46-Shimmer
TW: Depression
***
What I always do, Draco said, is take a hot bath. A nice, hot bath with bubbles and scented candles. Would you like that?
Harry closes his eyes. The water is hot in the bath tub, hot against his skin; the steam has fogged the bathroom and the tiles, has fogged the mirror. The water is clear under the dim lights, under the mountain after mountain of thick bubbles, a low shimmer. The air smells like a cacophony of roses and vanilla and cider and pumpkins.
His shoulders slump. He hadn’t taken a bath for a week. Had lied in bed, stared at the ceiling. Unable to move a single muscle.
From behind him, Draco kisses the tip of his ear. Loops his arms around him, strokes his belly under the warm, soapy water.
Harry wants to apologize. He couldn’t—he wants to—his voice becomes a strangled thing, dying in his throat. Draco hears it anyway. Kisses the tip of his ear again, murmurs.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
