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Harry’s knuckles were white from the absurd amount of force he used to grab hold of the steering wheel, and he could practically hear Draco’s worry-filled voice reminding him to not get so wound up.
The thought was sweet, and nearly made him ease up his grip. But he shook his head and tightened his hands around the wheel nonetheless, wishing nothing more than that Draco wasn’t so bloody sweet. He wished that he had a reason not to think about the boy every minute he could.
And as he drove home from working, searching his stress-riddled mind for some sort of excuse that would grant him the option to return to his flat later than usual, he really wished that he didn’t love Draco Malfoy as much as he did.
Harry cringed.
It was a horrid thought really, but one that had recently taken to impeding upon his mind. Much to his disapproval, of course. But what could he do, he didn’t understand the brain. That was Hermione’s thing.
Harry loved Draco so much that it created aches in his chest. Harry loved Draco so much that a simple fond memory of the boy was enough to make him well up in tears from the overflowing abundance of joy Draco made Harry feel. Harry loved Draco so much, that he reminded the blond of that fact every day. Multiple times.
But the words were never returned.
Harry didn’t understand.
They were so close, they told one another everything. They confided in each other, they trusted one another. They could throw around jokes and funny stories, as well as have deep and meaningful conversations. They were perfect for each other. Draco was Harry’s soulmate, at least that was what Harry believed.
But each and every time Harry whispered the words “I love you,” into Draco’s ear during a cheesy but sweet movie as they cuddled one another, or yelled it through the house when he saw that his favorite jumper was washed and hung in his wardrobe, the words were never said back.
The thought of Draco simply… not loving him not only didn’t make sense, but sickened him to his very core. Harry wanted to spend the rest of his days with the twenty-three-year-old, giving him as much joy and care as he needed, as he wanted, as he deserved. He deserved so much, in Harry’s opinion at least.
It sickened him to think that, to Draco, perhaps this was all a game. Perhaps this was just an experiment. Draco testing his waters, as if to make sure this “dating boys” thing was for him.
To Harry, this wasn’t a game.
To Harry, this was all he wanted.
He wanted to wake up every morning to messy blond hair and splotchy freckles and loud yawns that seemed to fill the whole house. He wanted to go to the local shop at 2 am and buy as many gummy bears as he could, just because he enjoyed the way Draco’s eyes brightened when he saw them. He didn’t mind staying in bed for hour long cuddles, just because; and he didn’t mind watching children’s television because he knew they made Draco happy.
He loved Draco so much, and he went out of his way to show him. To tell him. And the very idea that all of this.. love was going to someone who couldn’t even return his feelings was enough to make him pale and shaky.
The idea that the past year had been an emotional roller coaster that had the possibility of being nothing more than a faint memory for Draco disgusted him. All of this hard work he’d put in, and he wouldn’t even be more than a fond thought on a lonely night.
Perhaps he was overthinking. He did that a lot. Draco always told him to take deep breaths and focus on things that made him happy. Harry always thought of Draco, because the blond did indeed make him happy, happier than anyone ever had before.
And when Draco noticed his overthinking and held Harry’s shaking hands in his steady ones, it always felt like Draco really cared for him. Really loved him. Even though he never said it.
In those moments, it was easy to disregard Draco’s lack of words. Those moments felt so intimate. So sure. They felt like Draco was just moments away from confessing his undying love, and that feeling was enough to carry Harry ions away.
Harry turned a corner at shivered as he drew closer to the flat. A red light stopped his tread, and a guilty sigh of relief left his body. A familiar thought intruded his mind, and he found himself mumbling that “as long as Draco knows I love him, everything will be alright.” He said it so much that had became a mantra of sorts. Perhaps even a coping mechanism when thoughts became too loud and Harry became too desperate for Draco to return his words.
Didn’t he deserve love too?
After all of the love that he bestowed upon Draco, all the care and gentleness and adoration he so willingly granted his boyfriend, did he not deserve even an ounce back?
Was he doing something wrong?
Another turn, another light, another sigh of relief. The more he pressed his foot on the brake, the more a sliver of anxiety washed away from him. But it did nothing, not really, because every time his foot switched pedals, every time he surged forward, it felt as though the weight of the world crushed his shoulders.
Perhaps it was a all a lost cause, perhaps Draco was right in lack of verbal adoration.
Harry was undeserving, he often felt as though he was, and perhaps Draco was just expressing those thoughts in the open. It made sense, and Draco rarely did things that didn’t make sense.
Draco was very strict in the way he did things, everything he did must be perfect.
So is that why he couldn’t go through with the words?
Because Harry’s love wasn’t perfect enough? And so he simply couldn’t return such a thing?
To Draco, was Harry so imperfect that he simply couldn’t express his love for him?
Was he getting worked up again?
It happened quite a bit, and Draco was usually always there to stop it. That had to count for something, right? That had to suggest that perhaps Draco held even the slightest amount of love for Harry, didn’t it?
Or maybe his getting worked up was the problem?
Was Harry the problem?
Another turn came, but rather than a light, the flat Harry shared with Draco came into view. He could see the boy in his gardening clothes sitting on the porch, reading a book in the wooden swing Harry had constructed for Draco’s birthday. He gulped and squeezed to wheel even tighter.
Pulling into the driveway, Harry tried his best to calm himself down. It was quite difficult, seeing as he’d gone nearly a year without having to do so without assistance.
Draco met him as the garage opened up, and Harry tried his best to plaster on his best smile. Draco looked at him, and his face was questioning and stern. He didn’t like secrets. To Draco, secrets rarely brought along good things. To Draco, secrets were the very least perfect thing in the entire world.
Slowly, he stepped out of the car. He was thankful he hadn’t shed any tears in the car, because Draco was always obscenely quick to noticing them.
“Harry.” Draco’s face was calm and happy, and Harry hated that he wanted to ruin that with his annoying and intruding questions. “How was work?”
Harry nodded, seemingly unable to speak, and went in for the hug that Draco was offering. “I’ve a question, Draco.”
It was crazy that he was wanting to ask now, nearly six months after Harry first said it, but he supposed better late than never.
“Yeah? Go on then.” Draco broke away in the hug and stepped back, but he held Harry’s hand and didn’t let go.
Harry gulped yet again at the encouraging look on Draco’s face, and it took all of him to not breakdown into tears.
“I-” he stopped, surprised when a single tear fell from his eye. He cursed himself for not being strong enough to hold them in, knowing just how much Draco hated crying.
“I love you so much, Draco.” Harry began, and it sounded so much like begging that he cringed. “Please, please. Why won’t you say it back?”