest in the world.” Draco didn’t look up, but Harry could hear the question in his voice. He nodded.
Draco nodded as well and began closing up the pockets on his bag.
Gods. They might as well argue and have it over with for the evening. Harry resisted rubbing his temples. That wasn’t the answer; another argument would do them no good. But at least… at least then Draco was passionate about something, even if it was no longer Harry. At least then they talked, and most of the time it was the truth, not these shallow questions and answers scattered here and there. Small talk. It got nothing done, made no progress.
With arguments, Harry could fool himself into thinking they were making headway. But that was most likely a joke as well. There had been no noticeable change in their manner toward each other over the past month, not that he could see. Just a whole lot of quiet, broken by twitchy snapping and growling. And then fading into quiet again.
He longed for their spats like some ridiculous addict. Addicted to fighting with Draco; was that what they had been reduced to? And was it wrong for him to both love and hate that at the same time? Draco’s fervent sniping, his clipped, sneering words, were becoming their new routine.
The problem was not the little fights, though. Harry could meet Draco word for word, jibe for jibe, most days. But there were times when he could hear that extra edge to Draco’s tone, that razor thinness that warned him to be silent, scared him into letting Draco’s defensiveness die away unanswered. Something much bigger lurked beneath the small tiffs, almost surfacing from time to time.
Harry knew they weren’t comfortable enough for that yet, to yell at each other like that again. They needed to fight. Needed it. But another big row like the ones before… Harry couldn’t stomach the thought of what it would do to them. How easily it would tear apart the frail ties still holding them together.
Harry shoved his bag into the corner and went over to one side of the bed, turning back the covers and climbing in. The mattress squeaked, and the plush of it cradled his body soothingly. He settled on his back and watched as Draco moved about the room, laying his bag on the chair in the corner under the window and shutting the door.
Would Draco have preferred a bed to himself? Or his own room? Harry’s throat tightened. Well. There had been no way to arrange that short of telling Ron and Hermione the whole sordid story. Harry took solace in the fact that as small as the room was, the bed was large and springy. Plenty big enough for two people to sleep.
Harry shut his eyes and waited for a few moments before he felt the bed dip. Draco tugged on the duvet and then stopped moving. For a long while there was silence. Harry was tempted to open his eyes. He knew Draco had not lain down; he could feel the tension of the mattress in all the wrong places. But before he could crack an eyelid, Draco shuffled again, easing himself down onto the bed.
Could they do an entire week of this? He’d thought it a good idea, to get away from home and all the memories lurking there. The constant weight. But nothing was different here. Just another set of walls, a differently scented bed and unfamiliar pillows. Again, Draco stopped moving, and this time Harry felt sure the other man was looking at him. Waiting for him to say something, perhaps. But Harry couldn’t summon the courage.
The light clicked off and Harry opened his eyes. The room was filled with cool blue shadows. He felt Draco settle back onto the bed once more. Harry looked upward, glad of the cocoon of darkness. The light made him feel so exposed, as if Draco were staring him through and through, passing judgment. He turned his head slightly and listened to the in-out, in-out of Draco's breathing. Uneven. A soft sigh.
The house creaked and settled. Harry heard Hermione and Ron's door close down the hall, then the muted murmur of voices. What were they talking about? Dinner? Whatever they were going to bother themselves with tomorrow? Draco lay very still next to him, but Harry could feel that he was not asleep, or even drifting. It was too still, too quiet, and Harry felt a burst of sadness. They could talk, but they couldn't talk like that, about the trivial, stupid things. Again, he could see what he had injured laid out before him, all the horrid little details and burned bridges.
For one terrible moment, his throat hurt. Harry clenched his jaw, feeling his lips tremble. No. No, he wasn’t going to act like this, not here, not tonight. Not ever. He had no place behaving as if he was the one who had been wronged. Like some sort of spoilt child. He’d caused this. And he would damn well live with the consequences. Harry stared at the ceiling, willing his eyes to lose focus, his mind to go blank and leave him alone to sleep for a few hours.
Draco shifted again suddenly, letting out an abrupt exhalation. Harry heard him fumble, the clink of metal on metal, and the lamp clicked on again, blooming yellowish light back into the room. Harry squinted. Draco ran one hand through his hair and turned over.
Moved over. Draco's body was warm and solid, flush with his side. One slender hand settled on Harry’s shoulder, cupping gently. Draco stared down at him, eyes shadowed strangely from the light. Harry's heart thudded.
"Harry," Draco murmured. Licked his lips. The hand on his shoulder rose and fingers quivered against his cheek. Harry looked at Draco's hand, unable to face that gaze, and then forced himself to meet the other man's eyes again.
"Draco, what—"
Draco shook his head. Looked straight into Harry's eyes and shifted closer. There was no room for this to be a mistake anymore, some miscalculation on Draco's part that would soon be corrected. Apologized for. Ignored. Draco's eyes swept Harry's face. Harry swallowed, embarrassed at the sound it made, suddenly completely unsettled. Gods, was Draco really that close? Touching him like this. But Draco wasn't done; he curled fingers down Harry's cheek, leaned in, and brushed his lips with his own.
Harry was too startled, too... unbalanced to respond. He could taste the wine on Draco’s lips, and the soft breaths skating over his mouth. Lemon. A hint of garlic. Draco pulled away for an instant, and then returned, and this time the kiss was firm, coaxing. Harry opened his mouth before he could think and Draco’s tongue touched lightly against the underside of his lip, then deeper.
The hurt burst inside him so suddenly he almost gasped. Gods—What was happening? Harry’s entire body was telling his brain to shut up, shut up, finally he’s come round, and it felt like the sting of sharp glass and the heat of the sun all at once. Harry stroked Draco’s tongue tentatively with his own and was unprepared for the fervor with which Draco deepened the kiss. Harry made a small sound and grasped at the bed, at anything, and found Draco’s arms. Held there and tried to make sense of it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t… think past the familiarity of Draco’s mouth against and within his, the agony of that touch and taste. He hadn’t felt it in months but his body had not forgotten it and now it roared into his memory so fast he nearly choked on it. Draco’s leg brushed his, moved and settled over his, and Harry’s chest cinched unbearably.
After an eternity of panting and kisses, lips touching and lifting, fitting together and parting into the opaque quiet, Draco pulled back. His mouth hovered a few inches over Harry’s, and Harry struggled for breath, struggled to keep the world from tilting. His heart was beating faster than he felt was possible, and a funny sort of elation riddled through him, filling all the holes and pooling in the cracks and fissures there. But—this was… had to be wrong. Even tasting Draco in his mouth, smelling that familiar, gods, intoxicating scent all over again, breathing it like air—Draco only a hand’s reach away and pressed against him as if they’d never been apart—Harry couldn’t make it fit. He struggled to find words, questions to make sense of it.
Draco lifted a finger to Harry’s lips, and stroked his chin with one thumb. “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
Harry could barely speak for the incredible lump in his throat. Had to be a dream. “What do you—what are you talking about?” he managed.
Draco’s eyes glimmered. Darted away and then back again, caressing Harry’s face even as his fingers did the same. “Harry. It’s okay.”
He leaned forward cautiously, and Harry had time enough to watch Draco’s pupils grow larger before their mouths met again, tentatively, and then forcefully. Draco made a sound deep in his throat and pushed up, sliding across Harry until there was nothing but heat beating into his chest through the thin shirt, and Draco’s hair drifting in tickling tendrils against his face. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and kissed Draco back hard, wrapping his arms around the other man.
Oh… He didn’t care why. He didn’t. Only that Draco was here, right here letting him hold his body to him. Kissing him again. If he woke up in the next minute, it wouldn’t matter because now… now it was enough.
Draco broke the kiss with a ragged gasp and pulled back, leaning on one elbow. His chest expanded and contracted against Harry’s, heaving puffs of air that shivered against his cheeks. Draco shut his eyes for a moment and Harry could see him trying to collect himself. “Harry…” he whispered, and then fell silent.
And then Draco pulled back further, and for just an instant, Harry’s chest squeezed in a horribly familiar way. But the other man only felt behind him and then flicked something through the air in the direction of the door. It took Harry a moment to recognize Draco’s wand in the odd light. He felt the ripple of a silencing spell.
Draco stretched up and set his wand down carefully next to the pillows. His eyes found Harry’s for a long moment, and then he lowered his hands and slid them under the edge of Harry’s shirt.
The implications of it hit Harry like a splash of icy water. He shivered. “Draco… Here?”
Draco nodded, looking down at him intently. “Yes, here.”
There were so many reasons not to. Hermione and Ron in the next room. It wasn’t even their house, their bed, and Draco hadn’t even acted like he wanted this, he’d given no bloody warning, and Harry couldn’t think. Couldn’t think past the disbelief of Draco’s fingers stroking through his hair, or the warmth of Draco’s limbs tangling with his.
He wanted to ask if Draco was sure. To give him reasons all over again, remind him of why… Harry blinked rapidly. It would be too hard to have this and then watch Draco back away again in the morning, or even… even a few minutes after they’d finished. But he couldn’t speak. Draco’s eyes flickered, reading his face. He slid Harry’s shirt up, baring his chest to the cool air of the room. He bent, and Harry felt soft breaths against his skin, teasing around a nipple. He bit his lip, trying to center himself. But it was utterly impossible. He’d been without Draco for far too long and now—
So intent was he on what Draco was doing to his chest that he almost missed it when the other man moved again. He swung one leg over Harry, straddling his hips. Harry could feel the pocket of heat warming between their bodies, feel the shift and slide of Draco’s pants against his stomach. Harry choked and Draco leaned in once more and took his mouth in a kiss, tonguing him open and sucking on his lower lip. Draco settled back slightly, his full weight at last resting on Harry’s groin, and Harry couldn’t stop the surge of arousal. It raced through him, stabbing at the still-tender wounds. He groaned helplessly.
Draco fingered his pants-waist, tugging the string loose and drawing them down his hips. Harry almost cried at the sensation of hands against his skin once more, Draco’s hands, down there, kneading into the hollows of his hips and clenching lightly at his thighs. His body bucked uncontrollably, and Draco lifted himself, reached back and pulled Harry’s pants completely off before settling down again. Harry could feel the hard length jutting into him from inside Draco’s pyjama bottoms. The thought was heady enough to nearly bring him over.
Draco gazed down at him, never breaking eye contact as he lifted his shirt over his head and let it fall somewhere to their side. He bent again, fitting himself down onto Harry’s body, and nuzzled his throat. The skin of Draco’s chest was too hot, beating into Harry like a second pulse, and then Draco slid, rocked forward, rolled his hips, and Harry’s heart slipped, stuttered. He sought with his hands, felt over the curves of Draco’s back, the firmness of muscle and the lean ribs just beneath the skin. It wasn’t enough, and he stretched lower, under the band of Draco’s pants, and felt Draco gasp.
“Gods—”
He wasn’t sure which one of them said it. Draco continued that careful, agonizing roll of his hips, and Harry worked a hand into soft blond hair and twisted his fingers there. Draco let out a hiss. He dropped his head to the side and tongued Harry’s throat. Slow, sensuous sweeps, leaving wakes of cooling flesh. It was so intimate Harry opened his eyes.
“Draco…” he breathed. Draco shook his head silently against his throat. One pale hand climbed up and tangled fingers with Harry’s. Draco lifted his head and stared at him from a face that was wide open, cracked around the edges. His grey eyes were luminous.
And all Harry could think was how he’d hurt him. Been weak enough to succumb to another man, and then brazen enough to tell Draco about it. Pushed them to this end of not speaking or touching or kissing, watched the trust he treasured so much fall from Draco’s eyes completely.
“Draco, I’m—” Couldn’t say it again. “Can you—ever—”
Draco nodded jerkily, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes, Harry. Shh. Yes.”
For a moment, Draco simply held him, one hand entwined with his, the other cupped against his face. Harry struggled to reign himself in, listening to Draco’s panting.
It was a little too hard to process right then; Draco’s words echoed in Harry’s head, hinting at a peace he hadn’t felt for months, but Harry just couldn’t reach out and take it. Couldn’t… accept the full impact of what those words might actually mean.
Draco nudged his nose against Harry’s cheek. Pressed an open-mouthed, lingering kiss there. Harry squeezed his fingers, wanted to turn into that kiss, but was suddenly too afraid to move.
Draco’s hand left his face and fumbled above his head again. Harry heard him whisper, and felt another tingle of magic slither over his flesh. Still clasping his hand, Draco sat up and shimmied free of his pants. Harry drew his knees up to balance him, and watched, his heart in his throat, as Draco reached behind himself. The blond bit his lip once, twice, hips shifting restlessly; in spite of everything, Harry felt his arousal skitter higher.
He couldn’t watch. He was too close already.
It took a mere moment. Then Draco was leaning forward again, disentangling their fingers and clutching Harry’s hip instead. He brushed trembling lips over Harry’s chin, and Harry could feel the rapid heartbeat pulsing through Draco’s thighs into his own body.
Draco took a short breath and sat back slowly. His grip on Harry’s hip was so tight it hurt, but – oh gods – Harry shut his eyes against the painfully familiar tightness of Draco’s body enveloping him. Nothing compared to this, the hurt was nothing. Harry could take anything Draco dished out if it meant being able to feel this again.
Had he… He’d really thought he never would.
It was bubbling up; Harry couldn’t control it. He bit his lip again, desperate to keep it down, out of sight, but it was too late. The burn in the back of his throat scorched, clotted his lungs, stabbed at his eyes. No, please…He didn’t want…
The instant Draco began to move – rising shallowly, thrusting down and forward with a lost sorrow on his face – the first tear spilled out of Harry’s eye and down his cheek.
Draco’s eyes met his, clouded and vast. He raised a shaking hand and wiped the tear away. Cupped Harry’s face in both palms and touched their foreheads, moving their bodies together all the while. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he breathed, “Harry—I’m s… so sorry…”
Harry shook his head. Hated himself. Why couldn’t he just hold his composure for one damn minute, during this of all things, why was he blubbering like a child? All he could feel was the sheer, elemental heat of Draco’s body around him, the slick rise and press, the slide of sweaty thighs against the tops of his legs. The incredible squeeze as Draco moved, shifted and rolled. He reached, clutched at Draco’s back and tried to speak but nothing came out.
Except a sob.
“Draco,” he managed. A shattered word that his lover breathed in on the next kiss. Draco’s mouth moved desperately against his, tongue dipping, seeking. The kiss ached, and Draco broke it with a pained whimper. As if, whatever he’d been looking for, he hadn’t found it. He hugged himself to Harry, chest to chest, all dampness and movement and heat, and rocked against him steadily. Harry mouthed his shoulder, pressed his lips there and shut his eyes, feeling the restlessness in his muscles rising, the tingling beginning to whisper around the fog in his brain.
At last, Draco shuddered violently and drew up, bracing himself. The movement changed, sped up and became less rhythmic. Draco’s face was a sea of pleasure-pain, eyes hooded, then squeezing shut, darting open again. He was slipping; Harry could see it all over him, smell it, hear it in every stifled gasp. The bed creaked and cracked, but it didn’t matter, didn’t even signify, because Harry couldn’t help it; couldn’t stop. Draco keened low in his throat and rolled his hips down hard. Harry watched his lover’s mouth sag open. He bit his lip against a moan and nudged Draco forward, and his lover’s body rose up and arched beautifully. Draco gasped out his name and collapsed back down, kissing him, unable to hold it as they thrust, panting in ragged little hisses against Harry’s mouth.
It tore him down, rushed in and swept Harry’s thoughts right out from under him. Draco made a soft, strangled sound, made it again, again, Harry caught his mouth and tasted sweat, tasted that tiny, relentless mewl, grasped Draco to him, chest to chest, felt Draco’s body trembling, right on the verge—
Harry fell over first, bucking helplessly, shuddering in jerks and wordless cries. Draco let out another strangled sound, lost it in a hiss, and tightened unbearably around Harry. His fingers burrowed into Harry’s shoulders and he came, all spasms and shivering, and Harry could do nothing but ride it, aching, over-sensitized, unable to breathe. His hips jerked against Draco’s once, once more, and Harry collapsed back on the bed.
His face was wet. Cold in little rivulets. Harry screwed his eyes shut and tried to breathe. He felt Draco slump down on top of him, thighs still clenching around his hips in short, sharp bursts. Harry stroked over the skin of Draco’s leg and felt goose-bumps riddling his flesh. Draco’s skin was hot, a mass of twitches. He couldn’t stop shaking. Like a creeping roll of thunder, Harry saw it, the toll this was taking on Draco. It was enough to snatch his breath away. He buried his face against Draco’s throat and inhaled, kissed, tasted the racing pulse beneath his tongue. He could still feel where their bodies joined, the intense heat of Draco’s skin slick against his own.
Eventually, his lover’s breathing slowed. Draco moved gingerly, parting them at last, and slumped down half-across Harry’s chest again. Harry slid an arm around his shoulders, too tired to think about whether it was a good idea or not. Draco’s hand moved again, felt around for his wand, and whispered an exhausted cleaning spell before all the tension went right out of his body and he sagged on top of Harry in a boneless heap.
For a minute, all Harry could hear was Draco’s quiet breathing and his own. He might have fooled himself into believing the other man asleep, but he could feel the wakefulness in Draco, the butterfly brush of eyelashes over his chest as he blinked.
Harry didn’t want to think past this moment, into the next few hours or days. The blanket of heat curled around him, the drying sweat on their bodies, the faint smell of intimacy, and Harry held onto Draco, afraid to move, to shift the balance even the slightest bit.
But Draco did shift, minutely. His shoulders rose and fell once, and Harry felt the touch of lips against his chest, fleeting and warm.
* * *
It was the cool air that woke him. Rain-washed, fresh and tinted with winter. It fluttered through his hair like wayward fingers and Harry opened his eyes.
And found himself alone.
Time seemed to pause there in the room; the sallow shift of light and tug of the breeze were inconsequential. Draco’s pillow was still indented, and a stray blond hair arced over the pillow case. But the space was already cold. Harry swallowed. His fingers flexed over the sheets. They looked very white.
Gods. He hadn’t wanted… Harry drew a deep breath. He hadn’t wanted to wake up like this.
There was a noise elsewhere in the room; someone made a soft sound. Harry rolled over, squinting blearily, and saw Draco crossing the creaking floor from the open window. He was dressed, a pearl-white jumper with a high collar settled snuggly about his throat. Black trousers and bare feet. It took Harry a moment to comprehend that Draco was still in the room, still here, and in that moment, Draco knelt on the bed and crawled across to him. He eased down atop the duvet and gathered himself tight against Harry’s body. Draped one arm over his chest.
Harry felt velvety cashmere over his skin. The sudden warmth made him shiver.
“You’re awake.” It was a soft murmur, in tones Harry knew well. The light in his eyes sharpened and he shut them. Draco hadn’t… gone. His voice, familiar and tinged with faint concern, banished the possibility of a dream. Harry nodded.
Draco said nothing. His fingers drifted along Harry’s side in languid sweeps.
Harry hesitated, but in the end he couldn’t help himself and lifted a hand to return the caress, fingertips sinking into the indescribable softness of Draco’s sweater. Draco smelled clean, of fresh air and rain.
He’d been standing in front of the window. The image formed again in Harry’s mind, pushed out at first by the confusion he’d felt at waking alone, then hearing, looking to see Draco there. The chilly air swirled through the room, bringing the lilt of pine. Draco’s feet were cold through the duvet and Harry shifted his own feet to fold the coverlet over them.
Draco’s hand climbed up over his chest and throat to cradle his neck. His thumb brushed over Harry’s jaw.
“Too cold?” he asked quietly.
Harry shook his head. “No.”
Draco nodded. Harry summoned his thoughts. “What time is it?”
“Half nine.”
They had to get up. Or Harry did. Draco had obviously been awake for some time. Standing at the window staring out of it. Harry both wanted and didn’t want to know what he’d been thinking about.
There came a rich creaking, far off, and Harry realised it was coming from beyond the door in the hallway. The approaching pad of footsteps, and then a soft knock on the door. Hermione’s voice came, muted. “Harry? Draco, breakfast is ready.”
Draco got up, taking the warmth and leaving Harry to stare after him, and crossed to the door. He opened it wide enough not to elicit curiosity, but not enough for Harry to see Hermione.
“We’ll be right down,” he said. “Harry’s getting dressed.”
“Oh, alright then,” Hermione responded genially from out in the hallway. “I’ll put tea on.”
Her footsteps receded and the door clicked shut. Again, Draco was back, lowering himself onto the bed and enfolding Harry in his arms. Harry circled his fingers around Draco’s wrist and shut his eyes. He felt his lover’s exhalations huffing against his neck. Thought he should speak but didn’t have the first idea what to say.
Draco’s grip tightened and Harry heard him sigh. “It’s okay, Harry. You don’t have to say anything right now.”
Harry nodded, raised a hand and stroked Draco’s fine golden hair. The strands slipped over his fingers. Draco rubbed lightly over his chest and didn’t speak again.
~fin~
...
Part 4: Inevitable
...
...
...
Thanks for reading!
