Harry's asleep, and Draco's not surprised. Not in the slightest.
He's halfway slumped against the window, halfway leaning back in his chair, his glasses on the dashboard in front of him. The seatbelt is wrinkling the green tie Draco bought him last month, the one that matches his eyes. Draco smiles before turning his eyes back to the dark road.
They have work in the morning, Draco knows this. He knows that he has a class to teach at seven - grade nine chemistry, particle theory, to be specific - and Harry has to be at the paper by eight to hand in his article on the art gallery opening downtown, but here they are, driving through a quiet backstreet in the middle of the night.
It was Hermione's birthday and she'd insisted that they let her cook for them - a "family meal", she'd said. So all eleven of them crowded around Hermione and Ron's small dining table, adding chairs wherever they could fit and bumping elbows whenever they tried to pick up the salt or add more mashed potatoes to their plates. Pansy almost spilled wine on her dress, and Blaise almost spilled wine on his chicken, and he's certain Luna stole more than one biscuit off of Dean's plate when he wasn't paying attention (to her, at least; he was paying much attention to Seamus at the moment). Ginny and Harry argued over football teams. He and Neville commiserated about the start of the school year. Family meal - he liked the sound of that.
He drives over a hole in the uneven pavement in the alleyway and his eyes shift to Harry, who doesn't move. Draco shakes his head - Harry can sleep through anything, it's true. He learned that when he found Harry sleeping soundly on the couch one afternoon - even after the fire alarm was blaring for a solid five minutes when he forgot he'd already put dinner in the oven. He was a fine roommate, there's no question about that, but utterly useless in an emergency. It's endearing, really.
Draco notices a drop of water fall on his windshield, followed by another, and then another. And then, all at once, it quietly starts to rain.
They're almost home - just a few minutes, by the looks of it. Draco sees the convenience store they always go to on his right, the stoplight that they have to turn left at just ahead. Harry had moved in his sleep a little, his face turned towards Draco. When he stops at the red light, he steals a glance at his friend. His friend. He doesn't like how the word has come to make him ache a little. He studies the way the red of the traffic light washes over Harry's skin, the angle making him all shadows and strong lines, and he has to force himself to look away when the light changes green.
Draco parks the car, but doesn't get out. He turns off the engine, and takes the key out of the ignition, but then he waits. Sits. Leans back against his chair and breathes.
He decides to roll down the window. Rain gets in, and he can see the droplets fall on the steering wheel in front of him, but he absently thinks that's a problem for later - that it'll be easy to wipe it off, anyway. He rolls up his sleeve and rests his forearm on the windowsill, his hand slightly hanging out of the car. He closes his eyes again when he feels the rain on his skin - the cool September rain. The sound of the storm mixes with the sound of Harry's quiet breaths, and all Draco can think of is how soft the moment feels - soft and untouchable.
And somewhere there, between the rain and the dark pavement and the flutter of Harry's eyes in his sleep, Draco accepts that he loves him. Loves him more than anything, really. Even though he talks during movies and always has to reheat his tea because he forgets to drink it and complains that his feet are cold in the winter yet refuses to put on socks. He might even love him because of those things, now that he thinks about it, because his little comments on the actors always make him laugh, and he always makes Draco another cup when he goes to warm up the tea, and Harry's feet being cold means he can bundle up with him under the blanket that always hangs over the back of the couch.
His chest feels warm at the revelation, and he has the sudden urge to wake up Harry and tell him, well, everything. Everything that he's been keeping bottled up since the moment they met, every word he has to stop himself from saying when Harry pads into the kitchen late on Saturday mornings with his hair a mess and his glasses too high on his nose, every word that sticks in his throat when Harry brushes his shoulder with his hand as he passes on the way to his bedroom before they say good night.
It's raining, and it's far too late, and they're both exhausted, but the words are bubbling up his throat and burning his tongue.
The droplets have soaked into the end of his sleeve, even though he'd rolled it up, and the skin just below his elbow has gone cold. He shakes his hand and brings it back in, rolling up the window again.
"Are we home yet?" He hears a sleepy voice ask him, more a mumble than a question. He turns to see Harry with his glasses in his right hand, the left rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Draco feels his mouth go dry and he fumbles for words.
Harry turns to his right and puts his glasses on, combing back his hair with his fingers. "Oh, here we are. Sorry for falling asleep on you again; I know I do it all the time, and it's really not fair to you, but - "
"I love you."
Draco's face burns when he says it, and he honestly didn't really mean to say it at all, but Harry was there, and his dress shirt was crooked, and he was apologizing again for something trivial and ridiculous that he didn't need to apologize for at all, like he always does, and he's odd and exasperating and he never puts the dishes away correctly and Draco can't think of a better way to say it.
"I - what?" Harry turns to look at him, and the yellow of the street lamp paints him in the exact same way the red of the traffic light did. Shadows and strong lines.
"I love you," he says again, a little breathless but a little louder this time.
Harry smiles and a forced laugh comes out of his mouth, "Oh? What, yeah, love you, too, man. Looks like someone drank a little too much toni - " he tries to joke, to brush it off, reaching for the door handle.
Draco's hand shoots out to slightly grip his shoulder, and Harry's hand pauses on the door. "I'm sober, Harry. I didn't drink at all tonight, remember? We'd already agreed I was driving us back home."
Harry licks his lips, the false smile still plastered on. "Oh, so, a joke then?"
Draco shakes his head, musters up all his courage, and looks Harry straight in the eye. He's come this far, he can't backtrack now.
"No. No joke. I love you. I'm in love with you, Harry." He pauses, waiting for Harry to say something, but nothing comes. Draco swallows, "It's ok if you don't feel the same, I - "
"I didn't say that."
Draco's heart speeds up impossibly so, and a little bit of warmth, of hope flickers through his chest. The laugh he lets out is small and breathy, but he sees that it makes Harry's lips twitch up in a smile.
"But, you're not saying anything else, either."
Harry lets out a disbelieving laugh of his own, "I'm just trying to figure out if this is a dream or not, honestly. I might still be asleep, you know."
Draco shakes his head, a real laugh leaving his lips now, and Harry's grin widens.
"You're beautiful when you laugh."
Draco feels the blush travel up his cheeks and to his ears - he can't just say things like that, it's not fair, not even legal, he's sure. His hand leaves Harry's shoulder, hovering in midair for a moment before Harry grasps it in his own.
"I love you, too, by the way, if it wasn't already obvious."
"You know full well that it wasn't," he scolds, his grip on Harry's fingers tightening, "you didn't say a thing, and here I was, thinking I'd ruined our entire - "
"So does this mean I can kiss you now?"
Draco short-circuits.
"I - I - "
And he almost melts at the fondness in Harry's eyes. "So I can take that as a yes, then?"
Draco simply nods.
Everything is slow, is soft - the way Harry leans in, the way their noses brush, the feather-light pressure of lips on his. His eyes flutter shut, and fireworks don't come. There's no explosion, no earthquake underneath his feet, nothing that dramatic. Does he feel his world tilt? Yes, but he also feels the subtle reassuring weight of Harry's hands on his, keeping him steady as everything around him shifts. The kiss feels like home. And Draco smiles, because that's fitting, now, isn't it?
Harry feels like coming home. Harry's always felt like coming home.