"Brilliant, right?" Harry looked over expectantly at Draco, who yawned.
"I suppose it might be brilliant, if you were into that dull, painful, drawn out—"
"OK, fine, no more Aranofsky, then." Harry shook his head. "Honestly, Malfoy, I can't place your taste in films or in music or—"
"In men? Neither can I," said Draco. He slid his arm around Harry's shoulder and did that thing he always did, the thing with the kneading and the knuckling and the impromptu shoulder massaging that felt better than anything else in the world. Well, Harry thought with a smirk, almost anything. The two of them were sprawled out on the couch in Draco's flat, where they'd been spending the better part of three months, work hours and occasional social engagements aside. It was different from Grimmauld Place, much more refined and put-together—more like Draco, Harry supposed. And while Grimmauld Place had a homey feeling Harry wouldn't forget, being with Draco, well, that made just about anywhere feel like home. Not that he'd ever tell Draco that.
"Now, two questions for you," said Draco. "Why are calling me 'Malfoy,' and why on earth are you smiling like that?"
"One, I'm calling you Malfoy because—oh, that's really nice—you get this look on your face that's really quite ... well, let's not say cute."
"Yes. Let's not."
"Let's say appealing instead. And two, I was thinking about sex. With you," Harry clarified.
"Oh. Good. Thanks for clearing that one up. I was sure you were having wayward thoughts about some Weasel or another."
"One day, you're going to stop calling them that, and it's going to be brilliant."
"Keep dreaming, Potter. It's a good look for you. Better than that sorry excuse for a smirk. Oh, and speaking of what you were thinking of—"
"It's already past midnight and we both have to work in the morning."
"Presumptuous, aren't we?" Draco smirked, and Harry was reminded of how much better Draco would always be at certain distinctly Malfoyian things. "I was going to say I thought we should take a break for a week or so, see if the lack of release makes us better at what we do, respectively."
"You're not serious," said Harry, inwardly panicking. Sure, they didn't do it every night, but seven nights in a row—that sounded all sorts of excessive. And painful. And sad. Very, very sad.
"No, I'm not," Draco agreed. "But I do like to see this variety of expressions flitting across your face. Let's not say cute. Let's say appealing instead."
"Git."
"Yes, and you find it irresistible."
"Guilty." Harry sighed. "Should we sleep here, then?"
"You can't make it a few steps to our—my—the bedroom?" Draco's face reddened slightly, and he rushed to say, "You're an even lazier sod than I—"
"Our bedroom, is it?" Harry stood and offered Draco his hand. Draco rolled his eyes and took it anyway. "What does that make the bedroom at my house, then?"
"Well, that one's ours, too, isn't it?"
"And when did we start sharing homes?"
"Around the time you kissed me in the back of the Apothecary, I think," said Draco as they entered the—their, Harry supposed—bedroom. "Maybe before that, though. Maybe when I made you breakfast after that night of drinking. Maybe when Zion first climbed or rather glided through your window." He looked at Harry. "But maybe it's been even longer. At least, for one of us, maybe it has."
"It's been a long time, then, hasn't it?"
"As short as a few minutes or as long as a few years or somewhere in between, I suppose."
"Sometimes I feel like I have to read between a billion lines to get what you're saying."
"Endearing, isn't it?"
"Me or you?"
Draco kissed Harry.
"So, both, then?"
"You talk entirely too much, Potter," said Draco, trademark smirk back again.
"That's not an answer."
"You don't always need one."
"I love you." Harry let himself say it.
"I know." Draco paused. "Malfoys don't—" He stopped again to shake his head. "If they did, though, in that hypothetical scenario, then I'd probably love you, too."
Harry pulled Draco into his arms and down onto the bed with him. "I s'pose that'll be enough for now," he said, looking over at the calendar on the wall. It had been 93 days since he'd first drawn Draco a picture, and as far as Harry could tell, that number was only going to get bigger.