分卷阅读13（1 / 2）

“Hey,” Draco leans closer to him, uses his free hand to smooth Harry’s wild hair back, and really, really hopes that he doesn’t remember any of this in the morning, because Draco is sitting way closer to him than is strictly necessary. “It’s over, alright? You won.”

He does not say we. Draco is careful to never say we.

“No.” Harry says, and Draco wonders if this is what made him drink so much tonight, the memories hiding in that faraway place. “It’s never over.”

He thinks Harry is just going to get his bearings and go to bed, so he leaves him to his own devices and heads back into the sitting room, where he could watch the steps in case Harry needs help walking up them. It’s a mistake, though, because Harry comes out with two glasses and a bottle of firewhiskey, the good stuff that you only buy if you’re going to give it to someone as a gift.

“You want one?”

He’s already pouring, and Draco wants to say no, because he is tired and Harry has already had too much to drink and is only now starting to sober up, and also because lines and blurring and he feels like they are constantly in danger of diving into uncharted waters, ones that they won’t ever be able to come back from.

“Come on.”

It’s unfair, the way Harry is looking down at him, how intimate this feels, with the blanket piled in his lap and the lighting low and the way Harry is smiling at him, like he knows, has always known, that Draco is unable to say no to him. That he knows he will not stop Harry from getting what it wants, when it matters.

“Don’t make me drink alone.”

Harry shakes the drink at him a little, and Draco cannot stop himself, just reaches out to take it from him, like it is not his own decision to make.

An hour later, Draco is a lot more drunk and Harry is a lot more sober, and they are both sitting in the claw-footed bathtub that Draco had thought was so cool, both fully clothed but soaking wet.

He can’t remember how they got here, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that this is a bad idea and that he should be getting out of it while he still can. What will they do when it’s time to get out? Or if they fall asleep and then wake up the next morning in freezing cold water, wondering how the hell they thought this was a good idea? Or when they had to sit across from each other at the breakfast table the next morning and pretend that everything is the same?

He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t move, either, because Harry has enchanted the bubbles to float and Draco is morphing them into different shapes at Harry’s request, because they’re grown men who like to do things like this. (They’re only eighteen. Is eighteen grown? It feels like it.) They’re also so close together that they’re knees are pressed up against each other, and sometimes Harry will catch at his arm like he wants to say something important, but never does.

“What are we doing?” Draco doesn’t know what he is asking, exactly. If he means this moment, as in why are they pretending this is something mates would do if they were sober, or on a larger scale, as in why he was even here in the house at all, or in general, as in, what are they thinking about these feelings growing up between them like flowers that are only going to be choked out by weeds, because he knows that Harry is feeling them too.

“I don’t know.” Harry is blindingly innocent at times like this, the embodiment of everything that is good. He is not someone who is prepared to expect disaster at every turn, even after everything he has seen. “Do we have to know?”

Draco liked the sound of that, the not knowing, even if it sort of terrified him.

“No.” He laid his arm out flat along the edge of the tub, and after a moment Harry copied him, their hands lying close enough so their fingers touched, but just barely. “We don’t.”

They moved from the bathtub to the bathroom floor, leaning against each other to stay upright, Harry’s head on Draco’s shoulder.