The Waiting Game

He is late. So very late. And as Harry Potter waits, he thinks to himself that it isn't the first time.

Nor would it surely be the last. He's heard it all before, the fervent pledges of Never Again's and Not Anymore's. They are a constant litany that spill from the pretty lips of Draco Malfoy, a murmured offering of artifice. They are only phrases to Draco, strings of letters that are labeled as not being terribly important and cast aside for good. Because in his own words, what did it matter if he isn't on time? With a shrug and a wink he thinks that it's not that big a deal after all.

But Harry doesn't correct him. Never corrects him. Harry doesn't say that it matters a hell of a lot that he's not there, that it is a fucking huge deal. No, Harry doesn't say anything at all. He keeps the broken promises close to his chest and waves away Draco's indiscretions with a painful little smile and turns a blind eye to the alien scents of other men that clings to that pale silken skin like poison.

He only waits and waits and waits. At bars, at restaurants like tonight, at the one-bedroom flat they've shared for the past two years. Harry waits patiently. Harry waits calmly with his hands folded neatly in his lap or on the tabletop, with his eyes fixed expectantly at the door. It is a measure of Harry's own composure, of the restraint that he has pieced together over the years that no one can see past his quiet demeanor to the clenched fists, to the fingernails that dig into his skin, to the little white crescents embedded in his palms.

He is late and Draco would not come for hours yet. That is, if he decides to come at all. Sometimes he does that, forgets to show up. And when that happens, Harry still waits until he is chased out of the bars, out of the restaurants by irate employees who scream that it is bad for business to have such a solemn-faced customer sitting all alone in the shadows at the furthest corner in the room.

But when Draco does turn up, there are invariably sheepish grins and mumbled apologies all around. There are rushed kisses that beg half-heartedly for forgiveness for things not wholly said. He was good at that, Draco was. He was good at making things almost better, at glossing over scrapes and pains giving it that beautifully false veneer.

Draco's cool lips would slide over Harry's. They would part and his tongue would tangle with Harry's in a coaxing, teasing dance, drawing a wet path for pardon and good graces. And Harry would grant absolution, moan it inside Draco's mouth, swallowing back the bitterness that always lurked just under the surface.

That is always the way. That's how they have always been, Harry and Draco, inequitably bound together. Harry knows that they are not tantamount, that there is not a fair exchange. But still Harry stays, still Harry lingers. In both the flickering circle of candlelight and in the travesty he calls love does he remain.

It is his whole life, this waiting game. Because he knows that if doesn't, then Draco will slip through his fingers like water, or perhaps even sand, sifting and falling and become wholly unreachable once more. That is far more unthinkable to Harry than this dreadful loneliness that the waiting brings.

So Harry checks his watch for what seems like the thousandth time tonight. He pulls back the sleeve of his bottle-green sweater that Draco loves so much. A tiny frown turns down the corners of his mouth, but he feels a little guilty afterwards. It's a quarter to eleven, only two hours since he arrived. It's still early yet, another three hours until closing.

A waiter comes up behind him. The same waiter who has been coming every so often. And in his supercilious waiter's voice, he asks Harry if he would like anything to eat, Sir, some soup or possibly a salad to tide him over until his party arrives because he has been sitting at the same little round table for so long that surely he must be hungry by now. Or if not, maybe Sir would like his glass of wine to be refilled? Again?

Harry smiles an apologetic smile. He declines the offer of food with a soft murmur but nods towards his glass, consenting for another pour. He tells the waiter that he is sorry, that it wouldn't be long now. But it sounds like such a lie to his own ears that he hopes the waiter wouldn't notice the tremor in is voice or the flash of guilt he knows can be seen on his face. The waiter glides away and Harry sighs.

He doesn't see the waiter turn his head back for one last look. He doesn't see the waiter bite his lip and he doesn't see the worry shining brightly in the waiter's eyes. He doesn't see anything at all, doesn't want to see anything except silver-blond hair and a pale pointed face moving inexorably towards him.

That face would be wreathed with grins and love and charm. But how much would be the Draco that Harry knew from so long ago and how much would be the Draco that surfaced after a hasty confession of I-love-you's and unwanted awkward kisses?

And a ridiculous idea sings through his mind. What if he leaves? What would Draco say if he came and he isn't there? What if he waits just five more minutes, gets up, slings his jacket over his shoulder and go home? No more waiting, only quitting the game because he is losing and he's had it and the unrequited declaration of affection gnawed now in his heart.

He bites his lip in musing. He has never done that before. He's thought about it, sure, but he has never actually gone through with it. And just the mere thought of leaving, of giving up the game sends a delicious thrill through Harry. A taste of freedom, a lick of the illicit.

But Harry tamps down the sensations. The questions. The what-if's and the desire to be unbound. It feels somehow sacrilegious, this thought of rebellion. It would only lift the proverbial lid of the Pandora's Box in his heart. No, it is far too dangerous to travel down that road; far too many things would be lost.

But he is sure that Draco would come around. He would say that Harry longs to hear and he would return those kisses and top it off with gentle caresses from soft hands. Yes, he would come around. It is only a matter of time and a matter of this bittersweet wait.

The door to the restaurant opens. Harry looks up suddenly, his heart jumping in his chest. He prays that it is Draco. Because if it isn't, then the prospect of waiting becomes even more desolate. It is better to wait with only a modicum of hope than to wait with baited breath and a full soul. It is much safer that way. Yes, there is safety in only keeping a drop of hope.

Too late. His hope rises and he runs his fingers through his hair, flattening it as best as he could. He smoothes a hand over his sweater, over his pants, striving to clear out the creases that have settled in the fabric was so long a wait. He smiles what he hopes is a welcoming smile, a warm smile. A smile that speaks not of his loathing for this wait but a smile that tells Draco that he doesn't mind being alone, being almost forgotten, or being only an after-thought.

But the man that enters isn't Draco. He is short and balding. He shakes off the water from his jacket and is seated by the Maitre'd at the table furthest from Harry where he bends down and kisses the woman who has been waiting for him.

Harry feels a small stab of envy and he turns his eyes away. His gaze shifts to the door once more and at the night beyond the glass of it. The roads are slick with water and the passing cars are orange from the streetlamp overhead. Men and women rush past, holding umbrellas overhead and laughing at something or another. It's raining and Draco is late.