Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.

Chapter Seven: Exhales

Delirium.

That was what it was: foggy, blind, scorching delirium that broke through every bond. Draco's lips were red as blood and throbbed incessantly. Harry was on top of him, kissing him so hard he left bruises. Their clothes were drenched in sweat, and the heat penetrated Draco's vision. He saw the thick dark hair and pale skin through a rippling sheen, like the surface of sand in the desert when the sun beats down on it. And Harry shimmered above him, a green-eyed oasis.

"I want more," Draco whispered, pushing Harry's sweater up and kissing all over his chest and stomach.

"Then take it. Take whatever you want. I don't care anymore."

Draco pulled off Harry's shirt, parting from his skin for a painful instant. Returning, he pressed his mouth against Harry's neck and tasted the skin there. It was warm and somehow like charcoal and fresh ice. It was intoxicating. Draco drank in Harry's flavor like thick amaretto, and it drove him insane. Harry's thigh was digging sweetly into Draco's pelvis and he arched into that burning contact. Every inch of his body seemed to be saturated in liquid fire, met even more harshly with Harry's mouth, which was locked to Draco's own and imbibed him, sucked out his soul like a banshee in a fairy story. Draco gave it freely to Harry; what use had he of a soul?

Harry tugged off Draco's sweater and discarded it. His hands roamed everywhere, delighting their way around Draco's back and chest and memorizing his muscles and the fine dusting of hair that began at his navel and traveled down his trousers. A feral moan escaped Draco's mouth and he nipped Harry's lips and then down his jaw, leaving fading bite marks on his sweltering skin. Draco's head swam; he was only half aware of everything that was happening, trapped somewhere between a slick tongue and ecstasy. He was alive, vibrant; his flesh captivated the essence of the aurora itself and wove through Harry, through his lanky limbs and strong hands.

"You know I won't be able to end this once we've started?" Draco asked, his breath catching in his throat.

"Shut up, Draco." Harry forced his mouth back on Draco's lips and devoured him for all he was worth. It was raw. It was primal. It was lawless, fierce, like the fire that crackled beside them. It had everything to do with the instant and nothing to do with consequences or the future. This time, Draco gave himself up to Harry, whose fingers worked at the strings on his pants and pulled them mercilessly off. They were breaking every rule. Draco didn't even think there were rules anymore.

He clawed at Harry's sides and shoulder and back, his nails leaving long red streaks along the colorless flesh. Draco didn't notice when Harry's pants had come off; his just noticed that there was no barrier between them, no piece of cloth, just sticky flesh. Harry was so close to Draco that he felt he'd crawled inside of him. Their hearts beat rapidly – their hearts, because Draco couldn't tell which was Harry's and which was his own. He wasn't aware of anything outside the chaotic blend of pleasure and agonizing craving.

I didn't matter that neither of them knew what to do. An invisible force guided them, guided Harry's mouth down to the taste the dip in Draco's hips, guided Draco's hands to curl in Harry's hair and around his jaw. Draco was blind and he only experienced the world in vivid spasms of desire. His eyes were shut and Harry engulfed him, and there was nothing but bliss, so hot it was painful. Draco thrust into Harry's mouth. Warmth coursed through his body; his face became flushed with it, and his eyes watered. The sultry atmosphere and the prickles of heat that broke out all over his skin made him shiver and writhe and Harry never stopped, just kept going, and Draco thought he would die because it was so intense. He arched his back and released a low growl. He could feel the enormous pressure build and build until it consumed him, and just when Draco thought he couldn't handle it anymore –

It was a moment of rapture. There was a deep pulling from his lower abdomen, a forceful heaviness, and then Harry crawled back on top of him so their faces were aligned. Draco's eyes were still shut and he shuddered, his mouth parted and his breath coming raggedly. Harry just kissed him. He kissed him softly, gently, almost as if Draco now was fragile. Or like Harry was trying to mend something, like he'd shattered Draco. He had.

His hands were light like feather brushes against Draco's cheeks. Draco lazily let his lids flutter open.

Blue eyes, like glaciers. Just for an instant, but lucid. Clear. Real. Then they were green again, and smiling. "You promised."

"What?" Draco huffed, too oblivious to be alarmed.

"I said, 'I promised.' I promised not to stop," Harry whispered.

Draco held Harry to him tightly. "I know. I know," he murmured indistinctly, uncomprehending and feeling inebriated. Harry lay his head on Draco's chest, their legs twined together. Draco wrapped his arms around him and forever they stayed like that. He wasn't asleep; he wasn't even tired, but he wasn't entirely awake, either. He was somewhere outside himself, somewhere lovely and incoherent and simple, somewhere where he could see the blue hue of dawn chasing back the planets. He felt expectant, but calm. He felt that all he had to do was be ready for what was ahead.

Harry whispered tentatively in his ear. It was strange that he should be so cautious now, when he was only speaking. "When we get back to Hogwarts, this will end, won't it."

Draco kissed Harry's head. "I don't know, Harry." He didn't tell him that he didn't think they would ever get home. He didn't tell Harry, who was wrapped around him and breathing so peacefully, that they might die in the arctic.

"I think that's okay. At least – at least it's like this now."

Draco hugged him more tightly. The wind was whistling outside and the fire consisted of faint embers and the occasional flame that flickered from the ash, flailing wildly for one last moment before it fell back to the burnt wood.

At some point, Draco fell asleep, and in sleeping, he dreamt. It was the first dream he'd had in years, and it clung to him like cellophane. He was hiking up a steep, icy, jagged mountain. He did not follow any path, but he wasn't afraid. He was cold, though; he was cold and lonely and suffering from a vague ache. Colors waved in the sky. Draco knew he had to reach them. He knew he would, in time; he knew that eventually he would be part of them. He stopped, exhausted, and crouched into a crevice in the rock. Closing his eyes, he could still see the colors. They were even more vivid. He could still see everything: the sharp grey of the mountain, the white caps of snow in the distance, even the stars beyond the aurora. They seemed to be drawing nearer. Harry's face flew briefly across his vision, but just as quickly it was gone, and then, all he saw was darkness.

Sorry this is so short, but it just worked out that way. I wish I were in control of my stories, but apparently I'm not....