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Looky, Ru's waxing depressed again! Bwahaaaa.
This continuation has been in my mind for a long time, and it represents one of two routes I was considering for this storyline.
Title: The Quality of Ice
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rurounihime
Pairing: H/D, mention of H/OC
Rating: R for language, mostly
Summary: Sequel to Downpour. The fight finally comes to a head.
Disclaimer: Boys aren't mine. OC is.
A/N: Okay,dracofiend: this one's for you, then. I hope it's everything you hoped for. *loves* Thanks to Fire and Coffee for the beta help.
ETA: mobi and epub versions of this series available for download here
...
The Quality of Ice
“Malfoy, it’s not as if I didn’t tell you I was buying it!”
“Not as if you did, either!”
It felt later than it was. Harry’s head was beginning to pound, the slow thump that always caromed through his skull whenever the inevitable fight crept up over the horizon for another round. Draco stalked the length of the bedroom on bare feet, the sharp black of his shirt making his hair all the more white. He raked a hand through his bangs. The look on his face was livid, and during the miniscule instant that Draco’s movement gave him to think, Harry realized his own expression couldn’t have been much better.
“Malfoy.” He drew a deep breath. His jaw hurt from grinding it. “It was your bloody choice. I gave you a choice about it, and you didn’t say—”
“Oh, of course it’s my choice,” Draco seethed. “It’s always my choice, isn’t it, until I actually make a choice. And then you just can’t—” He broke off and fixed smouldering eyes on Harry. “I’ll tell you what you can do with it, Potter. You can take it out and get rid of it, or take yourself out!”
Harry clenched his teeth and fought for some semblance of self-control. It was fleeting, more and more these days, and this was an old battleground, well trodden and furiously clashed over. He wanted to leave. He wanted out of this house, into the cooler air and the damned loneliness, where it was quiet and he didn’t have to think about anything that existed within these walls.
“Think about that, Draco,” he said in a low voice. “Think very hard about it. Do you really want me out? Because I can go, you know. And then when I get back late tonight, if I get back, we can have another fucking fight over how you didn’t want me to leave in the first place!”
Draco’s sneer twisted any of the openness that was left out of his face. The quality of ice in it burned Harry. “Oh, no, that fight will be about the fact that you walked out at all and are fucking furious with yourself about it, and it’ll somehow be my fault, of course. Again.”
“Malfoy—”
“Why not just blame me now before you go? Avoid the bloody rush!” Draco threw one hand out to the side, a grandiose and ugly parody of the elegance the man was capable of. A hard knot tied itself in Harry’s chest with a swiftness that shocked him. He swallowed and leaned over, gripping the windowsill.
“I don’t want to get into this tonight. I didn’t buy that bloody picture just to rile you up, even if you think I did.” The last came out in a hiss, burdened with the thing lodged in his chest. He practically heard Draco stiffen behind him.
“Does it even matter what I think?” The man let out a contemptuous snort. “I’m beginning to think—no, I don’t think it does, I’m not beginning anything, I don’t think it matters. It’s only important until it gets in the way of what you want!”
“That is not true,” Harry snapped. He pressed his fingertips to his head and went on before Draco could spring upon the argument again. “And why should I bother when you’re just going to contradict me anyway? Every damn time, Draco!”
“That’s a lovely attitude, Potter.” Draco was moving now, opening the closet, slamming the door again. When Harry turned around, he was standing where he had been, a coat clutched in one hand. “You haven’t given me reason to do much else lately, you know!”
“You don’t even try,” Harry managed. His headache intensified, pushing at the anger until it flailed feebly in his mind. “Draco, you don’t even give it a chance, and then you expect me to fall over backwards and let you have every say in what goes on!”
“Well. That certainly explains all the decisions you’ve been making without me, then,” Draco shot back icily.
Harry scowled at him and earned himself a scathing glare in return. He struggled to brush away the first threads of the horrid emotion creeping in. But it was much too late; it had been there, twisting and building for nearly two weeks, compounded each time he entered a pub, each and every time he slammed his way out through the front door, walking as fast as he could away from Draco and the shouting. “I have not been making decisions without you,” he muttered, hating the hypocrisy of his words.
Draco nodded, a swift jerk of his head. “Of course not.”
His tone bit stiffly into Harry’s consciousness. He bristled. “Funny, I don’t remember you much caring about what happened around here. Not enough to do anything about it, anyway!”
There was something in his own voice that he didn’t quite recognize. He wanted Draco to crack. Or maybe to cave. To… to… Something. He wanted the other man to already know what drove him to insomnia at night, to know how right Draco was that it wasn’t him at all anymore. He wanted him to just acknowledge the chasm instead of letting them both continuously try to fumble their way out of it. Not to stand there breathing so hard, glaring at him as if he’d just insulted his every blood relative. The chill glint in Draco’s grey eyes sang right to the thing rising in his chest, called it forth like some terrible piper’s song, and suddenly Harry’s anger was gone, leaving nothing but a desperate, cold wake. He knew, knew… that Draco wasn’t going to approach, that he was just going to let them both simmer here in the middle of this miasma. That he was going to stay where he was, separated by air and unspoken secrets, and wasn’t going to say anything.
Draco’s hand tightened around his handful of coat. “Fine, Potter,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “You want something to happen here? Then stay here and watch it happen. I’m going out.”
He spun and headed for the doorway, and suddenly Harry’s entire body felt old, old and sick of it all. Bile rose in his throat. He covered his face with one hand, and the words were out before he thought them.
“Draco, I nearly kissed a man.”
Draco’s footsteps fell into dead silence. The lack of sound was deafening, plucking at Harry’s skin like tiny fingers. He closed his eyes and inhaled, a deep, shuddering breath.
“What?” There was a strange lilt to the word, like the knell of a bell. Harry’s nerves jumped and he jerked upright, glaring into a room suddenly stark with accusations. He gave a tired sigh and flung his hand out.
“You heard me.”
Draco turned on one foot and the expression on his face was unreadable. His eyes darted over Harry, searching. The edges of his lips had whitened. “When?”
Harry let out a sharp, impatient hiss and shook his head. “Two weeks ago. In a bloody pub.”
Draco’s voice cracked around the edges. “Did you—”
“And then he asked me to go home with him.” Harry threaded a hand through his hair, wishing he were somewhere else.
“Did you?” Draco said sharply. Harry dropped his hand to his side and glared.
“No.”
“But you wanted to.”
“Stop arguing, Draco! You always argue, I always argue—If you’re going to argue about this too, then I don’t want you here,” Harry muttered, suddenly more tired than he could remember being in a long, long time. “Just go away.”
Draco’s voice sank dangerously. “I have a right to argue about this, Potter! If anything—”
“No!” Harry barked, and Draco’s words cut themselves off. The urge to just leave the room himself was so strong he nearly made for the door. Shaking, Harry sat on the bed and pulled his legs up, hugging his knees. “No, just be quiet, Draco. No arguing.”
For a long fearful moment, he was certain Draco’s indrawn breath was going to spill into a fierce torrent of words, in spite of everything. His stomach clenched, as much in guilt as dread. Was arguing really all they had left? Harry covered his eyes with one hand and rubbed, not wanting to see Draco’s reaction. He could practically hear the unspoken fury twanging across the room. And it wasn’t only Draco’s fury, there was plenty of his own lying in wait. If it came out, it would cut like glass, right through whatever frayed strings still bound them together.
Harry could almost see how far those strings had unraveled, as if they were hanging in front of him.
Draco spoke in a voice much too quiet. “How could you—Harry—?”
Harry’s breath was a dry rasp of a laugh, weak and fading. “How can you even ask me that?” He shot a glare over the tops of his knees and caught Draco wide-eyed, pale, and on the brittle edge of anger. He snorted softly and shut his eyes. “How can you ask me?”
Draco was silent for a moment. It was a restless silence full of words chopped off at their source. When he finally did speak, Harry could not tell his emotion from his tone. “Did you sleep with him?”
For an instant, Harry wanted to stop talking. Just let the silence stretch and give Draco whatever answer he most wanted to hear. He wanted to say yes, yes, I did sleep with him, it was bloody brilliant, and then I hated myself afterward, so I came home to you. But it wasn’t the truth, and Draco’s reaction to it would be dull and meaningless.
“What do you want to do, if I did?” he asked instead. He raised his head and met Draco’s eyes squarely. “You want to take revenge? Go out and find someone for yourself to even the score?”
But he could see in Draco’s eyes that the thought had never seriously crossed his mind. That Draco, for all his spitting and yelling and storming out, had never had the experience Harry’d had in that pub. Whatever he’d sought those nights in the streets, it had not been sex. Harry looked away, feeling worse than ever.
Draco’s eyes darted over his face. Harry could see the thoughts passing through the other man’s mind. He understood; the very thought of someone else touching Draco, of having known Draco’s body the way he did made Harry’s ire rear to life again. Had he known that someone else had kissed Draco’s mouth, or breathed in the tremor of his exhalations just after the first trembling brush of lips, he would not have been able to sit still. He would have looked at Draco with the same haunted expression that lurked now behind those pale eyes.
“Draco, no,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands. “I didn’t sleep with him. I… touched his hand. I came very, very close to kissing him.”
Draco said nothing. Harry wondered if it was anger silencing him, or relief. Did Draco feel relieved at all? Harry wasn’t even sure if he felt it anymore. He had, that night after the pub, soaked to the bone and finding his way back to their flat. But now… he couldn’t remember what that relief had felt like.
“But I didn’t sleep with him, alright? I didn’t sleep with him, and I didn’t kiss him.” He drew a breath, hating how the words kept spilling out of him, as if an apology were necessary. And it wasn’t necessary, not anymore, maybe not ever. That was where they stood now. Where they’d brought themselves. “But I wanted…”
He straightened, licked his lips. “I wanted to. I almost did.”
“When?” Draco asked in a low voice. He was looking at the wall. “What night was it?”
Harry blinked at him, and then felt the weariness, the impatience, take hold again. He let out a sharp breath. “Draco, it doesn’t matter when it happened! Just… it happened, alright? Who cares when?”
“I care!” Draco’s whole body was rigid, cheeks flushed. He started to speak again, but Harry shook his head and cut him off.
“That’s not the point of it, do you hear me? That is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” Draco stalked toward him, clutching his coat so hard his knuckles were bloodless. “You didn’t fuck another man, is that the point? Or you didn’t kiss him. What stopped you, anyway? Someone bumped into you at the crucial moment? Perhaps the bartender dropped something.”
“You stopped me,” Harry said quietly.
Draco’s sneer dripped from his words. “Oh, I see. You thought of me and felt so very guilty you stopped.”
“No. I didn’t think of you and that’s why I stopped.”
Whatever Draco’s response might have been, Harry didn’t hear it. The startled quality of the sudden stillness was palpable. Draco was looking at him, lips slightly parted. Harry doubted he knew what he looked like. He met the other man’s gaze fully and sucked in a deep breath.
“He was close to me. Very…” Harry sighed. “Very close. And you weren’t there.” He struggled to find the right words. “It- it wasn’t you. I could smell him, and it wasn’t your smell. And I stopped.”
Draco said nothing. Harry shut his eyes, uncertain whether what he was saying was helping or hurting. “I didn’t want him. I wanted—”
“You wanted the sex,” Draco muttered. Harry dug his knuckles into his eyes.
“Yes, alright? Yes, of course I wanted—it. Alright? Yes. But I didn’t want him!”
“Well, what do you want, then?” Draco shot back angrily.
“I want you to kiss me! Okay?” Harry’s voice wavered; he bit his lip, furious with himself. “I want you to—just touch me, or, or kiss me, or—Fuck, Draco, why does this always have to be so hard?”
“Kiss you.” Draco’s words were flat, expressionless. Harry’s stomach plummeted. He put his forehead in his hands and breathed.
“Yes. I want—I want you to show me that you still want me. That we still have something other than this bloody shouting, that I don’t have to fucking well want the bloke sitting next to me in the pub, or on the underground, or the bus. I want to know that it’s worth it to keep saying no to them!” Harry wiped at his eyes. “Fuck.”
The bed creaked as Draco sat down. Harry saw him rubbing his palms up and down the thighs of his trousers. Up and down. He shifted, looked around as if searching for something. Harry heard him swallow.
“What…” He closed his eyes and tried again, and Harry could tell immediately that his teeth were clenched. “What do you expect me to say, Harry? Because I don’t really know what the fuck to say.”
Draco’s voice rose inexorably at the end of his sentence. His cheeks were two bright spots of color. Harry looked away.
“I want to scream at you right now,” Draco hissed, very quickly. His fingers dug into his trousers. “I want to know what the fuck you were doing in that pub, and if that’s the only time. What he looked like that made him so damned irresistible. And why you bloody well thought you had to tell me this right now, because I don’t even know if I wanted to know! Is that what you want to hear? If it is, good, fucking good.”
Harry heard every ragged breath Draco exhaled. He studied the tops of his knees, stomach lurching. Draco gave a long, shaky sigh and shut his eyes.
“But I can’t—can’t do it tonight. Maybe some night I might be able to. Right now, I just—” His hands spasmed.
I want to scream at you. I want to hit you, I want to leave, I can’t be near you.
Maybe Harry just thought that was what he deserved.
“Why?” A broken sound from Draco. The razor edge of a massive iceberg that was as dangerous as it was large. Harry forced himself to meet Draco’s eyes and found them swimming in too many emotions to count. His voice began to rise again. “What did I do, Potter? What did I fucking do that you wanted him instead? What did I not do?”
Harry looked down as Draco reigned himself in. The blond stared somewhere in front of him for a lengthy moment, and then jerked his chin up. “I can’t do this.”
Harry chewed his lip. The knot rose to his throat. “Can’t do what?” he whispered.
Draco whirled on him, eyes blazing. “Can’t do this, Potter! I can’t talk to you like this is some inane question about what kind of tea I’ll take! Or whether I want a damn picture hanging in the hallway. You…” Draco pressed a palm to his head. “You’re so bloody infuriating! You won’t even talk to me except when you decide you need my fucking permission for something. And then you ignore it anyway. I never—And then you tell me you almost went off with a random stranger at a pub like it’s my fault? For fuck’s sake, Harry, I don’t want to hear it anymore!”
Draco was shouting. Harry’s jaw hurt. He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t want to hear it. You’re always like this, you never want to hear!”
“It wouldn’t matter to you if I did!” Draco seethed. “You’d only say what you felt was absolutely necessary. Like tonight. Is there anything else? Another little detail you’ve forgotten to mention thus far? Another big one?”
Harry leaned forward and clutched his forehead with both hands, squeezing his eyes shut. “Do you see? Do you understand what’s happening here? Next time I might not say no, or you might not come home. Or one of us will find the other with someone else. And I don’t fucking want anyone else, Draco, I want you, I want to fuck you, and I want you to want me to fuck you, and I don’t want to fuck it all up by ending up in someone else’s bed, hating myself! Or you.”
“You think I want to fuck this up?” Draco cried. “I’m beginning to think it’s already ruined beyond repair. What in Merlin’s name should I say? I don’t know how to fix it. I’m fucking furious right now! What do you want from me, Harry?”
“Damn it, Draco, I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t. I want you, or I want to end this and move on.”
Draco covered his face with one hand, curling his other arm around himself. Harry clasped his knees and took several deep breaths. His last words rocked around inside his skull; he wasn’t prepared for their magnitude. But now they were out in the open, and he couldn’t just sidestep them either.
If not now, in another few weeks. Perhaps after he’d done something unforgivable.
Draco’s shoulders rose and fell. He spoke from behind his hand, fingertips pressed against his forehead. “Do you really want to end this?”
Harry grimaced. “Do you?”
A tired sigh. “Just answer the question, Harry. For once, can’t you just…”
Draco fell into a defeated silence. Harry struggled with the block in his throat. “If… if it’s time for it to end, then yes. I do.”
Draco did not respond. The twinge in Harry’s chest grew, and he sought for words, someway to rationalize everything. Make it all alright. “I don’t know how to take back what happened. I didn’t plan it—” He exhaled, frustrated. “I don’t know if it’s time to call it quits or not, Draco! But if you think so—”
Absolute stillness. Harry held his breath. Then—
“I don’t want it to be time,” Draco said in a soft voice.
Something loosened in Harry’s entire body. He blinked, found he was clutching the bed sheets, and released his grip. Draco was still facing the wall, peering over his fingers and breathing unsteadily. Harry moved to rub his arm, then thought better of it. “We need to stop fighting,” he muttered.
Draco stirred convulsively. “I don’t want you in anymore pubs,” he stated flatly.
Harry’s anger prickled yet again. “I shouldn’t have to go to any pubs, Draco.”
“You never had to, Harry.” The blond sighed. “You never had to go.”
Harry stared at him, suddenly wishing he could just… reach over and touch him. He swallowed hard. “I want to know what I… what this means to you, Draco. I just want you to—just show me. And don’t leave to sort it all out, or think about it. Just, right now, this instant, show me. Please. I need to know if there’s still a point to this, or if this is just a charade.”
The words burned in his throat. Draco turned to look at him, and Harry felt the awkward sting of tears. Fuck it, he wasn’t going to cry about this. He’d fucked up, they’d both fucked up, and he was going to see the end of it with clear eyes, whatever that end was. Draco’s gaze roved over his face nervously. He cleared his throat.
“Do you want me to—”
He stopped. Harry’s heart gave an odd thud. He stared mutely back at Draco. The blond was clenching his hands together. Harry yearned to cry out, to beg, Why? Why can’t you just do it, even after all this, why do you still need to turn it all around in your head? But Draco made no move.
With a sigh, Harry dropped his eyes and leaned back. And Draco’s hand shot out. Gripped his arm.
“Harry.”
He looked up at last. Draco’s eyes were large and frightened. He took a deep breath. Leaned forward… and halted. A flush stole over his pale cheeks. Harry held very still, his mind a blank. Still holding Harry’s arm, Draco inched closer across the bed. His breath skated over his face; Harry felt his eyes begin to sting again. A quick, startled exhalation, and Draco closed the distance at last, meeting Harry’s lips in the slightest of kisses. Fingertips brushed tentatively at Harry’s cheek.
Draco pulled back, eyes closed. The same shivery gasp he always gave just after a kiss drifted over Harry’s mouth, and Harry had to physically fight with himself not to grab Draco and tug him forward once more. He swallowed; the ache rose unbearably in his throat. Draco’s fingers lingered against his cheek for a hesitant moment, and then dropped away.
Grey eyes opened and stared straight into his. Harry could only stare back.
Then Draco moved slowly, as if through water, around Harry to his side of the bed, and settled haltingly onto his back. Harry stayed where he was, watching his lover, too muddled to move. But Draco did not look at him. His face was a tight, pensive mask. He studied the ceiling, lips parting and closing again without a word. Harry settled his chin on his knees, closed his own eyes and tried to concentrate on the sound of Draco’s breathing instead.
But it was difficult.
The headboard was a cold presence against his back; Draco might have been asleep in the bed next to him, for all he moved. Harry was very aware of the fact that his lover was not touching him. He opened his eyes again, unable to stand the hazy veil of darkness any longer, and gazed blankly at his bare feet where they rested on the sheets. It was funny; he hadn’t thought of it in weeks, but this… was their bed. His and Draco’s. Slightly rickety, with creaks and cracks to the frame, and a lush mattress. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d lain in it together. Not like this, quietly, awake. Sleep was one thing, but even that—Harry chewed his lip. Some nights they didn’t even do that anymore.
Harry’s shoulders hunched convulsively. Draco was still staring at the ceiling, and suddenly Harry hated the couch in the living room, and all the nights he himself had dropped down onto it instead of climbing the stairs to their room. This was still his bed, too; he hadn’t gone so far as to ruin that.
His throat felt raw. Not yet.
The shadows had lengthened. Harry stared into the inky blue climbing up the walls. He licked his lips, tasted Draco faintly. Maybe Draco was lying there in the darkness, wondering if he really had kissed that man in the pub. He fought a sigh. The truth might not even matter anymore, no matter how many times he told it; not if Draco didn’t believe him. Would he ever be able to believe anything Harry said again? Suddenly he wished he had said more, done something more to make it absolutely clear that he had not kissed the man, that their lips had never touched, and never would touch, that Draco was the only one who knew how his mouth opened under the first brush of contact, how the breath shuddered from his lungs. How he tasted. A miserable sickness settled in his belly.
To Harry, Draco’s last tiny kiss had been a shiver of recognition, missing for too long and desperately needed. But perhaps Draco had only felt the touch of another’s mouth there.
After some time, Draco stirred and sat up. Harry looked up, heartbeat quickening. Draco gestured vaguely. “I’m… going to make something to eat,” was all he said.
He rose from the bed and made his way slowly toward the door. Harry watched him go, throat tight. But in the doorway, Draco stopped and turned. Glanced at him. His gaze darted away, then returned. He tilted his head ever so slightly in the direction of the door.
Heart in his throat, Harry got off the bed and followed him out the door on unsteady legs.
* * *
Draco made toast with blackberry jam. The only sound was the clink of the knife on the glass jar and the scrape over bread. Harry watched from the doorway until he was finished, then took his plate and sat down on the far side of the little breakfast table.
He watched Draco as they ate. The other man had a faraway glaze to his eyes. He stared at the wall, chewing, and Harry found himself wondering what he was seeing.
They rinsed their dishes in silence, and Draco only glanced at Harry once when he set his plate in the sink. It was a cautious look, full of odds and ends Harry couldn’t even begin to interpret. And he wanted to, more than anything he had ever wanted before. Draco looked back at the sink and Harry ran a shaking hand through his hair. It had to be said, he told himself stubbornly. Had to be… dealt with. For fuck’s sake, it was going to happen sooner or later! If it was going to end, there was nothing under the sun or moon that he could do about it. It was out of his hands, and in Draco’s now, and Harry knew resignedly that he would acquiesce to whatever the other man decided. He’d already prepared to do that, or his mind had at least. But the pain twisting away inside him, the sickness that accompanied the very thought of Draco ending it, told him his body was still very much unprepared for the consequences.
At last, Draco wiped his hands clean and edged past Harry, out of the kitchen. Harry came behind him slowly, wondering if Draco was going to turn left, to the living room and the couch, and give his answer that way. But he went up the stairs to the right. Harry stood in the kitchen doorway, the hardwood chilly under his bare feet, and then went up the stairs after him.
Once inside the bedroom, however, Harry couldn’t bring himself to look at Draco’s face. The answer would surely be there, or the beginnings of it, somewhere, and he wasn’t ready to know it. He had been, an hour ago when he’d laid his ultimatum at Draco’s feet. Hell, he’d been ready for anything then. But now?
He couldn’t face it.
Harry shucked his trousers, pulled on his crumpled pyjama bottoms, and crawled between the sheets. He shut his eyes; he could hear Draco readying himself for bed, shuffling across the carpet. The creak of a drawer. Then the mattress dipped and Harry felt the sheets twitch and pull as Draco slid in on his side of the bed.
The lamp clicked off and Harry opened his eyes to the murky darkness. He could feel the heat from Draco’s body hovering at his back, filling the space between them under the covers. He could hear Draco breathing. Not the slow, steady breathing of before, but quicker, the breath of movement and thought. Harry curled more tightly into himself and waited for sleep to come. Wished for it.
Abruptly, Draco gave a sharp exhale and shifted. And then Harry felt the touch of fingers across the back of his arm. He turned over in surprise, craning his next to look before he could think about it. Draco’s hand slid down his arm and found his fingers, stroking hesitantly, and then gripping tight.
Harry stared at the shadowy form of the other man. Draco’s hand was the only part of his body that was touching him. His skin was warm and a bit dry. Harry couldn’t see his eyes, or his face at all. But Draco’s voice was not caged by darkness.
“Harry…” A sigh. His fingers squeezed once.
Harry nodded. He pressed his free hand to his face. Felt his fingers tremble. Nodded again.
~fin~
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Part 3: Still Tender
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Thanks for reading. ^_^
This continuation has been in my mind for a long time, and it represents one of two routes I was considering for this storyline.
Title: The Quality of Ice
Author:
rurounihimePairing: H/D, mention of H/OC
Rating: R for language, mostly
Summary: Sequel to Downpour. The fight finally comes to a head.
Disclaimer: Boys aren't mine. OC is.
A/N: Okay,
dracofiend: this one's for you, then. I hope it's everything you hoped for. *loves* Thanks to Fire and Coffee for the beta help.ETA: mobi and epub versions of this series available for download here
...
The Quality of Ice
“Malfoy, it’s not as if I didn’t tell you I was buying it!”
“Not as if you did, either!”
It felt later than it was. Harry’s head was beginning to pound, the slow thump that always caromed through his skull whenever the inevitable fight crept up over the horizon for another round. Draco stalked the length of the bedroom on bare feet, the sharp black of his shirt making his hair all the more white. He raked a hand through his bangs. The look on his face was livid, and during the miniscule instant that Draco’s movement gave him to think, Harry realized his own expression couldn’t have been much better.
“Malfoy.” He drew a deep breath. His jaw hurt from grinding it. “It was your bloody choice. I gave you a choice about it, and you didn’t say—”
“Oh, of course it’s my choice,” Draco seethed. “It’s always my choice, isn’t it, until I actually make a choice. And then you just can’t—” He broke off and fixed smouldering eyes on Harry. “I’ll tell you what you can do with it, Potter. You can take it out and get rid of it, or take yourself out!”
Harry clenched his teeth and fought for some semblance of self-control. It was fleeting, more and more these days, and this was an old battleground, well trodden and furiously clashed over. He wanted to leave. He wanted out of this house, into the cooler air and the damned loneliness, where it was quiet and he didn’t have to think about anything that existed within these walls.
“Think about that, Draco,” he said in a low voice. “Think very hard about it. Do you really want me out? Because I can go, you know. And then when I get back late tonight, if I get back, we can have another fucking fight over how you didn’t want me to leave in the first place!”
Draco’s sneer twisted any of the openness that was left out of his face. The quality of ice in it burned Harry. “Oh, no, that fight will be about the fact that you walked out at all and are fucking furious with yourself about it, and it’ll somehow be my fault, of course. Again.”
“Malfoy—”
“Why not just blame me now before you go? Avoid the bloody rush!” Draco threw one hand out to the side, a grandiose and ugly parody of the elegance the man was capable of. A hard knot tied itself in Harry’s chest with a swiftness that shocked him. He swallowed and leaned over, gripping the windowsill.
“I don’t want to get into this tonight. I didn’t buy that bloody picture just to rile you up, even if you think I did.” The last came out in a hiss, burdened with the thing lodged in his chest. He practically heard Draco stiffen behind him.
“Does it even matter what I think?” The man let out a contemptuous snort. “I’m beginning to think—no, I don’t think it does, I’m not beginning anything, I don’t think it matters. It’s only important until it gets in the way of what you want!”
“That is not true,” Harry snapped. He pressed his fingertips to his head and went on before Draco could spring upon the argument again. “And why should I bother when you’re just going to contradict me anyway? Every damn time, Draco!”
“That’s a lovely attitude, Potter.” Draco was moving now, opening the closet, slamming the door again. When Harry turned around, he was standing where he had been, a coat clutched in one hand. “You haven’t given me reason to do much else lately, you know!”
“You don’t even try,” Harry managed. His headache intensified, pushing at the anger until it flailed feebly in his mind. “Draco, you don’t even give it a chance, and then you expect me to fall over backwards and let you have every say in what goes on!”
“Well. That certainly explains all the decisions you’ve been making without me, then,” Draco shot back icily.
Harry scowled at him and earned himself a scathing glare in return. He struggled to brush away the first threads of the horrid emotion creeping in. But it was much too late; it had been there, twisting and building for nearly two weeks, compounded each time he entered a pub, each and every time he slammed his way out through the front door, walking as fast as he could away from Draco and the shouting. “I have not been making decisions without you,” he muttered, hating the hypocrisy of his words.
Draco nodded, a swift jerk of his head. “Of course not.”
His tone bit stiffly into Harry’s consciousness. He bristled. “Funny, I don’t remember you much caring about what happened around here. Not enough to do anything about it, anyway!”
There was something in his own voice that he didn’t quite recognize. He wanted Draco to crack. Or maybe to cave. To… to… Something. He wanted the other man to already know what drove him to insomnia at night, to know how right Draco was that it wasn’t him at all anymore. He wanted him to just acknowledge the chasm instead of letting them both continuously try to fumble their way out of it. Not to stand there breathing so hard, glaring at him as if he’d just insulted his every blood relative. The chill glint in Draco’s grey eyes sang right to the thing rising in his chest, called it forth like some terrible piper’s song, and suddenly Harry’s anger was gone, leaving nothing but a desperate, cold wake. He knew, knew… that Draco wasn’t going to approach, that he was just going to let them both simmer here in the middle of this miasma. That he was going to stay where he was, separated by air and unspoken secrets, and wasn’t going to say anything.
Draco’s hand tightened around his handful of coat. “Fine, Potter,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “You want something to happen here? Then stay here and watch it happen. I’m going out.”
He spun and headed for the doorway, and suddenly Harry’s entire body felt old, old and sick of it all. Bile rose in his throat. He covered his face with one hand, and the words were out before he thought them.
“Draco, I nearly kissed a man.”
Draco’s footsteps fell into dead silence. The lack of sound was deafening, plucking at Harry’s skin like tiny fingers. He closed his eyes and inhaled, a deep, shuddering breath.
“What?” There was a strange lilt to the word, like the knell of a bell. Harry’s nerves jumped and he jerked upright, glaring into a room suddenly stark with accusations. He gave a tired sigh and flung his hand out.
“You heard me.”
Draco turned on one foot and the expression on his face was unreadable. His eyes darted over Harry, searching. The edges of his lips had whitened. “When?”
Harry let out a sharp, impatient hiss and shook his head. “Two weeks ago. In a bloody pub.”
Draco’s voice cracked around the edges. “Did you—”
“And then he asked me to go home with him.” Harry threaded a hand through his hair, wishing he were somewhere else.
“Did you?” Draco said sharply. Harry dropped his hand to his side and glared.
“No.”
“But you wanted to.”
“Stop arguing, Draco! You always argue, I always argue—If you’re going to argue about this too, then I don’t want you here,” Harry muttered, suddenly more tired than he could remember being in a long, long time. “Just go away.”
Draco’s voice sank dangerously. “I have a right to argue about this, Potter! If anything—”
“No!” Harry barked, and Draco’s words cut themselves off. The urge to just leave the room himself was so strong he nearly made for the door. Shaking, Harry sat on the bed and pulled his legs up, hugging his knees. “No, just be quiet, Draco. No arguing.”
For a long fearful moment, he was certain Draco’s indrawn breath was going to spill into a fierce torrent of words, in spite of everything. His stomach clenched, as much in guilt as dread. Was arguing really all they had left? Harry covered his eyes with one hand and rubbed, not wanting to see Draco’s reaction. He could practically hear the unspoken fury twanging across the room. And it wasn’t only Draco’s fury, there was plenty of his own lying in wait. If it came out, it would cut like glass, right through whatever frayed strings still bound them together.
Harry could almost see how far those strings had unraveled, as if they were hanging in front of him.
Draco spoke in a voice much too quiet. “How could you—Harry—?”
Harry’s breath was a dry rasp of a laugh, weak and fading. “How can you even ask me that?” He shot a glare over the tops of his knees and caught Draco wide-eyed, pale, and on the brittle edge of anger. He snorted softly and shut his eyes. “How can you ask me?”
Draco was silent for a moment. It was a restless silence full of words chopped off at their source. When he finally did speak, Harry could not tell his emotion from his tone. “Did you sleep with him?”
For an instant, Harry wanted to stop talking. Just let the silence stretch and give Draco whatever answer he most wanted to hear. He wanted to say yes, yes, I did sleep with him, it was bloody brilliant, and then I hated myself afterward, so I came home to you. But it wasn’t the truth, and Draco’s reaction to it would be dull and meaningless.
“What do you want to do, if I did?” he asked instead. He raised his head and met Draco’s eyes squarely. “You want to take revenge? Go out and find someone for yourself to even the score?”
But he could see in Draco’s eyes that the thought had never seriously crossed his mind. That Draco, for all his spitting and yelling and storming out, had never had the experience Harry’d had in that pub. Whatever he’d sought those nights in the streets, it had not been sex. Harry looked away, feeling worse than ever.
Draco’s eyes darted over his face. Harry could see the thoughts passing through the other man’s mind. He understood; the very thought of someone else touching Draco, of having known Draco’s body the way he did made Harry’s ire rear to life again. Had he known that someone else had kissed Draco’s mouth, or breathed in the tremor of his exhalations just after the first trembling brush of lips, he would not have been able to sit still. He would have looked at Draco with the same haunted expression that lurked now behind those pale eyes.
“Draco, no,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands. “I didn’t sleep with him. I… touched his hand. I came very, very close to kissing him.”
Draco said nothing. Harry wondered if it was anger silencing him, or relief. Did Draco feel relieved at all? Harry wasn’t even sure if he felt it anymore. He had, that night after the pub, soaked to the bone and finding his way back to their flat. But now… he couldn’t remember what that relief had felt like.
“But I didn’t sleep with him, alright? I didn’t sleep with him, and I didn’t kiss him.” He drew a breath, hating how the words kept spilling out of him, as if an apology were necessary. And it wasn’t necessary, not anymore, maybe not ever. That was where they stood now. Where they’d brought themselves. “But I wanted…”
He straightened, licked his lips. “I wanted to. I almost did.”
“When?” Draco asked in a low voice. He was looking at the wall. “What night was it?”
Harry blinked at him, and then felt the weariness, the impatience, take hold again. He let out a sharp breath. “Draco, it doesn’t matter when it happened! Just… it happened, alright? Who cares when?”
“I care!” Draco’s whole body was rigid, cheeks flushed. He started to speak again, but Harry shook his head and cut him off.
“That’s not the point of it, do you hear me? That is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” Draco stalked toward him, clutching his coat so hard his knuckles were bloodless. “You didn’t fuck another man, is that the point? Or you didn’t kiss him. What stopped you, anyway? Someone bumped into you at the crucial moment? Perhaps the bartender dropped something.”
“You stopped me,” Harry said quietly.
Draco’s sneer dripped from his words. “Oh, I see. You thought of me and felt so very guilty you stopped.”
“No. I didn’t think of you and that’s why I stopped.”
Whatever Draco’s response might have been, Harry didn’t hear it. The startled quality of the sudden stillness was palpable. Draco was looking at him, lips slightly parted. Harry doubted he knew what he looked like. He met the other man’s gaze fully and sucked in a deep breath.
“He was close to me. Very…” Harry sighed. “Very close. And you weren’t there.” He struggled to find the right words. “It- it wasn’t you. I could smell him, and it wasn’t your smell. And I stopped.”
Draco said nothing. Harry shut his eyes, uncertain whether what he was saying was helping or hurting. “I didn’t want him. I wanted—”
“You wanted the sex,” Draco muttered. Harry dug his knuckles into his eyes.
“Yes, alright? Yes, of course I wanted—it. Alright? Yes. But I didn’t want him!”
“Well, what do you want, then?” Draco shot back angrily.
“I want you to kiss me! Okay?” Harry’s voice wavered; he bit his lip, furious with himself. “I want you to—just touch me, or, or kiss me, or—Fuck, Draco, why does this always have to be so hard?”
“Kiss you.” Draco’s words were flat, expressionless. Harry’s stomach plummeted. He put his forehead in his hands and breathed.
“Yes. I want—I want you to show me that you still want me. That we still have something other than this bloody shouting, that I don’t have to fucking well want the bloke sitting next to me in the pub, or on the underground, or the bus. I want to know that it’s worth it to keep saying no to them!” Harry wiped at his eyes. “Fuck.”
The bed creaked as Draco sat down. Harry saw him rubbing his palms up and down the thighs of his trousers. Up and down. He shifted, looked around as if searching for something. Harry heard him swallow.
“What…” He closed his eyes and tried again, and Harry could tell immediately that his teeth were clenched. “What do you expect me to say, Harry? Because I don’t really know what the fuck to say.”
Draco’s voice rose inexorably at the end of his sentence. His cheeks were two bright spots of color. Harry looked away.
“I want to scream at you right now,” Draco hissed, very quickly. His fingers dug into his trousers. “I want to know what the fuck you were doing in that pub, and if that’s the only time. What he looked like that made him so damned irresistible. And why you bloody well thought you had to tell me this right now, because I don’t even know if I wanted to know! Is that what you want to hear? If it is, good, fucking good.”
Harry heard every ragged breath Draco exhaled. He studied the tops of his knees, stomach lurching. Draco gave a long, shaky sigh and shut his eyes.
“But I can’t—can’t do it tonight. Maybe some night I might be able to. Right now, I just—” His hands spasmed.
I want to scream at you. I want to hit you, I want to leave, I can’t be near you.
Maybe Harry just thought that was what he deserved.
“Why?” A broken sound from Draco. The razor edge of a massive iceberg that was as dangerous as it was large. Harry forced himself to meet Draco’s eyes and found them swimming in too many emotions to count. His voice began to rise again. “What did I do, Potter? What did I fucking do that you wanted him instead? What did I not do?”
Harry looked down as Draco reigned himself in. The blond stared somewhere in front of him for a lengthy moment, and then jerked his chin up. “I can’t do this.”
Harry chewed his lip. The knot rose to his throat. “Can’t do what?” he whispered.
Draco whirled on him, eyes blazing. “Can’t do this, Potter! I can’t talk to you like this is some inane question about what kind of tea I’ll take! Or whether I want a damn picture hanging in the hallway. You…” Draco pressed a palm to his head. “You’re so bloody infuriating! You won’t even talk to me except when you decide you need my fucking permission for something. And then you ignore it anyway. I never—And then you tell me you almost went off with a random stranger at a pub like it’s my fault? For fuck’s sake, Harry, I don’t want to hear it anymore!”
Draco was shouting. Harry’s jaw hurt. He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t want to hear it. You’re always like this, you never want to hear!”
“It wouldn’t matter to you if I did!” Draco seethed. “You’d only say what you felt was absolutely necessary. Like tonight. Is there anything else? Another little detail you’ve forgotten to mention thus far? Another big one?”
Harry leaned forward and clutched his forehead with both hands, squeezing his eyes shut. “Do you see? Do you understand what’s happening here? Next time I might not say no, or you might not come home. Or one of us will find the other with someone else. And I don’t fucking want anyone else, Draco, I want you, I want to fuck you, and I want you to want me to fuck you, and I don’t want to fuck it all up by ending up in someone else’s bed, hating myself! Or you.”
“You think I want to fuck this up?” Draco cried. “I’m beginning to think it’s already ruined beyond repair. What in Merlin’s name should I say? I don’t know how to fix it. I’m fucking furious right now! What do you want from me, Harry?”
“Damn it, Draco, I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t. I want you, or I want to end this and move on.”
Draco covered his face with one hand, curling his other arm around himself. Harry clasped his knees and took several deep breaths. His last words rocked around inside his skull; he wasn’t prepared for their magnitude. But now they were out in the open, and he couldn’t just sidestep them either.
If not now, in another few weeks. Perhaps after he’d done something unforgivable.
Draco’s shoulders rose and fell. He spoke from behind his hand, fingertips pressed against his forehead. “Do you really want to end this?”
Harry grimaced. “Do you?”
A tired sigh. “Just answer the question, Harry. For once, can’t you just…”
Draco fell into a defeated silence. Harry struggled with the block in his throat. “If… if it’s time for it to end, then yes. I do.”
Draco did not respond. The twinge in Harry’s chest grew, and he sought for words, someway to rationalize everything. Make it all alright. “I don’t know how to take back what happened. I didn’t plan it—” He exhaled, frustrated. “I don’t know if it’s time to call it quits or not, Draco! But if you think so—”
Absolute stillness. Harry held his breath. Then—
“I don’t want it to be time,” Draco said in a soft voice.
Something loosened in Harry’s entire body. He blinked, found he was clutching the bed sheets, and released his grip. Draco was still facing the wall, peering over his fingers and breathing unsteadily. Harry moved to rub his arm, then thought better of it. “We need to stop fighting,” he muttered.
Draco stirred convulsively. “I don’t want you in anymore pubs,” he stated flatly.
Harry’s anger prickled yet again. “I shouldn’t have to go to any pubs, Draco.”
“You never had to, Harry.” The blond sighed. “You never had to go.”
Harry stared at him, suddenly wishing he could just… reach over and touch him. He swallowed hard. “I want to know what I… what this means to you, Draco. I just want you to—just show me. And don’t leave to sort it all out, or think about it. Just, right now, this instant, show me. Please. I need to know if there’s still a point to this, or if this is just a charade.”
The words burned in his throat. Draco turned to look at him, and Harry felt the awkward sting of tears. Fuck it, he wasn’t going to cry about this. He’d fucked up, they’d both fucked up, and he was going to see the end of it with clear eyes, whatever that end was. Draco’s gaze roved over his face nervously. He cleared his throat.
“Do you want me to—”
He stopped. Harry’s heart gave an odd thud. He stared mutely back at Draco. The blond was clenching his hands together. Harry yearned to cry out, to beg, Why? Why can’t you just do it, even after all this, why do you still need to turn it all around in your head? But Draco made no move.
With a sigh, Harry dropped his eyes and leaned back. And Draco’s hand shot out. Gripped his arm.
“Harry.”
He looked up at last. Draco’s eyes were large and frightened. He took a deep breath. Leaned forward… and halted. A flush stole over his pale cheeks. Harry held very still, his mind a blank. Still holding Harry’s arm, Draco inched closer across the bed. His breath skated over his face; Harry felt his eyes begin to sting again. A quick, startled exhalation, and Draco closed the distance at last, meeting Harry’s lips in the slightest of kisses. Fingertips brushed tentatively at Harry’s cheek.
Draco pulled back, eyes closed. The same shivery gasp he always gave just after a kiss drifted over Harry’s mouth, and Harry had to physically fight with himself not to grab Draco and tug him forward once more. He swallowed; the ache rose unbearably in his throat. Draco’s fingers lingered against his cheek for a hesitant moment, and then dropped away.
Grey eyes opened and stared straight into his. Harry could only stare back.
Then Draco moved slowly, as if through water, around Harry to his side of the bed, and settled haltingly onto his back. Harry stayed where he was, watching his lover, too muddled to move. But Draco did not look at him. His face was a tight, pensive mask. He studied the ceiling, lips parting and closing again without a word. Harry settled his chin on his knees, closed his own eyes and tried to concentrate on the sound of Draco’s breathing instead.
But it was difficult.
The headboard was a cold presence against his back; Draco might have been asleep in the bed next to him, for all he moved. Harry was very aware of the fact that his lover was not touching him. He opened his eyes again, unable to stand the hazy veil of darkness any longer, and gazed blankly at his bare feet where they rested on the sheets. It was funny; he hadn’t thought of it in weeks, but this… was their bed. His and Draco’s. Slightly rickety, with creaks and cracks to the frame, and a lush mattress. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d lain in it together. Not like this, quietly, awake. Sleep was one thing, but even that—Harry chewed his lip. Some nights they didn’t even do that anymore.
Harry’s shoulders hunched convulsively. Draco was still staring at the ceiling, and suddenly Harry hated the couch in the living room, and all the nights he himself had dropped down onto it instead of climbing the stairs to their room. This was still his bed, too; he hadn’t gone so far as to ruin that.
His throat felt raw. Not yet.
The shadows had lengthened. Harry stared into the inky blue climbing up the walls. He licked his lips, tasted Draco faintly. Maybe Draco was lying there in the darkness, wondering if he really had kissed that man in the pub. He fought a sigh. The truth might not even matter anymore, no matter how many times he told it; not if Draco didn’t believe him. Would he ever be able to believe anything Harry said again? Suddenly he wished he had said more, done something more to make it absolutely clear that he had not kissed the man, that their lips had never touched, and never would touch, that Draco was the only one who knew how his mouth opened under the first brush of contact, how the breath shuddered from his lungs. How he tasted. A miserable sickness settled in his belly.
To Harry, Draco’s last tiny kiss had been a shiver of recognition, missing for too long and desperately needed. But perhaps Draco had only felt the touch of another’s mouth there.
After some time, Draco stirred and sat up. Harry looked up, heartbeat quickening. Draco gestured vaguely. “I’m… going to make something to eat,” was all he said.
He rose from the bed and made his way slowly toward the door. Harry watched him go, throat tight. But in the doorway, Draco stopped and turned. Glanced at him. His gaze darted away, then returned. He tilted his head ever so slightly in the direction of the door.
Heart in his throat, Harry got off the bed and followed him out the door on unsteady legs.
* * *
Draco made toast with blackberry jam. The only sound was the clink of the knife on the glass jar and the scrape over bread. Harry watched from the doorway until he was finished, then took his plate and sat down on the far side of the little breakfast table.
He watched Draco as they ate. The other man had a faraway glaze to his eyes. He stared at the wall, chewing, and Harry found himself wondering what he was seeing.
They rinsed their dishes in silence, and Draco only glanced at Harry once when he set his plate in the sink. It was a cautious look, full of odds and ends Harry couldn’t even begin to interpret. And he wanted to, more than anything he had ever wanted before. Draco looked back at the sink and Harry ran a shaking hand through his hair. It had to be said, he told himself stubbornly. Had to be… dealt with. For fuck’s sake, it was going to happen sooner or later! If it was going to end, there was nothing under the sun or moon that he could do about it. It was out of his hands, and in Draco’s now, and Harry knew resignedly that he would acquiesce to whatever the other man decided. He’d already prepared to do that, or his mind had at least. But the pain twisting away inside him, the sickness that accompanied the very thought of Draco ending it, told him his body was still very much unprepared for the consequences.
At last, Draco wiped his hands clean and edged past Harry, out of the kitchen. Harry came behind him slowly, wondering if Draco was going to turn left, to the living room and the couch, and give his answer that way. But he went up the stairs to the right. Harry stood in the kitchen doorway, the hardwood chilly under his bare feet, and then went up the stairs after him.
Once inside the bedroom, however, Harry couldn’t bring himself to look at Draco’s face. The answer would surely be there, or the beginnings of it, somewhere, and he wasn’t ready to know it. He had been, an hour ago when he’d laid his ultimatum at Draco’s feet. Hell, he’d been ready for anything then. But now?
He couldn’t face it.
Harry shucked his trousers, pulled on his crumpled pyjama bottoms, and crawled between the sheets. He shut his eyes; he could hear Draco readying himself for bed, shuffling across the carpet. The creak of a drawer. Then the mattress dipped and Harry felt the sheets twitch and pull as Draco slid in on his side of the bed.
The lamp clicked off and Harry opened his eyes to the murky darkness. He could feel the heat from Draco’s body hovering at his back, filling the space between them under the covers. He could hear Draco breathing. Not the slow, steady breathing of before, but quicker, the breath of movement and thought. Harry curled more tightly into himself and waited for sleep to come. Wished for it.
Abruptly, Draco gave a sharp exhale and shifted. And then Harry felt the touch of fingers across the back of his arm. He turned over in surprise, craning his next to look before he could think about it. Draco’s hand slid down his arm and found his fingers, stroking hesitantly, and then gripping tight.
Harry stared at the shadowy form of the other man. Draco’s hand was the only part of his body that was touching him. His skin was warm and a bit dry. Harry couldn’t see his eyes, or his face at all. But Draco’s voice was not caged by darkness.
“Harry…” A sigh. His fingers squeezed once.
Harry nodded. He pressed his free hand to his face. Felt his fingers tremble. Nodded again.
~fin~
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Part 3: Still Tender
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Thanks for reading. ^_^
