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“Worlds. Two years ago. We were on the plane ride home and - everyone was exhausted. But I remembered I still thought you looked…” Draco gestures vaguely. “You know. How could I have resisted?”
Harry remembers that ride - the dry air of the plane, the rain that froze to ice on the windows. The team had seats right at the back of the aisle, still in team hoodies and wet hair. He remembers Draco watching him, silent and hesitant, eyes luminous in the dying light. “I remember.”
~
Draco falls in love from above the clouds.
He’s always loved plane rides - the hum of propellers, the slight rocking from the wind, the sunrises and sunsets through layers of ice and plastic. The thrill of anticipation, of stepping out and finding that the world looked different from how it once did.
Later, he’ll come back to this moment, lying on his back in his bed and staring up at the ceiling. There’ve been other memories, of course - bus rides and morning practices and late-night McDonalds runs - but he’ll forever remember this as the moment that he knew .
He swallows, hard. His throat is dry from the thin air, lips cracked and bleeding. Strips of light illuminate the spaces between seats, stretching off into the front of the plane. If he closes his eyes he can still see them, parallel lines against the darkness of his eyelids.
The rustle of fabric, the weight of a body leaning against his leg. “Hey,” Harry says. His hands are freezing where they brush against Draco’s bare skin, the small space where his pants rode up his leg. “Don’t go to sleep.”
Draco makes a small sound. He wonders if he’s burning, if Harry can feel his rapid pulse. “I’m exhausted.”
“I know.” He can hear Harry’s smile, the way the words turn up in his mouth. “But you won’t be able to sleep tonight at home.”
He had mentioned it to Harry, a couple of meets ago. Lying on their backs in their hotel room - the bed was small enough that their shoulders nearly touched, brushed together whenever Draco shifted to pull more blanket over his chest. I hate sleeping in my room, he had whispered, against the hum of the mini fridge, the rush of cars.
Why? Harry had breathed back.
My thoughts are too loud. I can’t fall asleep.
In the plane, Draco’s head pounds. It was a mad rush to the airport after finals; clothing thrown over wet bodies, bags slung over shoulders. His hair is still damp enough that it soaks into the neckline of his hoodie, water trickling down his back.
Harry smiles back at him, reaching over to nudge his arm again. He must have still been buzzed - energy drinks coursing through his veins, the elation of their victory not yet faded. “Wake up.”
Draco’s breath rasps in his throat. The noises he had made during their relay weren’t human - they had all screamed themselves hoarse cheering Harry on in the final 100, right until their first place finish at the wall. It’s all flashes of memories - the ache of his own muscles, the roar from the rest of the team, the exhausted laugh Harry had made as he saw their time. The way he had bent over his knees when he got out of the pool, back shaking, shoulders heaving, the hiss of air through clenched teeth.
Harry pokes him again; with a groan Draco forces his eyes open. Harry’s hair is wet too; he had his switch propped up on his knees, face illuminated by swaths of colours, his spine an impossible arch bent over his lap. Draco watches as his character dies in a swirl of fire and has to bite back a laugh.
“You suck,”
“I’d like to see you do better,” Harry murmurs. He hunches over a little further in his chair, legs tucked underneath him, arms thrown casually against the back. Something in Draco’s chest twists.
“I probably could,” he says, if only to distract himself from the burning in his throat. Harry chuckles, his eyes mercifully glued to his screen.
They sit like that for a bit, Harry with his game and Draco pressed against the wall, hood pulled over his head to stop the cold blasts from the air vents. He watches the darkness from the windows, the blur of stars and clouds and tries to forget about the burning presence of Harry next to him.
They’ve done this before, spent days pressed together on bleachers, lying on the same hotel bed at night. Draco was there when Harry drove for the first time, the car spinning out wildly onto the road, dust flying everywhere and the shuddering slam of the brakes.
Never , he told him, the strap of the seat belt digging hard into his collarbone. I will never, ever let you drive me anywhere.
Harry had grinned at him, lit up by the stars and the moon and the flickering headlights ahead, shadows splayed across the windscreen like a painting. You’ll forget you said that once you need me to drive you to practice.
He was right in a way. The memory was vivid; the throb of his pulse, the ache of bruises cut into his neck, the way his hands clenched around the hand brake, and yet if Harry offered, Draco would say yes. He thinks he’d always say yes, when it came to Harry.
Sunrises. Sunsets. Draco thought of the two of them as beginnings and endings, the start and finish of something new.
The press of a finger digging into his side startles him. Draco flinches back, knees and back smacking against the side of the plane wall. Harry blinks back at him - he had tucked his switch away, somewhere, his face half-hidden in shadow. “You were drifting off again,” he says.
Harry had snaked his hand underneath Draco’s hoodie, the heat of his skin seeping through Draco’s shirt. The plane is near silent - the darkness seems heavier now, pressing in against the windows. Draco stares blankly in front of him. “Really.”
He swallows. Harry still hasn't moved his finger - Draco feels it digging deeper into his ribs with every inhale. He wonders if Harry can feel his heartbeat.
One breath. Two. Harry blinks - a small smile curves over his mouth. “See,” he says, quiet enough that Draco can barely hear him, “This is why I can’t take you anywhere.”
Draco raises an eyebrow. Their friendship has always been built on challenges - a thousand meets, races, dares. It’s why they both loved swimming, Draco thinks. No other sport was measured in breaths and heartbeats, cold water and cold mornings, floating because otherwise they’d sink. There’s something about friendships made from chlorine and water, empty changerooms and metal bleachers, car rides over a bridge at 5 in the morning.
Draco closes his eyes, briefly, lets himself fall. “Why do you say that?”
At that Harry grins, wide enough to show teeth. There’s a hint of something else to it, a slight edge to the tilt of his head, the curve of his lips. “You distract me.”
Draco’s breath catches, just slightly. “Oh.”
Harry just shrugs, leans back in his seat. His hand slips from Draco’s side - the bit of skin he touched suddenly felt very, very cold. “We never really got to celebrate,” he says. His fingers are splayed out on the fold-out table in front of him, one hand wrapped around the plastic cup of Sprite in the cup holder. “Our relay win, I mean.”
“Congrats,” Draco says dryly. He thinks of their medals - his is tucked in the front pocket of his suitcase, currently resting somewhere underneath their feet. “We’re fucking amazing.”
Harry tips his cup in a mock salute. “Cheers to that.”
They fall quiet again. Draco thinks of water, rain and oceans and diving head first on the gunshot. He thinks of the beach - sand, waves, sea glass, salt. Maybe it’s to do with swimming, the wash of water over hair, the images of long limbs and dives and the way the world went turquoise when seen from underneath the tide.
“Keep me awake,” he whispers, softly. Harry turns to him - there’s just the barest amount of neon light from the flickering tv screen. Draco watches it slide off the planes of Harry’s face. “I’ll fall asleep if you don’t talk to me.”
He’s not even sure why he wants to stay awake. A part of it has to do with going home - lying in his room, in a silent house, covers twisted between his fingers. He thinks there’s more to it though. There’s certain things that are always burnt umber or silver, backlit by either the moon or the stars or the sunrise against the horizon. He thinks of plane rides and road trips and legs dangling over rooftops, the soft atmosphere of a dream.
“When we can both drive,” Harry says, his voice low and steady. “When we both get our licenses. We should go on a trip. We have that summer after we graduate, right? Before university? We should go then.”
“Maybe,” Draco breathes. “You know my parents won’t let me.”
“Who cares? We’ll be long gone.”
He tries to imagine it; empty roads, starry nights. Deserts and motels and deserted pools. He wants it so badly it aches.
He wants so many things badly enough to ache.
“Where would we go?”
Harry shrugs. His fingers trace shapes in the air, an illustration of wandering dreams. “Doesn’t matter. Anywhere that’s not home.”
“Yeah,” Draco says, and he allows himself to hope. “Maybe.”
Silence. Draco meets Harry’s eyes - there’s something wistful in his gaze, something longing.
When he was younger, Draco used to collect songs, used to loop them over and over again through tinny headphones and crackling speakers, playing the same song for months at a time. There’s something about the familiarity of it, knowing the next beat, the next chord, the next line, the thrill that still happened when he listened.
Harry was like that. Steady - so steady it sometimes made Draco’s chest ache, but edged with something slightly wild, something that still made Draco’s stomach swoop.
“Here,” Harry says, and he presses something into Draco’s palm. “It’s for you. For your collection.”
Draco’s windows are covered in string, dangling bits of metal and glass and shell, a tangled web of memories captured in moments. He opens his hand slowly - there’s a coin sitting there, dark silver against his skin. “Where’s this from?”
“Room service last night.” Harry laughs, head tilted back. “I swiped the change.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “Of course you did,” he says, but he slips the coin into his pocket anyway. Harry had complained for ages last night, about instant ramen and MSG and look at the menu, Draco! They have Alfredo pasta! “Thanks.”
Harry blinks. He worries his lip between his teeth - Draco wonders if he’ll draw blood. “Dray - “
Seatbelts on , the sign above them blinks. Draco squints against the sudden flick of light - someone’s talking over the intercom, garbled words that he tunes out. “Yeah?”
Harry looks around - the stirring of people, the faint lights of the city below them, the way the rain melted from ice to water against the window panes. Something twists in his face. “Nothing,” he says, too softly. He has his half-smile on again, the smile he only used when hiding, trying and failing to not look disappointed. “Don’t fall asleep.”
There’s a tightness in his chest - Draco takes a deep breath. “I won’t,” he says, the words slightly hollow. “I promise.”
He stares out the window and watches as the plane touches the ground.