Work Text:
Harry is not a hero. There’s nothing heroic about his nightmares, about the way his hair looks in the morning, or the anger that always courses through his veins, keeping him awake and alert. Nothing heroic about being broken, he thinks.
Most people don’t care about that, though. When he talks about nightmares they hear bravery; his hair has already won him Bachelor Of The Year three times in a row (which never fails to amuse Malfoy), his anger is beautiful. His pain is selfless. They ask of his early adventures with amazement on their eyes, as if they were really adventures and not just traumatic events with a pinch of bad luck. As if he didn’t have to see his friends die in front of him, as if he didn’t die himself.
Most people are full of shit, Malfoy says. He says it in that matter-of-fact tone of his. There’s something about the way he draws his words while he mutters insults, when his mouth curls around the edges, which makes Harry unable to tear his eyes away from him. Malfoy is still a cheeky, full-of-himself bastard; even years after the end of the war. He never shuts up and still gets a kick out of insulting Harry. It should annoy him to no end, but Harry has come to think of his bastard-ness as something close to endearing (he’s always careful not to let the word ‘charming’ slip). Especially when he gets all worked up on Harry’s behalf.
“Hermione says our friendship is weird and bordering on obtuse.” Harry informs him one day, while they both lie on the grass. The summer sun looks red behind Harry’s now closed eyelids, and the sound of water running is like a lullaby on his ears, singing him to sleep. Malfoy laughs.
It’s an unbelievable warm day (considering they live in England), and even though the sunlight shines with strength, a storm is forming on the sky, black clouds a tempting promise of rain. The occasional wind offers a quick relief to the heat but it can't stop sweat from clinging to him like a second skin. His body is already starting to pass him the receipt after two consecutives and exhausting Quidditch games, and not even the beautiful sights from Malfoy’s garden can distract him from the oppressive pain he feels in his chest.
“Aw, Potter, cute.” Malfoy says. His voice sounds as if he was just a step from falling asleep when Harry spoke. “It’s not even about the friendship. You are the one who’s weird and bordering on obtuse.”
Harry fails to suppress a smile. Years ago, Malfoy’s words would have sent him in a rage which would’ve lasted all day, and he would’ve gone to sleep with the bitter taste of hate still on his mouth, his dreams full of bright red and violence. Now, Malfoy manages to be, even at his worst, merely a mild-inconvenience.
“Fuck you.” Harry answers, but there’s no bite on it. He’s secretly thankful to Malfoy for keeping him on his toes, for not looking up at him nor having delusions about Harry’s grandeur. He comes to him when the pressure of his work becomes insufferable, when he can’t sleep because of the nightmares and the ghosts of the war won’t leave him alone. Sometimes he has the feeling that Malfoy is the only person who truly sees him as he is, no matter what Hermione has to say about it. But her statements still fill him with doubt. “She says I’m infatuated by you because you’ve already seen the worst of me, so I believe that gives me a free pass to be as unpleasant and foul-mouthed as I wish, therefore ignoring all my responsibilities as a public figure.”
This interests Malfoy. He turns to look at him, amusement clear on his face. His hair shines so much under the sun it blinds him. “Well, are you?”
Harry grunts, covering his eyes with an arm. “Am I what?”
“Infatuated by me because I’ve seen the worst of you, et cetera.”
“I don’t know.” That’s precisely why he brought it up. “Maybe I am.” Which means: I don't know, but I’m worried about the things you bring up on me. About the things you make me feel.
“Mh.” Malfoy says. He turns his face back to the sky, contemplating. He looks so incredibly pale under the sunlight, his black clothes contrasting horribly against all the white. He is probably going to complain about the sunburnt later. Harry has grown fond of all his angles, but his face is striking nonetheless.
“Is it that bad, though?” Malfoy breaks the silence. “Knowing someone has seen the worst of you and still accepts you. And I don’t mean just me; you’ve seen my worst too. Sometimes Granger’s morality borders on hypocrisy”
The last comment twists something inside of him. “Can you blame her for disliking you, though?” Harry feels like a cauldron about to explode. Sometimes he can't help being defensive of her, even if she's not right, she's still his best friend.
“No.” Malfoy is not interested in his anger. He shoots Harry a bored look. "She has the right to dislike me as much as she wishes. That still doesn't mean she's right.” And then, probably just because he’s annoyed at Harry’s tone, or maybe because he’s prideful like that, “Do you ever think for yourself, Potter, or just agree to everything she says with a bow and words of admiration?"
"What, like you with your father?" He rises to the bait and immediately regrets it. It's clear Malfoy just enjoys to rile him up, and Harry always falls for it. Yet maybe Malfoy is right about one thing: there's something liberating about being able to play as foul as he likes. Maybe that’s why his anger went away just as fast as it came to him. Something close to freedom about being as unpleasant and foul-mouthed as he wishes, about ignoring his responsibilities as a public figure. What were even those, anyways? He doesn’t owe people anything, certainly not his sanity.
Malfoy kicks him on the shin for his comment. So much for enjoying a peaceful evening. "Screw yourself, Potter. I do think." He says. Harry allows himself a moment of pride for his success at breaking Malfoy’s impeccable ice wall of temperament before retaliating, rolling on top of him and crushing him with his body, one hand shooting quickly ahead to impede Malfoy’s attempt of escapade.
He traps Malfoy’s arms above his head, the advantage of surprise on his side. Malfoy had probably expected him to avenge himself with a kick or an insult, for he was not quick enough to stop Harry from pressing him against the grass, his left hand squeezing Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy ears have turned red when he speaks. “Are you looking for me to spit on your face, Potter? Is that what you want? Because I might as well go for it, you know. You’re making it kind of tempting.”
Harry smiles and increases the pressure on Malfoy’s neck, restricting his airways momentarily. The sun burns behind his back and he’s sweating again because of the sudden movement of his body, his muscles straining by the effort of keeping Malfoy down. “What I want,” he says “Is for you to shut that nasty mouth of yours, arsehole.”
What he really wants is for Malfoy to keep annoying him only so he has an excuse to keep his body pressing against him. So he can pretend to be angry at him for being right, when he is actually just infuriated by his own incapacity to stop being attracted to him like a magnet. The fact that Malfoy never really pushes him away makes things even worse.
Malfoy smiles at him all prettily for a second, just enough time to distract Harry from the way his knee shoots quickly up, and he notices the movement only a beat before pain flares on his crotch.
He collapses over Malfoy with a grunt, who laughs. It’s one of his unusual laughs, the ones that are open and honest and full of delight. It makes Harry almost want to forgive him. Almost. Instead, he takes revenge by pressing all his weight on top on him, crushing Malfoy's body against the ground.
He smells like sweat and body lotion and summertime, Harry is suddenly too aware of it, and he has to refrain himself from hiding his face on Malfoy's neck until he becomes the only thing he can smell, the one thing which feels real.
"Ow," Malfoy says. "Get off, you big oaf". He pulls at Harry's hair, but he's still laughing, and in a matter of seconds his hands are not even pulling anymore. His fingers hold into Harry's hair instead, with a delicacy which is unusual on Malfoy, even more because it's not as if they can ignore the fact that he kicked him on the groin just a moment ago.
This is enough to make Harry give up and hide his face on his neck, inhaling the scent of his body with fervour. Malfoy has stopped laughing by now and his breathing has gone back to its normal speed: in that instant, all Harry can hear is the wind; the birds which chirp on a nearby tree, the water that sprouts from the nearby fountain. Malfoy's relaxed breathing against his ear. Malfoy's heartbeat, wild and carefree against his own.
They lie together for a few minutes, neither of them speaking. Quietness floods through Harry’s veins, and there's really no point in pretending to be annoyed by Malfoy anymore, as if Harry wouldn’t give up almost anything just to be able to stay like this forever.
He looks sideways at Malfoy’s arm, which lies widespread besides his body, his palm facing upwards. Harry faces a moment of hesitation before he reaches for it, barely a light touch first, and then, when Malfoy doesn't move away, a proper caress. He allows his fingers to travel slowly the length of Malfoy’s arm, from his bicep to the inside of his elbow and above the relief where he knows the scars of his dark mark lie hidden. He hopes Malfoy understands what he is trying to say to him, because he can’t trust his voice not to betray him.
Finally, carefully, he sets his hand upon Malfoy's. He doesn't intertwine their fingers, but instead just rests his hand on top of his, open, palm against palm. Malfoy’s fingers are so much longer than Harry’s, and his chest moves slowly as he breathes, his right hand closing on Harry's scalp.
"Harry?" He says. It's merely a whisper against his ear, voice breathless, and for a moment Harry doubts he said something at all, but the expectant silence which follows is enough to convince him he’s not dreaming, but awake. Malfoy has never called him by his first name until now. Harry thinks: Harry. And again, like a mantra, to reassure himself: Harry, Harry, Harry.
"Yes?" He says. He is surprised at how rough he sounds. Yes, Draco?
Malfoy’s voice sounds soft in contrast. "What are we doing?"
He feels his heart on his throat. He knows Malfoy can hear it too; the consuming feeling of being alive. "Whatever we want, I think."
Malfoy pulls on his hair so he can look at him. His eyes are wide open, fear and wonder mixing up on his face. He looks incredibly young when he says: "I think I want to kiss you."
Harry doesn't have to think about it. He's had plenty of time already, months of longing in silence. At first, he attempted to ignore it, convinced himself he was only lonely and bored; and well, Malfoy was just there, wasn’t he? And he was funny, and his hair was nice. Harry’s obsession with him was only a normal, human reaction. Just a passing hyper-fixation.
But after the first weeks, and as the days grew longer, both of them lazing around and playing games and getting drunk, it became clear that his feelings for Malfoy weren’t going away. Instead, he found himself increasingly unable to tear his eyes away from him, to stop his heart from beating faster when he heard his laugh, to refrain the need of pulling him closer. So it takes him barely a second to answer, and only because he is too surprised to find his voice immediately. "Alright." He speaks.
So Malfoy kisses him. His left hand closes upon Harry's hand while his right pulls him down, mouths meeting halfway. His lips press against Harry’s, careful but definite, and Harry sinks on it. He tastes like mint and warmth, like the refreshing air before a summer storm. He kisses like he laughs, like the way he flies.
Above him, the storm breaks.
Harry is not a hero. In Malfoy's kiss, he is just Harry.