Chapter Twenty-Three

Draco woke to the feeling of contentment. Which felt really nice, because usually, he'd be jarred awake by his shrilling phone or a screaming emergency that would send him scrambling out of bed and two seconds away from a fucking heart attack, but this morning… all he could feel was contentment. The drowsy warmth of a lazy Saturday that made him want to snuggle deeper into the blankets and doze for a few more hours.

Draco opened his eyes drowsily. The curtains were half-open, revealing a clear blue sky rare for Shanghai winters, and from how bright it was outside, guessed that it was around noon. Draco shifted; the sheets pleasant against his bare skin. Harry was beside him, still asleep.

Harry was already good-looking enough when he was awake, with those clear green eyes blazing with life and that open laugh that made Draco want to join him in being so reckless, but even in sleep, he was just as beautiful. He seemed younger. Softer. The tightness in his jaw and the scowl on his face that had been so prevalent in the last few weeks faded in unconsciousness, replaced instead by a gentle flush on his cheeks that made him appear charmingly youthful.

But… Draco couldn't stop the smile from forming on his lips. In sleep, his hair was unrulier than ever, splayed out across the pillow and falling into his face, though come think of it, Draco was perhaps somewhat responsible for its current disheveled state…

He reached over gently to brush away a lock of hair that had swept into his eyes, but in that moment, he glimpsed a flicker of dark ink of the dragon tattoo on his bare upper arm…

Draco snatched his hand back violently and buried it under the blankets. Whatever drowsiness or sentimentality he felt earlier vanished immediately, and based on how wildly his heart was hammering in his chest and how his pupils were fucking dilating in terror, it was as if he had just downed four shots of expresso or something. For a split second, all he could do was to watch Harry's sleeping face, terrified that his actions had woken him. But thank god, Harry was a deep sleeper. Other than a faint mumble, he remained dead to the world.

Draco released a breath of relief. Slowly, carefully, he slipped from the bed and the first thing he did was to slip on some trousers and a tank top. Just as he was pulling on a long-sleeved button-up, he caught a glimpse of the tattoo again and…

Fuck. Oh god, fuck. Draco paled, and he was one second away from being sick from the sheer amount of anxiety and fear twisting in his stomach. Last night, when they slept together… did Harry see the dragon tattoo?

His eyes landed on Harry, who was still blissfully asleep, and seeing him snuggled up in the blankets… despite himself, Draco calmed slightly. When they stumbled home from the club last night, they had only turned on the lights in the living room to take a few more shots before heading to the bedroom, where the lights were most definitely turned off. The darkness and the fact that they were both really quite drunk should have made it difficult for Harry to have a solid glimpse of the tattoo. And Draco knew Harry well enough to know that if he did see the dragon tattoo clearly, no amount of intoxication would stop him from… god, Draco didn't even want to think about the consequences. The fact that Harry was still bundled up in his bed and sleeping like a baby meant that he had no clue, and Draco intended to keep it that way.

Draco glanced around. His room wasn't very big, but it had everything he needed. A bed filled with soft white sheets and a sleeping Harry was tucked by the window, and two small closets beside it – one containing his clothes and the other where he kept his paintings. An easel in a corner where he worked, and a box of paints and brushes beside it. Even though the canvas on the easel contained only a preliminary outline, he tossed a piece of black tarp over it just in case.

Standing back, Draco exhaled. He was fully dressed and the tattoo was out of sight. His paintings were tucked away or covered. And Harry remained oblivious. His heart finally slowed enough for him to safely dismiss the threat of cardiac arrest.

Draco closed the bedroom door quietly as he left and stepped into the kitchen. He glanced at the clock. Sure enough, it was noon. He picked up his phone, which he had powered off the previous day, turned it on, and the poor device exploded in a cacophony of notifications and missed calls. He dropped it as if it were scalding hot and powered it off immediately.

Yeah, there was no way in hell he was dealing with that now. Work can wait. He was spending the rest of the day with Harry.

He set a pot of water boiling on the stove before pulling out a package of shrimp wontons from his fridge, dropping them into the bubbling water. A bowl of that sprinkled with some seaweed and scallions would be more than enough for him. But for Harry? Would Harry like Chinese food? Or would he prefer something more western for brunch?

He popped a few pieces of bread into the toaster. And then pulled out a jar of jam and a slab of butter. He cut some fruit. But what if Harry preferred something savory?

That was how Draco found himself bustling in his kitchen, with a feast spread out on the table – wontons and fried dumplings, sweet potato congee, toast with a myriad of spreads and toppings, a platter of strawberries, and he was busily scrambling up some eggs and bacon when he felt a pair of arms loop around his waist and a face press into his shoulder blades from behind.

"Good morning," Draco said lightly.

Harry grumbled something bleary and incoherent, burying his face deeper into his back.

"Did you sleep well?" Draco asked, scraping the eggs into a plate.

Harry grunted in assent, but the arms around him loosened as he lifted his nose to sniff the air. He straightened his glasses, and his eyes widened as he saw the food displayed before him.

"Did you make all of that?" He asked in awe, the sleepiness vanishing immediately.

"Who else could have?" Draco shot back, but without his usual bite. A part of him felt really warm and smug and satisfied seeing the wonder on Harry's face.

They took a seat at the table and dug in. Draco didn't realize how hungry he was until he took his first bite of wonton, and it seemed as if Harry felt the same. Within fifteen minutes, they cleared every scrap. They carried the dishes to the sink, but before Draco could begin washing them, Harry beat him to it. So, Draco leaned against the counter and waited for him to finish.

Harry was beautiful. It didn't matter where he was or what he was doing. Striding beneath the streetlights in the dark or slumbering in his arms or just standing there washing the dishes. The sunlight streaming through the window cast his skin in a honeyed hue, illuminating sculpted features, and there was just something so lovely about that little crease of concentration between his brows as he focused on rinsing out some chopsticks…

"You know, when I woke up, I nearly had a heart attack," Harry said. He placed the last bowl into the dish rack and started wiping off the counter.

"Really?" Draco raised an eyebrow skeptically. He was very unpleasantly reminded of the heart attack he nearly had that morning as well. He replied dryly, "Was it really that awful waking up with me? If I'd known earlier, I would have-"

"God, no!" Harry laughed, swatting him with the rag. Despite himself, Draco grinned as well. "You never told me that you painted. And why did you cover it up? It looks like a Dementor. You know I hate Dementors."

Ah, Harry must have seen the piece of black tarp he'd tossed over his easel when he woke and imagined the worst. Everyone knew of Harry's intense dislike of Dementors, the monsters in a horror movie about a jailbreak or something. Inwardly, Draco exhaled in relief.

"Yeah, it's not a hobby I like letting people know about," Draco shrugged.

"Why not?" Harry's eyes glinted mischievously. "You scared people are going to ask to see your works?"

"Exactly," Draco said with an emphasis. "I'm really not too fond of – Potter? Potter!"

Harry didn't wait for him to finish. With a grin, he threw the rag down and darted down the short hallway into his bedroom. Draco's heart leapt with a jolt of panic, and he tore after him, already expecting the worst, but as he scrambled into his room… to his surprise, Harry stood before the tarp, fingers outstretched, but he did not pull it off.

"Well, aren't you going to see what's underneath?" Draco asked, crossing his arms as he stepped up beside him.

"I mean…" Harry hesitated. He placed his hand down. "It's your work. If you don't want to show it to me, you don't have to."

God. Draco was already wholly enamored by him, and he didn't even think that it was even fucking possible for his heart to feel this way, but in that moment, seeing him standing there… Without waiting for him to respond, Draco pulled off the tarp with a whoosh, the fabric rippling to the ground to reveal… a blank canvas with a crude outline sketched on top.

"Oh," Harry said. He scratched his head. "That's a really nice… uh…"

Draco laughed. "This is a work in progress. I'll show you some of my completed pieces."

Little did Harry know that the outline was of him at CIRCLE, seated at the glowing golden bar on the night he walked back into his life.

Draco made his way over to the closet where he kept his paintings tucked away. He took a deep breath, and before he could stop himself, opened it. And pulled out the pieces of canvas one by one, spreading them across the bed and the nightstands and the floor. Until the scent of oils hung heavy in the air and until every inch of the room was covered in the story of his life.

There were paintings of the Manor, the cold and empty hallways of his childhood. There were warmer pieces of his time in Hogwarts, the Great Hall illuminated by thousands of candles and the rolling green hills of its grounds. They were artworks depicting his youth, of blissful ignorance and happiness.

Then, there were paintings of bloodstained hands and a silver knife covered in red. Canvases smeared with darkness and fear, of hooded hostages and tattooed wrists and the silhouette of a lone figure making its way down a hall. And after that, a painting of an empty airport. And the view of a city from the window of an apartment. A city square packed with faceless strangers, the campus of NYU, and a street of tattoo shops and piercing parlors. Fragments of his time in New York City where he grappled with the demons in his head that were tearing him into pieces.

Finally, there were paintings of Shanghai. The skyline from the Bund. The towers of Lujiazui. The artsy little cafés of Xuhui, the elegant streets of Huangpu, and the bars of Jing'an. Every piece was crafted beautifully and intricately detailed, but at the same time… there was nothing special about them. They were simply a way to pass time when he was bored.

But, despite the myriad of pieces spread out before them, there were never paintings of people. None of his parents, none of his friends, none of himself. He had tried, for far too many times to count, but he could never bring himself to see the faces of his past again.

Through it all, Harry remained silent as he took it in. The initial smile on his face had long since faded into a frown, but it wasn't one of disgust or awkwardness or pity. After seeing the last piece, Harry turned to Draco. There was surprise his eyes. Sadness. And perhaps even a little bit of guilt. But mostly, there was concern.

"I never knew," Harry said. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. "Why didn't you ask for help?"

"Would anyone have helped me back then?" Draco responded quietly.

The silence that ensued was more than enough a confirmation.

"You know," Draco said, breaking the quietness. "You should consider yourself really lucky. I've never shown my paintings to anyone before."

"Really?" Harry looked at him, shocked. "Not even Hyun?"

"Not even him," Draco affirmed. It was true. He really had never shown anyone these fragments of his life, or let anyone know about this little passion of his. In part because he didn't want the long explanations that would come with questions about some of his darker bloodstained paintings. But mostly it was because he didn't want to see the faces of curiosity and wonder turn into expressions of horror and revulsion once he told them about his crimes.

Though, with Harry… considering the history between them… it was perhaps a little different.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to thank you for showing them to me," Harry said, turning to Draco with a smile.

"It's fine. I wanted to," Draco replied. He genuinely meant it. And in that moment of weakness… he lowered his eyes and the words from his heart slipped softly through his lips. "I don't want you to regret me."

He felt a hand slip into his, and he glanced up to see Harry in front of him.

"Draco," Harry said. He was smiling, and those clear green eyes shone with sincerity. An open, honest sincerity that was so beautiful and unashamed that even someone as cynical as Draco could not even dream of denying it. "I would never regret you."

Draco didn't know who leaned in first, but it didn't matter whatsoever because the next thing he knew, Harry was kissing him. The bed was covered with paintings, but they shoved the framed canvases aside and tumbled down, lying amidst the colors, with Draco beneath. He cupped Harry's face, deepening the embrace, and all he could feel was his hair between his fingers, all he could taste was his lips and skin, and…

It wasn't until he felt a touch of coolness on his collarbone when he realized that Harry had unbuttoned his shirt.

"Wait, stop!" Draco gasped and pushed Harry off. Terror washed over him like a bucket of ice water. They were not drunk, it was broad daylight, and if his shirt came off, Harry would most definitely see and recognize that stupid fucking dragon tattoo.

"What?" Harry looked confused; his expression was still slightly glazed.

"I…" Draco struggled to think. God, where were his wits when he needed them the most? How the fuck was he supposed to explain why Harry was not allowed to take off his shirt when they literally had sex the night before?

"Shit!" Harry suddenly let out a muffled curse. He rolled off the bed, wincing.

"What is it?" Draco propped himself up, alarmed. He didn't notice that his opened collar had slipped a little lower down his shoulders. Concern immediately replaced whatever anxiety he had about the dragon tattoo.

"What the hell did you put in your paintings?" Harry demanded. He rubbed his knee gingerly. "I knelt on something really sharp just now,"

"Well, I don't know," Draco said. Seeing that Harry was more or less alright, he let out an inward sigh of relief. "Maybe the frames?"

"No, it felt a lot sharper than that," Harry frowned. He reached over towards the painting he knelt on. The wooden frame remained intact, but slightly beneath it, there was a glimmer of steel…

Harry moved it aside, and underneath, surrounded by soft white sheets, was the gleaming metal brand of the Dragon Killer.

Fuck. Oh god. Fuck.

"I have no fucking clue how this got here," Draco said. Because it was the honest, brutal truth. How the fuck did the dragon end up in his apartment and tucked between his artworks? He glanced up. Harry was looking at him, eyes wide with shock, but at the same time… there was also disbelief. Good. Disbelief is good. Draco needed him to disbelieve it, even though he was looking really goddam suspicious at this point.

"I'm not the Dragon Killer," Draco said. He reached over. "I've-"

"What is that on your shoulder?"

This time, Harry's voice was like ice.

Draco glanced to his right, and… fuck.

In that moment, it was as if the deepest, darkest nightmare his mind could even dream of conjuring came true. Every drop of his blood froze in terror, because peering, almost innocently, through the edge of the fabric was the dragon's snout.

Draco reached for his shirt, ready to cover it up, but Harry was faster, yanking his sleeve down. And there was nothing he could do to stop him from seeing the dragon tattoo in its entirety – from the elegantly raised head to the sweeping wings to the delicately pointed tail – the very same as the one on the steel brand on the sheets between them.

"You're the Dragon Killer."

This time, there was no disbelief. No confusion. And no hesitation. A vicious sideswipe crashed into Draco's jaw that sent pain exploding across his face and his vision swirling in stars before he blacked out, but before unconsciousness swept him away, he saw Harry's face.

It was cold. Merciless. And those beautiful green eyes were devoid of whatever affection they had for each other the night before.