“Hey,”Dracoleansclosertohim,useshisfreehandtosmoothHarry’swildhairback,andreally,reallyhopesthathedoesn’trememberanyofthisinthemorning,becauseDracoissittingwayclosertohimthanisstrictlynecessary.“It’sover,alright?Youwon.”
Hedoesnotsaywe.Dracoiscarefultoneversaywe.
“No.”Harrysays,andDracowondersifthisiswhatmadehimdrinksomuchtonight,thememorieshidinginthatfarawayplace.“It’sneverover.”
HethinksHarryisjustgoingtogethisbearingsandgotobed,soheleaveshimtohisowndevicesandheadsbackintothesittingroom,wherehecouldwatchthestepsincaseHarryneedshelpwalkingupthem.It’samistake,though,becauseHarrycomesoutwithtwoglassesandabottleoffirewhiskey,thegoodstuffthatyouonlybuyifyou’regoingtogiveittosomeoneasagift.
“Youwantone?”
He’salreadypouring,andDracowantstosayno,becauseheistiredandHarryhasalreadyhadtoomuchtodrinkandisonlynowstartingtosoberup,andalsobecauselinesandblurringandhefeelsliketheyareconstantlyindangerofdivingintounchartedwaters,onesthattheywon’teverbeabletocomebackfrom.
“Comeon.”
It’sunfair,thewayHarryislookingdownathim,howintimatethisfeels,withtheblanketpiledinhislapandthelightinglowandthewayHarryissmilingathim,likeheknows,hasalwaysknown,thatDracoisunabletosaynotohim.ThatheknowshewillnotstopHarryfromgettingwhatitwants,whenitmatters.
“Don’tmakemedrinkalone.”
Harryshakesthedrinkathimalittle,andDracocannotstophimself,justreachesouttotakeitfromhim,likeitisnothisowndecisiontomake.
Anhourlater,DracoisalotmoredrunkandHarryisalotmoresober,andtheyarebothsittingintheclaw-footedbathtubthatDracohadthoughtwassocool,bothfullyclothedbutsoakingwet.
Hecan’trememberhowtheygothere,butsomewhereinthebackofhismindheknowsthatthisisabadideaandthatheshouldbegettingoutofitwhilehestillcan.Whatwilltheydowhenit’stimetogetout?Oriftheyfallasleepandthenwakeupthenextmorninginfreezingcoldwater,wonderinghowthehelltheythoughtthiswasagoodidea?Orwhentheyhadtositacrossfromeachotheratthebreakfasttablethenextmorningandpretendthateverythingisthesame?
Hedoesn’tknow,buthedoesn’tmove,either,becauseHarryhasenchantedthebubblestofloatandDracoismorphingthemintodifferentshapesatHarry’srequest,becausethey’regrownmenwholiketodothingslikethis.(They’reonlyeighteen.Iseighteengrown?Itfeelslikeit.)They’realsosoclosetogetherthatthey’rekneesarepressedupagainsteachother,andsometimesHarrywillcatchathisarmlikehewantstosaysomethingimportant,butneverdoes.
“Whatarewedoing?”Dracodoesn’tknowwhatheisasking,exactly.Ifhemeansthismoment,asinwhyaretheypretendingthisissomethingmateswoulddoiftheyweresober,oronalargerscale,asinwhyhewasevenhereinthehouseatall,oringeneral,asin,whataretheythinkingaboutthesefeelingsgrowingupbetweenthemlikeflowersthatareonlygoingtobechokedoutbyweeds,becauseheknowsthatHarryisfeelingthemtoo.
“Idon’tknow.”Harryisblindinglyinnocentattimeslikethis,theembodimentofeverythingthatisgood.Heisnotsomeonewhoispreparedtoexpectdisasterateveryturn,evenaftereverythinghehasseen.“Dowehavetoknow?”
Dracolikedthesoundofthat,thenotknowing,evenifitsortofterrifiedhim.
“No.”Helaidhisarmoutflatalongtheedgeofthetub,andafteramomentHarrycopiedhim,theirhandslyingcloseenoughsotheirfingerstouched,butjustbarely.“Wedon’t.”
Theymovedfromthebathtubtothebathroomfloor,leaningagainsteachothertostayupright,Harry’sheadonDraco’sshoulder.
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