[E=MC2]
Theory of Relativity
Draco waited, fingernails just touching the chill seam of stone block at his back. The nook behind the Humpbacked Witch was not particularly spacious, and certainly not well-lit, so the atmosphere didn't lend itself to a detailed examination of one's companion's expression. As far as he could tell, though, Harry wasn't angry, wasn't impatient and wasn't feeling particularly malicious, snide or standoffish. His voice earlier, claiming Draco's attention after dinner, had not resounded of any of those emotions, but certainly appearances could be deceptive, as Draco knew all too well.
This particular nook led to other places; he'd discovered this early in 6th Year, in Potter's company. There were quite a few 'other places' that Potter had access to, all of which were more or less good for a quick shag. If one didn't mind mould or damp, of course, or spiders. Or claustrophobia or ghosts or a host of meaninglessly rude impedimenta that Draco could now quite firmly state didn't bother him in the slightest. It was all relative, after the smashing experiences he'd enjoyed in his own dungeons, his very brief holiday sojourn in Azkaban and the various 'other places' the Order had deemed as safe and well-guarded during the Great Horcrux Hunt [most of that list could not be considered in any way acceptable places for a quick shag by anyone remotely human, even if he and Potter had taken advantage of the opportunities variously presented rather more often than not].
'Relative'. That was the word, perhaps, that he needed to define this moment. Relative to the mad fear the Dark Lord inspired, this moment with Harry was rather more terrifying. Relative to the dreamy long-ago mid 6th Year sequences he'd blotted carefully from the levels of his mind for survival's sake, these next few seconds of Potter-action and Malfoy-reaction could be very revealing. Relative to the larger world that rolled on obliviously around them, this moment was likely immaterial, as was he, Draco Malfoy - as was his ephemeral happiness, something which had never been assured.
Thus, Draco waited, placed in check by a bumbling teenaged past-master of wartime strategy, and fought to keep the annoying hum of his own gut-wrenching anxiety to a low murmur by sheer force of will. Harry's face, in the meantime, had edged a fraction closer, and the pale folds of his eyelids had fallen to half-mast, disguising the brilliance of the green, shading it dark and inviting. Draco wondered frantically what that Look meant - if it still meant the same things he vaguely half-remembered, or if it was just a prelude to something particularly cutting, which was far more likely, now, with peace settling warily into the jagged rents left in their world - and when Harry cocked his head a spare millimeter Draco finally noticed that he hadn't been breathing – not for some considerable time, considering how tight his chest was – and wondered if he ever would again.
But his own sharp chin had already nodded downward in mindless reaction to Harry's movement; slowly, so slowly, not in any threatening way, and his own lips had parted slightly, mirroring Harry's chapped ones, and their noses and mended glasses and dark and pale evening stubbles had clearly entered some sort of entente cordiale, so perhaps the stone wall behind Draco would not necessarily be required to become his sole source of strength in the next few moments.
Perhaps it could be Harry's arms, instead. His broad chest and wide shoulders and the still-nobby line of his lengthening spine; the smell of his nape and the taste just behind his ears that was so enchanting; the slide of his hair, silky and wild and windswept even after a hard brushing. His mouth, firm, well-cut and purely intoxicating – if the scraps of Draco's tattered memory still told true – and full of sweet words and honeyed-hot tongue to speak them. His—
Relative. That was the distance between them. And it still remained, and Draco knew it, even with his eyes squinched tightly closed against the anticipated shock. He wasn't sure precisely what would shock him more at this moment (the oxygen he needed for circumspection was absent, naturally, at this most crucial of times): the inevitable kiss or the possibility of a refusal to give one. Harry's continued silence (Harry had always talked before, no matter how occupied Draco kept him) said one thing; the tilt of Harry's jawbone, just barely brushing his own, said another. But Draco would not ask, nor beg, nor enquire; none of those were his way – their way, really, in a world where the rules of civil give-and-take had become so very primitive – and Harry would surely do (take, give, say or not say) whatever he chose to, as he always did.
Draco waited, checked and checkmated, the damp cold of the wall only fractionally supporting the damp chill of his own rigid stance, and pondered the relativity of his own existence and if it would cease when Harry kissed him – or when Harry did not.