I.

Draco tucked long blond hair behind his ear and watched Harry sleep. He didn't sleep much himself, usually only when exhaustion finally dragged him under, and even then it was only a matter of time before he was sitting bolt upright in the bed, his head full of horrors.

Harry slept deeply though, and that made sense to Draco. Harry gave so much of himself to others, and that had to be tiring. People were always prodding at his unexpected lover. They always wanted something from him: they wanted speeches and photos and interviews and plans for his future. They wanted it to be a nasty rumor that he was living with and fucking and generally being more cozy with a known Death Eater than the public thought their Savior should be so soon after the war, or ever, really. But in true Harry Potter fashion, the Boy Who Lived had told them all to fuck off and let him do as he pleased. And they owed him that, didn't they?

Draco had mentioned that once, and Harry had shaken his head. "No one owes me anything," he'd said. "Not the world, and not you. So if you're only here because you think you have to repay me for something..."

He hadn't got a chance to finish that sentence because Draco had pressed forward and silenced him with a kiss.

II.

Draco's body was a mess of scars. He'd been tortured and beaten under the Dark Lord's service. His aunt had been mad and eager to please her Master, and even when Voldemort didn't request it, she was ready to carve bits out of her favorite nephew.

His left forearm was branded of course, and he didn't even bother to hide it anymore. People knew who he was. His hair and eyes and demeanor characterized him as a Malfoy, and everyone knew who the Malfoys had sided with.

His chest was marred with ropey scar tissue, the largest and longest a take away from the incident that made him look at Potter in a different way. Like his Mark, he didn't bother to hide this scar either. Harry knew what he had done. He'd apologized, Draco had forgiven him, and he ignored all of the times when Harry's eyes would slide to his chest and fill with regret.

It was a war. Everyone regretted something.

III.

"Draco? Are you awake?" Harry asked one night.

Draco snorted, but refused to open his eyes. "What is it?"

"Nightmares."

"You weren't screaming."

Harry sighed. "Not that kind of nightmare."

Draco turned his head and cracked an eye open. "What kind then?"

"You left."

"Oh. That won't happen," Draco said, closing his eyes again.

"It could."

"No." I've nowhere else to go.

IV.

Harry was not as well adjusted as everyone seemed to think he was, and Draco wondered if he resented Harry more for being able to pretend or for having people to pretend for.

V.

Those weeks right after the end of the war had been one long mess of funerals, and Harry had gone to every one of them. He said he felt like he owed it to the dead to be there. Draco hadn't cared. He'd just puttered around the vast house, not really talking, not really doing anything.

When it came time to lay the elder Malfoys to rest, Harry had entered the bedroom to find Draco lying on the bed staring at the wall.

"I thought you might like to come to this one," he said softly. "Say goodbye maybe."

Draco let his silence reply for him, and Harry went alone.

He didn't need to be there to know how it would go. Harry and perhaps Andromeda Tonks, the last of the Black sisters, would show up. Words would be said, but they would be hollow, said only because they were required and because Harry Potter stood there.

VI.

Draco sat curled up in an armchair watching as Harry hurled expensive, goblin made china at the wall. Apparently pretending to be okay for endless droves of Weasleys took their toll on a person.

With a lazy flick of his wand, Draco repaired a rather lovely gravy boat that had exploded three feet from his head.

"Stop that," Harry snapped, summoning it and smashing it again.

"You shouldn't take your madness out on the china," Draco drawled, repairing the boat again, and wrapping his hands possessively around it.

"I'm not mad," Harry shouted. "I'm trying, and I'm tired!"

"Then clearly you need to try harder."

Green eyes flashed dangerously, and Harry took a step closer to Draco, reminding him suddenly that the two had had a very antagonistic relationship for nearly the entire time they had known each other. "You can fuck right off, Draco. At least I'm trying instead of hiding from everything."

"I'm not-"

"You are! You haven't left this house in eight months."

Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously and he was on his feet, the delicate china clenched in his hands. "What is there for me out there?"

"Life, Draco! You're not living! If you'd stop being such a bloody-" Harry had to duck to avoid the gravy boat that Draco threw at his head.

"Do not," the blond said, voice low and dangerous, "finish that sentence."

VII.

Harry came apart in Draco's hands. His eyes showed fear as they moved together, and Draco realized that this was what it meant to trust. Harry let him see how scared, how lost, how very nearly broken the war had left him, emotions entering those brilliant green eyes and making them glow.

Draco paused on his way down Harry's body and stared. He knew what his own eyes looked like, flat and cold, maybe darkened a little with lust for the not quite man under him, but they gave nothing away.

VIII.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why this? Why me? Why...any of it?"

"That's a big question. It just...feels right. Feels good."

IX.

There were times when Draco would go whole days without speaking. He would sit in a chair or on the couch, curled up and sullen. Sometimes Harry would sit with him, reading a book or writing a letter to someone or other. His eyes would occasionally slide to Draco, as if making sure that he hadn't disappeared; they would linger for a moment, taking in Draco's defensive position, as if even now the blond was afraid that someone or something meant to hurt him.

They communicated through touches and gestures on these days. Well, Draco did. A flick of those graceful fingers towards a door meant that Draco wanted to be left alone. A tug on Harry's sleeve meant stay or closer. And when Draco laid his head against Harry's chest, arms wrapped tight around himself, it meant I am this close to shattering; just sit here and hold me together.

X.

"What's it like to die?" Draco asked in the dark of their bedroom.

"Relieving," came Harry's soft voice, after a lengthy silence.

Draco didn't protest when Harry's hand groped for his, twining their fingers together and holding tight. "You were relieved to die?"

"I was relieved to have a break. Up until then, every moment had been one long fight, and yeah, it was bloody hard to just walk up to Voldemort and let him kill me, but once I was dead..."

"It was over," Draco supplied.

"Yeah."

"But you didn't stay dead."

Harry shook his head, using his hold on Draco's hand to pull him closer. "Of course I didn't. I still had stuff to do. I still had to end him. Coming back was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I knew I had to do it."

"I would have just stayed dead."

"No you wouldn't."

The blonde huffed. "I would."

"No. Because you are nowhere near that self centered. You pretend, but you're not."

"Sod off."

"And really, everyone has that same choice." Harry continued. "To die or keep fighting. You have it just as much as I did. And look; you're still here."

The room was silent for a few moments as Draco took all of that in. He'd thought about it, of course. About deciding that he had nothing more to live for and just being done with it all. But in the end, Harry was right.

"I'm still here."