Harry Sickness

Draco thrusts in and it's so wonderful he's afraid he'll start to babble. It's Perfect, glorious, needed so badly. But he never says anything as he presses Harry against the wall. It's always against the wall, even though Harry deserves so much better, but he's afraid to suggest differently. He's afraid to do anything wrong and lose the very little he has.

It's always Harry that sends the owls, no matter how many times a day, everyday , he thinks about sending one himself. Normally Draco spends his days laying in bed. He comes out to eat, a necessity in order to avoid his mother's nagging, then slinks back in and idles his time away in his room until it's time to eat or sleep once more. But on days when he receives an owl from Harry, he's alive.

He'll spend hours getting ready. A simple shower isn't enough he has to be perfect. He uses his most expensive lotion; the kind that makes his skin as soft as flower petals, not that Harry ever touches him. Hair must be styled, wardrobe selected, every little detail must be carried out to precision.

"Harder," Harry moans and Draco grunts as his speed increases, grabbing golden hips in both hands and slamming in. He's careful to always angle into Harry's prostate because his pleasure is so much more important than Draco's. While rubbing his erection against the bundle of nerves that make Harry gasp and whimper, he has to fight not to kiss the strong neck that arches beautifully in front of his eyes.

Somehow, he's developed a syndrome. He can't really blame Harry, although it is his fault. He calls it Harry Sickness, because the thought of Harry doing this with another makes him ill.

As he thrusts deep and slow Harry bucks underneath him and cries out " Ohgodyes. " Draco's arms move around to Harry's chest, holding his body close. He always goes on as long as he can, until his legs are jelly and his breathing is nothing but ragged gasps of air. But it's all he has and he wants it to last as long as possible, giving Harry as much pleasure as he can.

There's something inside his heart, a place where the Harry Sickness is so heavily concentrated it changes his pulse and squeezes his chest. It's the part of Draco that wants to say I love you I love you I love you. But he's afraid of the L word; he doesn't know what it means, not really, and he doesn't want to chase Harry away with an unwanted declaration. So instead he stays silent and keeps thrusting into Harry's warm body, letting the L word pulse through his mind in rhythm with his elevated heart rate.

Harry's close, he knows by the force he's pushing back to meet his thrusts. Draco reaches around to grasp the brunette's twitching cock, jerking him off with fast, hard strokes. When he adds a quick twist of his wrists Harry's head lolls onto his shoulder and his eyes roll back in the most wonderful image Draco's ever seen.

His Harry Sickness grows worse with time, making their encounters more intense each meeting. Everything inside Draco is expanding, building and growing and he feels like he may just burst apart and die, but he doesn't care because he's with Harry. This time, though, he can't stop the rush of words, he's too far lost to his feelings. In his last minute attempt to keep them at bay, he speaks them in French.

"Vous êtes la personne la plus importante dans ma vie. Je t'adore Je t'adore Je t'adore. "

He knows Harry's not listening, far too lost in his pleasure, and that's how it needs to be. Just as he feels the tightening of every muscle in his body he gives into one last desire, a small brush of his lips against Harry's temple. And then Harry's spilling hot and wet into his hand, his tight walls closing over Draco and causing his world to go white in pleasure.

Draco waits for their breathing to even out. Harry's heavy in his arms, his body screaming its protest at the physical exertion when all he's done is lay around his room for months, but he doesn't care. He holds tighter, closer. Eventually, as always, the brunette pushes away from him and his Harry sickness tears a hole in his heart.

"Were you speaking French?" Harry asks as he retrieves his boxers from the floor and pulls them on. "What did you say?"

"Doesn't matter," Draco mumbles finding his pants hidden under Harry's shirt. For a foolish moment he wants to hide it, just so he can continue to stair at Harry's gorgeous chest. "Some rubbish about how hot you looked pressed against the wall being fucked by me."

Harry turns his head away, but for the briefest moment Draco thinks that he sees something pained in his face. They finish dressing in silence, Draco taking his time, wanting to draw out the moments spent in Harry's presence for as long as possible.

"This is the last time, Malfoy. No more."

For a moment his mind goes completely blank. Then it feels like his heart has stopped, or rather been crushed by the heavy weight of sorrow. No. Oh please don't let this be happening.

"Why?" he says, not caring about the way his voice cracks horribly "Grown sick of me already?"

Harry drags a hand through his soft locks of black hair and lets out a harsh sigh. "This is too hard on me."

"But I thought you liked that. I can be more gentle." He doesn't care if he's pleading, he won't give this up without a fight. "And you never let me heal you afterwards, but I know spells."

"It's nothing like that, you are gentle, but..."

A surge of anger rises up at the thought that someone else might have touched his Harry, roughly.

"But?"

"Please just leave," Harry says, folding his arms and shifting his gaze away.

That's when Draco felt it, his Harry Sickness washing over him like a freezing rain. Something snaped and he can't control his body as he goes and grabs Harry's shoulders. Their lips meet, harsh, desperate, and so perfect Draco could have cried because Harry's kissing him back just as passionately.

But then he's turning his head away, pushing against Draco's chest with the very hands that were grasping Draco's shirt moments before. "What was that for?"

He doesn't release his firm grip on Harry's shoulders, instead drawing the body closer. "What do you want from me?"

Silence follows with Harry neither moving away from or into Draco's embrace. When he finally answers, it's only one word. One perfect, lovely word.

"More."

And Draco is kissing him again, only managing a brush of lips because he is too busy feeling like he might float away. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes. Je t'adore."

"What does that mean?"

Draco laughs and kisses him again because he can.

"I'll tell you in the morning," he says, tugging Harry with him towards the bed. The brunette falls on top and looks down with his brows drawn together and a hesitant smile.

"Okay," he says and Draco's heart swells.

Yes, okay. Because what he has for Harry isn't a sickness, it's love.

-Fin