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The first time it happened, Harry nearly didn't believe it. He had been streaked with sweat and dirt and not an inconsequential amount of blood, and the showers seemed like a respite, a retreat, after a long fucking day on the job. He loved being an Auror, don't get him wrong, but on days like these—the bright flash of curses flying past his face, the press of cover against his back, voices screaming in anger and in pain—he sometimes wished he picked a profession a little less close to death.
So, he had stripped off his torn and stained uniform, had dropped it forgotten on one of the locker room benches, and had stepped under the blazing hot stream of water pouring from the shower. Head tilted back, eyes closed, feeling the grime washed away in swirls of reddish-brown between his feet. It was the best he had felt that day, at least since rolling out of the warmth and comfort of his bed and getting ready to face the fray he knew was coming.
The locker room door had opened, not surprising considering how many other Aurors were involved in the sting, and there was a set of footsteps, ones Harry had learned to recognise over the last three months.
"Malfoy?" he yelled. "Is that you?"
"Piss off, Potter," was the exhausted response, and though Harry knew his recalcitrant partner wouldn't be able to see it, he smiled.
The shower next to his turned on a few minutes later, and Harry, caught up in the process of washing dust and someone else's blood from his hair, paid it almost no attention. It wasn't the first time that he and Malfoy showered near each other. They were partners, after all, and most of the time, if one of them was disgustingly dirty after a raid or a stakeout, the other one was, too. He knew the sound of water splashing against Draco's skin, knew the routine of how Draco liked to get clean. Rinse first, then soap, shampoo, conditioner—his long blond hair tangled terribly if he didn't use the stuff—and then another rinse, this one longer and more meditative. A quiet standing under the heat and wet, as if it would ease the ache across his shoulders or wash away the sins of the past.
Harry understood that part perhaps a bit too well. Malfoy wasn't the only one between them with ghosts that needed to be drowned out. But that first time, that first day, the silence between them had been different.
Expectant.
At first, Harry thought Draco was simply washing again. There had been the sound of hands on skin, the uncapping of a bottle, the wet squelch of soap between fingers. But the rhythmic back and forth, the barely suppressed breath, those were new. Harry was familiar with those sounds from his own too-long showers, his own nights shrouded in darkness with the sheets thrown aside, and for him to say that he'd never wondered what those actions might sound like coming from the man in the stall next to him… Well, Umbridge had taught Harry that he mustn't tell lies, not even to himself, and his hand ached with the reminder.
He'd crept to the side wall and peered through the gap between stalls. There hadn't been much to see. A flash of a lithe arm, the tensing of muscles beneath pale skin. But this close, the sounds were loud and clear.
Draco Malfoy was jerking off in the shower stall next to Harry, seemingly oblivious to the world around him or put off by Harry's presence so close.
He should've turned away, should've stepped back under the spray of his own shower and turned the water so cold, it would feel like ice against his skin. But, instead, he'd stayed where he was, coated in a fine mist from the water that left his hair standing on end from cold and excitement. He wished he could see more, but the angle was all wrong, and unless he pressed himself against the cold tile, he'd only be treated with the occasional flash of Draco's arm or his head bending forward.
Harry closed his eyes and imagined instead. Imagined what Draco would look like, flushed with pleasure. If his cock would be hard and leaking, though the precome would be lost in the spray of the shower. How Draco's prick would move through the tight prison of his fist, the head peeking out as he reached the base, only to disappear with a vicious twist of his hand around himself. Harry imagined the tensing of Malfoy's muscles, the way his stomach would bunch and clench as Malfoy drew closer to orgasm. The gritted teeth in his too-sharp face, his grey eyes closed against the wave of pleasure that finally overtook him. The come spattering on the floor beneath, staining the top of Draco's foot until it, too, was washed away.
Harry had been hard and aching, but too afraid to touch. It had been enough to imagine, to let himself fall into the heat of it and let go. He thought he would make it, though his balls and chest ached, but he'd heard one more breathy sigh from Draco, two familiar syllables escaping before the man could hold them back, and it had been enough to push Harry, untouched, over the edge.
His name dropped from Draco's lips to land on the tile floor, to stain the top of Draco's foot, to wash away down the drain with everything else.
Harry had tried to hold back his own cry, but he'd been too surprised by the visceral twist of need that wrenched out of him to do anything approaching a good job of it. Instead, Harry's moan had echoed through the locker room like a gunshot, and the silence after had been equally as damaging. He thought he would bleed out from it, the way that silence pressed against him and tried its best to rip him in two.
"Next time," Malfoy said quietly, almost imperceptible over the spray of water, "I want to watch."
It became a new routine for them, another step in the process of cleaning off after being covered with the stain of criminality. Rinse, then soap, then shampoo, then their bodies pressed against each other in the confines of the shower stall, hot water the only thing between them. Harry learned the shape of Draco's back as it arched in pleasure, the flavor in the hollow of his throat where the water would gather and Harry would drink it down. He wore bruises on his hips like ornamentation, fingerprints left by Draco's hands as he gripped too tight, held Harry too close. He left his own marks on Draco's body, dark bruises in the shape of his mouth and teeth, ringing Draco's neck and collarbone like mottled jewelry.
Harry learned the taste of Draco's mouth, his skin, his cock, all of it like ambrosia on Harry's tongue. And Harry was learned in return. Draco's hands mapped the topography of Harry's skin until they knew all of the back roads and hidden places until they could navigate Harry's body without any hesitancy. It was odd to be so well known by one's childhood enemy, but as Draco drew pleasure from Harry's body like a musician dragging symphonies from strings, Harry couldn't help but think that it was, in its own way, beautiful.
That didn't mean it was always poetry and song. No, more often than not, it was pure need. The slamming of bodies against tiled walls, the water running cold long before their blood did. Adrenaline pounding through his bloodstream loud enough to drown out the sound of falling water and Draco's curses. Bruises and scratches, blood and sweat. Their release wasn't just physical, it was mental, emotional, and they found it together, in whatever ways they could.
It shouldn't have come as a surprise when Draco was hurt. He was a cool, cold bastard in the field, but when someone said just the right thing or used just the right curse, it would send him flying into a mindless, careless rage. It was awesome, but not in the common sense of the word. No, it was a thing filled with awe, a wonder to behold. Draco Malfoy filled with unbridled fury was beautiful. His fair skin and white-blond hair were like a white flame in the middle of a bonfire, burning so fiercely that Harry could feel the heat of it from where he stood, trapped around the corner of an alleyway while the Dark wizard they were pursuing flung hex after hex at him.
Harry almost didn't recognise Draco's voice when he was hit by the curse. The scream that rent the night air was broken and ugly, something that Harry had never considered Draco Malfoy. To Harry, Draco Malfoy was strong and unyielding and magnificent with it. He wasn't someone who would cry out in pain like that, with that wet rattle in his throat like someone choking on their own blood.
But Harry knew Draco's voice in all its range, and once the initial shock passed, he was running into the alleyway, a Protego on his lips and wandless magic in his left hand. His knees ached and bleed when he skidded to the ground next to Draco's crumpled form and Harry's shield sprung to life around them. The sting of gravel in open wounds was nothing compared to the agony Harry felt in his chest or the pained, choked off gasp of the Dark wizard further down the alley. Harry didn't know what form his wandless casting had taken, but it ripped something from the man, leaving him limp and bleeding in the gutter while Harry crouched over Draco's body.
"Fuck, Potter," Draco said, blood flecking his lips as he coughed wet and deep. "That bloody hurts."
"Hold on, Draco." Harry didn't mean to use his first name, but he couldn't help himself and couldn't find it in his heart to regret it later. "Just hold on."
The Mediwizard hadn't come fast enough, as far as Harry was concerned. His own healing spells were shaky at best—Hermione had always excelled at those, and he'd depended on her on more than one occasion to patch him and Ron up; he hadn't considered that his own skills would atrophy as a result—and though he'd managed to stop the worst of the bleeding, there was still a large, darkly coloured puddle around Draco's body and Harry's knees by the time help came. Throughout it all, he held onto Draco's hand tightly, wondering at the sudden sense of fragility in the other man's bones, the parchment-like quality of his skin, the painful reminder of mortality smeared across his flesh in bright red turning brown.
Draco was bundled away by the Mediwizards and Healers, and Harry was told in no uncertain terms to go home, shower, and check in on Malfoy in the morning.
"He's going to be fine," the Mediwizard had told him, though Harry hadn't wanted to believe it. "Honestly, you'll do him more favours at home than by hovering. St Mungo's will patch him right up, and you can see him first thing tomorrow."
So, Harry went home. He showered. He dressed for bed. And he spent the night staring at the ceiling, eyes hot and gritty, and worried until he thought he'd be sick from it. The sunlight had crept into his room carefully as if it were a parent trying to avoid waking a sleeping child. But Harry watched the line of light tiptoe across the room, used its passage into the receding darkness like a clock, and as soon as it glanced off the corner of his mattress, he was up and out the door, his Apparition so fast and steady, he hardly felt the pull of it at all.
The nurses at St Mungo's must have seen something in Harry's expression because no one tried to stop him as he hurried to the secure wing where Aurors were treated. The junior Auror stationed outside Draco's room didn't even flinch when Harry barged past, and though the sound of the door slamming against the wall was loud and echoed down the hallway, the too-pale man in the bed's only reaction was a raised eyebrow.
"Really, Potter. You'd think I'd've died in that alley, the way you're carrying on."
"Fucking Christ, Malfoy." Harry rushed over, then stilled at Draco's bedside, hands and mind suddenly uncertain.
"You know I love it when you slide into Muggle expletives." He grinned up at Harry, all tired arrogance. "But honestly, I'm fine. Nothing more than a scratch."
Draco shifted in the bed so that he could pull up his hospital robe. The faded and worn fabric—so common against Draco's precious skin—rose above his waist, showing off the pink line of a new scar across his lower abdomen, ending at the jut of his hip bone. Harry wondered if he put his hand across it if it would cover the entire breadth of the wound.
His throat hurt around the words. "That's a bit more than a scratch."
"Healers said it's nothing to worry about. I'll be all right in a few days." Draco frowned. "It does mean I'll be saddled with desk duty for a while, and knowing your penchant for not doing your paperwork, I've likely got my work cut out for me."
Harry couldn't think about paperwork, couldn't think about the future. Whatever work laid ahead of them, none of it mattered when compared to the enormity of his fear and his sick relief at seeing Draco, whole and well and full of shit like always. It made Harry's teeth hurt with how hard he was clenching them together, holding back the torrent of words that wanted to spill forth like an abscess finally drained and seeping pus.
"Don't look so dour, Potter," Draco said, unaware or unwilling to acknowledge the turmoil whipping its way through Harry. "I'll see you on Monday."
"I'll see you when you're discharged," he said instead. His hand dropped to the blanket of the bed, close enough to feel the warmth of Malfoy's body but not touching, and then he left.
He thought about visiting after that, of dropping by like it was nothing, like popping in was nothing more serious than a passing fancy, a way to say hi to a sometimes-mate-something-fuck-buddy, something that was part of his duty as an Auror. But Harry knew better. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep his newly unleashed emotions in check, that they would overwhelm him before he had a chance to process what they meant to him, much less what they might mean to Draco. So instead of going to St Mungo's like he wanted, of camping out at Draco's bedside—though it was more care than he needed or was likely to appreciate—Harry stayed away. The distance ached like a rotten tooth. He needed to see Malfoy, to have the reminder that he was fine, but Harry needed time to process, to hide, more.
It wasn't like these feelings were new. After a long period of self-reflection, Harry came to recognise that his boyhood obsession with Draco had been more than rivalry, that the way heat grew in his chest when he saw the other man wasn't just anger. Harry's bisexual crisis hadn't been long, but it had been swift and distinctly blond. But attraction wasn't the same as wanting to know the sound of someone's breath in sleep or how they liked to fold their clothes when they were putting away the wash or what side of the sink their toothbrush lived on. That was more, and it was something that Harry had forced to the back of his mind as much as he possibly could while also occasionally forcing Draco's cock to the back of his throat.
Now, though, Harry was faced with the stunning realization that his feelings for Draco were precisely that: feelings, in every painfully elementary-school-crush sense of the word. He hadn't scribbled his name as Harry James Malfoy in the margins of his diary yet, but with the way things were going, he was afraid it was only a matter of time.
Harry didn't love easily. He loved with the strength of someone who'd lost as many loved ones as he'd gained, who knew the value of affection freely given and knew the pain of its being taken away. And what he felt for Draco… Well, nothing had ever been easy between them before, had it?
Why start now?
Two days later, he got the news that Draco was going to be sent home. Not from Draco, no, but from Ron, who'd happened to have overheard the announcement while dropping off a suspect who'd managed to Splinch himself during the pursuit.
"Yeah, mate," Ron said when Harry had responded with incredulous annoyance. "This afternoon."
It had taken some quick talking to get himself out of his afternoon training duties, but Harry had managed it. And though he'd been as quick about it as he possibly could be, Harry still nearly missed Draco being let out of St Mungo's.
It's incredibly awkward when you meet the person you're looking for on the front step of the place they should be, their wand already in hand as they ready themselves to Apparate home, but that's how Harry found Draco, and though it made him want to squirm, he fought the impulse.
"Fancy meeting you here," Draco deadpanned.
"You didn't tell me you were being let out."
"You're not my mother, Potter. I don't need to check in with you when I'm going out."
"That's not… " Harry growled, and the sound deepened when Malfoy laughed. "You should be taking it easy."
Draco rolled his eyes. "I told you earlier. I'm fine. Clean bill of health, no lasting effects. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go home and wash the institutional stink off of me."
"Here." Harry held his arm out. "I'll Side-Along you."
"I'm not an invalid, damn it."
Harry's arm dropped slightly. "I know. I just… I want to help."
"Oh, fine." Draco slid his arm through the hinge of Harry's elbow, linking their arms like they were meant to be there. Though his tone was aggrieved, his touch was gentle. "Thank you, Auror Potter, for your service."
"Shut up, Malfoy."
They swirled into Apparition a moment later, the pair of them landing outside of the door to Draco's flat. Malfoy, already pale naturally, had a slightly grey tinge about him that Harry didn't like. Wandlessly, he cast Alohamora, then pushed his way into Draco's home. Draco stumbled after him, his arm still looped through Harry's.
"You need to sit down," Harry said, slowing his pace a little as Draco's colour worsened. "On the couch, now."
It was a sign of how poorly Draco must be feeling because he didn't argue or complain, instead of falling onto the sofa, eyes closed.
"I'm going to put your feet up," Harry said as he grabbed the delicate bones of Draco's ankles and lifted. Draco helped, shifting down the couch so that he could lean against the armrest, legs and feet spread out before him. "You stay here. I'll run you a bath."
"You missed your true calling," Draco said, some of his usual snap coming back. "You're quite an adept nurse."
"Shush, and get your shoes off."
There was a narrow hallway off of the front room that Harry assumed led to the bedroom and bathroom. He wasn't surprised to find that both were well decorated in creams and greys and blues, pops of yellow appearing here and there (not a speck of green or silver). After grabbing a change of clothes—he refused to let himself linger over Malfoy's softly scented shirts and trousers, instead grabbing a well-worn t-shirt and joggers—he walked into the bathroom and started running the water. While it heated, he sifted through Draco's bath products—shampoo, conditioner, body wash, lotion, cleanser—and found a small, half-empty bottle of bubble bath. He added it to the water and smiled at the soothing scent of lavender and mint. Leaving the bath to fill, he went back to the reluctant invalid on the couch.
Draco had thrown an arm over his eyes, one knee raised while the other leg stretched out. His shoes were off.
"I can hear you breathing, Potter. Quit loitering and leave me be."
"It's time for your bath, Mr Malfoy," Harry said instead, walking over to the couch and sliding his arms under Draco's lithe form. When he squirmed, startled, Harry lifted him with a resulting yelp. "Don't struggle. I wouldn't want to drop you."
"You wouldn't dare," Draco hissed. His arms wrapped around Harry's neck like a vice, and though Draco's hold was a bit tighter than Harry would like, he shifted Draco easily in his arms, enjoying the feel of the man's fingers digging into Harry's skin for purchase.
Once they reached the bathroom, Harry considered—only briefly—dropping Draco, fully dressed, into the tub. But he let the urge pass and set Draco down carefully instead. The man's fingers grazed Harry's pulse, a gentle caress that made the fine hairs at the back of Harry's neck stand on end.
"You're welcome to leave," Draco said, though his hands still lingered on Harry's body as if he meant something else.
Harry didn't respond, just reached for the hem of Draco's shirt and lifted.
This was something new for them, the careful undressing. Their shower assignations had always started after one or the other were already undressed. Harry hadn't ever had the pleasure of taking Draco's from his clothing, and he luxuriated in it now.
Draco didn't say anything as it happened, instead letting Harry's hands wander from button to button, drawing Draco's body out of its coverings. Harry knelt between Draco's legs, lifting each of his arched feet carefully to free him from his jeans and socks and pants. Though he was level with Draco's cock, and though he knew how easy it would be to lean forward, to take it in his mouth, to soothe and ease Draco with pleasure, Harry didn't. Instead, he stood, then held his hand out to Draco, offering— though what, exactly, he didn't know.
Draco hissed when he stepped into the tub, but even as his skin pinkened, he let out a heavy, satisfied sigh. Water level over his shoulders, small waves lapping at the edge of the tub, he leant his head back, eyes closed, hand still resting in Harry's.
"That's delightful," he said.
Harry hummed in response. He poured water over Draco's hair, uncaring of how it splashed on the edge of the tub and to the floor. Carefully, he lathered and rinsed, then ran conditioner through the long locks of blond hair. Draco breathed through it all, not speaking but lifting his head as necessary, shifting so that Harry could reach the tender base of his skull to massage the tiny bulge of muscle there.
Once Draco's hair was a sheet of golden silk, clean and smelling of milk and honey, Harry reached for the washcloth draped over the edge of the tub. Dipping it into the water until it was soaked through, he lifted it to Draco's arm and dragged it across his skin. Slowly, methodically, he washed his way to Draco's collarbone and neck, then over and across, to the other arm stretched along the edge of the tub, stopping only to rewet the cloth so that it wouldn't grow cold and give Draco a chill.
Through it all, Draco's eyes stayed shut, but Harry could still feel the other man's attention on Harry's movements. It was in the way his muscles tensed and relaxed, how his skin pebbled in anticipation of Harry's touch. Even without sight, Draco's body knew when Harry's hands would touch him. It soothed something in Harry's chest, to know that he had at least this much of an impact on Draco, that he meant at least this much to the man.
"You know," Harry said, still focused on his task of wiping the sweat and grime of the hospital from Draco's skin, "I thought you were going to die."
Draco's eyes opened, but when Harry didn't say anything more, he closed them, mouth twisted into a frown. "I didn't, though."
"You didn't." The quiet splash of the cloth in the water, then the susurration of it against Draco's chest, over his ribs. "But I thought you were."
"Harry, I—"
Harry dipped the cloth lower, dragged it across the faded marks of Semptumsempra, rested it against the new gash marring Draco's skin. "You don't get it, do you?" He trailed the cloth over the scar, sickened when his hand was just too small to cover it all. "You don't understand."
Draco squirmed under the touch, silent but listening.
He didn't know what made him say it. Fear, most likely, and a bit of that Gryffindor bravado he'd never managed to lose over time. But as the words poured out, he couldn't find it in himself to regret whatever urge had brought them spilling forth.
"This"—Harry pressed his free hand to Draco's breast bone, over his pounding heart—"is mine. You haven't given it to me yet, but it's mine all the same. And it doesn't matter whether you know it or not, but I'm not letting go unless you tell me to." Harry raised his eyes to Draco's wide ones and waited. "Tell me to let go."
A harsh inhalation, a swallow, then the careful, purposeful shake of his head. "No."
"Good."
Harry let the cloth drop, let his hands cradle the weight of Draco's jaw. The kiss was soft, but Harry felt like he was drowning, like Draco's mouth was air and as long as Harry kept his lips pressed against Draco's, he could breathe. Malfoy's pulse beat beneath Harry's fingers, and he counted each quiet reminder of life and Draco, hale and hearty, beneath him.
"Harry," Draco whispered, his fingers wrapped around Harry's wrists like bracelets, like promises. "Harry."
Harry shushed Draco with another kiss, then pressed his forehead against Draco's, eyes squeezed shut to hold back the prickling of tears. "Do you understand?" His voice was harsh. "Do you understand what it means?"
"Yes." A soft kiss on his cheek, his jaw. "Please, Harry."
His clothes vanished. He wasn't sure if it was his doing or Draco's, but it didn't matter either way. Fully naked, Harry climbed into the bath, bracketing Draco's thighs with his knees, his hands and mouth never leaving Draco's face. He was hard, though it wasn't anything more than an idle passing ache, something to be dealt with later, once he soothed the deeper wound in his chest. He was too lost in Draco's hands wrapping around his neck, drawing him closer, their bodies pressed together as they said more with fingers and lips than they'd ever said with words.
Water spilled over the lip of the tub, but neither of them cared. They were lost to the slow rock and slide of their bodies together, to the wandering touches.
"Why?" Draco asked between panting kisses. "Why now? Why me?"
Harry wished he could think of an eloquent answer. He wished he had the words to explain the tangled knot that was his heart, and how Draco Malfoy sat in the center of it, warm and safe and there before Harry even knew the man had tried to get in.
"I can't lose you," he said as if that would be explanation enough. And because it was, because somehow Draco knew Harry better than anyone, it was.
"I'm fine," Draco said, kissing Harry again and again. "I'm here."
And he was. He was trapped beneath the weight of Harry's body and the warmth of the water, his back pressed against the ceramic-coated tub. Every it of reality told Harry that Draco was fine, but Harry had to see it, to feel it, for himself.
He trailed his hands over every inch of Draco's skin. Without the barrier of the washcloth, Harry felt like he was burning. Each touch was an inferno, and though it ached and stung, he kept his hands firmly against Draco's skin.
He didn't mean to reach for Draco's cock, but when Harry brushed his fingers against the livid scar on Draco's abdomen again, his palm and wrist had knocked into the heavy weight of Draco's engorged prick, and Harry had needed to touch that as well. It was a familiar weight in his hand. But this time, it felt different, as if gravity were pressing on him differently now.
Harry stroked and pulled. Though he knew the water wasn't lubrication enough, he didn't stop. Draco moaned into each touch, clearly not bothered by it, and Harry kept going until Malfoy was writhing beneath him, his fingers tangled in Harry's hair, mouth open and panting against Harry's, words spilling forth like blood on pavement.
"Please" and "more" and "always you, always." Tidbits of prayer and penitence set at the altar, and Harry, the thankful priest who gathered them up like the precious things they were.
"Yes" and "of course" and "yours" given in return.
Harry felt Draco's orgasm a second before it hit. The body beneath his went rigid. The cock in his hand stiffened. The pulse underneath the skin paused like a breath held too long. And then Draco groaned, those same two syllables as the first time, and just as the first time, it was enough to tip Harry over the edge with him.
"Harry," Draco said, over and over again. His body quaked and water spilled onto the tiled floor, and through it all, Harry's name moaned and whispered and cursed, again and again.
"Draco." Harry kissed him gently. "Draco."
He didn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opened them, he was caught in slate grey tinted with fear. "I don't want your pity," he said, even as Harry's hand still rested around his spent prick, even as Harry's own orgasm fizzled and sparked its way from his system.
"Fuck you, Malfoy," Harry said, though it was gentle and followed by a kiss. "I don't pity you. I want you, all of the damned time."
"Oh."
"Stay here. I'll get you a towel."
"I can cast a drying charm, you know."
Harry frowned. "I'll get you a towel."
A moment later, he rose from the water. The tiles were slippery and cold as he hurried to the towel rack on the back of the bathroom door. He pulled down the largest, softest looking towel, then held it open between his arms, waiting for Draco to stand. After a long pause, the man did, stepping from the water with a grace that made Harry's blood start pounding again.
Draco walked into the half-circle of Harry's raised arms, then stood still while Harry wrapped him in the towel. Harry lifted the wet curtain of Draco's hair from his back, draped it over his shoulder gently, made sure that Draco had a grip on the towel. Then, Harry took a towel for himself and wrapped it around his waist before he scooped Draco up, body still encased in terry cloth.
"Merlin, Potter," Draco said, body going rigid, then limp as Harry carried him into the bedroom. "I am an adult. I am capable of walking."
"Let me take care of you, prat," Harry said before tossing Draco onto the bed. He bounced slightly, and it made Harry smile.
He grabbed clothes for Draco and helped him dress, though he complained the whole time that he didn't need the assistance. And once he was settled, his lithe body tucked neatly under the blankets and covers, eyes rolling as he snuggled deeper into the clean sheets, Harry wondered what he should do now.
"Get in here," Draco said, reaching for the corner of the bedspread and lifting it back. At Harry's hesitancy, he softened slightly. "Please."
How was Harry to say no to that?
So he climbed into sheets that had a thread count higher than anything that had ever touched his skin before, and he curled himself into a half-moon that Draco immediately fit himself into. The pillow was soft and smelled faintly of Draco's conditioner, and Harry buried his nose in Draco's hair to inhale the stronger scent tangled in the strands. Wordlessly, Harry cast Nox and breathed.
"Are we going to talk about this?" Draco asked into the darkness of the bedroom.
"Do we have to?"
Draco understood Harry's meaning. Not a repudiation, a denial, but rather a question of whether they needed to discuss something they both knew the answer to, that they both felt as clearly as gravity or inertia, of two circling bodies pulled together, inevitable.
"Eventually," Draco answered, pushing himself deeper into Harry's arms, "but not tonight."
"Not tonight," Harry said as he trailed fingers across the scar on Draco's stomach, as he tried to spread his palm across the entire breadth of it and failed. Instead, he pulled Draco close, closer, always closer. One body falling into another, caught by an invisible force that refused to let go.