Let's fuck till our lungs give out,
It won't be long.
A night to remember, a day to forget.
xXx
We're young and in love,
Heart attacks waiting to happen,
So come a little closer, tell me it's all in our heads.
xXx
Your voice makes my heart skip beats,
So, keep quiet before it flatlines.
- Fuck
The sighs, the moans—salvation. And as she came undone before him, he knew he fucking loved her. Later he'd hate her again; he'd hate her for her hope, and her faith, and her smiles, and her laughs. He'd hate her for her absolute joy in life. God how he'd fucking hate her. But right now it didn't matter. Right now he could love her sweat-ridden body, and he could be free; he could forget; he could almost pretend to be whole. The divine gift which she bestowed upon him.
And he knew his own salvation was painful for her, and still she came back again, and again, for some abstract concept she used so desperately to justify her shame. Some days that knowledge would grind shards of glass into what remained of his heart. Most days he left her before the thoughts could penetrate the walled fortress of his mind. Because eventually she'd move, and so he'd flee before she could wake and remind him that he wanted nothing more than to tear her eyes from her face for looking at him that way—the way that made him feel like he was supposed to be something more, like to her he was something more, more than just an empty casing for an empty heart.
She never said it, that she loved him; she knew so much better than that, but he was a Slytherin and so he saw it nonetheless, because she breathed it. It was in everything she did, not just in the way she looked at him, or the way she said his name, or the way she had that smile—the one that he knew was just for him. But also in the evidence of her presence—her continued return—, and in the words she spoke, and even in the bloody way she moved. And it killed him. Because Draco Malfoy was beyond hope. Because Draco Malfoy had long ago moved out of reach of all things pure and good, had long ago forsaken them.
All things except her, the stereotypical fallen angel, and yet somehow, regardless of what he put her through, what she put herself through, she never truly fell. And perhaps that was how it had all started—a craving for the touch of something so ludicrously pure.
She moved and Draco tensed beside her, praying she'd stay asleep. But her breathing remained steady, and she stilled once more, and so he dragged himself from the room. He was never there when she woke up.