A hand slides its way into Draco’s.
It’s well past midnight, and rain pounds against the window; the sound reminds Draco of the pounding of his heart.
“You don’t have to sit up alone, you know I don’t mind it if you wake me.”
Draco lifts his eyes, and Ron has taken a place at his side; he hadn’t realized Ron was awake.
“You were exhausted after work. I wasn’t going to deal with your exhaustion in the morning,” Draco mutters, glancing back to the floor. His voice held no malice.
Ron brushes a thumb against the back of Draco’s hand, noting the way Draco’s hand is trembling. It’s not an unfamiliar sight, especially on nights like these. “Is it something you want to talk about?” Ron asks, slowly snaking his arm around Draco’s waist. He’s careful with his actions, well aware of the shaky emotional ground he’s treading on.
Draco shakes his head. The images playing through his head are enough to make him feel sick, and the words won’t make it past his lips without loss of emotional control. His resolve has become untrustworthy tonight.
Ron rests his head against Draco’s. “It’s alright. We don’t have to.” Draco has been more willing on nights previous, but he often preferred silence. Ron never minded, just as Draco never minded Ron’s openness.
Draco closes his eyes, leaning into Ron’s touch. The lump in his throat is persistent, but a sense of ease slowly creeps in with Ron at his side. He doesn’t argue as he’s gently pulled back into bed, nor does he argue when Ron pulls him close.
The rain begins to sound less like the pounding in Draco’s heart, and more like the way Draco felt as Ron carded fingers through disheveled blonde hair.
“I love you,” says the muffled voice against Ron’s chest.
“I love you too,” Ron whispers back, pressing his lips to Draco’s hair.
An unfamiliar sense of peace begins to wash over Draco, and Ron closes his eyes.