The Bolthole

Chapter 5

Something quiet and askew dragged him back up. Only barely, only not quite above water—he was still sleep drunk and his head cottony, his body sore, muscles strained like he'd pushed them both to the edge. The room was very dark and it felt like the deepest valley of the night.

He was curled around Draco, holding him tightly to his chest. Draco's hand was clenched around his wrist—grip going loose and then harsh, loose and then harsh. He was whispering something to himself, very softly, and it took Harry a moment to make out the words.

He was so groggy. Draco was so warm to his skin.

"Be better," Draco muttered, barely audible, and softly squeezed Harry's wrist: he was doing it to the rhythm of his mantra, which now went: "Be better be better be—"

"Draco?" It came out not exactly a word, more a grousing sound.

Draco stilled. Harry said, "What are you doing?"

"Sorry," Draco whispered, and let go of Harry's wrist.

"Go to sleep," he told him, and put the flat of his hand to the hot dip of Draco's stomach. His muscles jumped.

He said, then, sounding careful, "Have you been awake for long?"

"Go to sleep," Harry said.

Draco said, "Sorry," again, and turned around under Harry's arm to look at him in the dark. Harry's hand slipped from his waist and then Harry wasn't sure what to do with it. What had he ever done with his hands, when not touching Draco? He couldn't remember. Couldn't think.

Draco whispered, "I keep on waking up." And, "Any suggestions?"

Harry brushed his fingers over Draco's eyes and closed them for him. Draco's breath puffed against his palm. "Thanks," Draco said, flat. If Harry moved his hand down he'd be able to trace the lines of Draco's mouth, feel if he was smiling or not. "Very helpful."

He turned from Harry and lay on his back, eyes open and trained on the ceiling. A gleam in the dark, his mouth tight. He'd been so thrilled to put that mouth on Harry, just a few hours ago. He'd said he'd liked it, that he'd like Harry's hair, liked Harry's face and shoulders and—

Harry had the childish urge to ask him to repeat it. But that felt stupid and needy and as if he'd reveal himself for what he was: inexperienced, eager, obsessed with every word that came out of Draco's mouth.

He thought, what if I just grab him again and pull him close. He thought, what if I keep him under me and don't let him go.

Draco gave a frustrated hitch of a breath and got out of bed to go to the bathroom. He hissed, getting to his feet. Walked with an awkward gait. His bare back, the moving muscles of his buttocks, his thighs.

Harry ran hot, watching him go: with lust and then with shame. He'd been very rough. He tried to remember exactly how rough and suddenly couldn't remember: it was all a blur of arousal, of him telling Draco how good he felt, how much he wanted him, and holding Draco in place. Not letting him move. Ordering him to stay.

He swallowed around the tightness of his throat. The first wave of panic rolled and then went. He listened to Draco take a piss in the other room. The door was open, the light on, a strip of it over the empty floor, the carpet. There was so much space in the house, now. Everything was so visible.

Harry rolled to his side and curled in on himself and when Draco came back he pretended to be asleep. Draco put a hand to Harry's back, briefly, said, "Harry?"

And Harry made his breaths very slow and measured and Draco's hand fell from him. His presence was near, and warm under the sheets, his legs not touching but tickling against Harry's: an inch away. A comfort and a terror all at once.