A/N: written for girlsigh for her birthday.
When they kiss, the touches are fiery and Harry’s lips are crisp, and smooth, and clean. Draco will always remember this, how clean Harry tastes, like fresh-cut green grass and the mint from his toothpaste. His teeth are slick when Draco’s tongue slides over them, slick like the glossy, surprised look in Harry’s eyes, and they both keep their eyes open, Draco’s dark in challenge, and Harry’s in fear. He looks so small as he collapses inwardly and melts into the black of his dilated pupils. Each time Draco kisses Harry, Harry looks at him with that same expression of bemused surprise, like he can’t believe those are Draco’s palms pressed around his back, Draco’s toes stepping over his in their stumble back into the bedroom, Draco’s voice saying his name.
Draco loves Harry for so many reasons, more than he can count, but mostly he loves Harry because Harry is his. Harry is pure and when the rainwater runs over them in the afternoon, Draco kisses Harry’s neck, tasting Harry’s skin wet and alive and it’s his, because Harry doesn’t push him away, or say ‘no’. Draco loves that he doesn’t need to polish Harry or Scourgify a single detail because Harry is Harry Potter and he is perfect and Draco wonders, as he catches the glimmer of green in the shallow evening light, how it was he got so lucky.
Sometimes Draco hates(loves)hates Harry for being sparkling and heroic when Draco is just broken wings against his back.
They laugh together as they paint the walls of their new flat and unroll the mat of carpet. Things look so sparse (so Muggle, Draco adds, only half seriously), but things are white and clean and Draco smiles as he lays Harry down against the beige fiber floor. Harry is wild dark hair against all the white, a blot of dark against the light, but Harry is clean and smells like apples and soap when Draco straddles him, his kisses falling like bittersweet, wet raindrops on Harry’s chest.
On Thursday, the flat is silent and there is a flicker in the bedroom where a shadow should be. The door is locked. (Harry had the key.) Draco will have to call a locksmith in the morning.
Draco thinks their home will never be clean again, and no matter how hard he scrubs the floor and the flats of his palms, he cannot get rid of that lingering aroma of final breath. He begins to lose his memory, or perhaps he simply wills himself to forget that the pillow on Harry's side of the bed has already been smoothed down. He runs his fingers under the hot water in the bathtub, but it smells rusty and sour as it steams around his face, and it doesn’t clean him. He rubs his skin raw with sandpaper from the utility closet, and he thinks that if he just kept rubbing, until there was nothing left on his hands but bone, he would be able to see the white again.