Way Down We Go

Chapter 12

It becomes uncomfortably easy to reach for Potter.

Perhaps because it's expected for their deception, perhaps because every brush of skin-to-skin contact provokes a subtle relief from an assortment of aches, Draco finds himself near-constantly touching Potter: his hand or his shoulder or most of Potter's body on one occasion memorable only for its awfulness, when they'd finally withdrawn Draco from the CT scan machine and he'd more or less crawled into the safety of Potter's arms and refused to leave for several minutes.

He would be embarrassed, except the nurses found it endearing and if Potter is ever stupid enough to bring it up, Draco can dismiss it as an act to further their cause and honestly there is no reason that a machine used for healing purposes should be so terrifyingly enclosed. And loud. He can hardly be blamed for his reaction.

Regardless, several hours into testing finds them back in the exam room: Draco reclined on the table with his head in Potter's lap and Potter's fingers in his hair.

He isn't sure when that happened, actually.

He recalls nearly passing out when they took what seemed like an unnecessary amount of blood from his arm—with a needle. He recalls returning to the exam room with a plastic cup of juice. Curling up under a blanket produced by one of the cooing nurses. Potter trying to feed him a truly heinous excuse for a biscuit.

And now they're here:

Head in lap.

Fingers in hair.

It's nice, is the thing.

Pansy used to play with his hair back at Hogwarts in the Slytherin common room. The best window seat was reserved for them and they would preside over their domain in the evenings, Draco smirking, a book open on his chest, Pansy with sharp eyes and an even sharper smile.

Sometimes, on much rarer occasions, when there was no one there to witness it, Blaise would slip between the drapes of Draco's bed at night, bully him into a similar position, and then Blaise would—for lack of a better word—pet him for a few minutes before calling him a spoiled crup and leaving again. There was a six month period during fifth year where Draco had a very inadvisable crush on Blaise which made those rare moments fraught with teenage heartache.

It was worth the embarrassing pining, though, because Draco loves it—has always loved it: the scratch of fingernails against his scalp; the soft drag of a brush; the gentle tug of plaiting.

It's stupid and vain, but one of the things he dislikes most about being so ill is the state of his hair. It used to be beautiful. Soft. Sleek. Like spun silk, his mother used to say. Like silver Merino thread. Your poor wife one day will be terribly jealous.

Admittedly, his mother stopped with the wife comments shortly after his fourteenth birthday. He'd thought, at the time, that he was keeping his proclivities secret; but in retrospect, perhaps the space between box spring and mattress was not the most discreet location for hiding a charity calendar of mostly-nude male quidditch players. Particularly when Draco himself was not the one changing the sheets and the house elves were far more loyal to his mother than him.

Oh well. Not that it matters, now.

Regardless, even if his hair is embarrassingly brittle and thin, Potter doesn't seem to mind, and it's been so long since anyone has touched him like this: kindly—softly—that Draco leans into it rather than away.

Potter has played the part of besotted husband disconcertingly well, Draco thinks. Though perhaps the disconcerting thing is that he has no idea how much of Potter's quiet reassurances are genuine, and how much are contrived.