Harry loved it, not in secret nor in the shadows of his soul. He loved this like a vow: quiet and open. An admission, if you heard it, for it rang a single truth as there was nothing he would've asked for when it was salt against a wound.
Licking where it hurt, or where he wanted to be hurt, because behind him the whole of him and the whole of this had found him. As if Harry were the salt it couldn't ignore within the forest, as if he were the lick it ought to wear to feel completed, as if this were a deer and not a serpent or a human, and as if these were not the hugs, the squeezes, the care of one man to another while the first was still asleep.
Because what stung him, bruised him and had him aching when he felt it was the way Tom had wandered and collided into his person. Like a wave and relentless — and oh, so consuming — yet none of this you would've noticed unless you were somewhere in Harry's shoes.
Rocking left to right before you felt this overcoat, before you felt just how wintered the kitchen was without your love, you over-easied a pan of eggs and made another for today. And here they simmered on the stove: crackling like a fire, bubbling without butter and prodding with none other than the glances of a spoon. And a wooden one as you moved — then skirted around the whites — until mirrored within your eyes were three easies in bloom.
And then he caught you before you noticed; you didn't hear him from behind. Then he stole you like a thief, no — he brought you to his heart. Then you felt him like a promise and he hugged you like a deed, and then the weight of him was the world and his love was gravity — that nothing could exist, could survive within his eyes, unless you were the reason why he was gentle by your side.
Because he hissed like a baby, having found his teddy bear when during the night, separation had lured you and it wasn't fair. And now he had you, he couldn't leave; he couldn't part in honesty. Both amused and intrigued, and then vaguely disappointed that your thoughts were not on he until he wrapped you in his being. With all his heart, with all his soul and his entirety upon the balance. But never fret and never fear; the man behind you was forgiving.
That Harry slouched. Not in forfeit, surrender or judgment. He slouched and shimmied back so that Tom could engulf him.
From his waist, then the stairwell, and then the balconies of his back — his shoulders to his neck, and then the curtain of his hair — Tom leaned into Harry with everything that he had. Until chest behind his back, then his sternum and his ribs met the rivulets and the contours and the shape of Harry then, every heartbeat and every breath seemed to call to him like music. Because they rippled through his body from all the echoes he could feel: ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump said the rhythm, wisps and then a wheeze were what he heard at Harry's neck.
And then something he couldn't tell, but knew this like himself, came together with all the pieces for a performance of a lifetime.
That Tom, you would find him along the fissures near Harry's neck: pillowed by a shoulder and caressed to his cheek with a heat he couldn't ignore — had he wanted, but he wouldn't. And his hands sought for Harry's, or maybe not at all, when he sauntered to his stomach and there above it and to his heart. Crawling farther and farther up once they vanished at his shirt, riding higher and higher and higher until he stopped.
Because his Harry wasn't tall and the latter insisted with a bump, whispering it'd be dangerous to cook shirtless — wouldn't you agree?
But no, it wouldn't be. Not with Tom holding Harry: his arms were a shield and his magic was ready, and his payment was only this — Harry's love and his safety.
He could sift this out of Harry and protect him before breakfast because this was easy, and so easy that Tom could do this while half-asleep. While he purred like a kneazle and snuggled further into his skin, he was a serpent in a tree whilst Harry became the sun. Because these touches, patches and squeezes of heat warmed his instincts, his muscles and everywhere he might've ached. Until he was gooey down the centre and melting on Harry's limbs, becoming more and more man while snake-y in his actions.
That like a hognose, Tom burrowed until he was housed within the fond of Harry's bones and his blood and the softness of who he was. That he looked so adorable, dangerous and like trouble because he was Harry's only struggle — his distraction in burning eggs.
That Harry, he was soft but not-so to troublemakers, he reached for his wand and waved a stasis on the stove. Not to save the other's breakfast, but so it wouldn't turn to coal. Because if he were in a game and in Tom's for that matter, only he should be the victim and its only causality.
It was only fair when no one else could toe with Tom when he was like this, and every part of him couldn't help it — he had to smile when the tables turned. Because if attention was what he wanted, if love was what he sought, then Tom would have to prove it and show Harry just how much. Because it had been a while since Tom had asked if he could hold, have and kiss him — just to prove he was enough and there was none other, but only him.
And to hear, taste and feel that would send a shiver down his spine because it was one thing to have known it, and yet another to be affirmed that none of this was for granted. That all of this were his own: that Tom and his soul and his time and who he was were Harry's, just as Harry's were what the other was holding now. And doing so — so reverently, so gently and full of love — full of care and ambition that there was nothing he'd rather do.
It was a promise to Harry's mole, part of a greater constellation that Tom could trace with his eyes and his hands and his mouth. A pledge that in breaths were impossible to forget because the only way it would ever happen was if he were facing Death. And as an oath, not a secret nor anything short-lived, for Harry was anything but a skeleton or a ghost within the cupboard.
Just as Tom was anything but a surprise to make things work: he curled a little deeper, a little harder into his love, and then found it easy to open up and slant his eyes farther on. Until he caught how the firelight emanating from their stove was as perfect as the sunset or the sunrise within his eyes. Because the purple and the blue and the orange and the red were scattered like the stars, or phantom tangled threads, painting Harry like a portrait and he was beautiful.
He was handsome, he looked rugged and just as gentle, and he was totally unaware that Tom was staring at his visage. Or that he woke up and had tilted, smooshing further into his shoulder, somewhat narrowed yet amused that something else had his attention.
That he glanced — there were eggs and there were three, to be precise; they were shuffled around the pan as Harry babied their little bottoms — and Tom would bristle if you called him jealous, but he wasn't exactly wide-awake.
The rationale, persuasion, everything human was still asleep.
Though bits, here and there, were rousing from the deep as Tom's baser, simpler, some would call them quite snake-y — his instincts unraveled as a hood behind a cobra, threatened beyond belief by what he viewed as an enemy. That he growled from Harry's shoulder and if hearing it wasn't enough, it reverberated like an earthquake down the spire of his partner. And every hiss was a threat, low enough to make a point. Then low enough so his partner couldn't figure what he'd meant.
And perhaps, Parselmagic would've set the eggs ablaze.
But the feat never happened: it didn't have to for Harry to notice that his snake-y, grumpy and hissing-lovin' partner was about to wage war on his behalf until he did this. Until he backed a little farther so that Tom was leaning in, almost halfway to a deadweight while slumped on Harry then, and this acknowledgment had him curl even closer to Harry's neck.
Then the cobra from earlier became as harmless as a python, like a balled variety small enough to fill your hands. And that was Tom within a nutshell when he snuggled where he wanted, when he hissed Harry's name and dug right below his chin, bumping with every shake like there were antlers on his head. Tempting Harry to look down so that they could interlock, persuading for him to follow from the pan to him then. Because wasn't this more exciting, more delicious than three eggs?
The sight of him, gazing up. Him ruffling at Harry's stubble. Every pass and every rub of his hair at Harry's throat, appealing to his instincts and his penchant for a challenge. That his attention, his thoughts and his morning were on Tom — and yet, Harry never looked.
He saw through him and to the stove, still bumping around the eggs that, now he noticed, were in stasis. And Harry's only acknowledgment was when he leaned on him then: resting lightly beside him here, tilting down for a kiss, bumping where he wanted so that Tom could feel him there. Whispering in a language he knew the other couldn't taste, but the words were familiar. Tom could trace them with his lips and know the weight of sincerity and how deep it would run when every word behind his ear, when every word had kissed him here.
And maybe: they were curses, or charms if he had to guess, because he thought of nothing but the sound of Harry's mirth and amusement. His delight and enjoyment, his pleasure and joy, and every other synonym during this quaint, early morn'.
Tom didn't know Vietnamese, but he was learning for this man — just as Harry learned his hisses and his growls in Parseltongue. So at any moment, he'd understand the weight of the world on his tongue and how Tom caught the moments that even English couldn't jest. When there were no words for 'Harry,' or how exactly he felt for him. When there were no words for 'I do,' or how much he wanted him. When there were no words for 'I know you,' for 'You know me,' for 'I love you,' or any other little phrase he couldn't say while in English.
Because the language of the snakes made it easy to hide behind.
But when Harry — when he called him, and Tom knew this without a doubt, though the words were very fuzzy he recognized the fondness — hissed endearments that he was funny, that he was gold and so precious, that he would tease him about this later once he was finally wide-awake, Tom held him even tighter and was like a needle to Harry's threads. Cinching closer and closer to the wonders at his chest, that there were a few things he'd give up just to live here and here forever. And all of them were Harry's for as long as he had known him.
But there was one thing that he hadn't, and it took some prompting for him to notice. Or better yet, he'd given it, but it'd been so long since Harry heard it. That he was quiet, yet indulging when he bumped him with his nose. And finally, he looked at Tom like he was trouble, a distraction, an addiction if he admitted it, and someone he wouldn't trade.
And Harry looked at him like he was pieces of a grand complication: it was not a glimpse nor the eyeing from the corners of a gaze, but direct in every way that for the first time, he felt seen. And to have that was everything: Tom couldn't dart away.
So he held it from the margins of a casual little glance, peeking through the brambles of Harry's stubble and his hair.
Like a snake within the antlers of a round, gentle stag when the latter tore the branches of a red oak or cedar tree. And instead of falling for a doe, or several within the year, it would fight and court a snake from any other predator. Because even it had its fangs: even it wore the scales of something cunning, ruthless, dangerous yet kind. And even the snake could be warm-blooded, even the snake could be soft, once it noticed how a king would surrender at its feet and become the knight it never asked for, but the knight it'd always need.
And now it realized just how much, just how gentle it had changed, as through the crown and to its partner, it met the eyes of its future.
That Tom, he narrowed slightly — that Tom, he had to grin — as the rest of him came awake, and there was this glory surrounding him. Like a veil, a crown, or something sweeter than that sound of him breathing and his heartbeats and how they rippled throughout Harry. Nudging at the shoreline of all his senses and his spine, Harry slouched a little more and then, he cozied without a thought. Warm from every angle, consumed like a soup, as Tom took the pleasure to truly savor who he held.
He nuzzled, he squeezed and never once, lost sight of him. Then he flicked like he would and met the velvet, sweet tang of three eggs bound in magic and said magic hugging him. Like a blanket or a fleece or preservation as he pleased, as if time would never tick unless Tom had done something.
But vulnerability wasn't easy — and to say so, even more — unless stakes were well-involved, and Tom was nothing but a saint.
He raised a single brow and in turn, Harry smiled. Like it was something of a hint before he flicked the charm away, and then he was at it with the spoon and the three cooking eggs. And then the crackling, bubbling and prodding came again, and they tingled like a waltz in this old, cozy kitchen — between them both once they settled, much like salt where it hurts.
Just enough for you to notice, just enough to fill your head, and enough until you knew where exactly on you then, you lacked something and there was something right in front of you that could mend that. Had it wanted because it could and yet sometimes, it was selfish. But so were you, though you were giving and were open to where it hurt.
You didn't have to, but you wanted to — it made it easy to tame the beast. And said animal was in a corner when you fixed him and in glee, and he smirked like he was wild.
But you knew — and so did he — that he was nothing but domestic. And more malleable than the earth when he parted from your neck and perused you with honor: never once did he dart, run or look away before you followed him to your shoulder and stifled a little grin. And once there, you straightened up and weren't crowded by this snake. Because while Tom had his height, Harry had his strength.
Every stairwell to his spine and the hangers of his shoulders were steady, sturdy, and unyielding to his partner. Unless Tom could say it then, say the words he wanted to hear and maybe, then he'd slouch and carry the weight of him upon his back. And maybe feed him an over-easy before they wandered to the couch — forget breakfast and coffee, tea and the paper; they could cuddle each other and know nothing about hunger for they fed, and it was proper and they found it at the heart.
But Tom wouldn't budge: he was stubborn and Harry liked it, that he had no choice but to trick him as any Potter would want to do.
Let him think there was no chance, there were no odds of him losing; then poke him at his softest — watch him crumble like a stone. And have him tender, open, flat within his arms — with no one else, but only Harry, to catch him before he fell. And then Tom: he'd be whole, he'd be strong, he'd be bold, he'd be treasured, he'd be loved, he'd be conquered, adored and resurrected within his arms.
Because to have him as he were was Harry's deal against the Devil: he was no saint nor believer, but he knew what Tom needed.
And what he needed was to settle and to realize it was okay: it was okay to be weak, vulnerable and without a fight. It was okay to wear his heart and share it through his tongue. It was okay to say the words he would frequently hide away from. Because those same words and every phrase mirrored what Harry had for him. And it was one thing to have known it, and another to hear it and another for them to fathom that those words, those phrases, and that fondness were genuine.
That this life they've lived together was not a secret born of shame, or past misdemeanors they ought to hide and never say, but a vow and a promise and an oath to one another. That this was real and at this point, there were few things to counter it. And Harry — this was selfish, but he wanted to hear it all; and maybe, selfish wasn't the word to pinpoint what this was, but it felt like it — caught the sunrise and beginning in the other's eyes when Tom sauntered up and read the wishes from Harry's sight. And then the sun soon eclipsed before it bathed the entire moment.
He didn't blink, but he scrunched and then he hid behind his man. Squinting through his hair and the fringes on his face, and only blinking when Harry leaned. When he breathed onto his lips, "Are you hungry?" and every letter, every pause, and every breath Tom could feel through the waters of Harry's fond inquisition were like nudges for him to open.
They were the nudges of a deer, clacking to the antlers of another they held dear. Knowing sooner and not later, they would lock with every branch. Inseparable like a promise and what a vow they would carry, that Tom whispered to Harry's lips once he settled and he was meek, "If you are."
It took him seconds to taste the laughter and the sweet, velvet honey of Harry's soft adoration when he kissed Tom, then again, then another because he could, and three more on his man. Until Tom wore the freckles of a flower in full-bloom, mirroring Harry's own and the constellations on his cheeks. And when they parted — he didn't want to, but Harry bit him on the lip, mumbling something about breakfast while Tom assured he was just fed — Harry gathered an over-easy and a rather plump, little egg and balanced it on the spoon and following were his hands.
One to catch it if it fell. One to steer to his man. And Tom took it like a gift and a blessing — all at once. Chewing while Harry watched and when he swallowed, Harry's stare crept down the stairwell and to the basement of his throat. And when he looked up, through the lashes of a needled-fern glance as if he were a serpent and you never noticed until now, you couldn't blame him when he smiled because Tom was wholly, deeply, unequivocally distracted.
Ensnared, should he say it, because Harry had him wanting more. Enthralled, should he mention, because his partner was wonderful. And enamored, should he tell him a few of the words within his heart, should he whisper the very ones that Harry had been waiting for, because he knew Harry could kill him just as easily as he wouldn't — because he knew Harry could lift him from any grave and bring him life. And he had done so for so long that Death didn't scare him; that at the end of their life, Tom could welcome it like a friend.
"My compliments to the chef," he breathed on Harry then. And every word was deliberate and every pause, a performance. And the way he unraveled and was raveled then again sent a quiver to his back when Harry held him to his chest.
"It's good," he might've said, but it was muffled by a gasp when the hands on his spine found the creases he really liked. Falling lower and coming down, Tom ascended at Harry's touch. "Salt and pepper?"
"Just for you."
But it sounded like, 'I love you.'
Then he felt something almost similar when Tom nuzzled at his head, mouthing along a scar that wound them to their hearts — that at some point, would've marked them as either hero or a villain. But that point didn't exist, not in this time or universe, when Harry booped him with a snort and Tom was a lucky, happy man.