Sorry in advance.
It was warm in his apartment and warm in his bed but Draco was the coldest he had ever been.
The room was dark, save only for the cracks of lighting that would brighten the room only for a moment, always when he wasn't ready.
Each strike of lightning would bring on a new set of tears, his sobs all but drowned out by the harsh falling of raindrops on the windows. There was no thunder to remind him that it was only a storm, no thunder so he could count how many miles away the storm was. In his mind, it was only a confirmation that the storm was here, and the worst, the big bad thunderous thunder, was yet to come.
He drew in a shuddering breath as the wind once again rushed past the window. He could have sworn it was whispering to him. Something intelligible. All he could make out was a name…
He ran a hand through his hair, and he realized distantly that it was wet, though he did not remember taking a shower. He pushed the wet locks away from his face, which only served to make him colder. He had always done that, just before he—
Lightning cracked again, quick enough that Draco didn't notice that his hands were shaking, but not quick enough that he didn't see the note still lying across the room on the floor where he left it.
He should have let it lie there and thrown it out in the morning. He should have never read it. He should have told him he loved him that morning.
But Draco was never one to do what he should.
He found himself crawling out of bed and across the floor. The carpet was soft and plush and wrong against his skin. Wrong because he had picked it out.
Draco snatched up the envelope and was back in bed before the lightning struck again.
He did not intend to read it. He had read it so many times he could probably recite it. He just wanted to hold it. Hold it because he had touched it, and because it was the only thing he had left.
The envelope was cold, not unlike him, like his heart, like the world. Cold, uninviting, and empty. Empty, filled with meaningless words like I'm sorry and I love you and it's better this way.
How could it ever be better this way? How could anything ever just be okay again?
There would be no one else. No one else would suffice, no one else could compare.
There would be no one to make the pancakes in the morning. No one to make the bed or wash the sheets or kiss Draco goodbye in the morning. No one to greet him after a bad day and no one to put up with all of his complaining. No one to kiss his left forearm and remind him that he was a good person. No one to love him.
No one to keep him warm.
He fell back onto the pillows, clutching the letter tightly to his chest. The bed smelled like him. Like grass and dirt and maple syrup. Like waking up to a kiss on the forehead and the sun casting shadows across his smile.
But it was not enough. It was not him, and the smell was already fading. It would be gone completely by morning. Gone like him, and happiness, and meaning.
The lightning struck again, just when he had thought the storm was over.
He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he's gone, and nothing would ever let him forget it.
He would see him in the emerald green trees outside their—his—apartment, in the soft black sheets of their bed, and in the small rounded frames still sitting on the bedside table, as if at any moment he would come home looking for them.
And in the lightning. Always in the lightning.
Draco curled up into himself on the bed, not even bothering with the comforter, because nothing could warm him now. His tears had stopped, but he could feel them still, heavy and wet on his cheeks.
Maybe, if he had just told he loved him, just one more time…
His fingers stroked the silken fabric of the sheets, and, for just a moment, before sleep overtook him, those sheets were soft locks of jet black hair, and if he were to reach a little bit lower, he could trace the outline of a lightning bolt with his fingertips.
fin.