Drarry- It Was All Just a Game (Old Version)

Chapter 51- A Blooming Idea

It was hard. It was all so fucking hard.

Sure, they were happy they were with each other, that the other had made it through the war, that they'd be safe for now, but that was it. Everything else, well, they couldn't really be happy about.

They tried to make a pact to stop worrying, to forget about what happened between them, but they physically couldn't. Sometimes it went well for a while-- a few hours at most, but sometimes it was constant silence or constant fighting.

Harry preferred the latter while Draco enjoyed the silence. He figured that if he and Harry didn't talk they wouldn't argue, wouldn't make things worse. But Harry loved fighting because it got his mind off of the war or his nightmares.

It was the same every morning: they'd wake up tangled in each others arms, mostly if not completely naked and sticky; they'd promise themselves it wouldn't be like yesterday; then they'd kiss and touch each other, and sometimes Harry would say something stupid, something about his scars or about how he'd been an arse-- but that was the most remorse Harry would give the entire day-- and that sparked Draco's anger off the bat, although he'd try to swallow it down as long as he could; they'd shower together 'because I fucking can jump in with you, Harry;" Then they'd go change together, and Draco would complain about the clothes he had to wear, and Harry would bribe him with kisses; to the kitchen they would go after that, and then things went down hill after an hour or so.

They would then fight over whatever was on their minds that day. Harry loved it, fighting with him. It was almost addicting and he couldn't even understand why. It was like his own sick way of fun with him. Maybe it was because he was too afraid of laughing with him, because then somehow that could be taken from him as well. And he knew what it was like to have Draco taken from him. He wasn't about to have it happen again.

Sometimes their fights got so nasty that Draco would be halfway out the front door and then he'd stop and breathe, slam it shut, and put his head against the cold wood of it, swallowing back tears.

He had no where to go. Harry was his home. He didn't have a home, not back with his parents. And even if he did, they were probably already caught by the ministry.

Harry would come up behind him and kiss his shoulder. Draco would push him away and Harry would whisper 'please don't go.' And then it would be quiet, and Draco would wipe his eyes.

It was finding each other again. They'd grown so much, so far apart in the other direction from each other that it was like meeting a stranger and remembering an old friend to find them in question as to how they were ever friends at all.

Then, the type of sex they had depended on whether or not they kept fighting. Because sometimes Harry would give up, give in. He would kiss him all over so tender, and so sweet. And other times, Harry would push him down to the ground and have his way with him; they didn't ever make it to a bed either way.

And then they would kiss after it was all over, but it was almost forced, awkward even.

But all that pent up hate melted away when Draco said those three words, the words he refused to say for three years, refused to speak out loud. He said them. He said them and it ripped Harry to pieces after refusing to talk to him for two days. It destroyed him.

"Because why can't we go back to what we were," Draco had said in an argument previous to that, "Before the war, before any of this had happened?"

"Because every time I look at you, I remember how awful I've been."

Draco hated that answer. "So to solve that, you're treating me awful now?"