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Sometimes Harry thinks Draco is some kind of albino, with his too pale fingers, his milky white skin (so soft) over collarbone, his hair of gold straw. Harry has never seen a paler person. For that matter, Harry has never been with anyone more beautiful. Sometimes, Harry wishes he wasn't in love with this freaky pale, freaky beautiful freak. Draco is outside their hostel room braving the winds and the rain under the slight bit of roof over the foyer. Harry has peeped through the peephole twice in five minutes. He doesn't say it out loud, but he knows Draco's going to leave. He doesn't want to know when-- but then again, he does. Too much. He can't make up his mind about Draco. The only thing he knows for certain is that he will let Draco leave. Because it might be less messier for both of them if Harry lets Draco off the hook. Maybe this way Harry will find a way to keep breathing. In, out. In, out. Release, and he tries, now, continually, but he's already a wreck over this, this waiting, drawing out. He is a mass of tension, knots and a stiff back, an even stiffer neck, and two clenched fists pumping while his head pretends to implode. Miserable, tired, and lonely, he decides to take a nap. Harry puts out the light, just one lamp, makes sure the door is unlocked, forces himself not to peep through the peephole again-- it must have been forty minutes already, atleast it feels like it; the sun had gone down, the grey light then visible from the windows had disappeared-- and soon after settling on the bed he closes his eyes. He opens them again momentarily. At least thus goes his first thought, quickly nullified by a glance at the room's red-numbered alarm clock on a side table to his left. 11:45. He glances on his right, where Draco's warmth seems to be seeping over the covers, and finds out why he woke up. Draco was nuzzling him and trying to reach underneath Harry's armpit so he could nestle against Harry's side. A surprising factor-- after 'WHEW, he stayed', a relief which Harry refused to acknowledge-- was that Draco, in all his vague, fuzzy movement, seemed to be sleeping still. Harry moves his right arm out of the way, then positions it under Draco's head. In the darkness he fumbles and feels the covers, and rearanges the sheets a bit, as well as the pillows, and his own body all to fit around Draco, who hasn't ceased to blindly, lightly continue in struggling to get closer to Harry. On impulse, Harry slinks low under the covers, then gently straddles Draco. He rubs their lower bodies together, and peppers kisses along Draco's neck. Then, although Harry cannot see it, Draco's eyelashes flutter a bit before he moans softly, still deep in sleep. Draco does not wake up because he thinks he's dreaming. With a constitution predisposed to sleepwalking, after all, it is not too unlikely for Harry to find him as he is now, caught up in restless slumber. Harry and Draco begin to kiss, warmwet mouth to the other, Harry gripping Draco's arms. While Draco continues to moan, Harry continues to plunder Draco's mouth with his lips, teeth, tongue. Quick nips, not hard bites, of earlobe, nuzzled noses and furtive licks of Harry's tongue on Draco. In a while, Harry is rock hard. He tries to keep his kisses soft-like, but his resolution is as weak as if he would dare go off the path of his little death, which comes soon after. Still caught in his sleep, and suddenly much too warm, and pressed, and discomfited in dreaming, Draco moans softly,"Not so hard, dear. You're killing me." |