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Harry leans back and closes his eyes, and he can almost feel Draco's exhalation of breath against his skin before he lets it out. Draco's arms are wound tight around him, so tight Harry is reminded that Draco can hurt him at any time, can hurt him and more, can break him with a word or two, can rip him wide open in ways that don't involve slipping beneath Harry's skin, and that's not something Harry can think about because the flash of blood across Draco's chest is still too new, too recent, and god, Harry has things to do, he can't--they can't--

He murmurs, "Malfoy," against the side of Draco's neck, and it's meant to be a protest, but it only makes Draco moan and clutch at him harder, their bodies edging together, halting and fierce, until suddenly it's not enough and he knows it's not enough and Draco seems to catch on at the same time, and they scrabble to yank at fabric and tear down pieces of clothing until there's nothing between them but air and skin and all the lies that have stretched out behind them for years. Harry leans in and presses his mouth desperately against Draco's, all tongue and apology, and he doesn't know if Draco gets it, if Draco understands, but Draco kisses him back like he needs it, needs this, and there in the silence, in the darkness, Harry knows that needing this may be the only thing that can win-- may be the only thing that can halt the world and hold it in Harry's grip for the slaughter.

He comes with his eyes wide shut.



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