whether
His walk to the said apartment pushes him into the abyss of timelessness, as if time dilation could have been real even when the subject were not to travel at the speed of light. Closing his eyes once in a while, Draco ponders whether it still makes sense to continue walking there, whether he can actually see you after these long, torturous days.
Arriving at the front of the apartment complex, he recognizes this place as the residence of one of your close friends. Of course, he internally sighs, knowing that if your friend opens the door, he would then have to struggle — really, truly struggle — just to be able to not have the door slammed in his face.
Knock, knock.
A step back. Preparing for the worst.
Hearing footsteps, those particular footsteps —
Draco immediately knows that you are the person coming to get the door. And he involuntarily takes a deep breath, suddenly at a loss of words.
Indeed, you open the door. And he doesn’t know if he would have preferred your friend opening it.
Eyes widening, your motion halts altogether, not fully opening the door, yet not hurriedly closing it.
You stand there, stunned, attempting to scrutinize him, reading his mind.
Never in his life has Draco felt so exposed, naked, as if voluntarily showing his skin in a newly constructed gallery of ugly feelings and beautiful sins, yet never in his life has Draco wanted to hug a person this desperately. He forcefully balls his hands into fists just to prevent himself from crushing you in an all-too-familiar hug.
“Merry Christmas,” he finds himself saying, against his will, knowing it sounds stupid, yet failing to contain his small smile as he tentatively locks his eyes with yours, silently asking for consent for the mere action of eye contact.
You laugh a little. Your gaze drops to the floor. You move your weight from one foot to another, unsure of what to say.
Of course, Draco recognizes these minute details as displays of nervousness or even distress. He knows well enough by now, he understands his faults, he wants to convince you that he truly has changed, as horridly unconvincing as he may sound.
Draco takes a tiny step towards the doorframe, patient, appearing collected despite hearing his fanatic heartbeats. “I’m here to apologize,” he starts, feeling brave for the first time in years, recognizing the importance of having this supposed confrontation. “I was an asshole, I was mean, I was manipulative, I was confusing, I was irrational, I was jealous, I was stupid, I was untrusting, I was a horrible horrible boyfriend.”
You look up at him for a split second, then quickly avert your gaze from his tall figure.
“Please believe me, I understand how much I have hurt you, and I absolutely fucking hate myself for all the pain I have caused you. Of course I didn’t mean to, but that does not diminish the pain I’ve caused.” He pauses, taking a breath. “I’m sorry. You deserve a love that’s… not confusing.”
Even though you are not looking at him, he still sees tears forming in your eyes, and that burning urge to hug you intensifies faster than the speed at which his self-hatred managed to consume him when he saw you at the bar in the late hours of that hollow, snowy night.
“I don’t expect everything to go back to normal, and you deserve all the time and space you need,” he pauses, closing his eyes, visibly mustering courage to say what he has planned to say next —
“You deserve someone better. I know that. So if, if you really want to leave me for real, if this break up is what you want, then I will no longer bother you. I respect your decisions, and as long as you have made up your mind, I will fully support you.”
Even if it’s a decision that will tear me to pieces.
Even if it’s a death sentence that will cut me into bloody shards of glass.
After a long silence, after your soft sobbing has faded, he hears a soft voice, gently cracking amidst the quietly turbulent syntax, asking, “Then why are you here?”
He understands. He understands too well, the hidden question behind your inquiry.
If he really believed that you deserved someone who isn’t him —
If he really supported the breakup that he himself caused —
If he really was at peace with the idea of you being with someone else —
“Darling, you know me,” Draco breaks the fourth wall by holding the door with one hand and slowly reaching for your hand with his other hand, giving you enough time to retreat if this physical contact isn’t what you want. “I am a selfish man. I am not perfect, but I have never been one born for casual. You have felt my soul-crushing devotion,” he brings your hand to his chest, finding a warm spot on his shirt beneath his black trench coat. “I know it’s soul-crushing because it completely crushed mine when you left that night.”
He brings your hand to his lips, whispering, “Then crushed me even further the morning you woke up on our couch.” Still pressing his lips on your knuckles, he finds your eyes searching for traces of sincerity in his, and he welcomes this eye contact, feeling warm for the first time in December.
To his surprise, you take the remaining one step separating you two towards him, face tightly pressed against his chest, arms circling his waist beneath his black trench coat, completely molding into him as his much larger, stronger arms engulf you in a tender, bone-crushing hug.
This isn’t a hug he has given to anyone before. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime hug. It means something so profound he doesn’t dare let go of a single breath, doesn’t dare open his eyes to zoom in on any form of experience that isn’t this particular one, this specific hug that he is giving to the only person to whom he wants to offer himself like a prey welcoming the bite of the predator it is in love with.
He hugs you for real. Hugs you as a thousand apologies condensed into one. Hugs you as a never-ending chant of prayers, praying for redemption, annunciation, salvation, more divinity, bigger words, larger scopes, glasses of wine he has never dreamed of tasting.
In your time together, you have turned him into an insatiable man for the sole reason that he has once known goodness, heavenly goodness, which all comes down to you, a person, an angel, a light source, light itself.
He feels your arms tighten around him, knowing that these days of vacant rooms and wintry air have not only hurt him but have also hurt you.
Equally as deep. Equally as painful.
Perhaps this is love — a mutual conviction of affection with the appearance of a piece of immaculately designed jewelry that morphs into a knife whenever it oxidizes.
“Don’t hurt me again,” you whisper against his chest, still breathing in his scent, still indulging in the softness of his shirt and steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“I won’t,” he kisses the top of your head, “I’ll use every coming second, minute, day, week, month, year to show you.”
Then he finally feels able to move again, observing the small puffs of mist he creates when he speaks. That last puff lingers, and instead of dissipating or floating away, it pauses for a moment, then elegantly falls, its promises stabilizing its trajectory, warming it amidst the cold, staying, staying.
Staying.