Author's Note: I was feeling a bit sad the other night and I decided to write this. It started off as something I wrote while bored in class, but here it is now, all vamped up. Anyways, Harry's probably a bit harsher than I would normally write him, and Draco a bit gentler. I'm switching it up. So here's some angst and ambiguous love philosophy for you. I tried. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own these boys and their angsty selves.

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

The view of the lake is beautiful from here, Draco thinks. He could stay in this very spot forever.

But it isn't meant to be.

Harry lets out a bellowing laugh as he stumbles over a pile of frozen dirt and grazes his hands on the icy grass before him. At the noise, Draco looks away from the scenery and glances over. Harry stands up and his palms are painted pink with a tinge of fresh green; vivid from cold like stained glass, or his own glittering gaze, but he doesn't mind it. Draco doesn't understand why. He hardly understands anything that Harry does nowadays; Harry is constantly up and down, lashing out at the slightest change without a single warning.

"Take my hand," Harry urges suddenly, snatching Draco before he can even respond.

With this, the ex-Gryffindor tugs him up to the top of the hill, where the landscape is even more incredible, and plops down on a patch of dry ground. Draco joins him. The air is pleasantly cool; the sun peeks through a layer of grey clouds, and snowflakes sprinkle over the tops of their heads. In an hour, perhaps it'll be different, but Draco is used to the change.

They sit in silence for a long while. Draco is used to that too. He finds that Harry doesn't talk much and Draco likes that about him. Sometimes he wishes that nobody could speak at all so he wouldn't have to say anything back, sometimes words are null, and witticisms are exaggerated, and people are predictable. Draco knows Harry understands that, at least.

"Hey, Draco?" Harry asks after a bit, staring pensively at the lake below. The laughter is long gone and his brow furrows. Draco always wonders what he is thinking about when he does that. But he never asks, and he doesn't now.

"Yeah?"

Harry's profile is shadowed in strange places: the curve of his nose, the space under his jaw, his temples. "Do you think of the future much?" he inquires.

"Do you?" Draco asks.

Harry shrugs. "I asked you first."

Draco studies his face once more. Harry is only eighteen years old, fresh out of school, fresh out of war, and yet, the battle of life has yet to be exhausted of him. Somehow Draco thinks that Harry knows this almost too well, because at this moment, the green-eyed boy hero looks infinitely older than he should. And perhaps that is the price to pay in the end. Draco shakes his head.

"I guess I do. Too much," he confesses.

Harry breathes in deeply. "Me too." His face is upturned towards the grey sky. "Sometimes I wish I wouldn't, though."

Draco can't argue with that. He shrugs as well. "It's a new start, at least," he offers. "Your future can be everything you desire it to be."

Harry's mouth curves up into a slight smile and Draco watches avidly. "So what's in your future then, Draco?" Harry asks.

Draco blushes and looks away. "It's none of your business," he mutters. But it is though. In truth, Harry has everything that is Draco's, business or otherwise. Most notably, and if not most sickening, his treacherous, beating heart.

At this, Harry finally turns and catches his gaze. "Am I in it?" he teases, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

And Draco melts, as he does. Harry is always doing that thing with his eyes. Honest to Merlin, there is absolutely nobody else in the entire galaxy that can make Draco lose himself the way that Harry can. Of course, Astoria's eyes are quite lovely, Draco thinks. But sometimes he wishes that they were this incalculable shade of emerald instead of soft, dulled blue. Because maybe then he'd love her the way he should.

"I don't know. You're not my concern, Scarhead," Draco says after a while, despite his resolve. "Honestly, your ego is growing larger and larger by the second."

Harry laughs, but he looks somewhat solemn at the same time again. "I think you'll miss me," he muses.

"You think that," Draco plays along.

Harry smiles slightly. "Will you?"

Draco shrugs. "That depends," he says dryly. "Are you planning on going somewhere?"

"You know what I mean."

Draco wishes that he didn't. "It's not going to change anything, Harry," he murmurs.

"You're getting married in the summer, Draco," Harry retorts sourly. "Of course it's going to change."

Draco purses his lips. "I don't want to talk about this."

Now Harry shrugs. "Fine. Maybe someday, then," he notes, and he turns away abruptly. His hands are trembling a bit.

The rapid change in atmosphere doesn't startle Draco; he expects it. Still, he desperately wishes that he could reach out and hold Harry's hands. But he restrains himself and frowns instead.

"Someday?" he questions.

"Yes, someday." Harry refuses to make eye contact for a second time. "You'll be old and married by then, Draco. You'll have adorable kids and a beautiful wife and an excellent job, and you'll be so happy. But one day, I hope you'll feel nostalgic. And you'll remember how it had felt to be eighteen and so young and so broken. You'll remember how it was to piece yourself together again and start over." Harry bites his lip and looks at Draco now. "Perhaps you'll even remember me."

Draco wonders what he means by that. Of fucking course he'll remember Harry; he could never forget. Harry has no idea how hard Draco had tried to forget before—all of the awful sneers, the heated stares, the venomous words… And…. And. The look upon Harry's face when Draco had come to him in apology, the way Harry's hand is always perfectly, comfortably warm, that mischievous grin reserved just for Draco, the times they had shared each other's secrets and regrets until all had been scrubbed raw and clean and bare—and perhaps these are the worser, because these are the things that have become what they are; Harry and Draco. He had tried to forget then because these are the things that had made him weak. Now, he clasps them to his heart because they are the only reasons to keep him strong. Harry knows that. Harry must know that.

"There is no possible way I could forget about you, Harry," Draco says, with some annoyance. He doesn't like when Harry talks like this, but these talks are becoming more frequent. Draco knows that it's because of the wedding. Harry hates Astoria. "We'll always be together."

Harry smiles wanly; another expected response. He has struck a nerve and he knows it. He relishes in it. "We're not grade school girls, Draco. You know there's no such thing as always."

Draco doesn't know that. With Harry, he hopes that there might be, and he hates it that Harry doesn't believe the same. "Honestly, Harry," he mutters. "We're friends right now, at least. Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't. You're right." Harry sounds resentful.

Draco sighs. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Of course. And you didn't mean to exclude me from your wedding plans either. It makes perfect sense."

In truth, Draco hadn't wanted Harry to get involved in the wedding process because it would have been just one more reminder that Draco is getting married to Astoria, not Harry. But he can't tell Harry that now, because he knows that if he does, he'll probably end up calling off the whole thing. "I didn't think you'd be interested in all of that," he remarks carefully.

"Sure. You're not supposed to be thinking of me all the time anyways. It's not normal," Harry retorts, and he looks away. Draco knows the bitterness in his voice too well by now. "You've got lots of things going on. I get it."

"We both know that's a lie," Draco says petulantly. "And I don't give a fuck what is or isn't normal. I think of you always."

The corners of Harry's mouth twitch downwards. "Not like this," he remarks softly, before letting out a short laugh. "And there's that word again. Always. Always, and fucking forever. How fucking beautiful."

Draco wonders when Harry had become like this. Had it been right before the war, or after? Draco constantly thinks of it. They are young and broken, Harry is right, but sometimes Draco thinks that Harry is more than that. Somehow, he knows that Harry is not the same overconfident and brash boy who had attended school with him, no, Harry is damaged. They both are. Nevertheless, Draco has the distinct feeling that they can fix each other. At the very least, he hopes they can try.

"Harry," he says.

Harry still doesn't look at him.

"Harry."

"What the fuck do you want?"

Draco pauses. "Can you look at me?"

Harry sighs. He turns his face ever so slightly, but his mouth is puckered as if he has just tasted a lemon drop.

"What?"

"You know that I've been in love with you for years, don't you?" Draco asks quietly. It is the first time he says it aloud, but he knows that Harry already knows this. He has always known. Still, it strikes a chord.

Harry's mouth is set in a thin line, and for a moment, it looks as if he is going to yell. He laughs bitterly instead. "Of course I do," he snaps.

"And?"

Harry folds his arms across his chest with a glare. "Do you want me to say it back or something? You already know, so I don't see a point in it."

Draco frowns. "I'm just saying that 'always' isn't such an impossible thing. You love me, and I… love you. That's my point."

"So?"

Draco bristles angrily. "Doesn't it matter?"

"No." Harry's beautiful, glowing eyes harden. "You're marrying Astoria and I'm with Ginny. Soon, I'm going to ask her to marry me too. So stop saying 'always', just stop! It's such a temperamental word... Just because you love me now doesn't mean that you will always!" Harry is almost shouting at this point, but he takes a shuddering breath to calm down. "I love you, Draco. But one day, I'll love Ginny just as much as I love you. And someday after that, I'll love her better." His voice lowers to a whisper and cracks. "I will. I swear it."

And it is utterances like these that contribute to the deteriorating state of Draco's ceaselessly crumbling heart. He doesn't want to marry Astoria and he doesn't want Harry to love Ginny the way that Harry loves him. Of course, they say love is simple, love is fleeting; Draco hears people chant this all the time. But damn it if he listens to them. Damn it all.

"Don't be like that," Draco begs, almost piteously. "Come on, Harry. You're my best friend. Please."

Harry looks at him strangely, and for a moment, Draco thinks that Harry will punch him. But when Harry lunges forward, he grabs Draco by his shirt collar and kisses him on the mouth roughly. Draco feels a bit like crying. It's hard and angry and unforgiving, but it's Harry letting him in for the first and probably the last time and Draco takes what he can get. Harry's lips are so warm, Draco notes. Like summer… but Draco doesn't want to think of that. Harry pulls away much too soon.

"You're my best friend too," Harry whispers, leaning his forehead against Draco's before gradually letting his face slip lower and lower until it is against Draco's shoulder. If he is crying, Draco doesn't feel it. "I love you, Draco. I love you, I love you."

It's so surreal, the way a cool winter afternoon can turn into a dark and stormy realisation. Draco finally understands that he can scream and fight and cry, but he can't change anything. And Harry can kiss him rough or soft, angry or loving, and it doesn't change the fact that they are not anything together. Harry will always be his, and he will always be Harry's, but Draco knows that they are not meant to live this life loving and hating each other at the same time. Harry seems to know this too. Draco calls it lovers' intuition.

"Hey," Draco murmurs, and Harry looks up. His eyes are reddened, but there are no tears, as Draco had suspected.

"Yeah?"

Draco gazes at Harry, and he can't remember how it was not loving him. He really doesn't want to think of trying to stop. "Say it," he pleads.

Harry purses his lips. "Draco."

"Please, Harry."

Harry sighs. He reaches up slowly, his fingers grazing Draco's cheek with the lightest touch. And for the first time since they'd begun arguing, Harry smiles genuinely.

"We'll always be together," he declares.

Draco knows that it is a lie, but he doesn't particularly care at this moment. His heart isn't healed and he doesn't suspect it will ever be. But Harry's words soothe him, as does Harry's touch, and his smile, and that somehow makes everything better. Because Harry has always had a way of making each unadulterated, fleeting moment feel like a lifetime, Draco thinks. At least he is allowed to pretend, if only for a second.

"You promise?" Draco presses.

Harry lets go of Draco now and moves away, staring up at the sky again. The barely visible sun has lowered and all shades of orange and pink and red swirl like a thick wind on the horizon, mixing the darkened sky with reminders of time and expectation. Draco sort of loves and hates it at the same time. Finally, Harry heaves a large sigh and stands up, holding a hand out for Draco to take. Draco takes it.

Harry begins to tug Draco back down the hill towards the reality that they both resent so much, with bitter acceptance. But Harry squeezes Draco's hand and somehow it fills the cracks of his heart as well.

"I promise," Harry finally answers. "Always."