Night.
The dry sounds of skin on skin, of fabric on fabric, of heavy breathing.
Draco scrapes his teeth along Harry's neck, and Harry shudders, but doesn't make a sound. He never does- always clenching his mouth stubbornly, capturing every gasp and moan inside, even as he writhes under Draco- and so Draco always tries to push him that extra step, that one, so important second. One moan, one gasp, to hear Harry whisper his name, just once.
So far, he has not succeeded.
He thinks that sums their relationship perfectly. Harry doesn't need Draco; at least, not as much as Draco needs him. He doesn't mean to be using him; surely, that word doesn't even exist in his lexicon. But Draco knows he's just convenient; an illusion of warmth, of comfort, something Harry can escape to during the night, when the nightmares get too real. It is an illusion made of moonlight and shadows and dreams. It would melt away with the first ray of sunlight.
And still, Draco hangs on to it, with teeth and fingernails and a desperation born of a fantasy.
During the day Harry ignores him; his eyes slide over Draco in disinterest. There are much more important things in his life: his friends, his enemies, the fate of the wizarding world resting on his shoulders alone. For Draco, there is only Harry, and if he is honest with himself, he knows he doesn't have even that.
Even when Harry is here with him, his bare back pressed to the cold stone wall of an old classroom, his mouth hot under Draco's, his eyes remain distant.
Draco knows he has fallen too deep, too far, that for him, the game was over long ago.
After all, there is but a thin line between hate and love.