Expanded Summary
['I'll always love you as you are for this is who came up to me' and 'I'll always love as you need — even if you don't say it, I'm listening' were wound around the covers, around the thighs, around the waist, around the arms, around the heels, and around the chest finding his. When Harry scooted from where he was and when he rolled across the blankets, turning an inch with every minute until he settled right behind him. Where with hip finding hip and a breath near his shoulder, Harry curled a little closer just to hold him a while longer — just to remind Tom how he feels when words barely scratch it. Because inside, he gets a thrill every time he's near his person.]
It's part of the routine to wake up early and to rise before dawn, to silently get ready and be toeing out to head to work. But it's six or six-thirty and Harry doesn't want to move, too content with where he is and up to his arms with a certain someone. So maybe, if he's quiet and warm enough to the touch, perhaps Tom and him can stay here and pretend that Monday hasn't come.
"When you've known him for quite a while, you become acquainted with the unexpected. It's always around and it's never quiet, but I wouldn't trade this for anything."
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On April 21st, nearly an hour before lunch — a tiny owl, then another, then a horned, then a great, then a snowy, then a barn, and then a spotted dropped their wings. As if instincts be damned when they were sighted that morning, as they dipped from the air and scattered along the concrete; screeching, hooting, and fluttering with an insistence.
They were pacing back-and-forth between eleventh and thirteenth, and some would mention how they hopped with little kits near their feet and how there was an emblem on the packs that these Strigiformes guarded closely. A distinctive 'M' shining brightly and with a stick between the peaks, both flashing like a spectrum as the owls grew angry. And fussier with every minute — their shrills, all of jarring.
Soon mixed with a 'Shoo!' and a 'Scram!' and a 'Beat it!' as a few residents of Grimmauld Place dove headfirst into the fire. But the birds never caved and they pecked with a fervor.
Despite them being of different species, they banded together and screeched just as harshly as when they minded their own business. The larger ones lunging forward while the smaller whizzed around, thrumming feather after feather until the residents surrendered and were running with their tails all but picked between their legs. And if an animal could curse, then one of the tinies sure did.
Throwing a beak over its tail and puffing out its chest, it popped off like a firework and rattled like a plaything. Ruffled to its crown before darting from victory, gaze boring into the bushes between eleventh and thirteenth. As if there was something that it knew but couldn't see, sensing it to be here but not finding it to be there.
A shrill tapered from its mouth as it muttered a litany, squinting with its parliament and raising hackles along its wings. Because none of them will return without making a delivery, and to do so without this would bring shame to their history. Because not an owl worth their rat would relent that they couldn't find somebody for that admission on its own tainted their worth as that of prophets — or as that of messengers sent by Magic so no, they couldn't allow this.
Even if their recipient proved impossible for them to find, they would stay here and bounce about because eventually, they will find them. For decorum before instincts had been bred into these owls, they were stubborn pieces of gum that had seen better days on this sidewalk. None of them broke from their pacing until suddenly, they stumbled forward. As the kits around their legs, or around the bodies for the smaller ones, began to flash and jerk around — careening them into each other.
Trumpets and fireworks and confetti exploded as the owls ripped their packs and flung them to the bushes. Where bordered between eleventh and that of thirteenth, whoever was to receive these — well, this was now their problem. Since none of the owls stuck around to carry back another message as they abandoned to the trees and were whisked back to London.
Meaning that the only witnesses to what happened were the residents of Grimmauld Place, unsure if they should leave and see what the ruckus was all about, as they peered from their kitchens and found rainbows from the bushes — hopping all about like springs down a stair step. And then a shrill 'Congratulations!' seemed to cackle through the houses as a voice of a young man boomed somewhere in the neighborhood. As if speaking through a phone box while twisting at the wire, did he or did he not know that his conversation was being aired?
And while a sigh said he didn't, a chuckle would defer. He sounded smug above the fireworks still blasting throughout the yard.
" — as happy as I am that someone's covering your arse — "
Perhaps, the innuendo could've been saved for after lunch.
" — and believe me, this should've happened back in fifth year or six, but this does not excuse your — "
An explosion of flower petals came to muffle what was mentioned as another round of fireworks came to gallop down the street.
" — you ought to — "
Bang!
" — I've had to — "
Pop!
" — could you — ?"
Hiss!
" — do you ever — ?"
Pop!
And so forth and so on, the fireworks would interrupt. Where every now and then, they would spell out a pair of names on the sidewalk. Some 'Harry J. Potter' and a 'Tom M. Riddle' were getting married in September and the speaker was more than thrilled, gushing over that as a groomsman he'll be bringing forth the style that had been lacking for quite a while. And that it was only a matter of time until someone had his eyes checked, and that a party was no party unless a — bang! — was there and present.
So really, he was doing a favor when he accepted the invitation, mumbling after that he expected 'this, this and that' for his troubles.
And everyone could hear him preening into the caller of the phone, sounding as smug as smug could be when he toasted Potter for his common sense. And then citing that it was Riddle who probably swayed him to this end, more than happy that the other man was giving his colleague some good influence. And if there was a wink-wink or a nod or a sparkle with how he said it, the residents of Grimmauld Place didn't realize how they preferred it.
Because that was more bearable than the shrill that soon followed, a one-sided bit of banter — or rather, an argument — broke through.
It rang throughout the street and rippled outwards along the borough, blessing privy towards the Queen for she could listen while drinking tea. And every word was like murder as it assaulted one's ears, it kept growing and growing louder until there was no way to escape from this. So much so that the fireworks and the owls and the strangeness from earlier seemed so pale in comparison and were like whispers from the wind.
The residents of Grimmauld Place would've traded to have them back as this man in the phone box shook his laundry of complaints. Ranging from paperwork that was waiting for him in the office, that he and Potter were to do because on Friday it was delayed; from Potter being absent throughout the morning with just a note and no, shagging his fiancé was not a valid excuse; and just in general — 'Potter this' and 'Potter that' and 'Potter where?' and 'Potter what?'
Much of which would've been better if he said this to the man himself. Instead of through a phone box or Christ, a bunch of owls.
With letters ricocheting across the concrete with fireworks, packs being blown with a puffering of flower petals. That collectively, the neighborhood stormed out from their houses to put an end to whatever Hell had been festering at their doorsteps.
For enough was enough. God-willing, they had it.
But before anyone could do anything, other than kicking their front doors and staggering profanities — suddenly, it was as if there was nothing to complain about. Because there were no fireworks, explosions, flower petals, celebrations, voices, shouting, congratulations or complaints.
But just the silence that often came upon this hour before lunch, where all you could hear was the traffic from the busier roads around London and the whistle from the wind that meant that rain wasn't coming. And an echo of a few hooligans who had passed by the neighborhood, their music so loud that it drove a frenzy through the houses.
But now, they were gone and so were the grievances on people's tongues. There was nothing to do out here, other than breathe and then move on. So those residents of fair Grimmauld and to the dens of this Place wandered back into their dwellings, uninterested with what had happened. But more honestly, unaware and kept that way because of magic — after their memories were tampered with, after the charms were put in place, and after a witch brushed aside as much nonsense as she could manage.
After she vanished the festive howlers that her boyfriend had an eye for and collected the little packs that the Ministry owls had left behind.
And she couldn't blame them for doing so and could feel an argument behind her tongue, threatening to lash out — one with lightning in a storm. But her few words to a certain blond about the idiocy of his actions, both in public disturbance and harassing all livelihood, could be saved for after lunch. Until she cooled with what had happened and thanked Merlin, it wasn't worse because Draco had always been and will always be a dramatic arse.
But he was her dramatic arse, despite her frowning with a little smile — just as how Tom was a little git whenever Harry came to mention it, and he would murmur it with such fondness though he could snap it when he was riled with.
And speaking of which for those two, she couldn't believe neither had stopped this or that it didn't come to bother them as they were tangled with themselves. And to be a little more accurate, as they snuggled each other's limbs: Harry, moments away from drooling onto the shoulder he collapsed on; Tom, seconds away from kicking his partner's thighs if they squeezed him; both, finding purchase and squishing whom they loved as the sun couldn't trickle past the curtains of their window. Because that was Tom and Harry in a nutshell when it was a holiday or the weekend — isolated in Number Twelve while stirring beneath their blankets, unperturbed and unaware as the world moved without them.
And after all, wasn't today just one of those for the both of them?
When Harry owled if Hermione could cover their absences for this Monday because he wanted extra time to just be with his fiancé. That there was something he wanted to do and it had to be when they weren't at work, that there was a part to his proposal that he wanted to share while they were alone. Because there was something —
...he isn't the type to ask for this, but I know it's what he needs. It's kind of funny how I can read him, probably better than he can read me. He says I'm soft, but he's one, too. He says I'm kind, I tell him that, too. He says to me a lot of things that I don't think he sees in himself. But he's all of that and a lot more — I want to tell him he's...
— rather special and he didn't want to wait until September. And that a part of it was their absence and their freedom from obligations, where there was nothing else for them to worry about — other than each other and themselves.
Hermione replied within the hour that she could string something out. On that evening of last Friday, she grabbed her parchment and began to work; setting together all the little things that eventually brought today. Where she's here at Number Twelve and will Apparate come a minute, done tidying the mess her boyfriend had left her with. And just before she goes with nothing more than a pop, there are two knocks on the front door — both short and rather soft.
So that if Tom and Harry were still asleep, at least one of them could wake up and for the one stirred awake, he'll motivate his loved one.
.
.
.
"What lies behind me, in front of me, inside me — they're all important. I can't pick one if you ask me; there aren't two I could leave behind."
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On April 21st, just moments before the sunrise or even, before then as an arm sauntered from the right — there was a shifting of pillows and blankets and limbs, the wanderings of an elbow coming to greet another's hips. But doing so not with bone; but rather, the inside of its crook. So that the warmth throughout the night and to the morning as it were could nestle where it wanted and to who needed it most. Because honestly, this elbow and the arm stitched around it were moments away from bursting with little fires all throughout them. Prompted by the magma circulating through the veins and the lightning coursing on until it struck near a waist. Where again and again, marking the same spot yet again, it collided with an urgency you would only find in a kiss.
Except this kiss was rather soft and fairly gentle in its venture — brushing lightly with a thumb while the elbow wound around it. This heat and its squishiness were like droplets of pure sunlight, bottled and meant for him when Tom melted upon impact.
On April 21st, just as coffee should've been made or if one were running late, a pitch of tea from the other day — there was movement along the mattress as the night began to fade. Where what it conquered in the bedroom was soon retracted from its grip when the curtains parted slightly to allow the sun to wander in. It pooled like a liquid across the creamy grey carpets, down the mahogany of a bedpost, and along the ridges of a back. Standing tall and standing proud against a shoulder to the mattress, threadbare with an undershirt but packed with a wildfire. That was only growing warmer when the sun came to prod it, poking at the spaces where it normally could shine through. But met with resistance when every crevice had clamped down, trying to protect this bit of darkness that had sprawled right before them. Where no wider than an arm and a little longer past the knees, there was this patch full of shadows and like soil, it held a seed.
That was still fast asleep and as tender as could be — that when the sun tried to wake it, Harry arched with all his being and climbed with what he did. His hand became a star that he hung like a thread, like a shadow to a blindfold when he tied it to his loved one. So that the light wouldn't bounce and couldn't wake him from the wall, so that his dear could remain here and be content with where he was. Where undisturbed and unaware with Harry's fingers above his gaze, he burrowed further into his pillow and sunk deeper into bliss.
And then on April 21st, as the last entry for this train of thought since neither of them had moved much came the hours from then before — there was a stirring beneath the blankets and then another, then a squeak. Etching out along the pillows while it echoed behind a mouth, trapped inside a throat and about as low as it could come. It stretched on for a few seconds and wheezed like a toy as fumbling comes a hand mapping the outskirts of its world. Prompted when a bump had collided it with colors: with red around the pinkie and gold within its reach, with green behind a knuckle while silver bears a ring. This hand is skimming lightly for what bumped it this morning, finding a river and then a stream of veins knotted around a wrist. Before they're branching into fingers and a curious little thumb, kissing softly at the touch coming to meet it beneath the covers. And as these are mapped for their colors and are warm to this palm, there's a shifting from behind as a thigh wraps around — the bed is creaking with the movement as a chest wanders towards a back. Slotting neatly like a puzzle, it's as if it's found its home. And only then does Tom move and only then does he dare to steal a glimpse of what's around him and to feel which through his hands.
Where right behind him is Harry and in front of him is also him: with arms around his waist and a hand above his heart, with a nose in his hair and a mouth behind his neck, with heels around his own and toes poking him, with a callus from those lips and a pulse along his back. Strolling upward when Harry breathes and crawling back with every exhale, they're soft and ever-gentle and so addicting as Tom feels them. Because they are waves reuniting with the shoreline of his spine: drawing and erasing, touching then pulling back, luring out all the parts of him that were hidden beneath the sand before covering every inch of them with a whisper and then a kiss — leaving them better than how he found them as Harry breathes through his lips. And it's as if there's no undershirt or night of silk in-between them because drumming to its own rhythm is Harry's heart and Tom feels it, skipping like a stone down the pond of his existence and breaking waves that have scattered all throughout him and back again.
Making him toasty in the middle and quite sluggish with his thoughts. He wants to linger, he wants to dig, he wants to curl here, he wants to bliss — because a noun is now an action when he snuggles into Harry's chest, when he butts his way back knowing there's room meant for him. And these limbs surrounding him and the breath tickling this, tickling the conch shell of his ear as if moments from a kiss, they press him even further and hold him a little closer.
Until the continent of his body is in the shape of the man behind him and there's nowhere he'd rather be, than to be here along with Harry. That Tom nearly falls asleep, nearly wanders into a dream — but could he call it that in good faith when reality has all he needs? When he knows the man behind him is as real as real could be, as tangible as their bed covers and as inviting as the morning. That had flickered in through their window and flickered more through the fingers that were trailing near his pillow and were asleep beneath his notice.
He didn't think much of what he saw, but it soon puzzled him from his thoughts. Because if he glances up from his pillow and between the hairs atop his head, up at the wall that's looming right and is staring down their bed, it's washed in a yellow instead of orange with some red. There's nothing soft or even muted about the color he sees before him. Where even the shadows are like inkwells, instead of the rubbings of some charcoal, and if he listens above the breathing and the shuffling of Harry behind him, there's a distinct lack of anything that comes and goes at this early hour.
No engines being started, no cars passing by, no children and their sausages running off towards the bus stops, no gossip from their neighbors, no sprinklers turning on, and even the traffic beyond their street sounds maddingly different. Where all the honks and the screeches and brief smatterings of cursing are almost alien when Tom hears them — but not so when he's at the office, when he's had his third cup of coffee or fourth pitch of tea, when he's gazing out his window from the lofts of the Ministry, and when he's penning a new statute that he could bring forth to the...
'...Merlin...'
It's Monday and Monday morning and for some reason, he's still here — lounging like a rock when he should be anywhere but —
Two knocks.
There were two knocks at the front door, meaning someone had come to fetch him but decided it wasn't worth it. Judging how there's not another and then what he hears is a little pop, someone running off to the Ministry to tell the Minister he's incompetent. And about the only thing holding him back from hunting whoever that was, from wringing out their neck before casting them from Big Ben, is a pair of lovely hands starting to slide to where he is. They're creeping towards his shoulders and are nuzzling at his skin, lapping circles with their pinkies so his hackles could be tamed.
And while they're soft as they do it, they're as firm as calluses and they've got him held in like a seatbelt or like a patch of Devil's Snare — growing tighter when he pulls or tries to ease out from their grasp. He's being hugged and confined; or rather, stitched to Harry's person. He's meld to the man behind him, and there's nothing Tom could do about it.
Because these noodly defenses are chipping his annoyance until all he is rather peeved and pouting as Harry holds him, finding his tension had already left him and that his muscles were growing soft. That the viper-like fissures deep within him are being caked over with love, with care, with warmth, and with Harry here with Tom.
And like Tiger Balm to the senses or like an eagle-branded bit of oil, green and pungent and stinging to where it touches, Harry crumples what bothered him and lessens that into something else. He deflects it to something manageable, but still persistent that it nudges Tom. Where instead of murder and rounds of torture, there's this buzz for him to get up. More than aware that he himself is the reason why he's still here and if he hadn't snuggled back, he wouldn't have thoughts of snapping a neck. Or at least, Tom could've aired why he was running late to work — as Harry massages his every knuckle so that they're pink instead of white. So that the bones could sink down and were just bumps beneath his flesh, his hand like a starfish before it's laced in the other's grasp.
With Harry's thumb, rubbing sweetly because somehow, he's still asleep. Because unlike Tom at this very moment, he's still blissfully within a dream.
"Harry."
That's a start and Tom wiggles for emphasis.
He tries to turn, but he's stuck with how Harry has wound around him. Their ankles have intertwined so another budge could likely hurt him, and Tom could feel a bit of an ache starting to wander up his legs.
"Harry."
He nudges, twisting his elbow into the man behind him.
There's a scrunching when Harry wheezes, when the joint hits him between the ribs, and instead of pulling away from his loved one and settling to his side of the bed, he snuggles even closer and curls like a tendril. Burying his cheek into the other's shoulder and murmuring something as he does it — as if quelling Tom from a nightmare and tapping out his every rhythm so that Tom could feel them in his hands. So he could have one for him to hold and along with the other to his back, these little gestures have him stalled.
But they're late — it's egregious. They can't stay here for much longer. As much as this pains him and he doesn't want to do it, Tom's squirming for some leverage. He's being as gentle as he can be to not set off the other's instincts, but he's trying to do this quickly so he can twist around to retrieve his wand.
So he could summon their work robes from the depths of some closet, or from the couches near the fireplace when they never made it to the bedroom, and have coffee being roasted and started in the kitchen so that the smell could ease him out from the vice-grip of the man behind him.
So he could temporarily use a sticking charm to leave his partner here in bed so he could scurry to brush his teeth and shampoo while he's there, taking a shower in the sink to comb the weekend from his hair.
So he could wrestle for his satchel while skimming the newspaper and hopefully, he'll remember to unstick Harry from the mattress.
So they could gather for some breakfast and he could straighten the other's tie, cinching it to the Adam's Apple as he murmurs to him 'good morning' — but his eyes will wish him different as they narrow at the irises, growing darker with every second before Harry looks away. A 'good morning' will fumble out before he's drowning it with more coffee, and then it'll glint from a little smile soon eclipsing from behind a mug when Harry parts to add some sugar that had been lacking in his brew.
And then after which, they'll disappear and will reemerge in their offices, where there'll be owls at their seats — hooting for their notice, where there'll be papers to the ceiling because they dawdled throughout the morning. And with what began as paradise will only end in disappointment, after trudging home around midnight and never finishing what they started.
That just the thought of that has him tossing to find a way out of this labyrinth because there's no nook and no cranny that can stop Tom when he has purpose. But somehow, just an arm and a leg wrapped around him keeps him rooted — much like Atlas, bearing the weight of the entire world. Where instead of gravity or punishment, it's just the lull of the man behind him wanting to hold him just like this. As if he's someone to be coveted, treasured and adored; as if he's someone to be wanted, more an ought than a could; and as if he's like everything while nothing all at once, everything to the man behind him when no one else caught his worth.
That every squeeze he currently feels and this insistence for him to stay, it's earnest in how it's selfish and if Tom is honest, it feels great. It feels good if he could say it, it's wonderful and Tom means it. Despite a part of him wanting to wrestle and confused with what was happening, despite a part of him being curious with what he did to deserve this. Because although he's never voiced it or has nudged this from his partner, Harry — Harry knew; he understood the parts about him that Tom himself had brushed aside, that even Tom was a stranger to because he felt he couldn't have —
"Harrison," he whispers, bumping his head to whom behind him. And when he falls to where he may, Tom nudges him with a hiss. "Potter."
He tries again, a bit of the weekend in his throat. And a bit of Friday, if he's honest, especially from the evening — when in his hands, he had Harry and they circled to the wireless; bumping corners and finding hips while they danced around their kitchen. And because he remembers and it's so vivid to his touch, he mutters 'Potter' a little louder as he winds him around his finger, lacing their hands over and coming to kiss him inside the wrist.
And what greets him is this, this sly little grin he feels from right behind him, and Tom's a fool if he forgets that the endearing man beside him is also part-snake. Because like a boa around its prey, Harry curls to his neck and he slumps onto his shoulder — all toasty and content. He's rocking them back-and-forth while spooning him — his partner, with little sounds of affection and mischief for Tom to hear.
He's truly like an imp and despite himself, it's adorable. Especially when Harry sniffs to hide the chuckle inside his throat.
"Who?" Harry mumbles and there's no doubt he's wide awake. With how he winds even closer like the stitchings to a seam, undoing and doing more to keep Tom within his reach. Until thoroughly within the shadows he has bordered with his own being, Tom is there and there's the night and the sunlight cannot find him — as if preserving what was Sunday to keep Monday from spilling in, Harry's the guardian to his garden protecting his tree brimming with knowledge.
"Well, it's you. It's your name." His exasperation is softened as Tom squints with some fondness, pushing his luck to twist around or at least, turn so he could see him. To confront the demon to this crossroad and garner if he could tempt him because as much as he is fruit, he's a snake below the sweetness. Waving his bit of silver to sway the other to take a bite. "Unless it's not."
Now he's teasing as soon as he finds Harry's chin, how it's scruffy behind his head before it's pulled so he could lean in. And then it nuzzles into his curls and savors what it can as if knowing at any moment, Tom could disappear and that Harry will have to find him and lure him back to where they were. And guard him closer than he ever has to keep his partner here in bed while they bask in the follies of being anywhere than at work. Merely here to kiss-and-tell and to reacquaint themselves with each other, so Harry tugs them to that latter while Tom's still within the dark.
'It makes things easier,' you would think and after which, Tom agrees.
As a pair of bright, foresty eyes and the rings around the pupils are nearly swallowed within his sight — or maybe, it's just the shadows that have retreated from the light. Seeking refuge near a bird's nest made of thick, wandering hair; somewhat prickly to the senses, but the scratch is so inviting. That Tom has to remind himself there's a conversation here between them and that Harry's lips are parting something, even if he's distracted by the hair flushed against him.
"Since Friday, it's you, too." Harry drags this with a drawl. His hands have wandered up and one is pressing into Tom's jaw, his palm finding purchase while protecting it from the sunlight. And then moving and hovering and cupping over the other's eyes when Tom turned to fully face him and Harry's blinded by the sight. Partly without his glasses and partly by the light, bouncing sharply from a mouth filled with quirk and a lot of blurs.
"Come September, that'll be true." The words are etched onto his pulse, and they're as chapped as the lips coming to indulge him for a moment. "But for right now," between a kiss and then another near his jaw, meandering upwards to meet him here near the crook of his own mouth, "I'm just a Riddle — "
' — but I'm your Riddle — '
" — and that's my name. I'm not a Potter." His every murmur seems to ripple and clatter across a pond, where a stone never skipped in lieu of sinking to the bottom — despite it being flat and smooth, despite it tossed with a steady hand.
'You're rambling,' Harry thinks but keeps this to himself. Not because Tom's revenge will be swift and rather sticky, where he'll kiss him into a mess so he could only breathe and kiss him back; but because there's something better Harry could prompt with his mouth. There's something better for him to say and he'll be made out if it plays well; and maybe somewhere and along the way, he could swap their eyes if for a moment. So that Tom could see who he truly is through the eyes that have and will always love him.
For it was these eyes and this gaze and his sight that brought Harry to him — and while Tom could ear him like a book and could recite all his favourite lines, Harry could knead him from dough to loaf and will always fetch him from the fire. He could feel for what he needs and what he wants most of the time, adjusting the water and the yeast and the amount of time he needs to rise. And then he'll score him with not a knife, but instead his lips and his smile and with his arms if Tom wanted — much how he held him all the while.
"If you're a Riddle," Harry muses and he's wandering with his thumb, seemingly to nowhere until he circles the other's pulse. "Then you've been a puzzle that for nine years, I've tried to solve. Without the box for me to reference, and I think I started near the middle. Somewhere inside your chest, or it could've been…"
He skims to feel the underside of Tom's neck, where thrumming here are the breaths that are fleeting with every second. Each shallow and soft and barely audible as Harry hears them, but he feels them with a certainty before he strays to the clavicles. Outlining the subtle grooves and the sweetness of the skin.
"…I think right here." Harry marks it with a gentle, little kiss. It doesn't last for very long, but he lingers to keep it pink. "And then one piece at a time, I found your smile. I found your hands. I found the hisses in your laughter. There's still a lot I haven't explored yet. But — "
Where rings could've been, there was nothing but a strip of light that had wandered from Harry's hip to meet his hand and one of Tom's. It glinted in the shadows while it etched across their fingers. When they laced and folded over, all the light fell to one.
" — you gave me a lifetime for me to figure it. I'll finish this before then." Only now does he part to wear a lopsided kind of grin, crooking his mouth at an angle that's very impish but adorable. Especially when Harry squints and his laughter lines are more apparent, and Tom has spent many a night just tracing them with his lips. "I've got you mostly figured out and finished the hard parts at eleven."
Tom raises one of his brows. "Then what are you waiting for?"
He doesn't answer and instead, Harry does this thing where he's pretending that he's thinking. Quirking wider his little grin while staring up at his bird's nest, as if an egg will tumble out and plummet from his head. And if one does then like a Seeker, he'll catch it before it lands, where it'll nestle in his fingers before rolling to his palm. Not like it's happened in recent memory, but there have been times where —
"You're just the same as you were eleven. All roar without the bite." And as he pivots to scoot away, Harry lures Tom back to him. With just a squeeze, with just a rub, with just a look that leaves him soft. Until he's rolled out from the shadows and is basking in the light, cascading are the bedsheets from around his person to Harry's side. Where they spill around like puddles, turning to lakes and then oceans.
Where Harry's drenched beneath the fabric and with only his head above the water. And he's at the mercy of his fiancé, who like a mer could just consume him — leaving him ravished to the bone and pearly picked for all who find him. Because from this close, he could feel the vicious grin right above him. About to tear into his soft parts after nosing all he is, about to savor every moment and enjoy the man right before him. As Tom's strolling towards the hair bearing root within the valley, where there's the meadow of Harry's middle and there are handprints leading him there.
"Still reckless."
Harry shudders and with every second, they seem to widen. As fisting at his undershirt after rucking it up to his person, as brushing the parts of him that were on fire earlier that morning, and as meeting him where he is and waiting for his permission is this domestic, wild thing ready to seep between the cracks. Where as lacquer to Harry's person, he'll be the silver the other wears. Just as Harry is the gold that melded him back together.
"Insipid," Tom remarks and he chases this with a kiss.
All their bruises from the weekend are folding their petals back so that the mouths coming to visit — well, they could savor with what they have. Like how the neck is always salty while the shoulders are a little bitter, like how the chest is ambrosia ready to burst at the lightest contact while the stomach and the arms are like palette cleansers — they're mild. Because there's an earthiness barely there, but it's refreshing within the mouth. Harry's rocking to snag a bite, but he never makes it from the mattress. Because pinning him and nothing more is just a finger on his stomach. Poking firmly at his gut, but relenting when he rises.
Because Tom knows that Harry knows that Tom knows this is enough. That like a dog stealing glimpses between a bowl and another's fist, waiting for it to open so they could scurry to where the food is, Harry's waiting for this finger to mosey elsewhere along his skin. Because there's a dotted line on Tom's person and he wants to sign it with his lips, he wants to stamp it with approval and nip buds between his teeth. That eventually, they'll flower for his eyes and his only.
And while he's the most patient man — but not really, Harry can wait for what he needs. Because he'll never falter from a challenge and Tom knows this intimately.
"Dense," he all but mutters — more than pleased with what he sees, with how he's ruffled the other man until he's anything but just Harry. With hair tousled like the wilderness and eyes clouded with a fervor, there's nothing green about the irises as they're shining in the darkness. That has donned him over like a cloak, striping him nicely above the middle. He looks more and more like a cobra, prepared to strike from inside its basket.
"That's my charm," he nearly hisses and yet, it comes out like Parseltongue. "You love this and you love that. Face it, Tom."
'Look at me.'
Harry catches the other's stare as it veers to his lips, and there's a flash of his own teeth stroking broadly in Tom's gaze. Sharp, playful, and exactly how he wants them when Harry darts to the lips peeling back for a smile. And it's about as feral as his own, but needs a nudge to send it over. So Harry does when he whispers from his place above the pillows.
"You've always wanted so much more because you've never had enough of me."
'Now there you are,' Harry muses, 'Come catch me if you can.'
Tom presses him even harder, even firmer with his finger — putting his weight and the world behind it while red is dancing behind his eyes. He's every bit of a hunter, as Harry's pretending to be the prey — posing that he's lost though he could switch them at any moment. So Tom holds him around the waist while dipping down to box him in. "I barely tolerate you as you are."
Now isn't that a lovely lie?
Because Harry's arching from their pillows and all his limbs are soon to follow, he's tossing his laughter and he's tossing it back. Until he's rattling to his toes and he's clenched with where he's at. So much so that Tom's shifting as he's losing his own balance, like a tugboat in choppy waters before the eye of a hurricane. And before long, he hits the mattress and he's struck with another wave as Harry pins him from behind and collapses on top of him — as he's sprawled out like a blanket and about as heavy as a container ship, hooking his elbows around the other's so he could follow to where he goes.
Or rather honestly, so that Tom could be riled from underneath him as they clash with every limb and every hiss is drowned with laughter.
"Coming from you, that's a confession!" Harry bumps him with a shoulder when he twisted just to meet him, catching a glare above the cushions, and there's a redness in Tom's eyes burning more like irritation when Harry settles onto his side, snuggling into him. "And I think we're far, far from dating if I can say so, Mr. Riddle."
With a glance at their nightstand, their wands roll away — just as Tom is crawling over to grab one so he could hex him. Or at least, stick Harry to the ceiling so he could wiggle there like a bug, or maybe turn him into a literal one so he could squeeze him with his thumb — watching the legs twitch about while his partner all but struggles. And Harry knows that Tom could do this without his wand if he wanted to; but when you nudge him into a corner and rile him just like this, he starts acting like he's normal and he kind of forgets. And that's one of the charming things he loves about him and one he'll never get enough of: how easily passionate Tom can be that it could render him ordinary, but he's still wonderful and fetching because there's no one else he has to please.
He doesn't have to prove himself to anyone or to anybody, and that's precisely what Harry wants from him when he nudges him with his knee — propping slightly from this backside so he could look at him tenderly. Hair falling before his eyes before he shakes about like a puppy.
"I'll call you that since you want me to." Harry nuzzles him with his nose. "But remember, that name of yours is as numbered as you are." And with every word from that statement, Harry grants him a bit of freedom.
They're not as tangled as they were or as pressed as they could be, but Harry's still wrapped around him while he's lazing in the daylight. Unaware — or maybe not — of what he planted in the other's thoughts as with every stir above the mattress, Tom figured his way out.
"How kind."
He wiggles, starting to rise from their pillows. And then he pulls at the chicken wings still hooked around his elbows and savors all the squawking he hears behind him when Harry cries.
"Mercy…! Mercy!"
He tries to tap out, but he can't.
Not with Tom yanking him with every breath until he manages to sit upright, and only then are they released. Harry flops in relief, rubbing knuckle after knuckle down the valley of his body and stuttering his wheezes, trying to numb how it all hurts, before he crumbles like a biscuit that had been left out for too long. While Tom teeters near the edge and is hunched with his back, finding refuge in the shadows he's cultivated for himself, as the sunlight spills above him after wandering through his hair.
Parting the curtains to his gaze when he leans against the bedpost, and only then does he meet Harry — with his knees near his chest, looking out to him while the other twitches weakly with his movements. And just knowing that he can see him while at the moment, Harry cannot — it stirs a bit of something that had been lingering within his heart.
A part of him that even he had a hard time looking at, but he can't get rid of this because it's… it's who he was. Or maybe, it's still him when the words leave him before he knows it. And he wonders if, at this moment, he'll finally hear the truth. If, after everything that they have been through, will this break what they have? Because this is the one thing he needs to know if he's to live, not exist; if he's to love, not obsess; and if it's true that there's happiness.
"Why did you stop me from making them?" Upon confusion, he elaborates. "With Horcruxes." He's picking at the thin line of his nails, but he's not looking at where he is. He's looking at Harry and his reaction: he's searching for any tension or any fear along his body while Harry lays there like a starfish under the scrutiny of a seagull. "If I had some, there'd be nothing for me to worry. There won't be anything — "
He's cut off when Harry mumbles, "You have me."
It's like he's speaking about the weather when this is anything but that, as if pointing out how hot it is after stumbling upon murder or to a confession about a future one where he himself will be the victim.
It's like he's crouching in front of Tom while the other's coiled upon himself, unable to look at him while Harry meets him at eye-level. And while as patient as he's not, he waits for Tom to grow comfortable because it hasn't been that long ago since Harry's sat here within his shoes — he wants to be there when the other's ready and that he's not weak for being vulnerable.
It's like he's looking into a mirror and sees exactly what Tom sees; but instead of rejecting what he finds, he's stepping in to be reflected. So that gazing back is a person brimmed with warmth and exasperation and that there's a smile he could call his own when Tom finds it just for him. And that there's a joy tugging his lips and is coaxing him to grin, until quirking is a smile — a half-smile and that's enough. As it's lifted and pointed rightly to the Gryffindor right beside him, the demons that he saw would never hurt him ever again. But they would linger at the fringes to remind him who he could've been and would often whisper in the darkness that he'll lose all of this. That this life, that this love, and that this man will surely leave him if Tom stumbles along the way and confesses he's not okay.
That he has these urges every now and then where he feels like a different person, like a viper masquerading and that one day, he'll… he'll be dangerous.
And it might be nonsense for him to think this or believe he'll hurt the man he loves, that he might one day be the reason why Harry's missed by the entire world, it's a fear and it's irrational and it's real within his heart — Tom is nothing but human when he admits this to himself, and he's staring right at Harry who's now rolling onto his back.
Not to sit up, but he's on his elbows and he's propped against his side. And he's never looked quite as earnest as he does now — at that moment, that Tom falters to his hands because they're familiar for him to look at. And they're neither clenched nor strained or etched with any tension: one of them fiddles at a string that's fraying from one of the blankets while the other saunters up to rest firmly at Harry's chest.
The same hand he first shook when they met each other at Hogwarts, the same hand that held his own when he discovered why he was different, the same hand that found him and brought him along for adventures, the same hand that wanted his and had clutched his since forever, and the same hand that had asked him if he wanted to be a Potter, if he wanted a new name because Tom hated his last one, and if he wanted a clean slate where he could be entirely his own person — that same hand furrowed slightly as Harry breathed in-and-out. That same hand looked so heavy, but Tom knows it to be light.
Because he's held it for many nights, glued tightly to his person: it has the power to raise the oceans and to turn the earth into something new, but it's this same hand that's always gentle and wants to part him with some strength. It might be the very hand of the sun because Harry personifies it.
"There's a part of you alive inside me — " His fingers splash above his heart. " — and you'll live as long as I think I will." Harry finds him. "You're safe with me."
.
.
.
"I think one of the best things in the entire world is when you find someone who really gets you. Someone who knows you at your most vulnerable and has you thriving like a wild thing — like a dandelion never plucked as you brace the wind with where it takes you, bending slightly because you want to and you're letting go what you don't need."