An hour is to a minute, as a minute is to a second — but what's different between the endpoints is that a second will come first. And that its arrival could rival the length of any hour, though fleeting in its measure if you were to count its only step.
When it waltzed from eleven and then ticked a bit to twelve: no closer to that latter, but the intent was already there. With chamomile in a teapot and two mugs along the counter, dressings and a teaspoon were laid out for the stirrer.
As he waited near the sink and hummed a merry tune, with the words in his mind but nowhere near his tongue, while crossed above an apron until he settled these behind. His hands tapping at the underside of some hardwood and metal as a rhythm for him to latch to tick tick -ed throughout the kitchen. While he hummed and he smiled and it was no wider than a grin, but wide enough to light him up and to have him bouncing with where he stands.
With a concert inside his body as he's counting down the seconds: where at seven and a half minutes, the show will then begin. And he has a ticket for the front row and it's stowed behind a pocket. And with a click from his tongue, it soars to his fingertips.
When hanging like a quaver near the tops of every note, like a bonnet to the 'C' s and the 'A' s and the 'B' s and the 'G' s and then the 'E' s for good measure as this was ready.
When faint turned to yellow and not brown or that of gold, just enough to bear a flavor as he cradled the lovely brew. When vanished were the flowers upon the wave of holly wood, halting any seepage that could bitter the apple notes or the crisp, autumn summer he could fashion from his nose.
When he lifted the teapot and thought of an August while at home, threaded between the fingers and the hands of whom he loved while they rummaged through his hair. Lazily and with a book — searching for nothing and nothing for they had everything right here.
In the shape of a 'Potter' and 'My fumby little git' and 'James' if they were snappish and in return, they'd hear a laugh.
Both boisterous but gentle when it cascaded from his lips, when he nuzzled into the hands that couldn't stray from his head. And they would curl so he wouldn't move and so he would tease the love behind him. Until the book or the novel or the story that distracted them was left behind — on the armest or tented above the couch.
Abandoned for what they found was more interesting than this tell because their husband was a show that they loved to figure out. And who could blame them for doing that when their partner was this man: this ordinarily casual, and messy little fit — who could twist, who could turn, who could cinch them with a grin. And leave them hanging on a rope made of ties and their own hands because a grin was an appetizer for all the things that have yet to come. And they would come and they do come if you could snag his slanted mouth, if you could slant it against your own and become a character in this tale.
And he's fond of that memory as he's tasting what he smells — when he had poured it into a saucer and stirred without sugar. And then swishes and swallows when he ventures if he did this right or if this could've been better if he had steeped to a certain time.
When he creased his own brows and nibbled at the saucer, chasing for any tell he might've missed from earlier.
But there's none. It's perfect.
It's sweet and it's mild. And with just a hint of nuttiness before it fades into the background. And it doesn't overstay or intrude upon its welcome — unless you want it, then there's honey you can dab into the beverage. And three turns should do it while it's warm under stasis, while it's housed in a mug that's Muggle-y apparent.
Because there's writing on the ceramic and it's in a faded red sharpie, with 'boyfriend' crossed out with what looked like 'Mr. Potter,' so that the message would now read: "I'm the best Mr. Potter!"
And in smaller, redder words: "the bloke next to me is neat too"
And along the handle, he could read, "your adorable" in green sharpie.
Before a red apostrophe and a rambunctious little 'e' fought their way into the message like a call for rivalry.
Mocking, playful, and a jab if it could be since a Slytherin wrote those in and since this was his drink. While his Gryffindor at heart couldn't help but laugh at this when he traced it with his thumb before mapping the entire rim. Because maybe, it was on purpose that even now, he could read this.
That this handle was still legible and that these words and their additions were as crisp as an apple, about as bright as their marriage, as young as they felt despite the aches when they shimmied, and as charming as a 'Harry' if he caught it in the morning — if he was wide-awake and basking, but pretending to be asleep; wanting to stay here a little longer while cozied within the sheets.
Because Theo had rolled over and he was holding him to his being: as if Harry was a mug full of rich, dark coffee that Theo could only finish while he had him — just like this. With his arms wrapped around him, with his chin at Harry's back, with his thigh coming to squeeze him and with his hair at Harry's neck. And like an insect rolling over to keep his softness ever-safe, and that softness included Harry when Theo hugged him with all he had. And that softness was extraordinary when Harry turned to kiss him back, meeting the pawprints of Theo's breaths and every second spanned before them.
As if slowing and slowing down so that this moment could last forever: as there was cinnamon and coffee and a fruity tea blend, mint and butterbeer and champagne with every pass. That would froth them like the flavors and the beverages they would have, and every pop and little bubble tasted better when they were a pair.
Two glasses, two mugs, or two saucers for a drink — before and after every mood and every single, little thing.
That when they parted just to breathe, or in Harry's case, to admire: it felt like the credits to a movie you'd rewatch soon after and with every pass, you'd fall in love with the story and the characters. Even though you already knew them, there was still more for you to figure because the best stories of our time — or 'distractions' Theo would call them when he struggled with leaving the bed because he was snuggled into the pillows by the kitten on his chest — are those we can't get enough of.
Are those we'd want to learn from and wear down their spines, that you could flop it to any page and find exactly what touched your heart.
The good, the bad, the tedious, the exciting, the challenge, the honor, the valley, the ascent: both could taste these right here when they settled to their pages, thumbing at the phrases as morning turned to noon. And then again — while at night: after a delicious bit of dinner and after rounding on each other with a playful game of words to see who could guess what while they shared some fried rice.
And after topping his own mug with a stronger tea drink — having steeped it for far longer until it reminded him of Theo's mane; of that beautiful, dirty gold he would messy just for him — Harry brought this and Theo's own as he tiptoed to the living room.
Because the latter was asleep and he was snuggled to the cushions, sprawled out in all his glory and with the Daily Prophet as his cover. But it didn't cover his assets or his legs for that matter: these were thrown to the wilds and left to be disturbed. Because the joke columns he had around him couldn't be bothered to laugh at this so as his husband and his partner and his accomplice in that of crime — of the sweetest, most funny and the ticklish kind of fines — Harry smiled and then he grinned. And then he laughed with just his hands, coming to shake Theo at his foot to try to wake him from his bed.
But he's sleeping like a kneazle with no regard to all the world: not a stir from his lashes, from his breaths, or from his lips; not a twitch from his fingers, from his toes, or from his legs. He was immune to any action — if not a kiss near his lips. But there was something more pressing that Harry wanted to do instead.
He crouched low and to his knees once the mugs were in the air, floating there by magic and kept there with intent. Because almost falling into Theo's mouth were the entirety of his spectacles and that the arms were clinging onto bare stubble at this point.
Having slid from his ears and down the sides of his head, the fingertips of the plastic were grasping at his skin and were at the mercy of every snore that threatened to shake them. That a shudder and another could pull them over and they would fall.
If Harry hadn't caught one of the arms with his fingers and hadn't pulled this and the rest of it out of the way and out of harm. And then setting them where they were, along the edges of Theo's nose, pushing in with his middle while he guided with a palm.
Adjusting as he went and going slowly as he did, running his hands down the lengths and feeling if they were caught. Before he brushed at Theo's hair and toyed the strands behind his ears, and then he had a handful of Theo's face weighing him softly right here.
Still puffy from all the rice and the spices they had for dinner that you couldn't blame Harry if he squished him or if he nuzzled with his fingers all the places he'd roam again and all the spots where he would kiss him. Like his jawline or his chin or the weak mustache he was growing, like his nose or his freckles or the laughter near his eyes.
Etched there from all the years of amusement and surprises.
How, for instance: like right now, they're deepening their trenches and are sprawling past the lenses and the border of his spectacles.
As he wakes and as he stirs, as if awoken by Harry's touch and the delay to him doing so could be explained by a food coma. Or if Harry were to say it, he would've whispered, "Food Con Ma."
Accentuating the syllables with a husk from his breath, making it fitting for the ghost of all the food that they had. And once beguiled by the plenty, it would prompt you to want to nap. And the haziness in Theo's eyes and the darkening of his pupils made his greens look like forests when he looked into Harry's meadows. And he scrunched with his nose and his spectacles fell a little, and he looked more and more like a kneazle while cradled in Harry's palms.
And quite frankly, too adorable so Harry nudged for him to sit up. And he helped him with an arm wrapped softly around his middle and trailed his wand down his apron so that now, it'd a blanket.
Tucked gently to Theo's person when the Daily Prophet was swept away, and the mugs right above them knew their cue and sauntered down. With Harry's own within his grip while Theo's mug found his head. As it landed in the canopy of ashy blond and messy hair, keeping him upright while he was sleepy until he grabbed this and had a drink. And he murmured while he did so and congratulated his prince — for fighting dragons and a sorceress and arousing him from the couch.
He waved his hand at the mere notion that a kettle wasn't dangerous, or that time wasn't shilling a single sickle of their thoughts, or that he still wasn't awake while sloshing his own drink. And that this had nothing for caffeine, but Theo tossed it like it did. And this was nothing but a distraction when he leaned into his husband, finding a shoulder for him to ponder and to nip at one of his dreams.
Because it was the last thing he ever saw before he blinked and found Harry, and it was such a curious little thing because it felt real when he was in it.
That they were dancing and yes, they did! — 'good and proper,' Theo added; as if the phrase on its own didn't allude to certain clubs that neither of them have bumped in since the early 2000's — and that they were doing one-two-threes, two-two-threes, three-two-threes in the living room.
Just around and around and creaking with the floorboards, and then a tangent when Theo huffed and muttered brightly about the dancing. That even in his own dreams, his toes were still hurting. But he didn't care because he was happy and Harry had mentioned he had taken lessons. And that in the dream, Theo bought it and would twist Harry to the right of him — sidestepping from the feet that would somehow, still crush him. And it tickled him to retell it because it felt like reality, as he cuddled to Harry's person and Harry nuzzled to his cheek.
Pressing him with a promise of better dancing if he could help it and that maybe, he'll take lessons so that one day, they could reenact it. And that Theo could crush him if he wanted to, in which the latter bit his mug.
Trying to stifle his own laughter. But really, he was touched.