Drawing on fogged windows is not a pastime Harry would have thought Draco Malfoy was interested in.
He'd have thought that defacing any kind of private property was some sort of mortal sin for any Malfoy but he's learned that his assumptions about Draco are often times wrong. He loves finding out when they are, because figuring out each lie he's believed about Draco brings him one step closer to finding out the truth. The whole truth.
So when he one day finds Draco drawing little curly-q's and stars and his own name on the fogged window in the living room, Harry tucks away the memory for future reference and slips his arms around the slim blond's waist. "Hey," he murmurs into the soft hair that brushes the taller man's jaw. "You're going to leave fingerprints all over my window."
"I hardly see why it matters, Potter," Draco says in that prim, slightly haughty voice that Harry's come to love. "I've had my fingerprints all over you." Harry blushes and presses a kiss against his neck.
The blond man turns in his arms and pulls Harry in closer for another kiss until neither of them can think of anything else. The pictures he'd drawn on the window behind him fog over again, until all that is left of them is an outline.
xxx
Winter slips into the city, cloaked and unnoticed until it's too late to prepare for it. Harry and Draco spend more and more time tucked away under the covers in their bed, wrapped around each other and keeping each other warm. And every morning, when Harry looks at the window in the living room, Draco's drawn a new picture in the fog.
Sometimes they're indiscernible and Harry knows that on those days, Draco's distracted and will probably do silly things like use up all the hot water in the shower and leave the stove on in the kitchen. Harry will follow in his wake, take a cold shower without complaint, and silently turn off the stove without mentioning Draco's mistake. He learned a long time ago that on those days, Draco's thinking about his parents.
On other days, they're clearer and contain messages meant only for Harry. Sometimes it's 'Brush your hair, Potter' or 'Need another bottle of merlot, Potter.' Regardless of what it is, Harry always smiles when he sees them. It's Draco's way of telling him that he can't get Harry out of his mind.
Those are Harry's favorite days.
January hits and one Sunday morning finds them wrapped up in quilts and comforters in their king-sized bed. They'd been living together for months but there was still more than blankets and pillows between them: unspoken words and feelings had snuck in between them like a wedge.
Harry really has no idea why, but he chooses that moment to voice a few of those unspoken words in the hopes of bringing them that much closer.
The dark-haired man presses a chaste kiss against Draco's lips and smiles at the light reflected in the blonde's clear grey eyes. He thinks that they match the sky outside their window. Draco has winter eyes.
"I love you," he says.
There's a long pause in which they say nothing, do nothing, hear nothing. Draco doesn't move at all and then, finally, he sighs and gets up from bed. "I'll go make breakfast."
Harry's heart plummets into his stomach like an icicle, and he can't manage an answer. In the end, Draco finally just walks out of the room and leaves Harry huddled in bed without him.
xxx
The days afterward are long and frost-covered. The window, though it's fogged every morning, remains untouched. Harry and Draco don't speak very often, now that the wedge has been driven even further between them, but they still touch and kiss and look just as they did before. But now there's an uncertainty that covers them both like a blanket, though instead of keeping them warm, it merely makes them colder.
Harry can't stand it.
He needs Draco to understand why he said those words. He doesn't even really need to hear them back as long as they can talk about it with each other and keep each other warm again.
But he doesn't have to.
Six days after Harry had said those three words, he walks into the living room in search of a lost jumper and scarf. His eyes travel the length of the dark wood table, along the back of Draco's chair, and to the window behind it.
The window had remained empty for so long that he'd nearly forgotten Draco's habit of writing on it. It takes him a moment to register the fact that there are words written on it today in the crystallized fog.
I love you, Potter.
Draco walks into the room behind him and slips his arms around his waist with his chin resting on his shoulder. Together, they look at the grey city, the snow, and Draco's words that bring them just that much closer.
Winter thaws a little early that year.