AN: QFLC Round 11. My team, the Arrows, got the song 'Are You Lonesome Tonight' by Elvis Presley - which I never even listened to before, lol. I chose the line "Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there" for my fic, and also picked the word count of 2,319 words, the picture, and the restriction that the the whole fic can only occur in one room as my prompts. (4, 5, and 7 respectively.)
I tried to make it funny. It turned angsty. It would have had a nice ending if I didn't choose the word count prompt though! I didn't have enough words left over to have them make up properly. This is a modern AU without any magic, by the way. Harry and Draco somehow miraculously got together sometime before this fic.
As a final note, the title comes from the aforementioned song.
Total word count: 2,319 according to FFnet
"Don't feel so down, mate," Ron says. "He's a git. We're better off without him."
Harry groans, rubbing his face with one hand. In the other he clutches onto his phone, the screen showing a blurry picture of a blond man with his arm wrapped around Harry's neck, smirking. His phone is asking Harry if he's sure he wants to delete it. Harry's thumb hovers over the 'delete,' trembling.
He puts the phone down on the surface of the kitchen island, then folds his arms next to the phone and buries his face into them, glasses digging awkwardly into his face. The cold of the granite chills Harry's arms through his sleeves.
"C'mon Harry," Ron says, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. He continues, "Don't be like that just 'cause Malfoy's moving to France. We don't even like him, you know?"
"Ron," Harry deadpans, voice muffled as he spoke into the crook of his arm. "Just because you don't like Draco doesn't mean everyone else doesn't like him. I like him just fine."
Ron removes his hand from Harry's shoulder with a snort, but only after shaking Harry gently. "Right, okay, but you gotta admit that he rubbed a lot of people off wrong."
Harry valiantly stops himself from petulantly saying 'he rubbed me off just right, thanks' to Ron's face.
Ron lets out a gusty sigh. "Mate, if you're not gonna delete his picture, then I'll do it for you."
"I'm not sure that's how this 'getting over him' thing works, Ron." Harry says, finally sitting up straight. He watches Ron take his phone and tap on the screen, hands twitching. Instead of snatching his phone out of Ron's hands, he adjusts his glasses to sit properly on his face.
Ron shrugs. "Well, you've always been weird about taking the first step in relationship stuff. This is just me making you take that step."
Harry rolls his eyes, but can't help his wince when Ron taps his phone one final time and then pushes it back to Harry. "There, his picture's gone. You can start getting over and him and maybe date someone who's actually cool," he says.
Harry scowls, taking his phone back to fiddle around with it - make sure Ron hasn't done anything else while he had his phone. In reality, he checks to see if the photo really is gone, and feels a pang of regret when he can't find it. That was his only picture of Draco on his phone.
"He isn't even out of the country yet," Harry mutters.
Ron shakes his head. "He might as well be. I haven't seen him since he broke the news."
Harry flinches, shifting around uncomfortably on his stool.
Ron doesn't notice, having turned his attention to the clock on the kitchen wall. "Look, I gotta go - you sure you don't wanna go to the pub with Seamus, and the others?" he asks, standing up and tucking his stool in. He loiters awkwardly next to Harry as he waits for an answer.
"Nah," Harry says. "I figured that I'd stay in tonight. Don't feel much like going out with the guys."
Ron nods, "Alright mate, I'll see you later. Call me if you need me, yeah?"
And with that, Ron shows himself out of Harry's apartment, leaving Harry to wallow in his kitchen.
Harry groans once again and presses his phone against forehead, his head propped up by his other hand. He stares out the window morosely. The sun is setting outside in lovely shades of oranges and pinks that are almost magenta. The dying light spills into his kitchen, colours the grey granite counter tops and reflects off the metal frame of his glasses.
The admittedly pretty sight does nothing but make Harry angry and lonely.
Draco Malfoy is the kind of person who would have loved this sunset because it was 'much better than whatever uncouth pastime Weasley wants to do.' Draco Malfoy is the person that Harry wants to sit at his kitchen island with as he admires the view from his tiny apartment in downtown London. Draco Malfoy is moving to France to pursue his political career. Draco Malfoy told Harry this only two weeks ago. Draco bloody Malfoy broke up with Harry five long days ago. Draco bloody Malfoy kissed him on the lips and then took a step back to say "I can't do this with you anymore."
Draco bloody Malfoy.
Harry's tempted to run out after Ron to go to the pub, but he has extreme doubts that he'd be good company tonight.
He breaks out the wine instead, pouring some Pinot Noir into one of his wine glasses until the wine sloshes at the glass' rim. He puts the bottle down, screws the cap back on, then goes to make himself dinner to go with it.
He brings out his sliced bread and his tuna spread, which Draco hated. The tuna is technically the correct thing to pair with the wine, and Harry can't be bothered to make anything nicer tonight, so he grabs a knife and starts slathering the tuna spread onto a slice of bread.
He takes a bite, chews, swallows. Picks up his wine glass, careful not to let it spill onto the floor or counter, sips.
The wine smells and tastes fruity, fresh on his tongue in ways that he'd never get from cheap beer. There's an undertone of tea leaves, like the last wine that Draco brought to Harry to taste, as he did at least once every month, because Draco's wine collection was truly great, and he likes to share with Harry - liked to share.
Harry swallows with a grimace.
Harry had bought this wine to share with Draco. Saint Clair, Pioneer Block, the label read. Pinot Noir 2012. Twenty-two bloody pounds without tax.
Harry takes another drink and finds his glass empty. He pours himself some more. Repeat.
Harry gets steadily drunker. With every sip, his anger slips away, out of his spine and into the ground, until he's slumped on the island, bum hanging off of the stool and legs dangling awkwardly. In place of anger is a bone-deep weariness, a sadness that presses his shoulders into the hard granite. The edge of it digs against his chest, almost painful whenever he inhales.
He traces the rim of his wine glass, only a quarter way full. This might be his third glass. Maybe his fourth. He can't remember exactly, but he feels dizzy when he tries to count, and a bit like throwing up. He can't tell if the nausea is from the drinking or from thinking about his ex-boyfriend and how he wouldn't even look at Harry, let alone talk to him or act like Harry even exists.
Harry feels like he's one step away from hurling himself out the window.
Instead, he considers his other choices. He's been making relatively good choices tonight. His next good choice, he decides, will be actually articulating these feelings to an outside party. That's the next step in the getting-over thing, isn't it? Harry feels like he's skipping a step. Maybe Hermione would know. Maybe he should talk to Hermione.
He pats the counter until his hand hits his phone, and then drags his phone closer to him, squinting. He took off his glasses earlier so he could put his head against the cool stone properly. With an unsteady finger, he scrolls through his contacts.
Hermione always listened. Hermione always had a plan. God, Harry hoped she had a plan.
The phone rings. Someone picks up.
"'Mione," Harry says. "I'm really drunk right now." This is his preface. The preface to the expulsion of his guts. He will spill his guts. Figuratively or literally.
There's a noise on the other side of the line. Harry interrupts her from saying anything. "This is maybe the only time I'll ever talk feelings, so, so - be quiet. Oh, no, that's, uh. Rude. Yeah. 'M sorry 'Mione."
He shouldn't be rude or mean to people he's friends with. That's, ah, problematic behaviour. Problematic. Like his own problem. Right.
"Right. Hi 'Mione! You like it when I give you problems to solve. Here's one. Here's a problem. Draco Malfoy. Draco bloody Malfoy. Bloody isn't his middle name, it's Luci-somethin'. Lucy. I dunno."
Harry stares at his wine glass, eyes glazed over. "I do know. I'm just being an arse. I like knowin' stuff 'bout 'im. About Draco Lucius Malfoy." He makes a noise at the back of his throat, then makes another one, a different, more aggravated one when his phone slips out of lax hand, making a loud crack against the counter top.
"Imma put you on speaker, 'Mione!" he shouts at the phone. It's too far away for him to mumble. It's not in his hand. Oh, never mind, now it's in his hands. Instead of picking it up he turns it over. There aren't any new scratches or cracks in the screen. That's good.
He pushes some buttons, then hears soft breathing from his phone. It's either on speaker phone or really bloody loud.
"Can you solve that? Wait, no, you need to know the sita - situ - situash - stuff. You need to know stuff before you can solve it. He's not even the problem. He's only part of the problem."
Harry looks very seriously at his phone screen, like he's looking into Hermione's eyes through them. "The problem is that he's moving to France, and I thought we could do the long-distance thing, and he broke up with me without telling me why, and he's pretending I don't exist now, and I still love him."
"You love me?" Harry hears from his phone. It sounds suspiciously like Draco.
"'Mione, why's your voice so different?" he asks.
"I'm not Hermione," Hermione says. Harry frowns. He squints at the name of the contact on the screen of his phone. The blurry letters he assumed were 'Mione' focus into 'Malfoy.' He really should change it to Draco, being on first-name basis and all -
Harry screeches, suddenly very sober, and flails as he jerks away from his phone. His hand hits his wine glass, sending it flying over the island to crash loudly against his lovely hardwood flooring.
"Potter? Harry? Are you alright?" Draco says. Harry flings himself at his phone and jabs at it with his finger until the call disconnects, right on "Harry please - "
Harry exhales shakily. He inhales while counting to four, holds, then exhales while counting to four. He does it again. He begins to feel steadier around the eighth time, and mentally thanks Remus for teaching him that trick.
He sighs into his hand, the sigh drifting into a whimper towards the end, and grabs a broom and dustpan from the cupboard to clean up the broken wine glass. He'd get some paper towels to wipe down the wine afterwards, and between those two tasks he'd just have to hope that the wine didn't stain the wood.
There's a knock on the door as he's almost done sweeping up the glass.
Frowning, Harry looks up at his door, and then the clock. It's almost midnight. He decides to ignore the knocking.
The knocking continues, then stops after two more minutes. Harry instead hears the locks of the door turn. He stands, frowning harder, because only a few people have his keys and he can't think of why they'd be here so late. From the kitchen, he can see the door open and the light from the hall outside spill into the darkened hall, silhouetting the figure in his doorway.
They step inside, closing and locking the door behind them, and dart into the kitchen. The brown or ginger head of hair he expects to see is absent. Harry only sees blond hair before he starts scowling.
"Harry - " Draco says, looking endearingly disheveled with his hair sticking up and panting like he ran here. "Harry, there you are," he says as he steps closer to Harry. His bright eyes glint in as they run down Harry's entire body in concern and then confusion, sweeping the entire kitchen before focusing back on Harry, more intently than before.
"You don't look hurt," Draco says, almost to himself.
"No, I just knocked over a wine glass." Harry replies, waving a hand to the mess still on the floor. The thought that he and Draco live a twenty-five minute walk away from each other strikes him the moment that Draco takes another deep inhale. "How'd you get over here so fast?" It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since Harry called.
"I ran," Draco says dryly, like it's obvious and he can't believe he has to say it.
Harry glares. "Okay, why are you here?"
Draco looks away from Harry. He stares at the broken glass instead. After a moment, he takes three more steps forward until he's in arms reach of Harry, and then he pushes Harry into sitting on the stool and squats down to finish cleaning the glass.
"I… love you too." Draco says quietly. "And I thought you didn't love me back. And I was wrong."
"But you're still moving, aren't you?" Harry asks, because he can't leave well enough alone.
"Yeah," Draco says.
And that's that.