We Are Young
Fun.
Give me a second. I need to get my story straight.
You see, my friends are in the bathroom getting higher than the Empire State and my lover- for all intents and purposes- is waiting for me just across the bar.
My seat has unfortunately been taken by some twit with sunglasses- asking about a scar, I'd wager.
I shouldn't be bothered. I gave it to him months ago- before the alcohol induced mistake. I know he's trying to forget as he scratches the very edge of recovered flesh peaking from beneath a popped button of his dress shirt.
And between the drinks and subtle things- the holes in my apologies, well, I'm trying hard to take it back.
The bar's closing as I move cautiously towards our table. The man pestering Draco nods his goodbyes after realizing my presence and pats a slumping shoulder before glaring a cold welcome to me. Without a word, he's able to say, watch yourself.
And I'm quite capable of presenting the rather classic argument of politely minding one's own fucking business.
Draco seems to be falling in and out of himself- smiling in that goofy way I know only comes after an inordinate amount of drink.
"Come on, Malfoy," I usher, "I'll carry you home tonight."
Normally, it's precisely the opposite. He carries me back to our flat three to four times a week. If my fans could see their hero the way Draco was privy to, perhaps they'd think differently.
People tend to see what they want.
"Oh, Potter," Draco mumbles with a dramatic shake of his head- his white gold hair falling haphazardly as a curtain to his face. "Let's pretend we're in bed."
"Excuse me?"
"You call me 'Draco' in bed," he slurs happily. He lets out a pathetic excuse for a moan as an impression and I stand with my arms crossed over my chest- waiting for him to finish.
"You're drunk, Malfoy."
"We're young, Potter!" he enlightens me with a large swig of brown liquid. The cup makes a hollow cracking sound as it smashes against the wooden table- bottom's up. He hisses through the burn against his throat and water springs at the corners of his eyes. "I'll bet we can set the whole world on fire," he muses with a suggestive wink and grin.
I roll my eyes and take a firm grip of his forearm. "I'm sure we'd burn brighter than the sun."
Draco retracts his arm forcefully, nearly falling from his chair with the effort.
His face is flushed from the alcohol and mock anger at my audacity to lay a hand on him again. He breathes heavily and I watch as his rising and falling chest both hide and reveal his scar with every inhale. His eyes are daggers against mine- deep iron grey piercing through probably onyx pools in the dimness of the pub. He's a force of nature. A disaster of catastrophic measures.
I know that I'm not all he's got. How could I be? He's a decent enough time when he isn't pissed. And a hell of a time when he is. Draco ceased the whole snarky eleven-year-old routine after the war. He grew up without being young.
Something we have in common.
And after two bottles of firewhiskey accompanied by a few hours of alone time, we seemed to have everything in common. Lust especially. Loneliness.
Lust, loneliness, and inebriation lead inevitably to one possible outcome.
I never thought to pursue it further. Waking up to a face of completely distraught terror and a splitting migraine convinced me of the simple fact that we'd only find new ways to fall apart.
"Our friends are back!" he shouts and raises a new cup I didn't see ordered. Ron and Seamus maneuver staggeringly through the crowd. "Harry's gonna carry me home tonight! Aren't you, Harry?"
He drapes a heavy arm over my shoulder and breathes a thick, warm gust of air against my face. It reeks of liquor and I cringe without its contents to stifle my reaction. I stand, pulling him alongside me and ignore the accusatory chuckle erupting from Ron's chest. He has his theories about our relationship. We don't speak of it.
That elephant in the room.
Perhaps there isn't anything to speak of. At least from Draco's end. My own side has always been complicated when it came to the former Death Eater. He's a piece of work, he is.
But, then again, so am I. And he still puts up with my antics. He still lives with all of my faults. I live with his. He can't tolerate a mess and I'm the greatest mess there is.
"I'll see you two soon. Try not to wake Hermione on the way in, Ron. I told her I'd watch you tonight and that clearly didn't happen."
Ron shrugs indifferently and gestures to the tender for a final glass. I guess 'closing time' is just a phrase meant to create revenue.
"C'mon, Draco. Let's get you home."
"You smell lovely," he comments once we're safely outside of the bar and stumbling in the direction of our flat. His face is buried in my neck and I'm having the worst time trying to walk with four legs when two of those legs refuse to cooperate accordingly. He isn't heavy, much lighter than I am, but dead weight is dead weight. I may as well be dragging a corpse.
"I probably smell like piss and vomit." The unmistakable smell of the pub.
"Lovely," Draco repeats- removing himself from my person and marching ahead after sighting the steps to our almost habitable porch. "When did we get so many steps, Harry?"
He makes three on his own before giving in and slumping onto the forth. His head falls heavily between his knees and suddenly he jars himself upward with a wide grin and lidded eyes.
"Wanna sleep outside tonight?" he asks brightly. "The stars are so pretty. And we can talk and cuddle and look at the stars. I was named after that one!" Draco points randomly at the sky and traces a pattern I can't follow. His constellation isn't in sight at this hour. And at this point in the year, it's nearly impossible to find.
"Draco, it's cold. I want to go inside."
His face contorts to a frown and pout. "But, you'll sleep in your bed and I'll be all alone in my bed if we go inside." I'm used to his whine, but it always sharpens when he's drunk.
"You don't want to sleep with me," I remind him. "You didn't like it last time when you woke up in the morning. A mistake, remember?"
"You think I'm a mistake?" His eyes flutter and tears threaten to fall. I sigh heavily and sit beside him- taking his hand and squeezing his fingers. "I didn't think it was a mistake." He's whispering now and his head finds my shoulder easily.
With another sigh, I settle my head into his hair. Even with traces of the bar's scent, I can still smell the mint shampoo Draco buys from some store I can't pronounce. It sends a terrible tickling through my stomach and I shudder with treacherous thoughts.
"You're pissed, Malfoy. You're not thinking clearly. That's what got us into this mess."
He shakes his head defiantly. "No. I wanted to do that for a really long time. I like you a whole lot. You're nicer to me than everyone else. You don't mind me being a weird piece of furniture in your life."
I want him to mean it. Sometimes.
I've always had something more for Draco than most. He's different. He's hated me, and I can't say that for any other friend I've got. He's never regarded me as more than I am. He knows I'm fucked and hasn't done a damn thing about it because there's nothing to be done.
I want to feel all right wanting him. I want to know it's mutual. I want to eventually love him. I want to know that whatever this is won't kill him- as it has a tendency to do more often than not.
"I know," I say. Because that's all there is to say. He's right. "I like having you around."
And I know if we go further than this, he won't be around anymore.
I'm sure I look in desperate conflict with myself, and I silently thank the moon for being on my side tonight and having the decency to hide behind some clouds. Much more difficult to study me when there's only a touch of light in the darkness.
"It's not like I have a reason to run, Harry. I like having you around, too. Like my little guardian angel, you are."
Neither of us is an angel. Angels never seem to arrive.
Still, though, I swear I can hear their choir at times like these- when nearly everything seems in ordered chaos.
"We can share my bed, Draco. Just for tonight."
I'm conceding irresponsibly, and I'm well aware we'll wake up tomorrow in a state of total panic and horrid dread. But, the hope in his limitless storm of grey undoes any sort of sanity I may have salvaged over the years.
For tonight, we are young.
Author's Note:
This is starting to get rather ridiculous, but here's another one shot I promised myself I wouldn't write.
Considering writing another chapter to Some Nights, by Fun, in Draco's perspective…
That'll be full of M-rated antics. Hence the current rating.
A large what-if at the moment.
Fuckin' Drarry…
Thanks for reading.
