Of Monsters, Of Men

Chapter 25

They changed into their sleepwear in silence, the only noise being the rustling of cloth against skin.

Tom climbed into his bed, drawing the covers over himself. He closed his eyes and lay back against the covers, breathing slowly.

Harry bit his lip.

Should I?

He made up his mind. Walking over to Tom, he paused at the edge of Tom's bed and waited with bated breath.

Tom remained still, his muscles unmoving.

"May I?" Harry murmured, all too-aware of Tom's unstable mental state. He held his breath.

Tom's eyes remained closed, but his lips thinned.

"Please," Harry said in an even softer voice.

A tired sigh left Tom's mouth, and he moved aside, creating just enough space for Harry.

Harry's shoulders relaxed as he removed his glasses and placed them on Tom's nightstand. Then, he lowered himself gingerly onto the mattress, pulling the covers over himself and facing Tom. He wanted to reach out and caress Tom's face, but he refrained from doing so.

It was really quite the achievement that Tom had allowed Harry to cradle him like he did earlier. Tom absolutely hated being emotionally vulnerable in the first place, and showing that to Harry required a breakdown. But what caused Tom to accept Harry cradling him or surrounding him was a fundamental break in his beliefs. It had happened twice in his life: once after the bombing, once after today when Abraxas Malfoy politically, socially, and emotionally ruined Tom.

Tom was marginally more okay with comforting Harry in his moments of weakness than he was showing or admitting vulnerability, a miraculous feat in and of itself.

Warm fingers wrapped around his wrist, causing his arm to stiffen. He turned his head sharply, the sheets rustling beneath him.

Tom stared at him steadily, evidently having gathered his emotions and wrestled them into submission.

Harry stared right back, unsure of what brought this on. Nevertheless, he shifted towards Tom, his wrist relaxing into Tom's grip.

"Hurting you doesn't bring me the satisfaction I thought it would," Tom said at last, eyes tracing the curves and lines and grooves of his facial features.

Harry's eyes widened.

That's...

"Oh," he said softly, surprised and at a loss of other words to say. He cleared his throat. "I'm glad."

Tom's fingers unwrapped themselves from his wrist, moving to grasp his palm instead. With a squeeze, his eyes piercing as ever, Tom said, "Good night, Harry."

Harry smiled softly.

"Goodnight, Tom."

He reached out with his other hand to clasp Tom's free hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Tom's eyes were bright with something Harry couldn't name, but understood perfectly.

For a moment, Harry couldn't breathe, his lungs stuttering to a halt as though all the muscles in his chest bound them still.

"I meant what I said," Harry said, his voice thick as he squeezed Tom's hand again. "I want you to be happy. I don't care how successful you are. I only care that you're happy with yourself."

Tom squeezed back, a conflict Harry couldn't name swirling in his eyes. It felt like he was staring into Harry's soul. Tom averted his gaze momentarily before flicking his eyes back up to Harry, whispering, "I'll try. For you."