Harry decided to take a chance. If the worse happened, they could go back to hating each other, like they had before. Except, Harry thought to himself as he carefully dropped into the bath, the water spraying on top of his head, plastering his hair down. They had never really hated each other, had they?

Back at school, he had been forced to tutor his eager but not-at-first-skilled roommate in the best way to give head, after an unfortunate incident involving his teeth after a door banged too loudly down the corridor. The key, he and Harry discovered, was to sheath one's teeth with the lips. So, keeping that in mind, he angled himself towards Malfoy's head, slipping his lips around the hot, velvety skin, and running his tongue along the slit.

The moan Malfoy released let him know he was on the right track.

Malfoy threaded the fingers of his right hand through Harry's hair, helping to guide him as he bobbed up and down, and used his left to attempt to grip the slippery wall. Harry watched him for a moment, but it was too hard with the water falling down on him. So he closed his eyes and concentrated on making Malfoy feel wonderful, the way he had done for him.

His mind wandered just a fraction around the task at hand, as he considered whether or not he would have believed this was how their day was destined to end up. Would Malfoy have guessed, if he'd had it suggested to him? Were their paths meant to entwine in this manner, had it just been a matter of time?

There was a miniscule part of him that hoped that was the case, even if he did force himself to ignore it. This was almost certainly a one-night affair, and he was going to enjoy himself as long as it lasted.

Malfoy's orgasm caught him by surprise, and he choked as the seaman hit the back of his throat. But it was good manners to swallow, even if one was conveniently in a shower, and he did his best to gulp down all of his lover's spend.

Gasping, he rocked back on his heels and rubbed his aching jaw, but Malfoy was already pulling him up to embrace him against his chest. "Spasibo," he murmured. Thank you.

They retrieved the soap from where it had slipped out of Malfoy's hand at some point, and managed to successfully wash themselves without further distraction. Harry turned the tap off, and Malfoy hooked the two towels off the rail, handing one over so they both might dry off.

Harry mourned the fact that his suit had spent the last few hours crumpled on the floor, and shivered as he slipped the cold, slightly damp clothes over his body. One of the buttons of his waistcoat looked to be coming loose, and it took him an age to find his second sock of the pair. But eventually he found himself fussing over his tie in front of the age-spotted mirror hanging by the bathroom door. It was almost four in the morning, however Harry could hear a few tell-tale signs that the city was coming to life on the streets below.

He was feeling fractious, and he tried not to analyse his thoughts too closely. It was hard though when he angrily started on his third attempt to get the blasted tie straight, only to find himself spun around to face Malfoy. His partner was dressed already, back in his navy turtleneck, and without saying a word he calmly undid the mess Harry had made. He looped the tie over and around to create a tidy knot, then simply nodded at Harry when he was done.

Harry gave himself a mental slap. He wasn't a forlorn romance heroine in a cheap novel, he was a British man who absolutely needed to stop pining over his colleague. It was simply a bit of fun that they'd had together, and now it was over. He did this sort of thing all the time, he had never particularly missed any of his previous lovers.

So why did the thought of going back to cool civility with Malfoy fill him with such dread?