Chapter Text
“Do you know how to count?” Harry asks.
Draco blinks, as if not understanding the question. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know, does an hour and a half sound like ‘twenty minutes’ to you?” Harry groans, pulling at his damp T-shirt and running a hand through his wet hair. “I swear to God, I almost don’t need a shower anymore. I nearly drowned in there.”
“I just lost track of time. You didn’t say I was taking too long.”
“You also finished the bottle. How am I supposed to shower now?”
“It was a 7-in-one shampoo, and it was nearly empty. Not my fault.”
Harry bites back an earnest defense of his shampoo choices, feeling his face go red. “Whatever.”
The lights are still off, which doesn’t help his situation at all. He could’ve sworn he paid his bills last month —he vividly remembers Ginny pestering him to do it, and him doing it to get her off his back. So, it can’t be that the company has finally decided it’s time for him to perish in the dark —he did almost burn down the building once because he plugged in the microwave and the toaster at the same time, but that surely can’t be enough to deserve such a petty blackout.
Maybe he’s being dramatic. It’s really not that bad, other than the fact that he’s now stranded inside his own apartment with a very quiet stranger. By his own choice, which is worse.
“So, you said you wanted to shower?” Draco says, breaking the silence. His blond hair and fair skin shine under the dim light of the phone’s flashlight, giving him a ghostly appearance. He’s wearing his gifted hoodie and a pair of Harry’s gym shorts, because Harry would rather give him his entire wardrobe than stare at those god-awful skinny jeans again. Though, the sight of his slim, pale legs might be as much of a discovery as his questionable fashion choices.
He clears his throat. “Sure. I’m halfway done already, anyway.”
Draco nods and gives him back his phone, which he was holding, and points his head towards the door. “I’m going to speak to the neighbors.”
That stuns Harry. He falters, his hand on the bathroom door. “What? Why?”
“Their power might be out, too. We should ask around.”
To be honest, Harry hasn’t really made an effort to get to know his neighbors. For all he knows, he could be living on his own in an empty apartment block. So, the fact that Draco is already showing more initiative than he has is quite embarrassing for him. “Sure,” he finally responds.
How am I getting out-extroverted by a quiet stranger?
“You can keep the phone. I’ll find the way out,” Draco solemnly says, then disappears into the darkness of the hallway.
Harry doesn’t have time to point out to him that, maybe , introducing himself while barefoot and with wet hair isn’t the best of looks if one is trying to seem approachable. But still, he shrugs and goes into the bathroom to — finally — take his shower.
He doesn’t really get how he’s coaxed himself into cleaning up just now. Maybe Draco used some sort of hypnosis on him and he hasn’t noticed.
He grabs the bottle of hand soap from the cabinet over the sink — it’s not his 7-in-one, but it’s close enough —, leaves his phone on the toilet seat and gets started.
At the exact moment he reaches up to soap his hair, he hears an electric buzz and the lights turn on with a pop.
The water coming out of the shower head starts slowly heating up as well, which Harry thanks God for, because he’s always been very bad at taking cold showers. Faster metabolism be damned —he’d rather not die of hypothermia, when comfort and warmth are very viable alternatives.
Took you fucking long enough , he thinks, and proceeds with his shower.
—
When he comes out of the bathroom, wearing the exact same clothes he was wearing before —those pants he gave Draco were a miraculous saving grace, but he has nothing else to change into—, Draco is nowhere to be seen.
Which is —fair. He’s probably still socializing with the neighbors. If there are any.
Maybe Harry could introduce him to Ted, the guy from the bar. They’d probably get along.
He walks around his apartment, shoving dirty clothes into cabinets and under chairs, where they can’t be seen by the naked eye. The cockroach he’d been chasing before appears again, but Harry has come to terms with his new sharing-space situation. He lets the cockroach go.
He’s considering whether he should check the fridge for rotting food —there’s probably something — when he hears a couple of knocks on the door.
He goes to open it —it’s Draco.
The blond looks behind Harry and into the apartment, seemingly surprised. “It’s back on?”
“It is,” Harry confirms, and lets him in. Draco is still barefoot, but he doesn’t look uncomfortable about it. Even though his feet are now quite dirty. “We’re fine now—”
The lights flicker once more as he says that, but they stay on. He glances around, shivers down his spine. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but maybe he should consider checking the Internet for tragic deaths in his neighborhood.
Other than Paul’s, that is. But his death hadn’t been that tragic, in the sense that it hadn’t involved some overly complex scheme, a murder plot or anything else. It had just been… sad. So, Harry doesn’t think that, in the case that ghosts do exist, his old roommate would be choosing to haunt him.
Draco closes the door and presses his lips. Harry notices he’s now carrying a small plastic bag in one hand. “None of the neighbors had any issues, apparently.”
“You asked everybody?”
“Mostly. Some weren’t at home. Some guy on the upper floor threw a vodka bottle at me.”
So, he lives in a building of lunatics. That’s great news.
“Well, I took a shower,” Harry says, an unnecessary remark from someone with visibly wet hair. “And I have no food.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“That’s great for you, but what about me —” Harry is quickly interrupted by Draco throwing the plastic bag at him. He manages to catch it, and feels how light it is in his hands. He stares at Draco. “What is this?”
“You have a very nice old lady as a neighbor next door. She gave me these as a housewarming present.”
He’s been so antisocial that his long-term neighbors now think he’s just moved in. Great.
When he opens the bag, he’s met with a small tupperware containing six muffins. His lips curl into a smile. “That’s great.”
But then he lifts his eyes to meet Draco’s, and he catches a stain on Draco’s face. Again .
“You’ve blood on your face,” he mutters, and almost unintentionally reaches up to touch it with his thumb. The touch startles Draco, who widens his eyes and abruptly jolts away from his hand, and also works to wake Harry from his trance. Oh, shit . “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Do I have—”
“I didn’t mean to touch you. Did that bottle cut you, or something?”
Draco suddenly looks squirmish and uncomfortable. He breaks eye contact to stare at the wall, and Harry can see a small drop of sweat making its way down his hairline. “It didn’t.” He rubs the spot with his hand, then his entire face, and walks past Harry and into the living room.
Harry wants to die. He shouldn’t have done that.
Why did he do that? What on Earth came over him?
He cleans his blood-stained finger on his jeans and follows Draco, apologetic. “I don’t normally do that. I didn’t mean to do that,” he repeats as he leaves the bag on the table.
But Draco keeps walking away from him, as if he’s carrying a loaded gun or a bomb strapped to his neck. “I touched you, too. I just wasn’t expecting you to— whatever.”
Harry is entirely uncomfortable with this conversation about touching, which is making it sound like a totally different thing to the upstairs neighbors —now that he knows he has them. He tries to lighten the mood with an awkward laugh, deciding to stay put and not go after the blond anymore. He raises his hands, defeated. “You just have to be careful with bottles. Glass shards are no joke. Trust me, I know.”
“I can take a few shards.”
“Are you sure you’re not bleeding out?”
“It was one drop .”
“Bullshit. You were just as dramatic when I had that tiny cut.”
“ My blood doesn’t smell.”
“Jesus, you are particular about blood, huh,” Harry jokes, and he immediately realizes that it was the wrong thing to say.
Draco’s face falls, his mouth trembling slightly. He says, “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” before taking a step towards him.
Harry’s heart starts pounding in his chest. “It was a joke, dude.”
“I have to ask again —who are you ?” Draco hisses, and he’s as close as he’ll ever be, because now it’s Harry who’s backing away from him. “What do you— Why are you so—”
“You are being dramatic, and I mean it this time,” Harry says, hairs crawling. He sees Draco’s gray eyes more clearly now, his pupils as small as the point of a needle. “Don’t make it weird.”
He straightens his arm in front of him to stop Draco at the chest, so that he can’t come closer. He feels the wall against his back, cold and smooth.
The blond drops his eyes to the hand holding him back. Harry would take it off, but it doesn’t seem like the best option if he wants to avoid getting tackled.
A few seconds go by, and neither of them says anything. They’re both breathing hard, and Harry’s arm is starting to shake a little.
“Don’t make this weird,” Harry repeats, trying to keep his voice even. “It was a joke. I’m sorry I touched you, but I didn’t know you’d react like this.”
That gets Draco to finally look at him. To be honest, Harry is feeling quite scared. “It’s not about the touching,” he replies, and immediately he steps back and shakes his head. He looks slightly dazed, and his eyes jump all over Harry’s face. “I apologize about— this.”
“...Alright—”
“Good night.”
And, with that, Draco turns around and hurries to his —or Harry’s— bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
Harry just stays in the living room for a while, against the wall, his heart hammering in his chest. He wonders, Who the hell did I let into my house?