Jersey
Ron arrives in the Gryffindor dorm at ten to eleven, all his bones heavy with sleep and his eyes slipping shut every two seconds. The only reason he gets there properly is because Harry is still talking to him about tomorrow's game, constantly giving him last-minute tips.
He thinks nothing of the drawn-shut blinds of his bed, until he has stripped—too tired to redress in his auburn pyjamas—says his goodnights to his friends, and carefully peals back one red curtain.
Draco Malfoy is on his bed, outstretched comfortably with his head propped up on his hand, leaning on one elbow. He faces away from Ron, but looks back over his shoulder with a feral grin when he hears the sound of the blinds being pulled back.
What really gets to Ron though, is the fact that he's clad solely in Ron's very own Gryffindor Quidditch jersey, the fabric covering a milky side and half of a revealed arse.
And hell if that perky behind isn't simply begging for a little attention.
Seeing his own name on his blonde lover's back—scribbled in golden thread on the jersey—is always nice, but he makes it his goal to make sure that body has his name covering it in a slightly different manner come morning.
Afterwards, as they are regaining their breaths, the jacket rests still around Draco's body, now reeking of Ronald! and Drake! combined. He smiles sleepily, and when Ron begs him: "baby, please wear my jersey to the game tomorrow," he complies, only half aware of his surroundings anymore.
In the morning Draco takes pity on Ron, knowing he is too sleep-deprived, and slips out of the bed in complete silence. He takes off the jersey to dress, but does not forget his worn-out promise, and takes the jersey with him as he leaves.
They are having breakfast in the great hall with sleep in their eyes, last night's Quidditch training too intense for a last rerun before the big game. Harry knows he might have worked his players too hard but he does not care, they need a strong hand to guide them, really, some discipline will do them good.
So when Ron shows up at the table without his Quidditch jersey, it's an understatement to say that the raven is livid. He holds in as much of his anger as is humanly possible, because he knows it would be a bad idea to yell at his friend right before the game, since that would definitely cause a decrease in his self-confidence.
"Ron," he begins timidly, the redhead sleepily buttering up some toast while scooping sausage into his plate with his other hand, "you're not wearing your Gryffindor jersey."
"Hn?" Ron replies articulately, looking up briefly before he continues shoving his mouth with food, "I kno'"
"You..." Harry's eye twitches and on the other side of Ron, Ginny gives her brother a warning poke in the side of his arm, alerting him of Harry's distress. Ron looks up sheepishly, just in time to see his friend's nostrils flare dangerously, "forgot your jersey on purpose?"
His voice is dangerously calm. Ron shrugs, and Hermione's eyes widen. Harry seems to be on the verge of a mental-breakdown and shrugging is not doing any good whatsoever.
"I don't have it," Ron explains through his mouthful, "I—"
Before he can continue his surely most-interesting explanation, a whisper goes over Gryffindor table, and heads turn to the entrance. Soon everyone's eyes are on a Slytherin blonde, who just waltzed in wearing a red-and-golden Quidditch jacket.
He looks around uncaringly, before his eyes spot Ron and he smirks.
Harry shrieks: "he stole your jacket!" looking over at Ron, enraged, "Why didn't you tell me! We would've gotten it back in no time!"
"Surely he didn't know who took it," Ginny tries reasoning, looking expectantly at his brother, "but now that we know where it is, you should go get it."
"We'll all go," Harry cuts in bravely, "That lousy Malfoy, stealing our jackets, I'll teach him a little something!"
Draco's eyebrow rises delicately as he catches those last few words. Everyone has turned to him in utter shock, following his tall and slim figure as it saunters over to the particular Gryffindors. The Quidditch jersey is loose around his shoulders, left open with the golden seams reaching halfway his arse. The name on the back, so Ginny and all other passed Gryffindors can see clearly now, reads 'Ronald B. Weasley' in embroidered golden letters. Hermione gapes at his nerves, coming up to them like that and Ginny glares.
"What was that Potter?" Draco demanded silkily, eyes mocking.
Harry snaps: "Malfoy! How dare you—" but then Ron is standing and everyone is hoping for a fight so the raven shuts up immediately.
"You actually wore it," Ron breathes hoarsely, his fingers reach out and grasp onto the fabric, as if it has suddenly gotten softer now that Draco's wearing it, "I didn't think you would."
"You should know me better than that Weasley," Draco says, a little mock-hurt seeping into his teasing voice. He brings the fabric to his face and inhales deeply, locking his eyes with the blue ones before him to gauge the boy's reaction when he purrs: "it smells so nice."
Ron cannot help but groan when he is so blatantly reminded of last night, and Harry will probably kill him if he ever happens to find out, but the intense work-out the raven gave his team is not the reason he is exhausted, Draco's work-out is. But Merlin, if it isn't worth every single tense muscle in his body.
"You look good in red Draco," Ron murmurs mutely, pulling in the frailer frame that inch closer, "really good."
"Are you insinuating there are colours I don't look good in freckles?" Draco's eyebrow arches higher, and Ron laughs aloud, that warm, hearty laugh that makes Draco's stomach do a summersault.
"I would never," he teases back, his hands finding the small of Draco's back on their own accord, "though I have to admit seeing you dressed in my things will always be one of the sexiest things I can imagine."
This time it is Draco's laugh that chatters through the great hall, his eyes smiling along which means this is real.
"Wait until you see me in garters Weasley," the blonde quips, and before Ron can even as much as moan at the simple thought, he tugs the red head closer and kisses his lip, tasting him and feeling the broad body encase his completely.
Vaguely, he can hear the collective gasp of everyone in the great hall, but it is ostentatiously ignored. Secretly, he revels in the fact that this really makes them even more of a couple—because only real boyfriends wear their lover's jerseys.
To erase the sappy thoughts from his head, he pulls away from the kiss and bites the plump upper lip, hard. When he leaves for Slytherin table he throws a playful: "don't fall off that broom Weasley, or you won't be getting any for a month!" over his shoulder, but only to remind himself of who's in charge.
Draco is glad that their clothing calamities have finally come to their end. At least now, the next time he chooses to obey his lover's wishes and wear the boy's items, he will be able to do so without having to be bothered with idiotic questions.
AN: I wrote these three little parts a couple of months ago but I still love them ^^ I can't help it I'm just... god, head over heels for this piece. I know that's probably all kinds of vain, but hey, sue me. Pff.