Malfoy's viscious.
But that's why Harry loves him. And somehow he can't see it as a bad trait when Malfoy's on his knees before him. All he can see are grey eyes smoldering up at him- how awkward a word is that, smoldering. But it's true. Everything Malfoy does reeks of sex, especially when he has Harry's cock in his mouth. Harry thinks that's when he likes Malfoy best.
Sometimes Harry wants to get out of this. He doesn't know much about what a good relationship looks like, but he doesn't think it's this. They're mutually abusive, he thinks. They fight more than not, and it usually ends in violence. But Harry loves it when Malfoy's rough with him- sexually or not. It makes him feel alive and the world is thrown into sharp focus. Ever since the end of the war, only Malfoy makes him feel useful and most of all, alive.
Malfoy has an unnatural obsession with picking Harry up. He doesn't know if he likes it, being cradled in Malfoy's arms. It makes him feel reliant, helpless. But he never protests, because sometimes Malfoy will kiss him on the throat and say "I've got you". He's never felt so safe.
Harry wonders how Malfoy makes money. Whenever he comes back from the Ministry, there he is, lounging on Harry's settee. And when he leaves in the morning, Malfoy is still asleep. Yet the blond is never short on money, and Harry never sees him do anything. Once, he'd asked, but Malfoy had said "shut up Potter" and pounded him into the mattress with a ferocity Harry craved.
The press still calls him the Chosen One, even though the war was long over. He didn't know how he feels about that, particularly where Malfoy was concerned. Malfoy had made all the wrong choices, Harry knew, but he couldn't resent him, or even pity him. He feels like Malfoy was just a more radical version of himself. And that scared him.
They never did anything for Valentine's day, even after being together for two years. However, sometimes Harry would come home to a box of chocolates, or a bunch of roses in their bedroom. Malfoy would make excuses- he was craving chocolates, or he just liked the smell of roses- but Harry took them as the presents he knew they were.
Theirs was a complex relationship, one not defined in words. At least, not to each other.
Sometimes he'd get hurt on the job. Once, he got hurt really badly. Malfoy didn't show up, but Harry was glad. He didn't want Malfoy to see him like this. Dying.
It hurt. This was worse than the first time, he thought, and in that moment, he wished Draco were here. Draco, not Malfoy. Draco. The man he'd lived with for five years now, and the only one who loved him- really loved him- without conditions.
Tears poured down his face as a hand smoothed his hair. "Stop crying Potter," a soft voice said, and green eyes opened for the first time in days.
"Draco?" His voice sounded like the Sahara.
"When did it stop being Malfoy?" the blond mused, tracing the scar on his head.
"When I started dying."
They were quiet, very quiet, and for a while Harry wondered if he had died already. He could feel it coming, strangely enough.
"Let me kiss it better," Draco said.
He died with the taste of Draco on his lips.