Draco couldn't stop himself from covetously eying what Harry was doing across the table. If he'd been raised to be anything other than the picture of pure-blood manners, Draco thought he would likely have been drooling into his salad bowl by that stage.
Harry was currently pouring six times as much cream as any normal human being would consider proper onto the pudding that Draco could tell, even from a distance, was rich and moist and infinitely better-tasting than the bland piece of lettuce Draco himself was miserably chewing on.
It was just as well Draco frequently derived vast amounts of personal enjoyment from Harry's deliciously flat abdomen and sculpted limbs. Otherwise Draco might have been royally pissed off that Harry could tuck away such unhealthy food without ill effect when Draco knew he would end up the size of a whale if he did the same. Life never seemed fair that way. He supposed that was what came of living with Harry Potter.
What was worse was that Harry made it all look so damn tantalising. Thick, sweet caramel sauce was mixing with cream and dribbling down his spoon so that Harry had to chase it with his lips, swiping his tongue down the long metal length before swirling it around his fingertips just to make sure he didn't miss a drop. As he licked his lips and swallowed, a tiny noise of enjoyment hummed from the back of Harry's throat.
Draco had a very nearly overwhelming urge to shove his plate aside, leap across the table, and drizzle that sauce all over Harry's chest so that he could lick it off him. They'd see what kinds of noises he'd make then.
Honestly, how was any red-blooded man supposed to just ignore this kind of temptation?
"You could have some compassion for the fact that most thirty-four year old men don't still have the metabolisms of hummingbirds," said Draco.
Harry shrugged. "You might've too if you hadn't given up on Quidditch. Besides," Harry looked Draco's body over pointedly, "you've really got nothing to complain about."
"That's only because I've been eating nothing but salad for weeks. Yesterday I had raw carrots. Raw carrots, Harry, as if something you can pluck straight from the ground deserves to be called an actual meal. I'm going positively mad with hunger over here. So you should be warned: if you don't stop flaunting that dessert in front of me, I may snap and be forced to get physical with you."
Harry's lips slowly quirked into a suggestive smile.
"Physical, eh? You know," Harry said, "my coach says that exercise is way more important than what you eat. And I'm a professional athlete, in case you've forgotten; we know all the best kinds of exercises. I bet you could chuck the salads if I, er, helped you get through some solid work-outs."
Harry's attempts at flirtation always left Draco wondering whether he should burst out laughing or find the man endearing. That night, at least, he settled on the latter.
It turned out that Draco did, in fact, end up eating some of the alarmingly fattening sauce from Harry's pudding, as Harry smeared it pointedly over his lips and shared sweetened kisses with him. But just this once it didn't take much for Draco to let himself be convinced that this not-so-accidental lapse in his diet was actually all right. As Harry had said, he just had to make sure that he properly worked it off.
Even, he informed a rather eager Harry, if that took all night.
~FIN~