Saison d'Être

One, two, three, four, inhale, one, two, three, four, exhale. Six-thirty on an October Saturday morning, Harry's feet pounded the pavement, concentrating on the rhythm. He hated running outside during the week, too many people and dogs to dodge, but he relished his weekend run, shared with the bright leaves and city residents in rumpled clothes and makeup in all the wrong places. Five blocks from his apartment, he had the sense that he was being followed, and strayed from his usual route.

Four blocks later, Malfoy caught up to him, matching his pace.

"Go away."

"No."

Harry had seen Malfoy a few times over the summer, for three agonizingly long dinners where they argued about nothing and ordered martini after martini. It was nights like those, nights that left him hung over and late for work the next day, that made him wonder what it was that prevented him from meeting a nice Muggle girl who believed wizards were for fantasy novels and wanted nothing more out of life than a few kids, a minivan, and a house in some place like Parsippany, New Jersey. When he started his morning like that, he was screwed for the rest of the day, and nothing Starbucks concocted could remedy it. After every dinner, he had more questions, about what Malfoy had been up to since the end of the war, and what had happened to his family. Harry knew a few things, that Snape and Lupin had survived, but Sirius hadn't, taking a Killing Curse that was meant for a former classmate...that Hufflepuff boy from second year, what was his name...Finch somethingorother. Finch-Fletchley. That was it. Justin Finch-Fletchley. Malfoy answered his questions in a way that only left him wondering more. Of course, it was pulling teeth to get Malfoy to tell him anything at all. They both knew without saying that the information had a price, but neither would move on the issue.

"Are you ever going to leave me alone?"

"What...three or four dinners...is stalking? I don't think so." Malfoy kept up as Harry increased his speed, though he talked a lot less, which was fine with Harry. For blocks they ran, Malfoy trailing slightly but not giving up, silent, until Harry knew it was time to turn back.

"Don't...follow...me home."

Malfoy said nothing, and Harry knew that he might as well have given an order to keep traffic lights from changing. When the two of them reached Harry's apartment building, he paused in front of the steps.

"Goodbye, Malfoy."

"I'm not leaving."

"Fine. Fine. Come in. Just don't get your smelly self near my bed."

"You want me near your bed?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Harry sighed. Every other word out of Malfoy's mouth was a double entendre.

"Not funny."

Malfoy followed him upstairs. Three keys went into three separate locks, and Malfoy was obviously impatient.

"You couldn't just use your wand?"

"You couldn't just use your brain?" Irritated, Harry opened the door, checked his machine for messages, and threw his keys down on the table.

Harry headed for the shower, and Malfoy started digging around in the kitchen cabinets.

"You really are a New Yorker, aren't you?"

"Why do you say that?"

"All you have in here is a can of tuna fish, some Chinese leftovers, and a carton of orange juice that...You have a can of tuna fish and some Chinese leftovers."

"If you don't like it, go out and get something." Harry stepped into the shower, reveling in knowing that the only sound he would hear for the next ten minutes would be the rush of hot water. He stayed under the shower until he could barely breathe, and reluctantly turned off the taps and reached for a towel. As he wrapped the towel around his waist, the door opened.

"Malfoy!"

"You don't have a bathtub?"

"In this city, you're lucky if you get a toilet! Get the hell out so I can finish!"

"You got something I've never seen before?"

"Get out!" Harry pushed Malfoy out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and locking it. He shaved, brushed his teeth again, and opened the door, still wearing the towel.

"You know, Potter, you've filled out since Hogwarts."

"I've what?"

Malfoy was standing close. Too close. "You're not, you know, as scrawny as you used to be."

"Um...thanks, I think. Malfoy, you're..."

"Yes?"

"You're in my way."

"Am I?" His voice was taunting, and he stepped towards Harry. "I don't see you going anywhere."

Harry's heart was pounding, and his mouth went dry. This was not supposed to happen, this tension and sudden want. He didn't know how to feel anything towards Malfoy except the cement mixer shot of hatred and annoyance, and possibly the strong need to hex him every time he spoke. This was the strangest he'd felt since stepping off the plane at JFK, and somehow, if possible, he felt even more lost.

"I'm...I'm going," Harry stated with false assurance. Malfoy grinned, and then was closer, and then Malfoy's mouth was on his, tasting of salt and the cool, near-weightless morning air.

"Are you sure?" Malfoy held him by the waist, their foreheads touching

"I don't understand why--" He was cut off by another kiss, this one deeper, more controlling.

"Now is not the time to try to understand."

Malfoy's fingertips trailed over Harry's arms, and he shuddered, and he had so many thoughts racing in his head that he had none at all. He couldn't bring himself to look into Malfoy's eyes, but he reached forward, his lips meeting Malfoy's in a connection to the past he wasn't sure he wanted but knew he didn't want to be without. This wouldn't start anything remotely like a normal relationship, nothing that would give Harry the secure, mundane life he'd thirsted after for years, but maybe it was something he needed. Maybe. There was no hiding now, no lies, no burying his sorrow in work and coffee and John Grisham novels. He was standing in front of the one person who knew who he was and would be damned to let him forget it. But…time. It was going to take time.

Harry pulled his arms back, lacing his fingers between Malfoy's.

"No, it isn't."