"Disintegrate" by rurounihime for the First time/ first kiss contest

Title: Disintegrate
Author: rurounihime
Rating: R
Warnings: language
Summary: Draco has it all figured out: what he wants, what he needs. But some things are meant to be overturned.
Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine. They belong to JK Rowling.

...

He’s never gone all the way with Harry Potter.

Others, yes. Certainly. He is no virgin. Girls? Yes. Guys? Oh, yes. He tries to tell himself that Harry Potter is no different, and for the first month he almost believes it.

It’s just a fling. Kissing Harry Potter is like kissing anyone else, just another meeting in the hallway, another night spent sucking face in a classroom. So what if he looks forward to their meetings? He always looked forward to the others, to some degree. There’s something in Harry’s eyes that draws him in, though, an emotion he can’t quite place and would rather ignore because it makes him feel like the other boy is about to open up and show him all of his thoughts. The things he thinks about. But for Draco it’s not about thinking, or talking, or anything like that. It’s about sex. And sex is... well.

Sex is about bodies, something swift and merciless and it’s called shagging. It’s a way to forget, to feel in your muscles while up in your head, everything is turned off. Sex is shagging. It is not thinking or feeling. It comes upon you, and then it leaves.

Draco wants it to be about shagging every time. It always has been. He wants to touch and not feel, and have it leave. He wants it to be about the body, as it always has been, about swiftness and mercilessness and sated hunger. But with Harry it’s not about being sated; he can feel it the second he touches him. There was one day, last week – seems so long ago – when Harry encircled him with his arms in such a way that Draco suddenly saw what it had become, found himself in unfamiliar waters, and felt the fear course through him. It wasn’t about speed and release, it was – oh god – it was about something entirely different, something familiar enough to show him he should pull back – stop touching him – but he wanted it to go on, go on, and it did go on, and Harry fed it with touches of his own. Draco lost his control here, he wanted this new uneasy thing so badly, on and on, closer, hotter, breathier. But somehow this still wasn’t what sex was, and whatever it was, he wanted it, wanted it more than air, his mind wanted it, his heart wanted it, and suddenly he was running, running down stone corridors, running from IT and the burn inside that needed to be touching the smooth shape of Harry’s face rather than… other parts.

Bodies need sex. Not faces. Not soft voices. Draco collapsed in the hallway because his body had just betrayed him, had begun to behave differently, damn it. Not release, but understanding eyes. Not rhythm, but a gentle embrace.

Fuck it. That is not shagging. Not sex. Draco doesn’t know what that is.

Harry didn’t come after him that day.

But now he finds him, comes right into his bedroom and sits on his bed, inches away, and suddenly the room is too small. Draco can’t think how he got in, can’t remember giving him any sort of password. But Harry is craftier than he initially thought. He has an invisibility cloak. He has patience.

“What are you doing here?”

Harry’s green eyes are piercing. “Why did you run? The other day.”

Draco can be a bastard. He has damn near perfected the art. Used it before, to start relationships, to end relationships, to remind himself that there was nothing about those experiences that could be considered “a relationship”. Somehow it seems wrong to use it on Harry, and Draco’s anger rises at the fact that Harry Potter should get any kind of special treatment from him.

“You. Are too stifling.”

Harry frowns. Draco hopes he will rise to the bait because then being a bastard will be easier. “What?”

He throws back his head, shakes his hair from his face in one swift flick. “What did you think this was going to be, Potter?”

Harry is getting angry, Draco can smell it in the air. He grinds out, “What what is going to be?”

“This. I don’t want to hear your platitudes. Or you agonizing about what’s on your mind. I don’t need someone to... I can have anyone I want. I don’t need you and your talking. I can have anyone.”

He realizes with a sickening pang that he’s said something wrong, because suddenly, Harry’s anger is gone. Just like that. Draco’s mouth dries, he blinks and looks away. Anywhere but at the slow realization dawning on Harry’s face. No, no, no, he should be mad. He should want to go.

“Get out, Potter.”

Harry touches him and Draco jerks away.

“No.”

“Draco.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, not this, certainly not this. This is too close, this is too mind and not enough body. Not sex.

“No!”

Harry’s hand flat on his back. Draco whirls and smacks it away because it is too hot, too... too... too not. “Get off.”

The hand. His hand, back again, as if he’d never moved. Draco can feel himself starting to shake. He always does when Harry is this close. He’s on his bed, for fuck’s sake. Draco should be throwing him down, shagging him – yes, shagging him – until he can’t think straight, and then kicking him out the door. He has to get him out before his shaking becomes visible. If it isn’t already.

“I said get out.”

Why hasn’t he shagged Harry yet? It’s too long, been too long. None of the others lasted this long. For some reason he recoils from Harry, even though his kisses make him light-headed, even though his body is beautiful, what Draco can see of it when he allows himself to look. He wants to shag Harry. Throw him down. Fuck him into the mattress. But there is something else here, in the room, in his head, and he can’t. He can’t touch Harry like that because when he does... when he does...

He doesn’t realize what has happened until Harry is inches away, understands belatedly that he has moved toward him, eyes hooded, restful. That patience, there, in his irises. He notices, too late, that Harry’s hand has settled gently on his own. He notices, too late, that Harry’s mouth is brushing his lips. Always late. It’s too fast, Draco’s mind is going too slowly once again. He leans back because it’s all he can manage, but Harry leans with him and eases him into the kiss. Draco tries to freeze, to make his body listen to him for once, but it’s too late. He is already kissing back, his eyes are already falling shut. Harry’s palm comes up against his face, a sweet touch that shoots electricity into his limbs, and fear into his brain. He pulls away with a gasp, breaking free at last, to find Harry scrutinizing him, a knowing look in his eyes. Infuriating. Draco wants to smack it off his face, to push it away, to grab him and hit him, touch him until he looks worried instead, kiss him, caress him, hold onto him, whisper to him...

Wait, wait, wait. No. That’s not... He’s kissing again, and he never noticed when it began. But it feels so right, so smooth… his chest is tightening. Harry’s hand, pulling his own up against the soft heat of his side, fingers knitted in his hair, and Draco wants this and doesn’t want it at the same moment. His body is burning hot, and it needs something from Harry, but shagging suddenly seems... out of place. Unwanted.

For a tiny second it occurs to him that his mind wants something. Or his heart.

No.

And now Harry is easing him down on his back on the bed and Draco wants this to stop because this is not what he knows. He doesn’t recognize it, he fears it, and mostly he fears himself because he is giving in. Screaming no deep down within, but something even deeper is screaming back, hushing him. He doesn’t have any control over his mouth and the way it opens so hungrily for Harry’s lips, tongue. He doesn’t have control over the way his hands are pulling Harry closer, as close against him as he can get, the way he can feel every curve of Harry’s muscles beneath his clothing, the shiver that rips through him on realizing it. He has no control over his body, the heat flooding his cells, the confusing way his groin has mistaken this for what he knows about sex. This muscle-feeling has somehow flooded up into his head where it never goes, the way he lurches up into Harry like he’s afraid he will leave.

He wants him to leave, damn it. Get out. Get out now before I before I – before I what? Draco doesn’t have an answer. Except that Harry needs to go now, right NOW, and suddenly his hands are listening to him, pushing upwards and away, and Harry has broken from him looking confused but looking even more concerned. Draco sees him staring down, feels that pull in his abdomen that presses to get Harry closer again, before he leaves. He’s furious with himself, terrified of himself, doesn’t want this, and he spits words to slam that point home to everyone involved, especially himself.

“I don’t want you.”

Harry’s eyes luminous on his face. Draco tries again.

“You are nothing to me.”

Harry smiles slowly, understandingly. Like he knows a secret Draco is unaware of. Draco doesn’t want to be understood. He doesn’t even understand.

“Get away from me, Potter.”

Instead Harry leans closer, brushing those soft full lips against Draco’s forehead. His forehead.

“Fuck, stop.”

Harry moves to his temple and places another butterfly kiss there.

“Potter. Get the hell back.”

Another feather touch, this time on his cheek. Draco can hear his voice begin to plead. Hates himself for it.

“No, please, Harry, don’t...”

“Don’t what?” A kiss to his jaw.

“Harry... god... I don’t want this...”

His mouth is suddenly covered, caressed. Harry is tentative, gentle, patient, and despite everything, Draco feels himself rising to it, kissing back, and the fear smothers him because nothing has changed. It’s still that feeling, the one that is not sex. And he knows that it is rapidly going in the same direction as sex would go, but with something else riding on its back, something terrible and wonderful, and risky above all.

Draco’s traitorous fingers cling to Harry’s hair, sweep down over his throat to where his shirt has parted itself, oh god, the buttons are already undone. Did he do that? He can’t remember. He’s done this a million times before, pushed a shirt off and away, but this time his hands are shaking, trembling so badly that Harry pulls back from the embrace, eyes troubled.

Harry takes his fingers, wraps his own around them to still the quaking. Kisses them in a childlike, chaste way Draco has never been kissed before, and for a moment, the fear recedes.

“Draco.” Harry’s face is subdued, haunted by a look that has Draco mesmerized. “Do you really want me to stop? Because I will.”

Draco has an out, a fucking out, and he can take it and run, away from Harry and the new fearful thing, but when he opens his mouth a different part of him speaks, in a cracking voice held together by the thinnest of spider webs.

“No. Don’t st-stop—”

And Harry leans in, gloriously close to his body again, pulling Draco flush against him, and Draco hears a sigh that he doesn’t recognize escape his own body. A bloody heyday for not recognizing things. His body responds frantically because it thought Harry was going to leave, and then something more intangible responds in desperation because it thought Harry was going to leave. Draco chokes on the sensation. He loses himself in Harry’s warmth, mouth greedily searching out Harry’s, tongue to tongue, breath exchanged in heated gasps, when finally the fear swings back and knocks him flat. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, feels Harry’s hands touching the hollows of his hips. God he wants this, no, he doesn’t want it DAMN it. He wants sex. This, this is not sex.

And then, strangely, it is.

Harry unbuttons Draco’s pants and then stares at him, waiting for something Draco has no intention of giving, but before he knows it, he has lifted his hips and now there is very little between him and Harry. He bites his lip as Harry looks at him, as Harry pushes the shirt gently off his shoulders, runs hands down his chest. Warm hands. Slow hands. Patience. Draco shudders and returns the gesture. It’s so odd. Such familiar movements – he’s done them before – but now they are surprising him as if they were new. Harry’s shirt slips away and falls, is gone, and then Harry is leaning over him, kissing his mouth again.

Draco wants that, that kiss, to go on and on and on, until he can’t breathe anymore, until there is no need to breathe. Wants to forget about the uneasy coiling in his stomach, the snake hissing that he is about to give something away, and, more frighteningly, that maybe he is ready for it. He grabs Harry’s face and pulls him down, and Harry keeps going, nuzzling a hot trail down Draco’s throat to his chest, stroking his collarbone and the fluttering hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. He can ignore it. He can make this just sex again. Just sex. Nothing more. Sex is recognizable. A known quantity. Draco intends to have it again. No fear. It just comes, and then leaves.

And then Harry touches him there, a soft, tingling, tentative gesture, and Draco gasps and latches his fingers onto his arm, shakes his head. “Harry.”

A mouth at his ear, continuing jolts of pleasure showering through him. “Yes?”

“This... isn’t sex.”

Harry draws back, looks into Draco’s eyes. “What is it then?”

“I—”

Harry is preparing him with gentle fingers. Bloody hell. Draco swallows against the threatening euphoria.

“Draco. What is sex to you?”

Draco can’t answer because his voice in on the verge of shattering. He wants to scream at Harry to let him be, leave him with what he knows. He wants to cry out that all sex is is speed and mercilessness, that Harry’s slow gradual movements are breaking something apart in him. That he’s not doing it right, damn it, that this time Draco has messed up and brought something he didn’t plan for into it. Something that has the power to wreck it all. Wants to blame Harry for that.

And now Harry is—

Oh.

Draco arches, clutching Harry’s shoulders. It’s so smooth, so un-invasive, so unfamiliar. Harry is looking down at him, eyes deep and understanding, filled with tenderness and that frightening emotion that Draco has been trying to avoid. It jumps between them like a wayward spark, floods through Draco’s body one last time.

And suddenly Draco knows what it is. Recognizes it at last. He’s never felt it before, never had it inside him except as a terrifying unknown, but he has seen it before, in the faces of previous partners. Yearning, abandonment, a desire for something that goes deeper than lust or sex, obviously unfulfilled by what Draco was doing at the time. By what he failed to do afterward. Draco’s eyes fill with tears, because he knows the horror of giving that up to someone now, feels the anguish, the tiny death when it is not returned. When it goes ignored. His body has gone hollow, even though Harry is there, warm and damp against him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, fingers laced in Harry’s hair, mouth locked on his, bodies rocking slowly, and cries inside for the agony he feels so poignantly. Because he caused it before, in others. Because he will die if it happens to him.

All of a sudden it is happening. The movement freezes, Harry pulls back, away from his mouth and Draco feels something escape from him in one rending instant. Harry’s eyes, dark and wide, taking in the look on Draco’s face. He must be hearing everything his heart and body are screaming, things Draco now knows he cannot possibly hide. They are out there, in the open, and Harry is going to rip them all away from him.

“Oh my god...” Harry’s voice is hushed, eyes full of some new sort of pain. He brushes a finger across Draco’s cheek to gather tears that have slipped from his eyes. “Oh god, I am hurting you.”

The sensation of not being torn apart inside is too much for him, still raw from the new discovery of why this, with Harry, is different. And the flooding sensation that follows it... Draco opens his mouth, hearing a sob tear from it, and the last vestiges of his control are born away. “Oh no, no, no.”

Harry makes a small sound and pulls Draco into a blinding kiss. His eyes are glittering with unshed moisture. Draco’s heart shreds and reforms and shreds again in a single blazing instant. He knows he is safe. He knows he doesn’t deserve this. Yet it is being granted to him anyway. Draco wraps arms around Harry’s back, clutches, curls himself as close as he can get. Knowing they are already beyond close, yet wanting more, from Harry, only from Harry. Draco finally relishes the slow movement, feels it with every fiery nerve, the soft thrust and pull, and when the end comes, after so long and still much too soon, he feels like his body has burst apart, disintegrated, and swirled away.

Stillness. Soft sharp breathing. Draco has to remind himself that he has a body, that he belongs in it, and that it has ended, because he can still feel it pounding in time with his heart beat, through every limb. Harry’s lips trailing over his, even after they have finished, still kissing him, still touching his skin with languid fingers. Still making him want. Harry is teaching him gently. Teaching Draco that even after it’s over, it is still not quite done. Doesn’t have to be. It can go on and on again. It serves to remind Draco that he already knows what this is.

It’s not sex. Never was. And he wants it for the rest of his life.