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Draco grew familiar with it.
His mother once named him by the stars. On aphotic nights, when the chaos of it all burned his mind, she would enclose it all upon her shoulders. When she spoke, her voice compared to misty clouds, to feather smiles, and blooming autumns. You shine brighter than any beam in the sky; she repeated, her words forcing his lids close, he fell upon beads of sand. She said, if the moon were to die, her world would be bright for he was its entirety.
Draco did not agree with her. He does not still. He thinks he never will.
For when she left, he thinks his own stars did as well.
Nights grow aphotic, frantic, and anarchic.
He thinks the moon and the stars are angry, for one of their own left before spring. Draco agrees with the nights, it's not fair.
And now the light! It burns, gleams of stars, through broken windows, strike his chest! It blares at his skin, blood drips from his nails, his lips, and tears, they roll, fall, flee from fearful eyes. The moon thinks Draco should rejoin his mother into the night. He agrees as well.
Harry doesn't agree. He never does. He thinks he never will either.
Stay with me
Harry would repeat, over and over, and over again. His arms would envelop all of Draco. He hopes to protect the blond from fiery blazes. His voice resonates as rainy clouds all over the cold room. Draco thinks; perhaps Harry should have carried his name. He compares far more to everything people gaze for when looking at tranquil nights.
He doesn't think he'll ever be able to shine as Harry does.
I feel it happening
Draco would warn, eyes lost through evenings of red, orange and pink.
Harry doesn't say it. But he thinks Draco should have carried names of quiet suns. Each time he wakes, each time he sleeps, he contemplates, the colors blooming along his eyes. Painting of starlight buried through his irises. Perhaps Harry is drunk. He thinks he's been drunk for months. He keeps drowning, further and further away into Draco's eyes. He sees in them all of his life. Surely, he must have gone crazy, is what Ron said. Is what others repeated. Over, and over, and over again. He doesn't think so. He sees in them dull mornings, smiles over cups of tea, dancing in kitchens, running in parks, mountains arising, oceans dancing. He sees his own happiness, all the words he cannot bear to speak, all the words he cannot stop to yell. He sees his life, his universe in it. Draco should have been named after dawn, or perhaps dusk. After what others wake up for, after what others stay up for. Harry is certain to live through days and nights, if only to admire the billions of worlds in Draco.
I guarantee
Draco would repeat, because Harry wouldn't listen.
With every inch of me
He alerts, because Harry wouldn't care.
Tonight I'll sleep
He would lie, because Harry would worry.
With demons in my hair
They never seem to get away. Slytherin Prince, as they designed him. Yet the sole crown he wears is far too heavy, for it burns his mind, until nothing remains.
That talk to me
Perhaps Lucius was right. Perhaps Draco isn't much of a fighter, more of a coward. The words, they slay him, his throat, his mouth, his lungs, and he would fall all over the ground, he would puke over clean sheets, he would cry and beg for them to leave, but they never listen! They come and come again, for him, for all he's done, for all he did not!
It's only just a dream
Harry would persist. And he seizes him in his arms, gentle sways before the nights. Draco cries, and cries, and Harry doesn't care, he doesn't mind anyways.
Stay here
Soft kisses painted over salty tears, blooming over his glossy eyes, those that contain every colors Harry ever witnessed. Dulled by stars, brighten as faint smiles begin. Tender kisses over his cheeks, his jaw, the corner of his lips.
Draco smiles under starless nights, and Harry thinks dawn has come,
For his world shines enough for the moon to cease.