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Now, it wasn’t that Harry wasn’t hungry.
Physically, he could feel it. He sat on the couch, very still, and frankly, that’s all he could think about. I’m hungry, he mused, not getting up.
Like most of his feelings, it had appeared somewhere in his chest. That was the easiest way he knew how to identify them; rumination led him to that sadness, heavy, gripping, and higher on his sternum; the anger, lower and deeper in his abdomen; the anxiety, right in the center, against the surface, but crawling and prickly.
He found hunger to be surprisingly similar. Concentrating, he could feel it quite specifically. It wasn’t achy, per se, more like…airy. As if his belly had been taken away and been replaced by nothing at all. Just a gapping, breezy wound. And the surprising thing was that it shifted, sometimes moving inside of him, climbing up his throat.
So, all in all, he had no doubt that he should eat. His body was all but screaming it at him in that forgotten, familiar way.
It had been a day and a half since his last proper meal. Munching on the chocolate he’d been gifted hardly counted. And he had food in the house, he knew.
His wand suddenly buzzed. He looked up somehow surprised, even though he had set it up that morning, not trusting himself to remember.
He got up, thinking about his belly and the shifting, and at that moment, he felt the hunger whoosh to his head at the same time as a coldness ran down his veins to his toes. He had to blink a few times to make the whiteness over his eyes dissipate.
“Right,” Harry mumbled, aware, so aware. But he had to focus, because he needed his shoes, his keys, his wand, his coat—and something else, but he couldn’t think of what exactly. He just knew the information was there, in the list of his thoughts. Walking around his flat, he tried to look around for any hint of what he needed.
I’m going to Draco’s, he thought, frowning at his bedroom and then his bathroom. He tried to jostle his memory, eyes fixed on the small window in the loo. The sun was falling, the clouds pink and the sky orange. Did I take a shower today, he wondered, and yes, he had.
His wand buzzed again against his arm, where he had stuck it, and he realized he was late. “Bollocks.”
He hurried through the door, climbing down the flight of stairs and making it to the street.
The walk to Draco’s flat was quick—only 10 minutes—but it was intensely boring. Harry could close his eyes and imagine the exact path, each corner and light, and although the cars and people changed, that did not change the fact he’d rather Apparate there. Alas, the closest Apparition point was actually more of a detour than anything else, so he huffed and bore it.
To distract himself, he thought of the wound. It was quite present and made him feel cold in spots, and warm in others. But, the thing is, he wasn’t actually hungry.
His body might be, but that didn’t really mean anything. Him and his body were very different, and didn’t always agree. Like right now, Harry did not feel like eating, even as his body pleaded.
“Wine!” Harry suddenly recalled, stopping dead in his tracks. Of course, Draco had asked him to bring something to drink, as he was making dinner. Harry knew it was sitting precisely on the counter, and it was a sweet white that Draco had approved in advance. Shaking his head, he knew it was too late to turn around and get it.
Merlin, he was annoying.
Walking across the street, he couldn’t help but fume at his own forgetfulness. The anger was lower than the wound, deep and firm, unshakable, yet explosive. Draco would have loved the wine, and Harry hated himself for disappointing him. Again.
It was as if Harry couldn’t help himself. No, he didn’t think of putting his shoes away, it never even crossed his mind until Draco sighed and pointed it out for the 100th time. No, he didn’t mean to suddenly cancel their date, stuck doing something completely useless but utterly, temporarily captivating. No, he didn’t mean to rush around everywhere, all the time, because he was late.
Like right now.
He rushed up the few steps to Draco’s building, ringing the flat 03. With the tell-tale buzz, he clambered in and was knocking on the deep brown door before he had time to take another breath.
Draco opened the door, but was already back in the kitchen when Harry entered. “I’m almost done with the sauce,” he called.
Suddenly, enticing smells filled his nostrils, right down to his empty stomach. As if awoken, he felt the hunger shift eagerly. I’m hungry, Harry thought.
“I forgot the wine.” Leaning against the doorframe, he looked at the window. Curtains of a soft shade of blue framed the dark sky. He wanted to add that he didn’t mean to; he really had wanted to bring the wine; he really wanted to make Draco happy. But it all felt like excuses, and other people despised excuses. Perhaps it was because everyone lived within themselves, and everything outside of that was quite flat. Intent doesn’t matter to most people, because it was hidden under what they could see and feel. Even if intent was all he had most of the time.
Draco chuckled and that reassured Harry. For now, it was still okay. He wasn’t hated. “How did I guess that would happen?” he said, still facing the stove.
Because I’m a no-good, useless bastard, his mind supplied. “I’m just that predictable,” he mumbled instead, and sat at the table.
And got right back up, because his shoes were once again a hazard in front of the door. He hid them next to Draco’s in the cupboard.
He always felt, a little bit, out of place in Draco’s flat. It was terribly neat and precise, with hidden rules everywhere. He found it endearing how fussy Draco could be, and his efficiency, his grace and ease was part of what made him attracted to the blond. But Merlin, was it hard to keep up.
“...brought a red for another one of her gossipy rants, so we can have what’s left.” Draco had started speaking again, without Harry realizing it. Red wine. Gossipy rant…must be Pansy.
“How is she?” Harry asked, sitting dutifully at the table. The open concept of the flat meant he could still look at Draco. His shoulder-blade, that trim waist, his arse…Then back up to his head of blond hair. “I’ve heard she dumped, er—”
“Eric,” Draco filled in. “And yes, she’s pretending to be completely over-it by being pissy, but we all know she’s a right mess. The poor thing needs to develop better taste.”
Harry could practically taste the chicken already. And the broccoli. His mouth felt so dry. “Like you,” he quipped.
“Oh, please, I have perfect taste,” Draco objected in that offended, imperious voice of his, the one that was so charming. He finished the sauce and started to plate the food.
And then, Harry realized he would, most likely, have to eat the food. Sate the hunger of his belly. It would be enjoyable, Draco wasn’t a bad cook. His body would likely, probably, feel better afterward. There won’t be the breeze in his veins anymore.
“Ta-da.” Draco put the plate down in front of Harry.
“Looks amazing,” Harry complimented. And it did, really. Honestly, it looked delectable.
He doesn’t want to eat it.
Draco smiles expectantly.
He really doesn’t want to. He wasn’t hungry, even if he was famished.
See, he’d forgotten the wine. And before that, well, he didn’t do the chores he’d planned to do during his weekend. And before that, he had avoided a meeting—like the idiot he was—just because he hadn’t prepared properly, and he didn’t want to face the consequences he deserved.
As far as humans go, he was pretty vile.
“Harry?”
And that, he supposed, didn’t really have anything to do with the food. And it didn’t, not really. It was all unrelated incidents, with the only common thread being…well, Harry himself.
Eating wouldn’t change anything, of course. The wine would still be missing, his flat would still be dirty, the meeting would still be missed. But…
Harry wasn’t very good at doing the right thing. The proper, normal thing. Even right now, with Draco, he would probably make a mess later. He was very good at making a mess; making mistakes. And he didn’t really know how to stop.
But…he could avoid eating easily enough.
Picking up the fork, it was inevitable.
Guilt was a terribly physical sensation. More than the chest, it was everywhere; as if, suddenly, his whole entire body was wrong, disgusting, misplaced.
The chicken, the heavy, creamy sauce, the pasta, the cheese, melting on his tongue.
Escaping himself, his body, expulsing the wrong that was fundamental; it was entirely impossible. And moving, gosh, doing anything to rectify his mistakes, it felt so hard.
He started to inhale his food, famished. I’m so hungry, he thought.
“Slow down,” Draco scolded, confused. Harry’s table manners were generally atrocious, but right now, he supposed it was even worse. “You’re not starving, darling, there’s more where that came from.”
“Hm,” Harry agreed, feeling vaguely numb now that he had swallowed. Poof, the emptiness was gone, a too-full feeling emerged, and everything—his whole entire existence—was so utterly wrong, he could barely contain it.
He focused his eyes on the pale blue curtain, spikes of thoughts harassing him. What must his coworker think—he was so damn incapable—when did he last wash his bed—how could Draco trust him—he won’t stay, he hated him already—coul he disappear?
“What’s wrong, Harry?” Draco looked at him, putting down his utensil. Neatly, precisely.
Harry’s own plate was messy. He’d even dropped food on the pretty tablecloth.
Gods, he couldn’t even eat right.
And then, over his sternum, he felt a heavy, gripping ache. He was crying like a moron in the quiet kitchen—what was it again? He didn’t really feel it anywhere other than his body. What was this feeling?
Sadness, maybe, though that was hardly a very specific word. Helplessness.
“I don’t know how to make anything right, Draco,” he cried over his pasta, and wasn’t that stupid. His boyfriend looked dumbfounded. It wasn’t even true; he knew exactly what to do, step by step, to make things right. He just didn’t know how to make himself do it.
“Make what right?” he asked, sounding profoundly confused. Through his teary eyes, he could see Draco’s worried face.
Everything. His whole life, all the accumulating mistakes, the mess that was his brain, the utter lack of self-control he had. It wasn’t okay for him to act this carelessly all the time. But he wasn’t careless—he cared so much it hurt—he just appeared careless, which might be worse.
He wanted to tell Draco to open him up and see—just see all the shame and guilt that was oozing between his ribs.
“Like—” he tried to answer, throwing his hand toward nothing specifically. “The…the wine?”
“The…wine?” Draco repeated, at the edge of his seat, as if he was readying himself to jump up to Harry.
“No—the forgetting. I always forget.” He got up, feeling a bit nauseous and restless. He hated crying.
“Nobody cares about that,” Draco tried to reassured, getting up too.
“Oh, bollocks,” Harry scoffed, walking a few paces away. That was such a lie.
“Okay, maybe it’s slightly annoying sometimes,” he conceited. “But it’s hardly the worst flaw.”
Harry huffed and felt completely foolish. Why was he so angry? Why couldn’t he stop crying? Why was he talking at all?
Draco didn’t understand. He didn’t get how painful it was to try and try, and never get any better at the most basic of things. To look at the dishes and want to crawl out of his skin and hide elsewhere. To fail, over and over, at living.
“But I can’t stop, even when I do all I can to—to remember, to remind or force myself.” He gripped his head, facing the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. His body was now thrumming with one single heat, an entire mix of feelings he could never decipher. “I’ll mess up again, and again, and I just know you’ll stop finding it quirky, and you’ll resent me.”
And that was the truth of it. People could only tolerate an annoyance for so long before they expected him to change, to grow, to get over it. No one had endless patience, even the most saintly among them.
A hand, heavy and warm, settled over his back. “I won’t resent you.”
“You will,” he insisted, still not turning around. “The more time you spend with me, the more you’ll realize how much I suck at—everything.”
“You don’t suck at everything, Harry.” An arm wrapped around him, and then, Harry was burying his face in Draco’s neck. “You’re kind, and brave, and so attentive when you want to be. Remember that scarf you made me? And that time you brought me to Bon Gout, just because I mentioned it once? And I know you have an alarm for my birthday that literally rings everyday for a month—and for our anniversary.”
Harry flushes slightly at that, because yes, he simply really didn’t want to forget.
“I saw you put away your shoes earlier. You’re not perfect, darling, but I can see you’re trying. Anyone that pays even a little attention to you could see.”
Long fingers ran through Harry’s hair and his chest was far from settled, emotions still flowing through him, but he felt less…suffocated inside himself.
“What if I never get better?” he whispered, gripping Draco. He felt the anxiety, right in the center, crawling against the surface of his chest.
“As long as you keep trying, over time, it will get better.” He leaned down to kiss Harry’s hairline. “You’ll probably always be messy, a bit late, all over the place, but that doesn’t make you worthless, Harry.”
Those words, more than anything else, soothed the constant pain inside of him—just a bit. He sighed against his boyfriend, melting.
“And, you know…I’m quite good at planning, and organizing, and making sure we’re on time. I can help.”
Draco could help. That should have been obvious, they were in a relationship, afterall; they’re supposed to support each other. But he was so busy comparing himself with him, and feeling utterly useless, that it never crossed his mind.
“Please,” Harry whispered, because he’d never really been shown how to do most things; he might know the mechanism, he’d never been taught how he could actually go through with them. He couldn’t just…live, like everyone else. He needed more. He needed support. He needed help.
If only to momentarily lessen his constant, overwhelming feeling of ineptitude and panic.
“Okay,” Draco answered, holding Harry up for now.
He knew he would have to stand on his own soon enough, but it felt good to allow someone else to carry the weight, if only for a little bit.
After a bit of just pure physical closeness—one that made Harry’s body feel a little less wrong and horrible—Draco pulled back to look down at him.
“Now, let’s go finish this dinner I made, hm?”
Harry was happy to follow Draco to the table. A new feeling appeared, right over his heart; it was all light and expanding, making more space inside of him.
I’m hungry, he thought, and took a bite of the delicious pasta dish he made.