"I love you." It was the first thing he said in that soft voice of his, large green eyes peering through long eyelashes that made a whooshing noise every time they opened and shut.
I love you too. Honestly what else can he say? He's been gone so long on that fucking business trip in Italy, and Harry has his arms wrapped around his shoulders leaning up to press a kiss to his mouth.
The perfect picture of domestic bliss. They even had the cookie cutter house behind them. Harry had insisted on buying it saying it was beautiful and reminded him of his aunt.
The outside was carefully cut and clean, while the inside looked like a tornado struck it. Harry would smile and say, If my aunt saw this, she's have a heart attack.
And now, right now, Harry's breath was hovering over his mouth, and it made Draco feel antsy, because Harry was never so slow when he kissed him, it was like Harry was waiting for something. When nothing came that Harry was obviously waiting for, he kissed him, like nothing strange happened and gave him that soft, almost dopey, smile. Eyes loving, but if he looked hard enough, there was something lurking underneath the love.
Draco wasn't looking anyways so what did it matter? Except for the guilt that was eating at him – fuckfuckfuckI'msosorryHarryforgiveme? – and he kept his eyes closed because eyes were the window to the soul and Harry would certainly notice the large stain in his eyes.
Harry always knew things that other didn't, or things that people didn't want him to know and he'd taunt them with that bit off information, eyes glowing an eerie Avada Kedavra green, because you know your life was over. When Harry dropped bombs, they weren't just bombs, they were nuclear bombs. Obliterating everything and leaving a terrible, life wrecking residue that lasted forever and ever.
So Draco kissed Harry like he usually did after such long trips, hard and desperate, and he hoped Harry didn't detect something off.
Is there something wrong? His mouth moved, the corners sloping downward in what was obviously a frown. Did something bad happen during your trip? Do you want to talk about it? And Draco wondered if he looked up away from Harry's mouth, which was so much safer to look at, what emotion he would find in Harry's eyes.
Worry? Anger? Love? What, what, what was the question.
"Everything's all right." He muttered except, it wasn't because everyone knew he slept with Blaise and all the fucking whores at the brothel and he felt the truth was written on his skin for the whole world and Harry, oh Merlin Harry, to see.
Slim hands that were calloused from Quidditch and housework from his years with the horrid muggles, smoothed out his dress shirt and fixed the collar. The soft voice came back, with an edge to it, Are you sure? You look worried.
And fuck, Harry knows and Draco knows that Harry knows and his world is going to fall apart and the guilt – ohMerlintheguilt – was tearing him apart. His stomach flipped oddly and hurt so much as if that hippogriff from long ago slashed him there instead of his arm.
Yes, I'm sure, don't worry about anything okay? Let's go inside. And he let go of Harry and nonchalantly made his way inside while a pair of Avada Kedavra green eyes burned a hole in his back.
Draco kept his eyes closed even though he knows that Harry knows that he knows that Harry knows.
