The Bolthole

Chapter 6

The way Harry looked at him during sex felt like a promise, but Draco had thought that before, and been wrong.

It didn't help, probably, that Harry had had to save him only very recently, the blood and the floor--Draco's stomach heaved at the thought, but it passed after a moment. And then Harry had been worrying about hurting Draco himself, the sweet fool. It all added up quite nicely for Harry's hero complex, Draco imagined.

Once they had found each other in Harry's bed it became quite a challenge to move away—they returned to it again and again, lazy with lust. The sex, now that it had been established like an exclamation mark between them, went on for an exhaustive and undignified stretch of the day—meandered from serious to silly, to tired, to, occasionally, sweet and terrified.

They slept, they woke up. They moved close, kissed half awake, fell back into sleep. At some point, somewhere near dawn, Harry had held Draco's face very tightly in his palms and pressed their foreheads together and matched their breaths. He was sitting up in the sheets, and Draco had been in his lap, his legs wrapped around Harry's hips. He had been instructed to move only very slowly, which he did: barely at all. He didn't think he could come again. He probably wouldn't.

The moment went still. Draco had his eyes open, so close that Harry was just a blur of lashes, of dark lips. He held Draco like he was very precious, and very dangerous, all at once. The sun rose quietly behind the curtains, and birds of winter called out the hour.

Draco had whispered to the cupid's bow of Harry's top lip, "I don't think I can—"

"Shh," Harry had said, and rolled his brow to Draco's. "Just—stay. For a second."

"Okay," Draco had said, and had stayed, and Harry had wrapped his arms around him and dragged his lips up his neck and Draco—pulled taut and oversensitized—broke out in shivers that wouldn't subside.

"You feel so good," Draco breathed into the air, feeling stupid, feeling drunk, and Harry's hands were all over him: down the line of his spine, over his thighs, his throat.

It was after they'd collapsed into the sheets again, sweat cooling, that Harry said, "God. You could have died."

Draco's stomach clenched and unclenched and suddenly couldn't help it. He laughed.

"It was a good round, Harry, but let's not exaggerate," he said.

Harry buried his face in Draco's stomach and laughed as well, long and low. Then he crawled up the bed and lay next to Draco. After a few minutes, Harry propped himself up on one elbow, leant in, and softly kissed Draco's eyelids.

Then, he lay back down with a sigh, and fell asleep.

Draco tried to join him and couldn't. He closed his eyes and found he didn't want them closed. He wanted to watch Harry, and so he did.

It was strange that nothing hurt, really, not the skin on his palms that had felt as though it was flayed off, not the deep dragging rips through his forearms that had, Draco was fairly sure, ripped through tendon, wound around bone. He couldn't feel any of it; all he could feel, the only mark left on him, was Harry. It made it seem as though it hadn't happened. It could almost not have happened.

For about half an hour he watched Harry, who looked peaceful and exhausted. It probably should have felt creepy, but it didn't. It felt important, as if he needed to store up Harry's face now, now that he had it.

He wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep at all, only he'd wade into half awakeness every now and then and the room would still be somewhat dark, the day not fully broken, and Harry's face close, and he thought he might have dreamt a replica of the moment—that his brain had spun the exact image as lay before him, unwilling to let go even in sleep. Once he was sure he was awake, and Harry was leaning over to him, mouth close against Draco's ear. "I got you a present," he murmured, smiling, a kiss at Draco's cheek, his throat, the side of his neck, Draco arching like a cat into the touch, heart fluttering, and then Harry opened his palm and the coin lay there, clean and waiting. Draco sat bolt upright, heart pounding. Harry was passed out next to him, of course, face lax in sleep, one arm flung out over Draco's waist, and there was no coin. Draco rubbed his face with his hands.