Stop All the Clocks (This Is the Last Time I'm Leaving Without You)

chapter 2

Harry wakes alone. For a long moment he stares blankly at the stretch of empty sheets beside him and strains his ears for the muted rush of the shower running or the clatter of the kettle on the stovetop in the kitchen or the soft rustle of newspaper from the living room. But there's only silence, and then he remembers.

He reaches out, picks up the bottle of Dreamless Sleep that Hermione had insisted he take ("Draco would want you to sleep, Harry.") and hurls it at the wall. It explodes, splattering the final few doses across the paint, and the glass flies everywhere. Fuck that. Draco wouldn't want him to forget, not even for a second.

Harry rolls over, closer to Draco's side of the bed, his palm sliding over cool cotton, his nose brushing Draco's pillow. He inhales, and it smells like him, like the lavender they wash all their clothes with and the faintly spicy scent of expensive cologne and the faintest trace of tobacco smoke and something warmer that Harry's never quite been able to put his finger on in all the years they've been together.

He lets his eyes slide shut and pretends that his world hasn't just fallen apart, shattered like the shards of glass now sparkling between the plies of his carpet. In a moment, Draco will reach for him and they'll wake together the same way they wake together every morning. Draco will start with his fingertips gentle at Harry's throat and slide down to trace his collarbone, then lower, skimming his palm over Harry's chest, the soft pads of his fingertips swiping down his sternum, down his belly, and beneath the waistband of his pyjamas. Draco's fingers will curl around his length and loosely stroke him.

Inhale.

And the last warm layers of sleep will flake away, replaced by a different sort of warmth, and Draco will say, "Morning, Potter," with his voice all low and rough with sleep, and Harry will say, "Good morning," back because of course it is, how can it not be a good morning with Draco's hand on his cock and Draco smiling down at him like this?

Inhale.

Draco will roll over then and kiss him, slow and deep, his hand still moving on Harry's cock. Harry always responds eagerly, pressing his tongue against Draco's, sliding his arms around Draco and feeling his skin so warm and soft. He holds Draco close, feels Draco's heart pounding behind his ribs, and Harry will let his eyes drift shut as Draco kisses him and kisses him, like he could just keep on doing it forever and never get tired of it.

Inhale.

They do it the same way every time, Draco inside Harry. It's certainly not fucking, and it's not quite making love. In fact, Harry barely thinks of it as sex at all. It's just good morning, slow and warm and sleepy, rocking together, orgasm almost an afterthought. And while it's not new or fresh or exciting, it's comfortable and familiar. Like a cup of tea on a cold day, or Harry's old Weasley jumper that Draco's constantly threatening to throw out. And somehow that's even better.

Inhale.

And when they finish, every time, every single time, Draco says, "I could get used to waking up like this," like he hasn't been waking up like this for five years now. And a smile spreads over his face, as slow and warm as a pat of butter melting on a hot slice of toast. And Harry kisses him then, and knows that whatever else this day might bring, it will be all right because tomorrow he'll be right back here with Draco in his arms.

Inhale.

Harry opens his eyes.