Sober

Harry was humming under his breath while his fingers itched with the urge to start writing. He patted down his pockets and scowled when he found a pen and no paper.

“Hey, can I borrow a piece of that?” Harry asked the waiter who was making his way towards Harry’s booth. Harry nodded at the notebook in his hands and the man ripped a page off and slapped it on Harry’s table.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, his attention focused on the paper as his hand flew across it with the lyrics he’d composed in his head.

Half of the time when he wrote shit like this, it turned out to be crap at rehearsal. The other half, they became best-selling singles.

“My shift ends in ten minutes.”

“Not interested,” Harry muttered.

A tan hand slapped the table, breaking Harry from his reverie as he looked up at the waiter properly.

Oh.

Maybe he was interested.

The waiter was glaring down at him with the richest set of brown eyes that Harry had ever seen. He had his pink lips twisted in a scowl that made Harry wonder what they’d feel like wrapped around his cock. There was even a little bit of a tattoo peeking over his shirt collar, some string of stars that went up the side of his neck.

Harry was a sucker for tattoos.

Draco only had the one, but he had skin so perfect that it would have made the gods themselves weep to see it marked up.

“I’m not trying to fuck you,” the waiter sneered. “I’d like you to close your tab so I can clock out.”

Harry flicked his sunglasses up on his head and smiled charmingly while his eyes roamed blatantly over the chest that you just knew was firm beneath the hideous white button up shirt all the diner employees wore.

“I lied,” Harry drawled as he propped his chin in his hand and looked up at the waiter through half-hooded eyes, “I am interested.”

The waiter scoffed and pushed back his rich brunette hair that had flopped in his face. “I’m still not trying to fuck you,” he said drily. “I’m tired. I have a paper due tomorrow. My shift ends in,” he looked at his watch, “eight minutes now. I’d like to go home.”

Harry glanced at his phone screen and was surprised to see it was nearly six. “Well I can’t sleep and I’m still drinking my coffee,” he said with a nod toward his chipped white mug. “Mind if I get a refill?”

The waiter ground his teeth so hard that Harry could hear it.

That was good.

Hate was a passionate feeling.

‘I fucking hate you, Potter,’ Draco panted. His long fingers were tangled in Harry’s hair and he pulled Harry’s head closer while he thrust in his mouth. ‘You’re a fucking nightmare.’

Harry was a nightmare, but Draco didn’t hate him.

Nowadays, Harry thought he might hate Draco, but then he felt bad for thinking that.

And then he thought about getting high and forgetting all about Draco.

Then he usually wound up at Ron’s or a meeting.

Clockwork.

The waiter turned to storm away and Harry smirked as he checked out his ass. For a guy who worked in a diner and probably went to college, based on his remark about the paper he had due, he had a firm ass that he couldn’t be hidden beneath his ugly slacks.

Harry turned back to his paper when that ass was hidden behind the counter and hummed out a beat as he plotted the next words.

“What the fuck!” Harry yelped.

He’d been mid-sentence in what sounded like a damn good chorus when hot coffee splashed across his paper and ruined the whole thing.

Harry stared incredulously up at the waiter and narrowed his eyes at the innocent look on a face that just didn’t do innocence believably.

“Oops,” he said. He finished pouring coffee in Harry’s mug and pulled a wad of napkins from his pocket and half-ass wiped up the coffee he’d spilt. “Your tab’s $2.07.”

“You’re a dick,” Harry said. He dug in his pocket until he found his wallet and offered the waiter his credit card. “Aht,” Harry pulled it back and smirked, “I’ll close my tab if I can have your notebook.”

“For what?” the waiter snapped, his innocent look gone now.

“To summon demons, you dick,” Harry laughed. “C’mon, give me your notebook and I’ll pay you for it.”

The waiter scoffed again and tossed his notebook on the table and snatched the black card from Harry’s hand and stormed away again.

Harry didn’t lose his grin as he stormed away; if Harry was a sucker for tattoos then he was a goner for assholes.

‘You’re a shit singer.’

Harry had looked up from the beer the bartender served him, both of them pretending like the stolen ID in Harry’s pocket looked anything like him. ‘Excuse me?’

The most beautiful person Harry had ever seen turned and curled a lip up at Harry. He looked Harry over from his ratty Poison t-shirt clear down to his scuffed up sneakers.

‘I said you’re a shit singer,’ the guy said again. He lifted two fingers, immediately getting two shots served to him as only people with looks or money could do- Harry suspected he had both. The guy slid Harry one of the shots and then scooted over to sit in the barstool next to him. ‘Who writes your songs?’ he asked.

‘I do,’ Harry said defensively. He accepted the shot of clear alcohol and felt it burn all the way down his throat. ‘They’re good songs.’

‘Shame you can’t sing though,’ the guy smirked.

Harry studied him more closely and saw that he was young, probably around twenty, and had smoky grey eyes that were sparkling with humor. He had a rich smell too, like cologne that cost as much as an entire month worth of rent.

Harry might have slept on the street for a month to have that scent all over his skin.

‘I suppose you can sing then?’ Harry asked him with a smirk. ‘Only people who think they can sing tell me I’m crap.’

‘Me?’ The guy laughed, a mocking and self-deprecating laugh. ‘Fuck no. Obviously not many people can sing,’ he drawled with a side-eyed smirk. He took his shot and turned to offer Harry his hand. ‘Draco Malfoy, your new guitar player and partner.’

He’d went back to Harry’s apartment that night.

Auditioned in front of Pansy at the studio the next day.

And Harry suddenly went from a solo performer to a two-man band.

Harry loved him ever since.

“Here.” The rude waiter gave Harry back his credit card and a slip to sign. “You’re— oh, you good, man?”

Harry hadn’t noticed that he’d been staring at the red vinyl booth across from him for a while as he thought about Draco.

Thinking about Draco never ended well.

“Yeah.” Harry sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. He snagged the slip of paper and gave the waiter a $50 tip and signed his name. “Here, good luck with your paper.”

Harry kept the pen in hand as he hummed and tried to put his mind back in the music.

The chorus was easy.

It was always filling in the verses that Harry struggled with.

People wanted something catchy, something easy to sing along with.

Harry wanted to pour his soul all over the song and drag razors across his skin so he could bleed everything out every time he sang it.

Finding a medium ground between the two ideals was always a bit tricky.

“That notebook was only two bucks.”

Harry tilted his head back up and raised a brow at the waiter who was lingering by his booth. “Still here, are you?” he quipped. “Isn’t your shift over?”

“Yeah.” The guy bit his lip, straight white teeth poking out and leaving little indents on his pretty pink lip. “You’re not going to kill yourself are you?”

“What?” The pen in Harry’s hand fell and rolled on the table. “Why the fuck would you ask me that?”

The waiter rolled his eyes and snatched the pen up to hand it back to Harry. “You’re writing something obsessively, you look depressed, and you probably just tipped me half your savings.”

Harry blinked incredulously at him before he laughed coolly. “Let me guess, psych major?” he drawled.

“No,” the guy snapped. He slid in the seat across from Harry and curled his lip up. “Sociology.”

“Same fuckin difference,” Harry rolled his eyes. “And, yeah, go ahead, have a seat.”

“I can’t take this,” the waiter said, waving the check slip. “I’d be happy with five on a two dollar tab.”

Harry sighed and leaned back, crossing his arms and checking out the waiter. He had a young face, but some sexy scruff on it that Harry thought suited him. “My account has a hell of a lot more than fifty in it,” he said with a crooked smile. “I took your table for hours and you gave me your notebook, it’s called being kind, asshole, you might not recognize it.”

“Yeah?” The guy curled his lip and eyed Harry’s rumpled appearance. “You don’t seem like a real kind guy.”

Harry laughed, unwillingly drug into the witty banter. “I’m not,” he admitted. “But I used to wait tables, lived off tips, didn’t I?”

“Oh?” The waiter smirked at Harry. “Mister ‘I have waaay more than fifty bucks’ waited tables? Then what happened, hmm?” He propped his elbows on the table and leaned toward Harry, “Did you win the lottery?”

“Nope.” Harry smiled his carefully perfected smile at him and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it probably already was. “I quit my job, started singing full-time, and just when I was ready to starve to death, my manager found a studio willing to work with me.”

The waiter scrutinized him closely, as if judging the truth of Harry’s words based on his face. Then his brown eyes flicked down to the notebook Harry had been writing in and snatched it quick as a snake.

“You’re a singer?” he asked. He read over the lyrics Harry jotted down and snorted, apparently unimpressed. “Not very good though, are you?”

Harry grinned more genuinely. “I do alright,” he said vaguely.

That was the beauty of New York.

Sometimes Harry couldn’t buy a gallon of milk from the store without being mobbed by fans. Other times, like now, he could sit in an empty diner and have his music casually dismissed by some guy who didn’t recognize him or didn’t care.

There was a unique kind of pain attached to each reaction; recognized for only your stage persona or ignored completely.

“I’m sure you do,” the waiter hummed condescendingly. “Famous rockstar like yourself, sitting all alone in this shithole of a diner all night? Why ever would I doubt you?”

Harry’s grin slid off his face. “I don’t have many friends I guess,” he admitted. He grabbed the notebook that he bought fair and square and slid it back to his side of the table and tapped it with his pen. “Just me and the music, really,” he mused quietly. “It’s better that way.”

“Is it?” The waiter’s eyes were sharp, but there was some soft vulnerability in the depth of them as well. “It’s better being alone?”

“Yeah.” Harry tapped the notebook in a rhythm he could imagine in his head, but could never accurately turn into notes. Ron was the only one who could hear Harry hum a tune and plot the precise notes to bring it to life. “I’m intolerable,” he said with a bitter smile. “If I don’t want to be around myself, why push my company on others?”

“Hmm.”

Harry laughed, an empty and joyless laugh, and glanced toward the door. “I probably can’t give you an extra twenty and you pretend not to notice me smoking in here, huh?”

“No,” the waiter said, his eyes amused now. “And you shouldn’t smoke, Mister ‘Oh So Famous Singer’, it’s bad for your health and your vocal chords.”

“It’s cigarettes or blow,” Harry shrugged, playing it off like a joke. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, “Some people like a smoky voice singing to them.”

The waiter laughed and slid out of the booth. “Come on, Mister Rockstar, I don’t smoke, but I’ll walk you outside.” He held the check slip up and quirked a brow at Harry, a brow with a little scar that cut right through the center of it. “Is this even going to clear?”

Harry laughed a little more genuinely and slipped out the front door while the waiter went to cash out.

He leaned against the wall and flicked his glasses back on his face as the sun began to shine and Harry thought about going home and trying to fit in a couple hours of sleep. He waited though, pulling his nearly empty pack of cigarettes out and lighting one, he was in no rush.

His thoughts and the crushing loneliness of the apartment purchased for two would still be there when he made it home.

‘Tada!’ Harry cried, throwing the door open and showing Draco the place he bought. ‘Fancy, isn’t it?’

Draco rolled his eyes as he inspected the luxurious 3-bedroom apartment that Harry bought on the top floor. ‘Where’s the pool and hot tub?’ he smirked before flopping across the white leather couch that overlooked the city. ‘We’ll need those for the parties you’re so fond of.’

Harry laughed and didn’t miss the sparkle of joy in Draco’s eyes as he threw himself across his lap and nuzzled up against him. ‘On the roof,’ he murmured. ‘We have a private elevator for quick access.’

‘God damn, Harry,’ Draco laughed. ‘How much did you spend on this place?’

Harry couldn’t remember. And he didn’t care. He cared that he had a home with someone to share it with.

And now it was as empty as Harry’s chest was.

“You’ll die young,” the waiter quipped as he stepped out of the diner and walked over to where Harry was propped against the building.

Harry smirked and raised his cigarette in a mock salute. “That’s the goal.”

“You’ve got some problems, don’t you?” the other man asked as he eyed Harry warily, a spark of concern hidden in the depths of his warm eyes. “I thought you just had a dark sense of humor, but you’re not joking, are you?”

“Course I am,” Harry said calmly. “In my spare time, I’m a stand up comic.”

The waiter snorted and Harry realized he couldn’t just keep calling him ‘the waiter’.

“What’s your name?” Harry asked abruptly.

“Theo.”

Harry tested the name out slowly, “Theo. You have a last name?”

Theo narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “Do you have a name?”

Harry stalled as he took another drag. “Harry,” he said after a moment. He offered Theo his hand and a teasing smirk, “Harry Potter.”

“I know.” Theo shook his hand and Harry imagined that there was a bit of a thrill between the two of them in that moment. “I saw it on your credit card.”

Harry laughed and then coughed a bit. “What a dick,” he said. “Why’d you ask for my name if you already knew it?”

Theo shrugged, unrepentant. “To see if you’d lie,” he said. “My last name’s Nott, Theo Nott.”

Harry looked him over from top to bottom, slowly, and gave him a slow and sexy smirk while holding his gaze. “I like you, Theo Nott.”

Harry thought it worked.

He thought maybe he’d charmed this brown eyed guy and he’d be able to take him back to his apartment and pretend he was thin and pale and blonde instead of fit and tan and brunette while they fucked and slept.

Theo had stepped toward Harry and grabbed his shirt collar, pulling him towards him for a kiss. A kiss that was over before it hardly began. “I like you, Harry Potter,” he said, his brown eyes smoldering as they stared into Harry’s green ones. “Come find me when you like yourself.”

Harry composed the last bit of the hook as Theo pushed him away and just walked away from him.

He’d write the verses tomorrow.