silver: @drarrymicrofic | 468
summer bingo: cuddling/non-sexual touch, no dialogue, break-up
—
He doesn’t know why he’s still doing it, dressing for Harry. They’d broken up a year ago, one entire year since he’d fucked off to Merlin knows where with the shattered pieces of Draco’s heart. He doesn’t understand why he keeps wearing the gray peabody coat Harry had once said made Draco’s eyes look like molten pools of silver or why his fingers are still adorned with the silver rings that Harry had bought him because he’d liked how elegant they looked on Draco’s hands. It’s been a year since Harry left and Draco’s still living like he’s here.
But Harry’s back now, and Draco’s imagined this moment so many times it feels like a memory. It feels different, the way Harry touches him, like an apology rather than the state of worship he’d once been accustomed to. All Draco can think about are Harry’s hands; how many other bodies they’d touched and how long it had taken for the warmth of Draco’s body to fade away. Does Harry still remember the way his hands had shaken the first time he’d pulled off Draco’s coat? He’s seemingly in awe that Draco had kept it all this time, voice quiet as he skims his trembling fingers along the lapels. Does Harry remember the heat of Draco’s rings as Draco had cupped his face, lips pressing against each other’s like the seal of a promise? Harry expresses his surprise that he’s still wearing them and caresses the skin of Draco’s fingers as if he’s the most precious thing in the world.
Why did you leave? Draco wants to demand. Why wasn’t I good enough? He fears the answer too much to ask.
Harry takes him to his hotel room. They lay down on the bed, and Harry crowds Draco against the edge, warm arms wrapped around his body as if Harry was afraid Draco would be the one to disappear. It’s obvious Harry’s going to leave again. That much is clear by the apologetic kisses peppered across the back of Draco’s neck, the hand resting on his sternum as if Harry’s trying to memorize every single one of Draco’s breaths and heartbeats.
When will you come back? Draco almost asks, but he knows the answer will be too painful to bear.
Morning light filters in through the window what seems like only seconds later, seeping between the cracks in the curtains that hadn’t been properly closed. Draco squeezes his eyes tightly, silently begging for another day, another week, another life—it’s no use. He feels Harry shift behind him, his embrace switching from tender to restless.
For the first time, Draco leaves first. He drapes the coat over the chair squeezed into the corner of the room and drops the rings on the table closest to Harry.
And from there on out, he only wears gold.
