Melancholia | Drarry

the silence that follows

The hiss of the coffee machine brings Justin's thoughts from the lamplit living room and back to the convenience store. He had a craving for store-bought coffee, good old-fashioned sludge mixed with sickeningly artificial creamer. Plus, he knows that this place, open 24/7, has decent breakfast muffins - blueberry and cinnamon, thank God.

Mostly, though, he needed to get out of the apartment.

The cashier sleepily rings up the box of assorted muffins and the coffee, slumping against the counter as he hands Justin his change.

"Thanks," Justin says, and balances the cup on the box as he emerges into the dead of night once more. Tiny snowflakes fall in slow motion in the light of the streetlamps. Justin pauses to watch them, piling steadily on the sidewalks and on nearby cars, making ghosts of their machinery. Justin carefully sips his burning hot coffee, hesitant to start walking back.

Luna Lovegood. Two years ago, she was nothing but an angel, unattainable, in the arms of another. Justin counts himself lucky every damn day to be with her now.

Yet tonight, it seems that she's starting to grow wings once again.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Justin says aloud. The walk back whirls with freezing wind, and though Justin zips his coat as far as it will go, the cold seeps through his clothes, frost creeping over his heart in fear of what he may see next.

∞ ∞ ∞

For what feels like centuries, Harry watches his life play out like a film, flashing in front of his eyes and over his body through a projector. With every passing day, Draco grows fainter and fainter, his expression guarded, eyes dipping, curling in on himself like a fern's growth in reverse.

Harry doesn't blame him. He remembers, how it took months for Draco to open up, and even more time to let him in. As Draco's edges grow blurry, the memories remain sharp, the scent of pine and marijuana and car engine smoke outlining the streets of Ashfell.

Harry mourns every word from Draco's mouth.

"Can you hand me that, love?" Coffee mug on the highest shelf.

"Harder." Trembling beneath him, eyes half-closed in trust.

"What am I to you?" Pensive, kicking bare feet in the sand.

"Stop. Stop, Harry, I don't want to fight." Thrown arms around his neck.

Occasionally, Harry takes time to pause and breathe, taking Draco's face in his hands and asking, "How much do you remember?"

Every time, Draco's brow furrows in confusion. "Remember what?"

One night, Harry stands near the pullout couch, both hands resting on the windowsill. It must be past midnight; he spots only two cars, on either side of the intersection, soon pulling out of sight, their headlights dim in the blur of snow.

Harry turns, spots Draco's naked, sleeping form tangled in the sheets, face relaxed and turned towards the window. Harry can't pin down his grin, even as he realizes it's been a full year. He recognizes this scene, the one repeated over and over in the few days after New Year's: hands and mouths frantic with desire, clothes tugged and torn without thinking, the pent-up affection of the year prior releasing in a flood of wanting.

A whole year. More than halfway there, before time marks an enormous, void-like gap.

Harry pads over to the couch and kneels. He touches Draco's face, gently, fingers caressing the curve of his cheek.