this is my favorite charli xcx song, and Harry has always played the leading role in my fantasies while listening to it. pls enjoy this fic. i've included multiple mentions of the duo frou frou as a treat for the girlies (anyone who loves frou frou as much as i do).
âWhy is it called a pineapple?â Harry asks, leaning against a kitchen cabinet. The knob is digging into his spine, but heâs too loaded to move, let alone notice. Heâs shed his pirate costume on various surfaces over the course of the night, his ruffled shirt the only sign left that he was anything at all in the first place.
Nobody replies, because Hermioneâ dressed as a fairyâ is passed out at the kitchen island, hunched over on one of the barstools with her head cradled in her arms. She has a tendency to overestimate her ability to tell when enough is enough, but always ends up having more fun than any of them.
He never should have had this party, is still not sure what he was expecting to get from all this. Most of the people he invited came in their half-arsed costumes, ate ludicrous amounts of sweets, and got drunker than theyâd planned to. Surely, his Halloween party should have been a success, right?
Yet, that was never the goal at all. There was one objective for the night, and itâs nearing three in the morning, still uncompleted.Â
Yes, Harry Gatsbyâd it.Â
Eventually, Hermione is carried out over Ronâs shoulder amid hoarse goodbyes and âhave a good nightâs. Harry and Luna collect the cups, and the sink smells of pineapple and rum, of Dracoâs breath after every pub night. They take down the streamers while Imogen Heap sings âI have to be somewhere/now where did I put it,â and Harry is reminded of the infinite times he was held sonically hostage to Dracoâs Details CD on long drives.Â
He feels nauseous, and canât decide if itâs because of the lack of Dracoâs presence, or the way heâd overindulged with every passing hour. He decides itâs because of Draco, because everything is. Draco is the reason he painted his bedroom walls blue, and threw this party in the first place.
Their little friends with benefits situation ended three years ago, and Dracoâs moved on. Multiple times. But none of them stick, and with every breakup that spark of hope grows in Harryâs chest. That Draco will come back and finish what they started.
Eventually, Luna leaves too, and Harryâs left with a house devoid of all the things heâd placed in it to lure Draco in like a blonde fish to a Frou Frou CD on a hook. Nearing four, Harry leaves it on, lets the music remind him of better times when he wasnât drunk, when he wasnât slowly becoming one with the sofa, when Draco being in his house wasnât something he had to carefully orchestrate.
Itâs begun to rain outside, and heâs drifting off to the pitter-patter when the doorbell rings. The sound is like someone dumping a bucket of ice water on his head, and once again the hope that maybe it could be him overcomes the alcohol, just as it did every time a new guest arrived to the party.
Itâs funny, how you can have hope for something and fully believe it to be impossible at the same time. The feeling sits in Harryâs mind after being drilled into him all night. Is it him? No. Is it him? No. Is itâ
âYou have to stop inviting me to things.â
Draco is wet, soakedâ which is ridiculous, since he was always so silly about keeping out of the rain, the precise temperature of his warming charms. Heâs in his robe, the same grey one with hairspray crust on the shoulders that Harry liked to scratch at. Underneath the fabric there are freckles from Dracoâs bad experience with a tanning booth that he hasnât bothered to magic away. Harry likes to think itâs because he knew how fond he was of them. He knows that body and the stories behind it. He knows Draco so well itâs sickening.
âJustâ stop, alright? I canât keep coming up with excuses the next day.â
He looks like a petulant childâ fists at his sides, the crease in his brow, the sheer stubbornness that coats every word.
âIâm sorry?â Harry doesnât mean for it to come out as a question, but heâs not sure what heâs supposed to be sorry for, and is still reeling from his learned experience being proven wrong so abruptly.Â
âI donât understand why you feel the need to remind me. You- you invite me to your house. You give me⌠I get a taste of what itâs like to be around you again and then I leave, and I just canât any more! I canât come to your parties, your pub nights, your fucking luncheons. Youâre cruel, Harry. This is all soâŚâ
Harry reaches out a hand, rests it on Dracoâs shoulder, âIâm so confused right now.â
âYouâre swaying,â Draco notices.
âHarry, you donât have to keep trying to include me in things. I know⌠I canât be your friend.â
âI canât believe youâre asking me that.â
Draco averts his eyes, and seems to realize heâs wet, before pushing his way into Harryâs foyer and drying himself off with his wand. Harry wishes he wouldnât, because the sight of him truly affected by the rain is something to behold, something he now realizes heâs been deprived of for so long.
âYou know why,â he continues, âYou know why, and yet you keep inviting me to things because my friends are your friends and vice versa, but I donât need to be included in everything, not when you know how much it hurts me.â
âDraco, what the fuck are you on about?â
âWhat am I supposed to do? Just act normal? Iâve been in love with you for three fucking years, and everybody knows it, and I know you know it, and Iâm sick of being embarrassedââ
âDraco,â Harry stops him, a hand pressed to his firm chest. The gesture isnât needed, but Harry wants to touch him so bad, feel the linen of Dracoâs shirt under his fingertips now that he knows that Draco wants it, âYouâre stupid.â
If he wasnât drunk, he would have been much more eloquent, but this is the best heâs got, and as long as Draco stops talking long enough to listen, maybe he can make it through this conversation.
âI only threw this party for you.â
Draco takes two steps back, knocks his hip against a fern, then takes a step forward.
âYou threwâŚâ Draco looks around the room, now devoid of all its decorations, and Harry hopes he can imagine them in his mind. Imagine a room full of people they love, drinking something he likes, eating his favourite candy, listening to his favourite music, and understand that Harry has always been trying to show, unsure if he was allowed to tell, âWhat are you saying?â
âI Gatsbyâd it,â Harry replies, because Luna said thatâs what he was doing, and the phrase has been stuck in his head all night.
âYou Gatsbyâd it,â Draco deadpans.
âI threw an entire party and filled it with things I know you like, just because I wanted you to show up,â Harry admits, âI had rum rollovers and Frou Frou and I dressed up as a pirate because I know you love men in frilly shirts, because I wanted you to walk in and notice.â
Itâs definitely odd saying it out loud, but Draco just showed up at his doorstep and professed his love for him, so Harry feels free to say his truth.
âIâm seven hours late.â
âSorry about that,â Draco scratches that spot behind his ear, where heâs always thought about getting a tattoo. Harry remembers how it tastes, âSoâŚâ
âI love you too, by the way,â Harry blurts, âYou said you were in love with me and I called you stupid andââ
Draco reaches for him, and Harry is both expecting it and caught off guard when they kissâ quick and painless and just as sweet as he remembers.
âYou threw a party for me,â Draco murmurs.
âEverything I do is for you,â Harry replies, and Draco kisses him again, and again, until he finally manages to pull away from his lips, âI mean, not brushing my teeth or whatever. Like, the pub nights and the dinner parties. Those were all for you.â
âWhy didnât you justââ Draco starts, and Harry knows why he didnât just, but heâs still too muddled to explain all that.
âI have a lot of problems,â he says instead.
Draco laughs, and Harryâs so glad that itâs finally because of him again, and not some brunette at the pub, âYes, you do.â
They move on to the sofa, trading explanations through the night as Harryâs buzz finally wears off, and Draco admits that he got pretty smashed in his kitchen, unable to bear the idea of refusing the invite. The sun peaks through the curtains in the early hours of the morning, and they begin to doze, twisted around one another. They havenât spoken for a while, simply rested in the warmth of long-awaited understanding.
But, as Harry finally lets sleep overcome him, he hears a snort and one final whisper.
âYou Gatsbyâd itâŚâ
if you liked this, feel free to give it some love over on ao3!
