The concept of cuddling is abstract to Draco. He sees it, Theo and Luna curled up in a doona by the fireplace, Blaise with his fickle romances, even Crabbe and Goyle with some twink that somehow puts up with their meatheads, but doesn't experience it himself.
Pansy hates it, wrinkles her nose at the concept. She hates it, prefers to bathe herself, and sometimes he joins her, chastely, both of them floating in bubbles. They talk about the future and the star-spangled ceiling and the worlds beyond their gilded cages.
She hates a lot of things, but labels it as dislike. She doesn't hate Muggles, she explains loftily, it was that they destroyed the earth they were blessed to have. She dislikes them because they scorned their children gifted with magic, burned their kind at stakes and acted like they were the top dog.
The topics don't drift to Potter anymore, and he can't find it himself to hate. Pansy understands, lips cherry sweet, and doesn't rant about the inadequacies of the world. They hold hands in the tub, as if afraid to let go and spiral off.
Her smiles are more real, and their relationship dances between the inevitable engagement and the friendship that they have. She doesn't want to marry, never had, but they're damn fine in bed and society expects them to.
Society doesn't see the way she laughs, infectious and golden, the way she scoffs at romantic relationships, doesn't see the way she adores herself and doesn't need him the way he needs her, because she's the one part of his childhood relatively unstained and clean and still herself after all the mess that was the cold war.
He hasn't fallen in love with her, he's always been in love with her. Certainly not romantic, but the sexual attraction is there, which is the reason why Pansy even feigns the romance portion of their relationship. Pansy loves him, he knows, but it's not the supernova explosion of feelings that let slip i love you's, but the steady love that was based in solely friendship.
She's Pansy, still herself and golden laughter and silver gilded lies that spool about her. She's Pansy and she's one of his best friends and he doesn't feel that way about her.
She had laughed, full and rich and golden, when he'd admitted it to her, expecting tears and whywhywhy's.
"Oh Draks, I've never felt that way about you. You're one of my friends, dear one even," She'd flashed a sparkling smile, paired with a wink. "but I'd be lying if I felt romantic feelings about you. You're a great lay in bed, honest, but I've never felt romantic about anyone. You're not the one exception to the rule." Pansy had shrugged, lips mimicking the action.
She hadn't seemed to care about it. She had left it in the same box that was full of the shitty memories of war and home, because Mrs. Parkinson and Mr. Parkinson were rocky in the ideal of moments.
He opens that box in therapy and she's there to card through his hair and let him lay on her lap when he sobs. He never cries in front of Healer Wilkinson, because Merlin, that woman was all shades of grandmotherly kindness that was so obviously empathetic but in the wrong tastes that left a bloody gnawed lip because she just didn't get it.
Pansy coos and pets his hair and feeds him in front of the crackling fire. She summons Tinky who drapes a heated blanket over them. It feels something close to home and Mother herself is at the Manor in Britain.
"I'm not okay." He repeats it at his reflection, and the man looking back at him is haggard and far too pale for being in Australia, too skinny and his skin stretches unhealthily over his thin frame.
Pansy comes in, all healthy tanned skin, a glitter in her tawny browns and tries to coax him back to his bed. He refuses. She makes him sit on the toilet, and then bends down to his eye level. He feels curiously young again, in a foreign land where their names are unique at best, forgettable even.
"It's fucking okay to be not totally fucking okay Draks." Her voice is a balm on his chilled skin, her eyes grounding him in his body, in this moment, and he nods, voice gone. She coaxes him back to bed and pulls up the blankets to their chins.
"You're okay." he says, voice hoarse. She smiles, soft and sad, breath warm against his chest.
"No, no I'm not. I doubt even your precious Potter is." She sounds raw, voice small and tired. "But that's okay, we're still alive and the madman's dead. We'll be okay too, we have to put in a bit of effort and we'll be fine. Sleep Drak, I'll still be here when the sun rises."
"And after that?" He hates how weak he sounds, but she obliges him, the angel she is.
"Of course. Not like I've got many places to go." Pansy kisses his head, like Mother did.
He can't believe what Pansy says, not quite yet, but it feels grounding. Liberating even, because society had said feeling bad was a sin and feeling happy was something that was a state not a feeling and Pansy is there and so much more real and obvious than the abstract concept of society.
They'd all changed, Draco realizes. War did that to them, made men and women of girls and boys.
i don't know what i wrote, but it feels somewhat important and genuine and goddangit i just really like the thought of aromantic!pansy who understands and draco who goes to therapy and doesn't really understand and pansy's friendship with him.