He was losing him. It was one of those things he could just instinctively feel. He wasn't sure why or in what way or even when he started to slip away at all. But he could feel it in his embrace, in his kiss, in the heated pants against his collarbone. There was something wrong there, something different. It was the same man - the same pale blonde hair, the same lean body, the same satisfied smirk as he elicited satisfied moans from the man beneath him, the same stony grey eyes. But there was something deeper. There was an apology waiting in those stone eyes, reflected in each faltering smile, but as for a crime, there wasn't a trace. No signs of infidelity, no reason to believe he was thieving, no indication that he wasn't satisfied with the relationship. Just apology, a pure genuine apology, for a crime he had yet to commit. Which wouldn't have been a problem to a normal couple because when a problem has yet to happen, it could usually still be talked out and prevented. But Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were not a normal couple. And Draco Malfoy never apologized.
So why now?
Harry didn't know. He honestly didn't. And that just made the severity of his crime that much worse; it gave him that much more to dread. And he was helpless to it. Helpless because he knew the man he was holding was far more powerful than he, that he had much more dangerous connections, that he was capable of doing things Harry only pictured in nightmares. Helpless because the man he loved was not working for the right side nor was he working for someone who could easily be denied. Helpless because with one quick move, one wrong turn, Harry could find himself or someone else hurt or worse, all because he tried to draw the wrong information out. And most of all helpless because he was horribly and undeniably in love with Draco Malfoy and no matter how many people he hurt or crimes he committed or Order members he betrayed, he would never stop loving him. He had tried. He had tried over and over and over again - with Dumbledore's death, with breaking security, with handing Hogwarts over to the Death Eaters. He had tried when Draco took the Mark, he had tried when Draco swore to do Voldemort's bidding, and he tried every single time Draco referred to his master as "the Dark Lord". But it didn't matter. Because he wasn't in love with the things Draco did wrong, but he was in love with why he did them.
Family. Love. Loyalty. Three things that Draco Malfoy had always known and always had that Harry did not. He was doing it for his mother. And his father. And the Malfoy name. He was doing it for pride, not only for his own reputation but his entire family's as well. He was doing it for the preservation of his own life and the lives of those that he loved. He wasn't doing it because he was a coward or because he was weak, but for the opposite reasons. He was doing it because he was strong and brave and he had found something worth fighting for, even if it meant fighting for the wrong side. And Harry loved that. Despite everything he had ever done, Harry loved that Draco could love anybody so much that he was willing to barter with his soul. He just wished more often than he'd like to say out loud that the person Draco bartered for was him. But he had lost that battle. He had given Draco the option of family or him and Draco had made the simple choice, the choice that Harry honestly would have made in his place. But it didn't lessen the sting any, and now...now there was this apology. This look of pure despair and desperation, just pleading silently and unknowingly for forgiveness, and it was just another thing that Harry was helpless to. He was losing him.
So he held on tighter, pulled him closer, deepened their kiss. He tried to grab a firm hold on what was his, what had always been his and what he couldn't live without. And Draco responded as he always did with such a fire - with bruising kisses and rough hands pinning Harry down, claiming him, possessing him. But it wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough, and Harry struggled to find closeness, begged for it, begged with strained whimpers and, "Draco please, Merlin, please now," and the desperate rutting of sex against sex. And Draco tried, burying his fingers in tangled black hair, biting down on a lower lip that was not his own, eliciting more pleased moans and, "Merlin yes, Draco," and he hadn't even touched him yet. But still Harry clawed at his neck, pulled him down, begging for more and desperate for more than he could give until they broke apart, eyes dark with a mixture of desperation and love and lust.
And they knew then - knew what was wrong with them, and not just as separate entities but them. The desire for closeness, to be one, the desperate need to completely inhabit one another was suffocating them. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough, to exist as they were, as Harry and Draco, as Light and Dark. They needed more, needed closeness, needed desire, needed to be a homogeneous combination of Harry and Draco. But that was what the apology was for, that's what was hidden in those grey eyes. Denial. Betrayal. Rejection. Fact. Because they were Light and Dark, Harry and Draco, and that reality was bound to catch up to the pair of them. It was bound to consume them.
But if anything, it strengthened the need. The need to be one, to exist, to know that this was happening, Draco was his, even if only long enough for one last kiss. Harry crashed his lips against the other man's, desperately pleading that they ignore it, that the apology be forgiven and forgotten, that they continue as they were. And Draco kissed him back though not nearly as desperately - slowly, more, savoring his last taste of the forbidden fruit, sucking out Harry's very soul with each hot breath. And Harry let him take it, keep it, cherish it, just so long as he had a piece of him.
"Harry," Draco murmured against his lips and Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, a prickling sensation on the back of his neck as the feeling of Draco's breath sent fire straight down to his core. But he shushed him with another kiss and led him backwards, let him lay back while Harry claimed what was his, while he relished in the knowledge that for one last night, he could have this. He brushed Draco's bare chest with soft hands, gliding over the contours he had, had memorized for years now, dipping into each curve and tracing scars lightly with his fingers. He felt Draco's breath catch as his lips descended down his neck onto his collar bone and further still to capture one dark nipple between his teeth and nip gently. "Harry," Draco breathed again and his name sent waves of pleasure through his body. He needed to feel him, needed to get closer to him. He just needed more, more desire, more pleasure, more passion, more everything. He brought two fingers up to Draco's face, tracing a path for his tongue to follow up his body, and he let out a low, guttural moan when his lover pulled them into his mouth, tongue swirling expertly around the pads, knowing full well what it was doing to the man on top of him. Harry released his tension through bites on Draco's neck, kisses on his jaw, pressure on his waist, but it was all nothing compared to the immense pressure built by seeing his fingers press pass those pink lips, feel the tongue tracing the circumference of the digits in a way that drove him mad.
Even pulling his fingers from the warmth of Draco's mouth was excruciatingly erotic, and the blonde's stony grey eyes followed the sight of them until Harry pushed himself back and lifted his hips. When his finger began to press against his own entrance, Draco let out a noise that was almost inhuman and moved to grab Harry's hips. But the brunette pushed him back, made him sit and watch as he stretched himself, the familiar sensation making him gasp and wriggle further down onto his own finger. Draco watched with dark eyes, face flushed with lust, dying to reach out and touch and being denied at every opportunity. "Harry," he gasped out again, but this time he sounded more pleading and the desperate tone sent a new flood of fire south. But Harry didn't relent. He stretched himself slowly, dragged it out, until he could feel the want radiating from his lover.
"I love you," Harry said quietly as at last he allowed Draco to touch him, to push him backwards to take control again, to press against him until their fires collided and flames burst around them. Draco didn't respond with anything but a kiss that lit another spark that sent them both teetering toward the edge. Wrapped up in one another, it wasn't hard to ignore the building pressure, the burning pleasure of Draco guiding himself to Harry's stretched entrance, pushing past the clenching muscles and moaning deep into Harry's throat as he did so. It was such a practiced movement, so perfectly timed and memorized and familiar, that Harry never stopped him once. Draco knew when he was pushing too hard, when he was going too quickly, but Harry never once jolted in pain, never once hissed against his lips, never once bit down too hard. He just moaned, deep, guttural, animalistic sounds that he didn't know he was capable of making, and Draco thrust once, twice, and then:
Stars. Fireworks.
It wasn't always easy to remain aroused when in such an uncomfortable position but with Draco, Harry never had a problem. The low growl that escaped him when his lover began his gentle strokes in time with his thrusts was almost inhuman and it wasn't long before he was mumbling and moaning and, "Fuck Draco, yes, like that," and Draco was panting at the clenched muscles tight around him and then they were both moaning as the fireworks reached the finale and the world exploded in a sea of sparks.
They were both breathing deeply when they came down from their high and Harry caught Draco's lips with his own as they lay together, layered over one another, one entity at last. "I love you," he said quietly and Draco again didn't respond. He just laid against him, nuzzling into the crook of Harry's neck as they listened to the steady sound of the other's breath. This couldn't last forever. They both knew it; it was why Draco never said that he loved Harry back with words, why their meetings were mainly physical, why they tried to convince one another that this was something purely sexual. They couldn't last. Not with Voldemort and the war. Not with prejudices and the Ministry and Harry being wanted. They couldn't last.
But they would always have time for one last kiss.