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Draco Malfoy is the most beautiful individual Harry has ever seen.
Harry's known it for years, and he's reminded of it every morning when he wakes up and looks over at the man next to him, all brilliant, soft skin and sharp, trim edges. In sleep, Draco doesn't look any more gorgeous than when awake – he just stays still long enough for Harry to look at him more closely. He always just looks like Draco, and nothing more wonderful exists than that.
Except when Draco smiles, and he smiles at Harry, because of Harry. Those are the moments that Harry lives for. Nothing else matters when Draco's shining gray eyes crinkle at the edges and his cheeks crease with a grin.
This morning is no exception.
Harry rolls carefully so that he hovers on all fours over Draco's back. Slowly, he presses a kiss to Draco's neck, and he moves languidly down the broad expanse of lily-white skin, painted with a faint blush by the first red rays of sunlight saturating the sky.
Draco hums contentedly in his sleep, and Harry continues to kiss his way down Draco's back, shifting his weight so that he can slide the satin sheet off of Draco's equally smooth skin. Just watching the slide of it transfixes Harry, the way it glides right over the curve of Draco's spine, skims the dips and slopes. Once the skin is bared, Harry touches it gently, reverently. If he considered himself religious, he would worship at the altar of Draco, and he isn't ashamed to admit it. Couldn't be ashamed of Draco if he tried.
If Harry didn't know better, he would say that he somehow got slipped a love potion so powerful that it blinds him, but he does know better. He knows that he fell for Draco, and Draco let him. Better, Draco caught him.
Gently, he strokes his hands down Draco's back, following the generous V from his shoulders to his hips. Draco groans under him, still not actually awake, but close. Or pretending not to be. Sometimes it's impossible to tell.
"Draco," Harry says, pressing his face to the side of the man's neck. "My star."
The first time he'd called Draco that, Draco had looked away and said, "Draco is made up of many stars." To which Harry had replied, "But there is only one Draco, and he's mine." Which, perhaps, hadn't made much sense logically, but Draco had understood, and nothing else really mattered.
"Mmm, my light," comes the gravelly response, voice thick with sleep and honeyed with ease. Draco slowly turns onto his side, and Harry moves to lay beside him, facing him. Slowly, Draco reaches out and traces a finger lightly over the scar on Harry's head. "Good morning," he says, blinking leisurely, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
"Yes, it is," Harry says, taking the hand by his face and pulling it down to his mouth to kiss softly.
Neither of them speaks anymore as Draco closes his eyes as if to go back to sleep. Harry leaves him be for a few moments before he scoots closer, the shift in the mattress causing Draco to crack his eyes open once again.
"If you weren't so handsome, you'd be insufferable."
"But I am handsome, so what does that make me?"
"You're very handsome."
Draco chuckles as Harry moves forward again, rolling them both slightly so that Draco is on his back, Harry laying atop him.
"It doesn't make you anything," Draco says, placing a palm on Harry's cheek. "You're just… perfect because you are."
Just as Draco understands Harry at his most ridiculous, so Harry understands Draco, and he accepts the compliment with a pleased smile and expresses his thanks with a chaste kiss, to which Draco sleepily responds (and even just barely awake, he is still absolutely devastating with his mouth).
"I believe you were in the middle of petting me," Draco finally says. "You may resume."
Harry does so with an indulgent grin. If he had any say in it, petting Draco would be a fulltime job. As it is, he simply relishes the opportunity to touch Draco – to feel him and know that he is real and that he is here.
And he gets to wake up to him every single morning for the rest of his life.