One for the money, two for the show

I never was ready, so I watch you go

Sometimes you just don't know the answer

Till someone's on their knees and asks you

— champagne problems, track 2.

.

Chapter 2

your heart was glass, i dropped it.

Snow touches down on the dirt road leading up to the Burrow. From the doorstep, Harry can hear the sounds of merriment within. He rubs his hands together while he waits for someone to come to the door. His hands aren't cold, though. It is more like he is rubbing his hands together because… that's what he ought to be doing. That's what someone standing outside in the cold normally does.

Harry has arrived at the Burrow for a party. He's arrived with someone—no, he's arrived by himself. He's standing on the doorstep by himself. He'd told his boyfriend not to wait up, that they would meet here, and he's beginning to regret that decision. If his boyfriend was here, he'd be distracted from his own thoughts...

The door swings open, revealing Percy Weasley.

"Harry! About time you showed up." Percy's face has a funny pink flush to it, like he's been drinking more than usual. Then he reaches out and tugs Harry into an unexpected hug. Harry doesn't splutter, but it's a near thing. Percy doesn't normally exhibit this much of a desire for physical affection.

But it's a special day, today. Harry's boyfriend has been promoted at the Ministry to Senior Undersecretary. The youngest in a century, they say. It's incredibly impressive, and Harry's never been prouder.

"Hey, Perce," Harry says. He steps back once the hug is over, putting distance between them. He restrains the urge to wrap his arms around himself, an insecure habit held over from childhood. "Is—" Harry stumbles over the name, licks his lips. "Is he already here?"

Percy grins widely. It's a strange sight. "He's been waiting for you," Percy promises. "Now come in before mum scolds me for leaving you on our doorstep."

Harry stomps his feet on the welcome mat before he steps inside. The Burrow is decked out in full holiday-style decor, and Harry can smell the enormous feast that Molly must be preparing for them in the kitchen.

He's hardly gotten to the living room before his boyfriend is upon him, clutching his elbows, brilliant smile turned soft with affection. Tall and handsome. Dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. Harry stares at his boyfriend's face. At—at Tom's face.

Tom speaks softly, as if Harry will shrink back if he speaks too loudly. "Hello, love. Did you have a safe trip?"

Harry flushes. He's never liked people fussing over him, but he thinks maybe he doesn't mind it, coming from Tom. "It was just from my flat to here. It was fine."

Tom brushes his fingers over his forehead, tucking loose strands of hair out of the way. "I'm glad," Tom says. He presses a kiss to Harry's cheek, gives his hand a squeeze. "Did you want water? Tea?"

There's a witty retort on the tip of Harry's tongue—'Did I get the wrong address? I thought I was at the Burrow, not your flat'—but it dies a quick death in Harry's throat. He swallows down the remnants of it and shakes his head.

"I'm fine." He coughs, feels the guilt swell up. Not now, he tells himself. Not today. "I know I said it already, but: congratulations on the promotion, Tom. You really deserve it."

"I couldn't have done it without you," Tom says. It is a sweet response—the perfect response. His eyes are so, so warm. Harry wants to fall into them forever.

Harry shakes his head a second time, starts to pull away. He's saved from having to respond to Tom when Ron calls his name, and then saved further when Molly calls them all to dinner.

Tom sits to Harry's left, polite as ever, filling a plate with equal amounts of everything. Tom compliments Molly on her cooking, asks Hermione how her work on magical creature rights is going, makes wry jokes that startle Fred and George into laughter. He does everything absolutely right, just like he does at work, just like he does with Harry.

Harry pushes his food around on his plate and hardly eats anything.

Everyone else is bubbly, happy, cheerful. Tom is the only one who notices his distress—his hand settles on Harry's knee, pressing gently. Harry looks up at him. There is a clear question in Tom's concerned gaze:

Are you okay?

Harry is not okay. But he can pretend. He smiles and nudges Tom with his elbow. He spears a piece of sausage with his fork and lifts it to his mouth. It tastes delicious. Probably. To Harry, it might as well be cotton. His mouth is numb and his sense of taste seems lost.

Tom frowns, but there is nothing he can do in front of everyone else without causing a fuss. He knows Harry hates fusses. He knows a lot of things.

The meal concludes with a toast, with Arthur encouraging them all to top up their glasses. Knowing looks are exchanged around the table. Harry catches onto them far too late.

"To Tom," says Arthur, glass raised, fatherly smile fixed in place. "The best damn Senior Undersecretary the Minister will ever have." He gazes upon Tom with genuine fondness—a fondness Harry recognizes. Arthur, he realizes, is regarding Tom as family.

As if inspired by Harry's thoughts, Arthur's speech continues: "I've always considered Harry to be part of our family. Like a son to me." That makes Harry's heart thud almost painfully in his chest, but it is nothing compared to how he feels when Arthur says, "Tom, I'd be honoured to consider you a part of our family too, if you'd allow it."

Harry feels his mouth drop open in bewilderment—not intentionally, of course, and he feels stupid as soon as it happens. He clicks his jaw shut and turns to look at Tom to take in his reaction. What had brought this on?

"Arthur," hisses Molly. There is a thud under the table that suggests Arthur is the lovely recipient of a sharp kick. "Don't go spoiling!"

But Tom is smiling again, his smile made more beautiful by the joy that spreads over his features. "I'd be honoured to accept," he says in a lower register than usual.

"Go on then," Molly says. She's beaming from ear to ear, gesturing with a flap of her hand. "Ask!"

Everyone turns to look at Harry.

Harry doesn't know what they want him to ask. He doesn't know, but then he does, because Molly is not speaking to him, rather—

She is speaking to Tom.

Tom, who has pushed back his chair and is sinking down to one knee in front of everyone, the most affectionate look in his eyes.

Harry's vision swims. Tom's face is blurring in and out, but his hand grasps Harry's in a gentle grip. So gentle, like Harry is fragile.

"You are the love of my life," Tom says earnestly. "You complete me, you see me as I am and accept every part of me. I trust you with my life, with my heart, with my soul. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Harry. If you'd have me."

A box is produced from nowhere. Tom opens it up and raises a glittering diamond ring into the air. It dazzles, each facet shining with the light of a thousand sunlit days. "Harry, darling, would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?"

It is too much. Harry isn't ready for this, for marriage, for the commitment that comes with pledging himself to someone forever. The enormity of it overwhelms him. Tom loves him, but he—

"C-can't," Harry chokes out. "I can't, I'm sorry, I can't—" He stands clumsily, knocking his champagne glass over in the process. It falls off the table and shatters on the floor, the singular sound of breaking glass deafening in the silence following his terrible, terrible declaration.

They are all staring at him, but Harry only sees Tom.

Confusion. Heartbreak. Tom's expression is suddenly all too clear, the finer details of his crushing disappointment spreading like wildfire over his face. Harry wants to curl up in a ball and cry.

Then Tom's sadness fades away, blue skies pushing back the storm. Tom clears his throat. He straightens and gets to his feet.

"I-I see," he says, as if he hasn't been publicly rejected in front of everyone, as if Harry hasn't utterly shattered his heart as thoroughly as he's shattered the champagne glass spread out in shards all over the floor. "I think... I think I ought to go, then."

The shine of diamond vanishes, and then Tom vanishes out the door.

"R-Reparo. Shit. Reparo."

Hermione sets his newly-repaired glass back on the table. Her expression is apologetic. Harry closes his eyes for a second and breathes out. He is shaking all over, his hands cold as ice.

People start talking all at once.

"You have to go after him, Harry—"

"—Molly, dear, I don't think this is the right time—"

"Give Harry some space, alright, let him breathe—"

"—someone should go after Tom, he's all alone—"

Harry breathes in. Behind closed eyelids, Tom's devastated expression haunts him. He can't leave it like this. No decent person would leave it like this, and although Harry is a horrible person, he can't do this to Tom. Not Tom, who has been so good to him. It is not Tom's fault that he's a mess.

"I'll go after him," Harry says, voice quivering. "I know where he'll have gone."

That sets off a fresh round of protests that Harry ignores. He shuts his eyes again, pictures Tom's face, pictures the grey skies and roughly-trimmed patches of grass, and Disapparates.

The graveyard materializes around him. Surprisingly, Harry has not Splinched himself despite his distress. That's a silver lining, at least—it would have been horrible if he'd come here only to bleed all over Tom like an idiot.

Tom is standing by his parents' graves, hands stuffed into his pockets. His posture has lost its pride; for once, his shoulders are slumped.

"Tom?"

Tom doesn't turn around, but he does respond, "Harry."

"I'm sorry," Harry says. The words are inadequate, but they are there. They are honest. Harry kicks at a clump of grass on the ground. He's not sure if he should come closer. Does Tom even want him here? "Um—"

Tom laughs a little. It is a quiet sound mixed with self-depreciation. "Let me guess: it's not me, it's you?"

Harry shrugs. "Something like that." With that comment, he feels confident enough to walk up, to stand next to Tom. "I really am sorry."

"Harry," says Tom, exasperated. "You don't have to be sorry."

Harry feels like an asshole. "Well, I am. So too bad."

Tom actually laughs this time. The joyful noise is out of place here, surrounded by tombstones. Then the laugh tapers off and Tom sobers. He looks down at the ground, then back up at Harry.

"I'll wait for you," he offers. "Until you're ready. I thought—" He shakes his head. "I thought you were ready." Tom sighs, melancholically. "I thought that it was the perfect time, the perfect place. Surrounded by your friends and family, the people who love you."

Tom loves him. Harry feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. How to say it? How to explain that he'll never be ready, that he can't be loved, that what he wants the most is to run away from everyone and everything until he forgets who he is. Who he could have been.

"It's not you," Harry says. "It's me. I can't marry you." Not now, not ever. Harry can't say those words aloud, but he tries to convey them anyway. "I'm not—I'm not someone you should be marrying."

"Like hell you aren't," Tom says fiercely. He whirls around and grabs Harry by the forearms—

The action is neither violent nor rough, only sudden, but it's enough. It's enough to make Harry flinch.

Tom goes still, his hands falling limply to his sides. "Sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have moved so quickly."

Harry wants to laugh, now. He wants to laugh at himself for being a failure, for being incapable of receiving the love offered to him, for being miserable and selfish, even now. Even while the man he loves is hurting.

"I've taken an offer," Harry says at last. "To play for the Lancashire Quidditch team. They've offered me a two-year contract. I'll be abroad more often than not."

The coward's way out, to let a contract do the dirty work for him. To force Tom to let him go.

"I'll wait for you," Tom repeats. Deliberately keeping his motions slow, he takes Harry's hands in his own. "I love you. We can make it work, Harry. I swear to you that we can. You don't have to do this."

"I don't have to, but I'm going to." Harry drops his hands, pulls away, shuts down every part of himself that is screaming in protest. "You'll find someone else, Tom. I know you, and that's why I know you will. You're an amazing, incredible person and you deserve the world."

"I don't want the world. I want you."

Forget me, Harry doesn't say. Because he doesn't want that, not really. He doesn't want Tom to forget about him. Forgive me, he thinks instead, which is what he hopes for above all things, that he will be forgiven for breaking Tom's heart. Tom won't give up on him now, but eventually he will because Harry will disappoint him.

"You'll find someone else," Harry says, firm. "Someone who isn't afraid of sudden movements, someone who you don't have to watch yourself around all the time. Someone who doesn't Splinch themselves whenever they travel from one county to another because they can't handle enclosed spaces." He pauses, considers his words carefully, then finishes with, "Someone who will love you better than I can."

"No such person exists," Tom says, full of confidence.

It's a lie, but Harry can pretend that it's true. "Two years," Harry says. "I'll come back then, and if you haven't found anyone… I don't know." Then he'll have to live with knowing that he's ruined Tom's life as well as his own.

"Two years," Tom promises. He does not sound happy, but he sounds hopeful.

They stand quietly, hands held tightly. Their surroundings shift and shimmer: the grass grows tall, the skies go from grey to blue and back again. Ivy creeps up onto the graves, curls of green leaves climbing over stone.

"May I kiss you?" Tom asks. Still gentle, always gentle when Harry is involved.

"Okay," Harry says, after a beat has passed. He is selfish; he wants a kiss.

Tom leans in. The kiss is soft, tender. Harry can't remember the last time they had kissed, if it was days or months or years ago. Regardless, it feels nice. Harry loses himself in the sensation of it all, relishes in the touch of Tom's hand on the back of his neck. He tries to move his arms—

His arms are pinned in place, he can't raise them properly. Harry makes a mild noise of confusion that is placated by Tom's hand winding through his hair.

Above them, the sky brightens to a blinding white. The graveyard glows, tombstones reflecting the light until it is everywhere. Harry can hardly see Tom anymore. All he sees is white.

Slowly, the feeling of being held fades away, drifting off like an autumn leaf.

Slowly, Harry wakes up.

A/N:

to see the art for this story, you'll have to pop on over to my AO3, under user duplicity!

next chapter, we return to reality... where harry is in for a rather rude awakening :( this chapter is still a bit on the shorter end, but the next chapter will be much longer. the chapter lengths are going to vary depending on the scene(s) that happen!