What’ll I do when you are far away,
And I am blue? What’ll I do?
What’ll I do when I am wondering who
Is kissing you—what’ll I do?
What’ll I do with just a photograph
To tell my troubles to?
When I’m alone with only dreams of you
That won’t come true—what’ll I do?
And in the end, it wasn't really that special, after all.
It was just the idea of it, mostly. Just the idea that they fit together perfectly, that the light glinting against a perfect contrast of black and silver was grander than anything. It was just the idea that because he was something ice cold and aquiline he could kiss Harry just the way he needed to be kissed.
And in the end, what did they have, really? But a lot of sex and stupid normal everyday lives. They didn't even fight anymore—Draco understood him so fucking well they never had to. And that was all they did, fuck and sleep and eat and be together. Nobody needed a life like that. If all he wanted was tranquility he could have gone to anyone. So why didn't he?
"Harry," said Draco seriously, "I think we should see other people."
See? It wasn't only him. This whole thing was just, it wasn't.
And he winced at the look in Draco's eyes when he said it—a glimmer of watchful apprehension, like a finely tuned orchestra awaiting its cue. Oh, Harry could make him play. Always make him play, alright.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I mean--I've been thinking," Draco said hastily, swallowing. "How do I know this is what I really want? We've been together since straight out of high school. There might be more out there."
Slowly he nodded. "Right. You're right."
Oliver. He'd always wanted to fuck Oliver. No, he'd wanted to be fucked by Oliver—the long thick cock shoving into him while Oliver gripped his shoulders and grunted—god, yes. He already knew he'd fuck Oliver.
And Dean. Dean was straight but, well. Curious. Blaise Zabini, too—he'd never known about him, but he was pretty sure he and Draco had fooled around, the thought of him taking Draco against a dungeon wall got him hard immediately.
Five years. It was time.
He'd never noticed how hairy Oliver's back was.
Dean was obsessed with giving head and Harry didn't like getting head all that much. He didn't like the lack of control involved, and Dean got pissy and took it personally.
Draco informed him he was fucking Blaise on a regular basis.
"You know why he did it, don't you?" Hermione's voice carried disappointment.
"So he could get with fucking Zabini!" said Harry, with a curse.
"Because he knew you needed it."
"What?"
"He thought you weren't happy. He's not seeing Blaise. He's not seeing anyone. He tries to hide it, but he's not. He's just as much in love with you as ever."
"Hermione, stop it, don't do this."
"It's the truth, Harry."
"How could he lie to me like that? Why—why didn't he tell me?"
"Because he saw you growing distant. Harry, we all saw it. He wanted you to think he needed the time off because he knew you wouldn't take it otherwise."
Harry sought for words and came up dry-mouthed.
"Why don't you go back to him?"
"Obviously if he thinks I've wanted out he won't want me back."
"Well, do you want back?"
"Yes! No, I—I don't want back in that."
"What do you want?"
"...Draco."
"You should talk to him."
"And what am I supposed to say?"
"You don't need me to tell you that, Harry Potter. Quit stalling and go find him."
He finally managed to knock on the door of their—Draco's—apartment. Draco opened it and stared at him. After hours and hours of trying to get him to stop staring and listen, Harry gave up and dragged him to bed and wrapped his arms around him.
It must have worked.