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It was summer, when he left. Summer, when Draco kissed him for the last time. Summer, when Draco told him how much he loved him for the last time. It was summer, when Harry left.
*
He drank his fifth glass of wine and poured another. He was wearing the red shirt, the one Harry had seen him in so many months ago at the club. The shirt he had worn when he had kissed Harry for the first time. The sixth glass of wine went down his throat in two swift gulps, and the seventh followed soon after.
He had showered, and put on the best charms he knew for his hair; just the way Harry liked it. His apartment was drenched in a pale yellow glow — muggle lights. It made everything sadder, somehow. Draco laughed a mirthless laugh; drank his eighth glass. He remembered, back then, when the same lights had seemed like the epitome of romance.
His eyes burned, but that was fine. His heart ached, but that was fine. He inhaled. It was fine.
*
“Kiss me, please. Please just,”
“I can’t, I’m sorry.”
“Just, for the last time. Please.”
“Fine. Fine. For the last time.”
“Kiss me hard Harry. Kiss me hard before you go.”
*
Harry was the best thing that had happened to Draco in a long while. And so obviously, it didn’t last.
Draco exhaled a large puff of smoke, staring at the telephone wires overhead. They seemed to be sparking, or sizzling, or both. It looked dangerous. It looked just like how he felt. Crackling. With magic, with unrequited love, with fear, with anticipation. With sadness. He was filled to the brim with sadness, so much so that he was long past drowning in it; he was sinking. He was cracking.
He had promised he wouldn’t reach out. He really had. And it wasn’t as if the Ministry would let him near anyway.
He took another long drag of his cigarette, tapping it against the bench he was on. Exhaling, he wondered what happened to telephone wires that sparked and crackled too much.
*
He was on a boat, or perhaps it was a yacht? He couldn’t remember. All he remembered and felt was Harry’s words in his ears, and Harry’s hands on his hips.
*
“I’m sorry, I’m— I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—“
“Harry,”
“No, Draco, wait. Let me. Let me— I’m sorry. Please come back. Let me make it up to you. I’m sorry.”
“You’re drenched.”
Harry sniffed, then let out a wet laugh.
“I… it’s summer. I don’t know,” he raised both arms to the side and then let them fall limply. “I don’t know why it rained.”
“Summer showers,” Draco said. “Come inside.”
“I’m sorry Draco. I’m sorry for leaving.”
“Come inside.”
He did.
“I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry. Please give me a, a chance.”
Draco looked at him. His hair was long, and stuck in wet tendrils all over his face.
Harry took Draco’s hands in his; Draco could feel the pruned skin on his fingerpads. He rubbed his own fingers against them, taking it all in. He always did that; revered any part of Harry that he could get.
“Draco,”
“Harry.”
“I’m sorry for not trusting you. I’m sorry for not believing you, I’m sorry for. For leaving you. I’m sorry for leaving like that, for not even letting you speak.”
“It’s alright.”
“No it’s not. I’m sorry Draco.”
“I know. It’s alright Harry.”
Harry slumped his head on Draco’s shoulder. He was shaking. Shivering? Trembling?
Draco put his arms around him.
“I’m sorry Draco.”
“It’s okay, I forgive you.”
*
The Amalfi coast was beautiful. Their yacht was probably speeding more than the muggle laws allowed. Draco didn’t care, and neither did Harry. They leaned against each other, watching the twinkle of lights on the coast.
“It’s so pretty,” Draco said. His white shirt was unbuttoned; it was summer.
“You’re so pretty.” Harry said, nuzzling into Draco’s nape as he gathered him in his arms. Draco laughed. He looked at the gleam in emerald eyes, framed by a thousand twinkling stars.
*
Draco drove his car until he couldn’t. Until he had to stop at the side of a desolate road, flanked by green fields and sheltered by nothing but the sky. He laid down on the hood of the car. Harry had hated that, lying on the hood. He said it could scratch the paint. Draco thought it was silly, considering the fact that they were wizards, but then he remembered Harry’s muggle relatives. It probably stemmed from there.
Draco stared at the sky. It was far too bare. He cast a spell; his mother’s, from the House of Black. The sky seemed to part, revealing the Milky Way and all her twinkling progenies.
Draco breathed in the cold air. He would miss Harry forever, he thought. Even if he never returned, Draco would miss him.
Draco would miss him like the stars missed the sun every morning. He would miss him like the earth missed the rain. He would miss him like bees missed the nectar of a flower. He would collapse from the weight of his longing, Draco thought.
Perhaps, Harry would return. Perhaps, it would be soon. Perhaps it would take longer than Draco could anticipate. Perhaps — perhaps, later was better than never.
Perhaps he should be happy that he had had something, rather than nothing.
Harry Potter was the best thing that had happened to Draco in a long while, and even if it would take years, Draco would wait for him. He was pathetic, he knew. But he would. But for now, he slid off the hood, and refilled the tank with the can of petrol Harry made him keep in the trunk. For now, he got into the driver’s seat, behind the wheel. Again. For now, he would drive.
*
“I love you,” Draco told him on the yacht; in the morning so early, the sun hadn’t even stretched its rays yet. “I love you so much I thought it would kill me. So much that I thought I would collapse.”
Harry’s eyes got very sad. Draco ghosted his thumbs over them.
“I’m sorry.” Harry whispered.
“I knew you would come back though. I knew it. Even if it took you several years, I would have waited.”
“Draco…”
“I love you. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“You too,” Harry cradled one side of Draco’s face and kissed him. Softly, and long. Under the stars.
“Harry?”
“Hm?”
“Kiss me again. Kiss me hard, but this time, stay.”
*
It was summer when Harry returned. Summer, when Draco smiled again. Summer, when he wore his red shirt again, for Harry. Summer, when Harry told Draco how much he loved him. Summer, when nothing was the last of it.