Written for mpregfest 2015, for a prompt by the lovely capitu. I tried to stay as close to your prompt as possible, but this thing sort of had a life of its own, I suspect! Thank you pasdexcuses, iwao and panicparade, my three wonderful betas. Your help was what kept me going most of the time.
Contains: mpreg, secrets, boys being boys, bottom!Draco and a massive amount of pining.
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And Hope Says, Perhaps Today
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The true problem is that Draco never planned to sleep with Potter.
He may have daydreamed about it on occasion, and not even all that often, to be fair. Just on those days when work was particularly slow, or when he walked past one of those huge Firebolt adverts on his way home; the ones with Potter shirtless, a light sheen of sweat making the sides of his neck glow warmly under the flash of the camera as he flew forwards in an infinite loop.
Or, most commonly, when Pansy walked into the shop in the middle of the afternoon carrying a battered copy of the Prophetunder her arm. She'd sit down, sipping at her takeaway coffee, and proceed to read yet another article about Perfect Potter's not so perfect love life—loudly, and complete with dramatic hand motions.
But still, Draco never actually planned to sleep with Potter.
If he had, he might have gone about it a bit differently. There might have been apologies and late night dinners at expensive restaurants, getting to know each other—birthday presents, valentines, mistletoe kisses. There might have been, most importantly, a brief period called dating before the actual falling into bed together. Because Draco is most definitely not a cock slut. Even if he's feeling a lot like one at the moment because there hasn't been any of that.
Instead, there's Draco naked underneath the sheets, his clothes strewn all over the floor, and then there's Potter, naked as well—naked and asleep—right next to him. Only he's not going to sleep forever. He'll wake up eventually and there'll be questions then, he'll give Draco his best apologetic look, all while trying to explain that this was clearly a mistake, that they'd been drunk out of their wits, that this means nothing.
And Draco feels so stranded as he pulls on last night's trousers. The clean shirt he grabs from his wardrobe feels like the last thread connecting him to reality. It's stupid, bordering on unreal—it's absolutely ridiculous—but he still finds himself standing there, clutching the expensive material in his hands so hard there'll probably be wrinkles when he wears it.
He Apparates away.
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Draco stares down at his hands. His fingers curl tightly around the warm china of his teacup, cradling it in his palms as his thumb strokes along the rim. He's always found Pansy's house comforting—it feels like home in ways his London flat doesn't yet, in ways the Manor hasn't in ages.
Across from him, Pansy hides a yawn behind her wrist. "More tea?" she asks, tilting her head towards the teapot.
Draco smiles, shaking his head slowly. He's had enough to keep him awake all weekend.
"Suit yourself," she says, "but frankly, I hope this doesn't become a habit now. Not that I don't enjoy your company, but there are better times for visiting your friends than—" her eyes flicker towards the clock on the stove, "—six in the bloody morning. Sweet Salazar, are you trying to kill me?" She doesn't sound particularly angry. She sounds amused, weary, possibly a bit worried—and yes, underneath all that, perhaps a bit cross. But Draco knows she loves the gossip and he knows she's his friend, which basically means he knows he'll be forgiven eventually. Even though she'll make sure to bring this up as often as possible. "Not to mention leaving Potter alone in your flat probably wasn't the brightest course of—"
Draco rolls his eyes. "It's Potter, Pans. I doubt he's planning to rob my house."
"No, I don't suppose he would, the great Gryffindor prat." She pauses, tapping her fingers against the side of the table before muttering under her breath, "But then again, perhaps he doesn't need to."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," she says quickly, "nothing at all." She's quiet for a very long time—long enough that Draco has almost forgotten there was a conversation going on, lost as he was in his own mental replay of the previous night's events—before she speaks again. "It's just . . . he's always been special, hasn't he?"
Draco's head snaps up. His muscles tense up so fast he has to let go of the cup to hide the shaking in his hands because he can almost hear the silent 'to you' at the end of that sentence—he's always been special to you, hasn't he?—and of course she'd know that. He's the careless idiot who got drunk and told her Potter's abs looked like something out of a magazine in the Cannon's new calendar last year—so tight, so bloody perfect. If only he could turn back time, Draco would curse himself a hundred times that day. He'd delete it from existence. Possibly curse the Firewhisky as well, just to be safe; after all, he's pretty sure that particular revelation would never have made it past his lips without it.
At least not the bit about how badly he wanted to lick them. (And he did want to lick them. Still does.)
Sadly, Time-Turners are a thing of the past and he's not going to Obliviate his best friend, so there's likely not much he can do about that—but still, he's on the verge of saying something cranky when a slow grin spreads across her face.
Perhaps he ought to curse her instead. "You're such a cow! I've no idea why I thought you'd—"
"And you're always so sweet to me, dear. I don't know what I'd do without you," she shoots right back, holding a hand dramatically to her chest. It's gone in an instant, replaced by her elbows on the tablecloth as she leans forward. "Anyway, do tell," she says, in the sort of lowered tone used for secrets and confessions, "how was it?"
"Fine."
"Fine? Just fine? Is Seeker Potter not as brilliant a shag as the papers make him out to be?"
Draco snorts. "Oh, no. He's brilliant all right." And that's really as much as he plans to say about it—Pansy looks satisfied enough, and she doesn't need to know how Draco's back arched desperately against the mattress as he came down Potter's throat, or how Potter's hands pressed down on his hips hard enough to leave bruises.
Draco, on the other hand, will probably never forget.
He can still feel them.
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He ends up spending most of his weekend at Pansy's. When he finally goes back home late on Sunday evening, Potter is, unsurprisingly, no longer there. He's gone, vanished from Draco's life without so much as a note, and Draco's stomach plummets whenever he thinks about it.
But he tells himself he's fine. And he is fine, for a while.