Epilogue: Give Yourself Away

"Draco?"

"Hi, Blaise," he murmured, fidgeting uncomfortably where he stood outside the apartment. Blaise stared at him as if faced with a ghost, and Draco felt a wolfish grin spread over his face.

"May I come in?" he asked, arching an eyebrow at the open doorway which Blaise was efficiently blocking.

His words startled Blaise out of his surprise, and he moved aside with an embarrassed flush on his nose. "Sure, come on in."

Draco strutted through the door into the sparsely furnished flat. Everything was clean-cut and modern, very stylish. Very Blaise.

It felt like home.

"You haven't been answering my letters," Blaise said, closing the door behind Draco. Draco turned around to face him, and saw Blaise's eyes travel to the suitcase in his hand. Blaise took it from him without a comment and led Draco to the bedroom.

"Where have you been?" he asked softly, heaving the suitcase onto the bed and turning back towards Draco.

The question was simple, and in no way unexpected. But the thought of the truthful answer washed away any confidence that Draco had managed to gather, and to his horror he felt his polished façade crumble beneath Blaise's enquiring gaze.

Draco breathed deeply, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Nowhere," he croaked weakly.

Blaise stared at him cautiously for a moment before he took a deep breath, taking a step forward. He stood only inches from Draco, staring into his eyes for a very long time. Trembling slightly, Draco took another deep breath, trying to look convincing as he repeated the word.

"Nowhere."

Blaise smiled crookedly, sadly, as if understanding. A ridiculous idea. But he was here, Draco's rock, Draco's best friend. He was here, waiting for him, supporting him.

And when he leaned in to kiss him, Draco let him.

He isn't right.

He didn't feel, or taste, or smell anything like Potter. He was too tall, his hair was too smooth, his kisses were not angry or desperate enough. But he was familiar, and he was safe. He knew him.

He is not Potter.

He wasn't Potter. But he could make him forget.

With Blaise there with him, Potter's absence was hardly a remarkable thing. Draco could stay here with Blaise, and he could let himself forget. He could let himself go on.

Liar.

Draco might have admitted to expecting to hear Potter breathing beside him when he lay awake in the night. Draco admitted to constantly listening for his steps in his apartment. Their apartment. What once had been his and Potter's haven had become the prison of Draco's memories.

You miss him.

He missed him. It was hard to deny. But his betrayal hurt more than being separated from him did. This was Draco's life, and it was up to him to decide what he would do with it. It was in his own hands to decide whom he loved.

Or so he would continue to tell himself.

You regret it.

There was nothing to regret. He had made his choice. And he would continue to make it every day. The best thing Draco could do, for himself and for Potter, was be true to himself. To remain in his place. Home. Perhaps, if he continued to tell himself that, Draco wouldn't need him anymore. In Blaise's arms, Draco would find, if not an absolution, at least peace.

In these arms, life was almost as it should be.

finis.