“Harry.” Potter said, with a filthy grin. “I think if you’re going to put your cock in me, you should get used to calling me Harry all the time.” Draco stood up, and Potter’s eyes dropped down to his crotch. He grinned again. “Knew it. Massive erection.” “Shut up and get moving, Harry.”

“Are you awake?” Harry asked softly. “No.” Draco pulled the covers and flipped onto his side, away from Harry. It didn't deter him. “If you say so.” Which was Harry for ‘you are a fucking liar’ but it was too early and the sun slanted too bright in their tiny room, even if Harry was laying kisses on his bare shoulder. “Could you wake up?” “Do what you must without waking me.” “I'm not talking about fucking you, I'm talking about breakfast.”

“Right,” begins Draco, heart hammering against his ribcage, “well then–” but Potter’s on him, over him, catching Draco by the nape of his neck as the mattress dips, and now there’s no sentence left to finish, nothing left in Draco’s brain at all. Potter’s possessed by some fresh surety, kneeling up over Draco and reeling him in with a tight fist to the back of his t-shirt, the fabric pulling tight across Draco’s neck, holding him in place as their lips finally meet. The kiss is the same: furious, frenzied, the kind of kiss that’s a claim; the kind of kiss that’s proof.

They finish, then, together, and Draco slides off Harry, panting, all the tiredness and sadness coming back in waves; wave after wave after wave. Harry’s kissing his face, his lips, his tears, and they fall asleep like that, half dressed, tangled, dirty, guilty. * * * They don’t talk, but they have sex again in the middle of the night, and one more time in the morning. It’s like a lifelong thirst that will never be satiated. It’s like a crime they must get the most out of, before they receive their sentence.

“Why me?” Draco asks his bedroom wall, whispering it into the dark, far too late. “Told you.” Potter pulls him closer, speaking between open-mouthed kisses up the back of Draco’s neck. “You’re collateral damage.” “No.” Draco wrenches himself away, pushing up onto his elbows. He wants to see Potter’s face. “Why do all this? Why are you saving me? We’re not even—or we weren’t—in the real world–-you know, friends.” “Oh.” Potter’s silent, a hand light on Draco’s hip. “It never occurred to me not to.”

Harry’s not thought about Malfoy’s mouth – he hasn’t – but if he was forced to describe it from memory alone earlier today, sight unseen, all these years later, Harry would have spat out a contemptuous thin, ferrety, snide, small. Wrong. Wrong. Malfoy’s mouth is wide, sweet, generous, and yes – given to sneering and smirking – but it’s not thin and it’s not pinched. It’s soft and pliant and opening to welcome the tip of Harry’s thumb, to welcome Harry’s cock.

All of that whisky was a bad idea. The wanking off, in retrospect, was perhaps even worse. And maybe a touch psychotic. “Har-ry,” Draco says slowly. “Harry,” he says again, his mouth twisting into the sneer he uses when he’s about to do or say something horrible. Harry groans, willing his cock to pay attention. “Harry. Did you play with yourself earlier? Is that where you disappeared off to?” “Maybe,” Harry says. Draco grins. “I’m flattered.”

He looks miserable and also really, really good. He’s adapted a mostly Muggle wardrobe and the suits are way too nice for someone who regularly runs meetings on how to correctly fill out a timesheet. They fit Malfoy’s shoulders and chest obscenely well, comfortable-looking and defining, and the fabric always looks kind of wet. This one’s a shade of chin-tucked gray, coy. Harry swallows and nothing settles back down.