title: d'inventar l'amour; or, reinvent love
rating: R for slash, adult situations
Jason Mraz album project: H/D
Concept: All the ways that H/D can end.
i. it takes no time to fall in love but it takes you years to know what love is
Harry will be making breakfast and there is Draco, wearing Harry's pyjamas as always with tousled blond hair and sleepy eyes. Face flushed with sleep, he will yawn and kiss Harry on the cheek and, and—life is wonderful.
"Harry," Draco will command imperiously. "Where are my eggs? You didn't make eggs, did you, because you want me to starve; I'm going to wither away and die, but you won't care, will you—"
"Draco—" Harry will protest and Draco will cut in, will say, "Oh no, don't you give me that, Harry James Potter. I hate you. I shall hate you forever and perhaps for even longer and when I am a ghost I will haunt you."
"Or perhaps not," he will add after a while. "I'll bet you'd like that, you sick bastard."
But Harry will make his eggs peacefully, hiding his grin all the while with hands sticky with syrup—because he will never live it down if Draco sees.
He will place Draco's plate in front of him, will say, "Life is wonderful."
And he will kiss Draco before he knows it.
ii. cause I ain't comin' home I don't need that attention, see
Harry is stubborn as hell. Stubborn enough not to go look for Draco even when Draco is missing and very cold, sitting all alone in a street corner, wet and dripping. Irony, or something like it, in the way that he was once the one on the metaphorical street corner, starving and in need.
The reversal of their roles lurks in the back of his mind because he knows how shitty it was, with the Dursleys, and that was with a roof over his head. All because of a stupid pink shirt and fight that followed, which was even stupider, and yes Harry knows that is not a word.
Even Hermione insists he go look for him, but he can't, just can't. When they finally find something all they see is a pink shirt and a few strands of silvery blonde hair. Harry does not know what to do. Draco was (is) his anchor—his life preserver—his—his—
Ten years later, he will realize that Draco is not coming home.
iii. lately we're running out of time, aren't we?
Harry throws the bedroom door open and Draco falls on the bed, breathless, staring up at him with something like expectance; and Harry really shouldn't have found that so sexy, but oh—oh, now Draco is licking his lips and kicking off his shoes which really shouldn't have looked that hot.
It is when Harry thinks to himself that Draco's feet look beautiful that he knows he's gone crazy.
He practically lunges onto the bed, with Draco laughing with startled eyes and dizzily Harry reaches over to kiss him; Draco's lips are soft and pliant and in a moment of utter lunacy Harry thinks, He tastes like pink. Draco makes a little mewling noise, which makes Harry melt, and then he growls impatiently, which makes Harry so drunk on lust and desire that he almost laughs at the absurdity of it all.
Harry's crazy, crazy for Draco, crazy about him, his feet, his hands, his eyes, and he wants to tell him right now.
There isn't enough time in the world.
iv. I'll remember where the love was found
Draco stares out of the Irish countryside from his seat and watches as the fields of green go by. Their supposed neutral territory. It almost makes him want to laugh. Even when he tries to enjoy the beauty around him he thinks that it's not nearly as green as the eyes of a certain someone he knows. But it's beautiful, in its own way—when nature is at its best, and life alongside it, there are very few things that are as captivating. Thriving and changing, suited to its elements—adapted, is the word, isn't it. Living things adapt to nature and change themselves so that they can survive.
Draco wishes he could've done the same.
v. let's throw out the hotel comforter and hang the 'do not disturb' sign
There are muffled groans and moans that make their way through the hallway of their flat. Neighbors cluck in disgust, like-minded young couples blush, and little children lay in their beds, wondering.
There are whispers of comfort and words full of love, none of which are heard or acknowledged by anyone else. A world, all theirs, in which they can exist peacefully.
There is slumber, fair eyelashes closed and sheets gripped tight; messy black hair splayed across a pillow and vivid green eyes open and watching. Hopeless.
And there is the next day, when all of them pretend not to remember.
vi. i'm dreaming of sleeping next to you
There's that feeling, again, of broken promises and lost opportunities that Harry can't quite place—he'll see a flash of yellow, maybe, or see someone smirk and suddenly there's something hidden in his mind that shrieks, How can you have forgotten
Only he had forgotten, and the problem with forgetting is that you don't know what you can't recall. Not that he's affected by it in the daily scheme of things; he still goes to work, returns home and visits Ron and Hermione on the weekends. But sometimes there's a nagging feeling inside him, making him think his mind has forgotten something quite important that his body still remembers.
Or someone.
vii. and feeling like a lost little boy in a brand new town
How ill prepared Draco is as he's bombarded with a new job. A new town. An old face. Harry Potter's, actually, and he's got freckles now but he's still got messy black hair and green eyes that see far, far too much. Of him, Draco used to think, but those kinds of thoughts are taboo now, either because the Ministry said so or the tight feeling he gets in his chest whenever he has them.
He isn't Harry anymore, he thinks, before Harry approaches, just to make sure his stubborn brain understands. He's Potter.
Ha—Potter blinks at him slowly for a second, almost as if seeing someone familiar, but then he shakes it off and smiles.
"You're Draco, right?" he says.
"Yes."
"I'm Harry Potter." In case someone in the Wizarding World hasn't heard of him yet—Draco allows himself to roll his eyes.
"I know," and Draco allows himself a little amused smile, just for old times' sake. He remembers this, how adorably oblivious Harry always seemed. Seems.
"You can call me Harry."
"Only if you call me Draco," he responds politely. His gaze is far away and Harry thinks he's trying to avoid him, but not for the reason he thinks.
"Starting over, huh?" It's a lame attempt, but its his only option left. Draco is no longer amused, just surprised.
"You could say that," he says, slowly.
viii. and I knew that love wasn't good enough of a reason for me to stay
When Draco goes away Harry doesn't exactly feel sad; it's that other emotion, somewhere between being anguish and apathetic, so maybe the word he's looking for is numb. It takes a bit to get him settled, as Hermione used to say, but it's a year later and he's doing well: he's an Auror and he works with his best friend in the world, he has a large cottage in the countryside and Ron and Hermione visit at least every other week.
But his job is horribly boring and his pay sucks, not that it matters; Hermione and Ron have had four kids, making his forlorn little house feel lonelier; and here he is, sitting all alone in his big dumb cottage. Big and dumb. Big for the cottage and dumb of him, to ever let the only person who'd put up with his big dumbness go.
Now he's here, drinking a large glass of gin and brooding handsomely while the candlelight flickers over the dim room, besides the fact that he's Harry bloody Potter and can more than afford lighting. "Would you light my candle?" he says, then looks around as the inevitable echo resonates around him. "Oh," says he, disconcerted, "did I say that out loud?"
"Indeed, you did," comes a musical voice from the shadows, and shit, Harry hadn't even realized the dump was big enough to have shadows. "And to answer your question: yes, I will."
Before Harry can sputter out whatever he was going to say, a long, slim hand reaches out from the corner and lights his candle. Which is almost funny, in a deeply disturbing way, because he hadn't noticed it had gone out.
The figure comes out and lo and behold, it's Draco Malfoy! Who would've thought.
Smiling dashingly, he says in a matter-of-fact tone, "I'm back."
"I—but—who—"
"A welcome would be nice, you know," Draco adds unhelpfully. "Or a kiss. Ooh, a kiss would be really nice."
"You said you didn't love me!"
"Well, maybe I've changed my mind."
"Right," says Harry determinedly. "Right."
He lunges towards Draco.
"Wha—"
"Just shut up and kiss me, you idiot."
ix. you are a god and whatever I want you to be
Draco looks as if he could use a bath, and his eyes are a little red and his shirt a little torn, but Harry can't keep from staring—he's just so damn beautiful. Defiance is in his eyes and he clutches his hands as if he is afraid to lose something; and, underneath it all, there's something like anxiety lurking in wait. He looks worn, somehow, a far cry from the pampered prince that left Harry five years ago.
"Why—why did you come back?" Harry asks softly. "I thought you didn't believe in us. In love."
"I still don't," Draco says sharply. Harry winces and Draco grips tighter the invisible thinghe's holding on to, looking anywhere but at Harry. He swallows, brushes his hair back, working up to something that he seems to have thought over for a long, long time. Perhaps as long as they've been apart.
"So why are you here, then?" Harry asks. His voice is harsh; as if his heart hasn't been broken enough, Draco has to do it to him twice. He's the record holder, the complete bastard.
"I came back, because—"
"Because what?" Harry interrupts. "You were out of money? Out of luck? So you come running in here, expecting me to welcome you with a smile on my face, well guess what—"
"No," Draco says desperately, "no, that's not it all." He looks so unbelievably tired, like all the life's gone out of him, which is exactly how Harry feels right now. He slumps, and when he talks, his voice is barely more than a whisper.
"I don't believe in love," he says shakily, "but…I believe in you."