It doesn't take long for Harry to understand.
His fingers shake when he breathes, and each time he breathes, he lets his fingers drop at the end, limp, as if he never found any use for them, never wanted them to be alive, when he hears the raw bleeding in his ears. He doesn't want his hands, his legs, his feet anymore. He wants to be clear, see-through, the words written on the air in block letters so that it doesn't feel hard, doesn't feel like he's writing himself a story, and nobody will want to read it.
But nobody ever likes to read his stories. He's the only one that can understand them.
"Don't tell me you don't feel it."
The last words echoed inside of him, promising him dreams in his sleep. His eyes didn't fall instantly as Draco moved closer. Only when he felt the cold lips slide down to his throat, becoming warm when they were placed on his mouth. His mouth accepting, he moved forward. He had never believed in fairytales. Cinderella, Snow White, they all seemed like stories to let children believe that they were going to be alive at age hundred, that the wedding ring they carried along along with the husband they died with at the same time on rocking chairs, was true.
But just for a second, Harry did. It was hard not to believe in those things when Draco's tongue is writing a story of it's own.
Wet, warm, cold, smooth. All at the same time. Hot, burning licks take away the block letters and crash them on the ground, set them properly so Harry can see them and read them aloud. Even share.
For a second, Harry did believe Cinderella stuck her foot into the glass slipper and it fit; that Snow White did die almost in her sleep.
As Draco let go, Harry believed everything.
About to write 'Happily Ever After', his eyes opened.
Then, he didn't.
His eyes were warm, happy, charged with light. But his words fell as they always fell:
"I don't."
His smile was like blood, easy coming, easy going, along with the light from his eyes. "Fag."
He shut the door, not slammed, as he left.
He means it. Does that mean he means it?
It doesn't take Harry long to understand.
Harry's alone again; the block letters raise from the ground, erase themselves as he writes new ones, clearly with his eyes:
The end.