With a mustache made of milk, foam and that of honey, you could imagine what a sight Harry was for his husband. And how he glistened when he caught it, putting a foot down from his knee after it lounged there for hours while he spoke with Harry. And how he rented the front half of this chair he was sitting in, leaning farther in and with his elbows dropped down to his lap. And how his tiptoes bore the weight and the shifting of his person: Tom looked at him through the curtains, through the sliding part of his hair, and there was that glint of adoration that made him a sight to Harry's stare.
When he glanced up from the chocolate and the mug he'd been sipping — and while blinder than a skrewt, it didn't mean he couldn't catch this.
Because he could feel it, like a knuckle caressing down his face and pausing halfway from his nose to where his mouth would then begin, so it could trace every bubble and the outline of his 'stache. Committing it to memory before inevitably, it was licked when Harry swathed it with a pass and left remnants of chocolate. That — in hindsight — were distracting and they pronounced his upper lip so that even in the darkness, with only a lamp and faerie lights hung about on the walls like pressed autumn leaves, Tom could still spot it.
It helped a lot that his distance was no farther than a metre and that he had leaned in, was on his lap and was enamored by his husband.
Quintessentially, he was a portrait of a loving, loving man who came to study every brushstroke and all the colors to this landscape: of Harry beneath the covers and swaddled to their bed, cozied to the pillows and with hot chocolate in his hands, and how the richness of the honey and the blend of whole milk coated the outskirts of his smile and how — still — he was beautiful.
Even though he was stuffy, feverish and cold, chattering around his mug and holding it dear and close — Harry was as tender and as sweet as the first day he'd ever met him. And if Tom could close his eyes and simply focus on Harry's voice, there was still the music and the rhythm and the timbres he'd fallen for. Peppered with little wheezes and the whirls of laughter that would tinker and clink and echo from those lips when Harry asked him, "What are you looking at?"
And Tom deliberated on 'you', with a sprinkling of 'us' — and like the honey to the milk and to the chocolate in that mug, there were stirred around and around until they smelled like a wedding, there was 'this' and there was 'that' when Tom motioned with his thumb that there was milk on Harry's face. And though he couldn't touch or wipe it away, he mirrored it on his own lips and watched as Harry's were cleaned. As if something like magic had willed for that to happen and it was magic — they were wizards though they didn't act like it at times
Because if one was with the other or vice versa — it didn't matter — there were times where they forgot that spells were their repertoire.
That spells could be an extension of their physical manifest: that though it was nothing like a hand coming to wipe the other's mouth, nothing like the arms that one of them could've been lost in and nothing like a forehead meeting the crown of the other's thoughts, it was still something and it was needed during this uncertain time.
With Harry ill and weakened and without much of an appetite, this was one way for him to stay and to be close to him when he couldn't do so. When there needed to be distance so that Tom wouldn't catch this and though he should've left hours ago, he was here and Harry noticed.
It was hard not to when they were talking. And steadily throughout the evening, neither found a stopping point because the mug was never empty, which meant Tom didn't have to leave. And when it should've, it didn't happen because it refilled on its own. A silent Fylla had found its way into his mug and as he drank, the hot chocolate would kiss him with its warmth. Until Harry pulled away with another thought he wanted to say. And earlier, he had said it and was waiting for a trumpet or the bells of Tom's words as he softened with the faerie lights.
"I don't know," he admitted and that was the closest to the truth. He rose slightly from his knees and then eased into his chair, fingers knitted like a seam holding fabric together. Just waiting for a tailor to tug the whole thing — all at once; but not yet and not now. "Perhaps, you could help me."
"You could accio your glasses, you could — " A conversation then started and this tangent lasted minutes, compared to the hours that were fished. And it was more than enough time for Harry to finish his mug again and to hold it loosely while he gestured in one of their other, little chains. And gradually, he settled down and had this perched along his thigh when it grew heavy with more milk, honey and that of chocolate.
Steam rose to his nose and leaned into him like a forehead, bumping lightly against his own when Tom nodded and listened, leaning in as he did and flowing with the conversation. And every now and then, glancing up to see that Harry was still awake as he grew quieter, softer and wasn't drinking as much chocolate. That before he sank into the pillows and nearly drowned from his beverage, Tom retrieved it from his hands and held him briefly before he parted.
He squeezed Harry in a promise that he'd come back before he woke up.