Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun.

Author's Notes: For the lovely anthimaeria's birthday.

Harry was not a morning person. Thank Merlin's balls he wasn't surly when he woke up, just in a drowsy fog until that first cup of tea. Every morning Draco had to shake him awake several times, and occasionally slap him on the arse to get him out of bed. That Harry ever made it to work on time before they started living together was a total mystery.

Draco was a morning person. It was a bloody inconvenience most of the time. No matter what time he went to bed, eight o'clock at night, two in the morning, at six a.m. some evil internal alarm went off and he was awake. And not the easy sort of awake where you could go back to sleep. It was eyes wide open, mind racing, a cup of tea would be perfect right now sort of awake. Buggering fuck.

But since moving in with Harry he didn't mind. Because that hour between six and seven was the only hour of the day that Draco let himself love Harry. Let Harry in. Let himself out. He'd back up against Harry's back and silently say to him all the things he couldn't the day before.

"You were adorable with that ice cream mustache, yesterday, Harry."

"I felt like a total idiot in front of Shacklebolt. Why didn't you tell me that his sister was living in China?"

"Granger is such a pain in the arse. How can you stand her?"

And knowing Harry as well as he did, he knew how Harry would respond.

"So why'd you lick it off?" This would be accompanied by the dirtiest leer imaginable, and why everyone thought Harry was such a saint was beyond him. .

"Yeah, well, the next time you decide to make a comment about how a nation of rice-eaters aren't to be trusted, think again."

"She can be a pain, but she's our pain and she's my friend, and I can't believe we're having this conversation again."

And Saturday and Sunday mornings? His favorite time of the week. He would wake Harry up slowly, the sheets still ripe from the previous night's sex, and Draco would make love to Harry with the gentlest of hands, the softest of kisses, so easy that Harry was still half-asleep until woken up by the punch of his orgasm and then he would conk out again for another couple of hours.

This was when Draco called him "Harry" and whispered, "I love you." It was the only time of the week he let down his defenses, his personal wards.

For a long time he thought this would save him. This parceling out. But at night, listening to Harry's gentle snore, he knew he was totally fucked. That it hadn't worked and it was nothing more than pathetic attempt to trick himself into believing that he had it under control. Because at some point he knew that Harry would be worn down Weasley's constant diatribes against him, and that Harry would, eventually, start listening to Granger's measured, perfectly logical arguments why this relationship was insane, and Harry would, some day, shuffle in the door and hem and haw and three hours later kick him to the curb. And no matter how much he kept back, it would all be shit. Because when Harry did that, he would shatter. All his previous losses in the last ten years would be nothing to this. It would be the sort of shattering where you never recover. Where you start drinking two of your meals and one of them breakfast sort of shattering.

He couldn't stop the inevitable, he could only wait and endure.