Paint It Black
Every day was just like the one before it, and the next would be just like today. There was something to be said for predictability, Harry supposed. He preferred to think of himself as amazingly consistent.
He woke somewhere between noon and three, depending on how drunk he'd been the night before, and how long he'd stayed up before passing out. It varied, though two am was a pretty good bet. Not bad for someone who started in with the scotch at noon on the dot each day.
He'd tried drinking before noon just once, his rationalization being that it was already noon somewhere in the world, so let's embrace the International Date Line and …
But he hadn't been able to do it, in the end – apparently he still had some sense of propriety buried somewhere deep inside the wrecked shell of his body.
He would wake and lie there groggily, trying to get his eyes to focus, blinking against the pale sunlight that, despite his best efforts to block it out, insisted on slanting across his bed in disturbingly linear lines. After an involuntary grunt, a large lump of mottled cat would land squarely on his bladder, making him groan. He would pet the cat, a stray who had taken a shine to him one day as Harry made his way home from the liquor store, and who, like him, was content to live on scotch and Cheez-Its – this being the best of all possible combinations in Harry's expert opinion.
After kitty-petting came the ritualistic groaning and whining as he forced himself to stand up and take the four long steps to the loo, where he sat down on the toilet with his head in his hands – his ability to aim had been shot a long time ago, along with his sense of self, sense of purpose and ability to balance his checkbook – and thought.
He did all his deep thinking in that pose. First, it was second nature to him by now, and secondly, it was really the only time in any 24-hour period that he was reasonably sober.
Harry would think about life, love, whether the Prime Minister favored dressing in tulle ball gowns in his spare time, and whether he should switch to oyster crackers as his main source of fiber. He rarely came to any solid conclusions.
He'd pull on some boxers – it was a challenge to find clean ones, and he was often reduced to turning already-worn ones inside out – and sit back down on the edge of his bed, lighting a cigarette and staring and smoking for the next five to ten minutes.
Some people pulled out a prayer mat and faced Mecca, some folded their bodies into origami in the name of yoga, and some chanted while incense burned. Harry Potter sat on his unmade bed in tatty boxers and smoked Marlboros. It worked for him.
After he'd finished his morning ablutions such as they were, he would wander out to his tiny kitchen, which adjoined his tiny living room, and root around in the icebox, eating whatever he found that didn't seem liable to bite him back. Often, his breakfast consisted of sweet pickles and a slice or six of processed cheese. It was enough for the first scotch to grab onto and kept him from vomiting, and that's all Harry really asked from anything animal, vegetable, or mineral these days.
He'd make his way to his couch, push off the accumulated debris of the night before, and pour a Scotch – he kept his bar needs on his coffee table, handily enough – and flip on the telly.
Universal remote in one hand, Scotch and cigarette in the other, a bag of cheese crackers by his side, and Harry was set for the day.
It was a simple life, and perhaps not what he'd once envisioned for himself, but it was what he had.
Draco Malfoy, too, woke around noon, or late – usually much later – squinted against the light, hated getting out of bed, and started his day with an alcoholic drink of some sort and a Parliament, usually lit and dragged upon before he had even crawled out of bed.
Sometimes he substituted a pill or tab of something for his customary shot of alcohol – didn't every musician? Oh, but he was not a musician, no. He was a Rock Star, and nobody had better forget it. Musicians could play instruments, compose and read notes on a staff, craft melody and pretty words; Draco's sole job was to alternately scream or croon lyrics into a headset or standing microphone, while swaying and writhing on stage, locking smoldering eyes with some young thing, and signing autographs. That was his job, and he did it so damn well that his complete lack of congeniality was tolerated – even rewarded.
He hadn't set out to be the lead singer in a rock band; in fact, he hadn't set out to be anything at all in particular, but when the Ministry of Magic basically tossed out the scions of the pureblood houses on their asses, he'd had to do something – and he'd be damned if he took some menial job, some low-rent position in the Ministry just to show how supposedly humble he now was.
Draco Malfoy was many things, some unprintable, but humble was not one of them. He'd turned his back on wizarding society and began to explore the very world he'd been taught to despise, finding that his esteemed father had been wrong about that, too.
Ah, the Muggle world. Seriously, how could he have ever looked down on it the way he had? It was fucking brilliant to be a wizard amongst non-wizards, he had to admit, and though he rarely used magic anymore, it was nice to know that he always had the upper hand in most situations. A virtually unnoticeable flick of a concealed wand, a nonverbal spell, and he had total control.
A chance encounter at a karaoke bar – yes, he'd been drunk: one had to be to engage in karaoke at all – with the lead guitarist of Black Camelot, recently sans a singer, had led to a meeting with the other blokes in the band, a little 'jamming,' and before Draco knew it, he had a day job. Or a night job, rather. It was rare that any member of Black Camelot saw more than an occasional glimpse of daylight.
Draco's life wasn't quite – all right, not at all – what he had planned, either, but he was happy enough. He enjoyed dressing in leather, wearing eyeliner, and looking down into a sea of adoring fans. He liked going on tour, interviews where his every word was hung upon, and the plethora of free goodies that came his way. He liked taking a different pretty boy or girl to bed every night and then turning them loose the next day with a smile, autograph, and a promise (never kept) of looking them up the next time he was in town.
He liked not having any ties.
Draco didn't think about his 'past life' much, but when he did, he only thought about one person, one man. But he was gone now, disappeared from the magical world, and for all Draco knew, from the physical world altogether. Even his few friends that still straddled both worlds – Pansy, Blaise – didn't know where he'd gone.
So he pushed the thought, the memory away; he had no use for fantasies anymore, anyway; reality was much more delicious and satisfying.
It was, as they said, sweet – very sweet, indeed.
Sometimes, when Harry had seen a particular episode of a show forty-seven times, he'd mute the sound on the telly and flip on the radio, scrolling through the stations till something sounded interesting. Not necessarily good, but interesting.
This afternoon he decided that nine viewings of the Fawlty Towers episode where all the guests were shagging each other (and Manuel) was enough, and flipped to a heavy metal station, coming into the middle of a song he'd never heard before. He listened, entranced, to a voice that was partly a sober Ville Valo crossed with Chris Isaak on acid, and tossed with a bit of Keith Richards. Whether Richards was sober or not in this mix was debatable, but the fact remained that while the song was rather unremarkable, the voice was, well, entrancing.
Entrancing. Jesus, when was the last time he'd used that word? Exactly never, was when. But it seemed the only word he could find in the morass of his mind to describe this sound.
He listened intently, and luck was with him; the deejay actually said the name of the band after the song.
Black Camelot. Harry was pretty sure he'd never heard the name before. He tried to envision what a black Camelot would be, and could only imagine an inky murk spreading over the Round Table as Arthur and his knights slowly sank into the floor.
Damn his classical education.
Harry had a laptop – he'd bought it in a rare moment of thinking he should really get his shit together and get a life, and a computer. Computers had something on them called the internet, and people with lives were on the internet – of this he was certain. When he had relayed that thought to Hermione, whom he'd called to come set up this electronic monstrosity, she'd snorted.
He hadn't asked why, and a year and a half later, he still knew nothing of the internet, other than that video poker was often a really bad idea. And there was porn … lots of porn.
Harry shook his head to rid himself of such random thoughts and booted up the laptop, lighting another cigarette and pouring his fourth scotch and water – sans water – of the day.
The search was immediately fruitful, as the band had its own website, complete with pictures, biographies, tour dates, and links to download their latest cd. Harry read it all, taking a particularly close look at their lead singer, the possessor of that brilliant voice.
He was beautiful, Harry had to admit; pale blond, dark eyed, with thin lips and a narrow face. Given his basic features, he shouldn't have been so pretty – but he was. Maybe it was the makeup that made the difference between rather plain, even slightly pinched, and flat-out gorgeous.
His name, Harry discovered, was Milo. Huh. He didn't look much like a Milo, but Harry supposed that if all names were made to fit people perfectly, his would have to be changed to Disheveled Drunk – maybe he should look into it. Let people know what they were getting, as it were. The singer had no last name listed and didn't need one; like Cher and Liberace, Milo seemed an entity unto himself.
Harry figured out how to download the songs and listen to them on his laptop, and once he heard that voice, he forgot about the telly, the crackers, the cigarettes – but not the scotch. Not even Milo's voice wafting from the speakers was enough to make him forgo his Dewar's.
After all, it wasn't like the guy was magic or anything.
It had been a long time since they'd stopped in London, and Draco was surprised to find that he had missed it, a little. Stepping off the plane at Heathrow, the familiar weight of the air pressed down on his chest, and he swallowed hard.
The show was tomorrow night – they'd arrived a day early to allow the other band members a chance to catch up with their friends and families. Pansy was busy reeling in her potential second husband in Geneva, and Blaise was off doing something likely immoral, if not illegal, in Mykonos, so Draco was at loose ends, and planned on 'catching up' with a fifth of whiskey and something lewd on cable telly.
The band was successful enough for each member to warrant his own suite, so once Draco closed the door and locked it, the Do Not Disturb sign hanging prominently on the doorknob, he was alone – a rare treat.
At least that's what he told himself. If he was truthful, which he never was, he would have to admit that he hated being alone. He especially hated being alone in London, a city that seemed to mock his single status by reminding him that his phantom man should be here, should be in his suite with him, and eventually in his bed with him. And he wasn't, probably never would be.
The fifth of whiskey went faster than it should have that night, thank God for room service. And cable porn.
Still, it wasn't enough to make his brain stop ticking over the last memories he had of what was, truly, 'the one that got away.' It wasn't enough to make him stop thinking about Harry Potter.
For the first time in many months, Harry had not only showered, but shaved and attempted to make his hair do something other than stand on end. He was wearing clean clothes, even, and God help him, cologne.
He'd had three drinks since noon, and it was now almost half nine – for him, that was tantamount to being stone cold sober, and he found himself casting yearning glances towards the familiar bottle with its amber forgetfulness. It seemed to mock him from its perch on the table. But he was determined to hang tough … at least till after the show.
Black Camelot was playing tonight at Underworld, and he had a front row seat, although he'd been advised by the nice woman on the phone that the area in front of the seats would most likely become a sort of mosh pit. Harry didn't care, and was prepared to slam with the best of them. All he cared about was seeing Milo, as up close and personal as possible.
In the month since he'd first heard that first song, "Galaxy of Dreams," he had become – for lack of better word – a fan boy. Or a fan man, rather.
He'd bought their four cds and listened to them endlessly. He'd read everything he could find on the internet, including something called "RPS," which seemed to be slash-type stories featuring the band members, written by fans. He was no judge of fiction, but while a few were pretty good, most of the stories were, to put it kindly, terrible. However, one or two were downright hot, and those he had saved to his hard drive for wanking purposes.
He'd ordered a t-shirt featuring Milo in all his pouty-lipped goodness and slept with it under his pillow. He knew all the words to all the songs, even the foreign translations. And he'd listened to hours of interviews, memorizing the sound of Milo's speaking voice. It sounded like southwest England to him, Wiltshire, maybe, the accent slightly less clipped than his own.
He almost, Harry thought, almost sounded like Draco Malfoy. His voice didn't have the same sneering undertones, or the tinge of bitterness that he associated with Malfoy, but there was something about it nonetheless. And Milo was blond, too.
In Harry's drunken mental meanderings, he had even wondered what had happened to Draco – if he was now the entitled, spoiled, petulant Lord of Malfoy Manor, instead of the entitled, spoiled, petulant heir to said Mansion. He'd not bothered to keep up with wizarding society once he'd bailed out of Auror training for a life of sloth and vice, so unless Hermione fed him some juicy news on her increasingly infrequent visits, he was out of the loop. And he liked it that way. It kept him out of trouble, and kept him from thinking too hard about things that shouldn't be thought of at all.
Harry looked at his watch – it was time to go. Deciding that he didn't trust the tube, tonight of all nights, he splurged on a cab and made his way to Underworld.
The show didn't start till eleven pm, but the venue was already crowded as all hell, and Harry had to take a deep breath and count to ten – four times – before he could steel himself to plunge into the crowd and elbow his way to the front.
He found himself wedged in amongst several nubile young things, mostly female, but with a few males scattered in amongst. At twenty-six, Harry was in no way old, but he still felt ancient in his present company. But he didn't leave. He was determined to see Milo.
A passing beer vendor caught his eye, and he bought two, figuring that would keep him for the next half hour, until the guy came through again. Beer was like water to him, and he regretted not bringing his flask – or hell, given this crowd, he could have poured scotch into a Snapple bottle and called it iced tea. Fuck of a time to think of that now, Potter.
He managed to wedge himself into his seat and looked around at the half (or less) clothed bodies around him; he had a sinking feeling the show would swiftly turn into a titty fest, and though he had no objections to breasts in general, he wasn't sure he was down with being hit in the face by bouncing globes of flesh … fore or aft.
He downed two more beers and was feeling a welcome little buzz when the opening act came on. They were okay, a Finnish band along the lines of Nightwish, although definite wannabes. But the lead singer was pretty and her corset squeezed her out at both ends, which amused Harry, so he drank another beer – he was making the vendor's night – and watched, waiting for the main event.
When the last quivering falsetto had echoed through the venue, the steel beams in the walls thrumming, Harry crushed his plastic cup and sat up.
The lights went out – except for a thin purple beam of light that shot down from the ceiling and slowly grew to bathe the stage in colors that shimmered and separated into drops, puddling around the feet of a lone figure.
Milo.
Harry's heart was pounding, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the man standing just bare yards from him, his eyes sweeping the crowd.
God, he was beautiful, and Harry couldn't remember the last time he had found someone beautiful. But Milo … he was.
The first notes of "Mirror Image" sounded, and the still figure came alive, prowling the stage, giving each lucky person who caught his eye a special smile, one only for them.
Around him, girls were screaming Milo's name and, as expected, flashing him their chests, stomachs, and in an extreme case, below deck, as Oliver Wood used to say. Harry barely noticed – his eyes were fixed on Milo.
And when Milo was in front of him, and looked down into Harry's eyes, Harry felt a shock like a hex – or more likely a curse – shoot through him.
He knew those eyes.
Draco.
For the rest of the show, Harry felt rooted in place, his stomach flipping and twisting like an aerialist's antics. And like them, he had no net, nothing to catch him when he fell.
How Draco managed to get through the rest of the show, he never knew; all he could think later was that he obviously had a hell of an auto-pilot, because his band mates congratulated him afterwards on one hell of a show. He himself remembered nearly nothing, save for the one pair of eyes he had stared into for too long a moment, seconds after he came on stage.
What the fuck was Harry fucking Potter doing front-row center at one of his shows?
Potter hadn't known Milo was Draco – he understood that as soon as knowledge dawned on that still all-too-open face. And he was fairly sure Potter's shock was reflected on his own face, but being a showman, he had recovered and moved on.
Now he was back in his dressing room, sitting on the couch and smoking his third of what promised to be many cigarettes this night, more to keep his hands occupied than anything else. He had tried to clutch a drink, but his hand had been shaking, and he had been forced to put it down before anyone noticed.
Around him, their road crew, girls from the audience, and other hangers-on were flooding the room, and Draco mechanically accepted congratulations, pats on whatever part of his body people could reach, and many kisses on the cheek. He thanked them all in a monotone, but no one seemed to notice.
Finally, as the room grew claustrophobically crowded, Draco rose and grabbed the bottle of vodka in front of him, making his way through the crowd and out the door, down the hall and out a little-used back door.
The cool night air was welcome, and Draco leaned against the building, the damp of the bricks seeping through his thin shirt. He took a deep swig of Grey Goose and let his breath out in a long sigh.
A few feet away, a match struck brick and a brief flare of light illuminated the face of his unexpected companion.
"How did you, of all people, ever wind up in a Muggle glam band?" Harry's voice was raspy, as though he didn't use it much. "No one except your psychotic mentor hated Muggles more than you."
Before Draco could react, Harry moved forward and grabbed Draco's arm, turning it roughly palm upwards. "Bet all your fans think this is just a really cool tattoo."
Draco yanked his arm away. "For all they know, it is. And just what the hell are you doing here or anywhere? You've dropped off the face of the earth, from what I hear … couldn't hack Auror training, Weaslette dumped your ass 'cause you went from hero to zero, and you fall into a hole and never are seen again. Yet here you are."
He looked Harry over. "And frankly, you've looked a whole hell of a lot better."
Harry took a deep drag off his cigarette. "It's nice to see you too."
Draco snorted and stuck his hand out. "Hand me a smoke."
Harry did, even holding a match for him. "Consider that the extent of my grand gestures for the night." He drew back and leaned against the wall a few feet from Draco, ill-concealed confusion on his face.
His attraction to 'Milo' should have flagged, then died a sudden, explosive death when he realised that the man who'd figured prominently in his fantasies for six weeks now was the very same person he'd nearly killed sixth year, and who had returned the favor by saving his ass during a capture at Malfoy Manor. Why, then, was he standing here with Draco, still?
He supposed that now Potter knew who he was, he'd make some grand gesture of burning any and all fan boy merchandise he'd collected in the course of his apparent obsession."
Yet here he was, not moving, and turning his head just barely to watch the pale gray smoke of Draco's cigarette rise up in a thin column towards the streetlight and disappear.
"You haven't answered my question, Potter. Why are you here?"
Harry shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. "I like your band; the music is pretty good, even considering that you sing it. And I do occasionally get out of the house. Scotch, cigarettes, and food don't appear on their own, you know?"
Draco gave him a sideways glance. "Doesn't look like you eat much."
"That's why food is listed last, you see."
"Nice. So what you're saying is that you saved the world, were feted by the Ministry, were poised to be the next Everything and then bailed, hid, and now drink and smoke your days away – when you aren't fanboying Muggle bands."
Harry appeared to consider this for a moment, then nodded and lit another cigarette. "Basically."
Draco shook his head. "Unbelievable."
"Not really. It's a stress-free life, and after the rather tumultuous adolescence I had, stress-free sounds pretty damn good to me. And you haven't answered my question, either … How did such a Muggle-hater wind up fronting a band full of them and being worshipped by thousands more?"
"Millions, not thousands," Draco corrected him, flicking ash onto the pavement. "We have fans all across the globe, not just Britain. And as to how I got here?" He shrugged and took a last drag before grinding the butt out under his heel. "Not so differently from you, Potter – the Ministry wanted to punish all of us purebloods, so they attempted to shove us down into little pigeonholes, doing jobs that wouldn't challenge a house-elf. I wasn't having any of that, so I decided to check out Muggle society."
The night was growing chillier by the moment, and Draco wished he'd brought something heavier to wear. He tried to pull down his net shirt, but it wasn't made for warmth, only for show. His shiver must have been noticed, because a jacket was handed to him then, and Draco hesitated for only a moment before slipping it on.
The worn leather jacket smelled of smoke, cologne, and some other faint smell that must be just Potter; it wasn't unpleasant, at any rate. He nodded to Harry. "Thanks. So, well, I started exploring Muggle London, and met some people at a pub one night; they were singing along with that blasted karaoke machine and persuaded my drunken self to try a song. I did, they liked it, one thing led to another, and here I am. Voilá."
"Sounds simple."
"It was, surprisingly. And I enjoy it, the money is good, and I have my pick of bed partners, booze, and whatever else I want. It's a good life for those who can handle it. Plus," and he looked around casually, "it's nice to have our powers in this world."
Harry shrugged. "If you say so; I have no idea where my wand even is. I think it's under some laundry, but I couldn't say for sure. It – magic – isn't something I need anymore."
"Don't you miss it?" Draco was curious about Harry's metamorphosis into something completely unlike what he used to be.
"Not really. I lived without it for eleven years, used it for nine, and then put it away again. It's fine, really."
Harry pushed himself off the wall. "I should get going – it was a good show, Malfoy. I am impressed, really; you've found your calling. Take care." He walked away quickly, not waiting for an answer, and at the corner, hailed another cab; his legs felt rubbery from the effort of being social and from pushing his attraction for the other man down and away. He was exhausted.
Safe in the cab, he finally shivered a bit, and remembered that Milo … Draco … had his jacket, but didn't care. It seemed a small price to pay for escape.
Draco pulled Potter's jacket around him tighter and breathed in the scent of it again, and then again. Potter had worn this tonight, and many other nights before it, and bits and pieces of the magic Potter had discarded still clung to it; Draco could almost swear that he could see the particles lighting the dark like fireflies.
Potter had come to see him. Never mind that he thought Draco was Milo – names were nothing. They were a place-holder; that was all. He had obviously spent time staring at Milo's face, memorizing it, dreaming of it. He had seen the familiar look on Potter's face moments before he recognized him – it was the look of wanting someone.
Potter had wanted him … and when Draco had seen the eyes that haunted him still, whether asleep or awake, his own desire for Potter had been unmistakable, too. That's why Potter had been out there, Draco knew. The exit wasn't well known; it wasn't the stage door they'd normally leave by, and unless Potter spent time at Underworld often, he wouldn't even know about that alley. Somehow, some way, Potter had known to go there, known how to find him.
Draco slept wrapped in old leather that night, sleeping better than he had in years.
Harry was barely awake when the knock sounded on his front door the next day; he hadn't fallen into fitful sleep until somewhere in the vicinity of five am, and he'd been so wasted that he had never made it to his bed, but had tumbled off the couch into a pile of laundry that needed folding. It was comfortable enough there amongst pajama bottoms, t-shirts, towels and the like, and it was there he remained until the banging on his door caused him to blink, raise his head, and then rap it smartly on the table.
"Ow, fuck," he muttered, struggling to sit up. "Shit!"
The rapping continued until, annoyed, Harry shouted, "Sod off!" If it was a friend, they would; if it was some hapless salesperson, they'd not stop rapping; and if it was anyone else … well, it wouldn't be. No one else bothered with him.
"I will once I give you your jacket back, you idiot … Open up!"
Milo.
Or, right, Draco. Fuck. Harry wasn't with it enough yet to figure out if he could play cool or not, but knew that Malfoy wouldn't leave till he opened the door, at least.
More rapping. "Jesus, all right! Give me a moment."
Harry managed to stand, his head spinning in a most unpleasant manner. He had long since moved past hangovers – or so he thought – but this feeling promised a real winner of one.
He made it to the door and pulled it open; he'd forgotten to lock it again. Good thing there were no zombies roaming about, à la Shaun of the Dead, or he'd be toast. He leaned against the doorframe. "What want?"
Okay, that didn't sound quite right; he tried again, clearing his throat first. "What do you want?"
Draco looked him up and down. "Glad to see you didn't dress up for me or anything."
Harry opened his mouth, and then looked down; he was wearing tatty boxers emblazoned with Stewie Griffin. Stewie was pointing a pistol and gleefully said, "Oh look, I shot my load."
Lovely.
"This is what you get when you wake me up at … "
"Two pm."
"Right."
Draco laughed aloud. "Can I come in?"
Harry didn't think he'd ever heard Malfoy actually laugh – it was kind of nice.
"I guess," he said, looking around blearily. "But what you see is what you get. No smartass comments."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Harry snorted and pulled the door open wide enough for Draco to slip inside, then shut it, remembering to lock it this time.
Draco looked around, trying to not appear shocked or disgusted, both of which he was. "Wow," he finally said. "It's, uhm, lived-in."
"That it is. Want a drink?"
Draco didn't even have to think. If he was going to sit down anywhere in Potter's sty, he needed liquid courage. "Got any brandy?"
"Ugh. Yes. Glad to find someone who likes it; you can take the fucking bottle with you."
Draco watched Harry pour him a hefty shot into what appeared to be a clean glass; Draco decided he could only hope for the best in that area. He was amused – and oddly turned on – by the fact that Harry didn't bother to change or even put on a shirt on before pouring himself three fingers of scotch. "Hair of the dog and all," and sitting down opposite him. "To … something or other. Salut!"
Draco raised his glass, thankfully only saw water spots on the rim, and drank. It was good stuff, Courvoisier, and must have been a gift. When people were reduced to just giving you booze on special occasions, it meant no one knew you well enough anymore to give much thought to your interests. Or maybe it meant that your friends did know you well and therefore gave you booze; he suspected Potter's situation was the latter.
While Potter was busy sipping away and studiously not making eye contact, Draco took note of his surroundings. Papers and magazines, take away containers, several 'dead soldiers' and at least three overflowing ashtrays – and that was just in the living room. He didn't dare consider what the loo or bedroom might look like.
Potter was a lush, apparently, and a hermit, definitely. It didn't look like anything had been dusted or vacuumed in eons, and nothing looked particularly cared for or about. The air was saved from being unbearable only by the fact that every window seemed to be open, or else Draco was sure a fog would settle over the room as well.
After several moment of silence, Draco decided to break the ice. "So, when did you become a drunken sot?"
"Four years ago, give or take. Is it obvious?" His tone was a mix of tired and sarcastic. "And you are horrified?"
Draco thought of denying it, but he rarely lied these days, not when he could say anything he damn well pleased and get away with it. "Somewhat. You've taken not giving a shit to a whole new level here."
"Thank you; I work hard at not caring."
"You're doing a bang-up job." Draco sighed. "Look, Potter, I came to give you back your jacket and to …"
To do what?
"… Check in on you," he finished weakly.
Both unruly black eyebrows headed north towards Harry's hairline. "Check in on me? Aww, Malfoy, I didn't know you cared."
This, right now, was the perfect time to say simply, "I don't," then get up and walk out the door. It was the opening of a lifetime. Draco knew what had happened to Potter now, he was sufficiently disgusted by his surroundings, and now was the best possible time to pull his superiority blanket around him like a cloak and stalk out of Harry Potter's life. One couldn't ask for more.
Draco sighed. "Unfortunately for both of us, I do care."
And it was unfortunate – the last, the very last thing he needed in his glamorous life was an alcoholic, washed-up wizard with a bad attitude.
But that drunk was Harry; possibly the one and only person Draco ever thought he could love, possibly because Harry was the only person he ever had loved. The schoolboy crush had never faded, never gone stale or sour, never even flagged in its intensity.
"You're out of your mind – you do know that, right?" Harry had finished his drink and forced his eyes to meet Draco's. "For caring.
He didn't ask why Draco cared, anymore than he asked himself why he cared.
Last night, in that one, brief moment, he had known the secret Draco carried, just as Draco had known his. And if that moment hadn't been enough, he'd found Draco; found him as though he had known all along where the other man would be. Harry no longer used magic, but he could still sense it, still follow it, and knew that magic was comprised of many things, most of them unexplainable.
Draco was looking down at his hands. "I do know that, yes." He lifted his eyes then, to meet Harry's. "But it doesn't mean I can help it."
"Some things, there's just no help for," Harry agreed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"No, none." Draco set down his glass and looked Harry over. "You're mangy, Potter … you're unshowered, unshaven, sweaty, and I can smell the scotch wafting out of your pores at a hundred paces. You're a fucking disgrace."
The small smile had grown. "And you want me."
"Yes, Goddammit."
Harry stood – a bit unsteadily, but he stood – and held out his hand to Draco, who rose and grabbed the jacket, following Potter into the bedroom, which was just as bad as he'd feared.
Later, lying there dazed and panting, Draco wondered how many passers-by had heard their moans, whimpers, or his own outright screams, as they made their way to the market, or work, or the nearby school to pick up their children. Or how many children had heard the filthy, awful things they had called each other during their sweaty entanglement … each of the four times they'd gone.
And frankly, he thought if the leather of that jacket wasn't 'seasoned' by now, it never would be.
He rolled over on his side and looked at the man stretched out on his stomach next to him.
Potter was scrawny, still, and pale, except for the brilliant red and gold of the phoenix tattoo that spread across his back, its wings raised in victory. Draco traced the outline of the bird, reading the names etched into its feathers – all the Order who had died in the pursuit of freedom. The War had been only nine years ago, but it felt like another lifetime to him and, he suspected, to Harry too.
Draco nudged Harry over onto his back and lay next to him, his head resting on Harry's chest, his fingertips stroking the dark hair there.
The afternoon stretched long as they lay tangled in each other.
The old Milo had loved the road; the new Milo tolerated it. The old Milo had bedded any and all who caught his fancy; the new one had eyes for one person and one person only.
He would set out enthusiastically enough; he was tired of staying put, tired of singing only in a studio, tired of Harry, who annoyed him to no end for almost all of the same reasons he had in school. He would board the bus, waving merrily, and a day out, or less, the loneliness would set in.
And as soon as he could, he would head home to his Harry – his sloppy, unkempt, tipsy, horrible housekeeper of a lover who made him feel like no one else ever could: complete.