Three years after the battle of Hogwarts, 10 years of intense sexual tension, and one year of dancing around each other lead to Draco and Harry finally becoming…well, they didn't really know how to describe it. The term would not be 'boyfriends' or 'lovers', that was far to fluffy for their taste. If someone were to ever inquire, then would just exchange glances, link hands and say "We're together." In unison, as if they were the ginger twins that Harry grew up with. And now, after almost six months of 'being together', Draco had Harry absolutely wrapped around his finger. And tonight, they would be attending a Ministry function that was so far out of Harry's league, he hadn't the slightest idea of what 'black tie event' meant. And so he had emerged from their bedroom, wearing simply a button up shirt, trousers, and his hair as tousled as ever. Draco, looking handsome as ever, developed a cleft of worry between his brows, and marched the raven haired man back into their room. Now, an hour and a half later, found Draco wearing only half his suit, hands covered in hair gel, and more frustrated than he;d been when he was dealing with a bothersome pimple. Harry was frowning, sitting on the bathroom counter, complaining as Draco dragged more and more hair gel through his hair. Of course, the magic that saved Harry's dark hair as a child was prevailing; each time Draco had it smoothed to perfection, it would lose all essence of hair product and reform in an even more tangled mass. And so thirty minutes later found a now sexually frustrated Draco angrily snogging a bemused Harry, hands locked in his hair and now with the knowledge that hair gel didn't do a thing.

…

Harry wasn't alive anymore. He was definitely beyond living. His pulse should not be pounding in his ears; he despised it, wanted to have it stop forever. Every too-quick beat of his heart reminded him that he was mortal, living, due to die soon, that he couldn't have this forever. He couldn't have this blonde god hovering over him forever, couldn't have every press of the lips be permanent, couldn't make every rock of hips last that much longer. He felt himself getting closer, he would never last long, doomed from the start. His only comfort of the experience was that the man above him, and Harry himself, were so connected that he must be getting close, he had to be pleasured enough to let go at the same time as Harry. But then the man was sucking on the pulse point in his neck, massaging his cold fingers into the vein that lay in his wrist. And Harry was climaxing, crying out louder than he ever remembered, not even caring that the other man didn't get near to praising the other, more sensitive places of his body. The blonde above him was still slowly frotting against him, bringing himself to the peak, biting his lip and remaining silent as he released. And then it was over, and Harry was sticky and smelt like sex and didn't want to move because he loved it. But he had to. Had to chip away both of them, had to leave, and had to pretend like he hated the other person. He hated having to see the expression on Draco's face when he walked away without even a simple goodbye kiss. He hated his pulse, because it reminded him he was still living, and still bringing pain to everyone around him.