Perpetual motion, golden-bright
(1234 words, also on AO3)
Autumn came early that year; drizzling droplets of amber and ruby, sprouting golden and bright-yellow-green in the shrubs around their building. Outside the windows of their little flat the world was shaking, wet-dogged-like before an exhale: ready, ready. Draco wasn’t. Stirring a cup that might have gone cold, staring at the one branch of reddening leaves sway with the wind.
A shuffle: at the kitchen door, impossibly lovely, sleep-crusted face scrunched on a frown. Harry, in his old jumper and boxer shorts, in, infuriatingly, only one sock. All at once it rushed in Draco’s belly, gushing and tight: affection so large it barely even fit, surging hot and fierce right through him.
“What are you doing,” Harry grumbled, “out of bed?” coming to collect him, two arms wrapped around his waist. Forgot to put on his house coat, forgot he was cold. Forgot that this was breathing, in, out, with the guiding rhythm of Harry’s chest.
“The appointment,” he remembered to say. “It’s, we don’t have much time. To prepare.”
“What’s there to prepare?” a huff of a laugh, warm and slightly moist on the back of his neck. “You ridiculous creature. It’s not even seven.”
“And we need to be there by ten,” admonishing, but gently. “I have your clothes ready.”
“Do you.”
“With a tie, and so help me, you’ll wear it. We need to make a good—impression. If we want…” a helpless look up and then down to the floor. Colour rising high on his cheeks, warm-warm and telling.
“Darling,” Harry breathed. Pressed a small kiss to the back of his head. “It’s going to be fine.”
“But what if—” turning in his arms so he could valiantly—no, hide in the crook of his neck: “What if it goes wrong.” The problem, as always, was jumping ahead of himself; the problem was he was already in love with the place. With the ivy on the walls and the copse of trees at the back, with the window that looked out onto the burn and a faint, persistent smell of lavender that lingered in the eaves. That it could be theirs, this little dream. Draco’s never allowed himself…
Gentle fingers in his hair; his eyes closed on their own. “Nothing’s going to go wrong. We’ll get the loan approved, and the house is ours. Mrs. Tinsberry said—”
“I know,” tightly. “I know what she said.” Heard himself swallow under the rustling of the wind. “It’s only, I can’t help but think—” the words jagged in his throat: “I wasn’t meant for such loveliness.”
His parents’ estate with its neat garden, rigid, clean rows of perfect blossoms; rooms that were so scared to move even their air froze still, beautiful things that were to be looked at and never-ever touched. Straight-backed chairs and tall, lean windows that offered magnificent, manicured views of a world that wasn’t real, never could be. And Draco inside it, so frightened to breathe too loudly or speak at the wrong turn or make the slightest deviation, the most miniature of mistakes, and ruin everything.
Had ruined everything. Should not be rewarded for cowardice or for cruelty. And the little house on the burn with its wilderness of a garden, with its crooked corridors and bright curtains and wonky chimney, with its nooks and cheerful cabinets and tiny attic, it was—it was perfect, and not for him. For Harry, yes, with someone good and beautiful and sweet, someone who could keep him safe and take care of him the way he deserved. For… the words stung in his chest: for Harry and his family.
Resolutely: “I—” but he wasn’t ready for those green eyes, for the look that went all the way from his lip (trembling) to his nose (sniffling) to his eyebrows (frowning) to his forehead (scrunched).
“Draco,” Harry said, “you idiot,” and proceeded to crush him so tightly it robbed him of air, of reason. Draco let himself melt into the embrace the way he always did, and forgot what was still crushing in his windpipe.
(Read more on AO3 or under the cut)