New Year's had come and gone in the only way it knew how: in promises, goals, secrets and vows. That what tied these to a needle and stitched them to a scarf, or any other little present from the holidays you might've got, was a question with an answer in which the answer wasn't simple. And yet it was if you were honest and were willing to admit it. Because most would lie — undoubtedly — if they were asked, "What makes you happy?"
That the lies were synonymous to the fastenings of a cloak, the buttonings of a coat, the donnings of a beanie or pair of mittens or a scarf, and the castings of Focillo or a stronger warming charm. Because it felt better to bear with this than to bare what you knew was real.
That coincidence or maybe not, it was why he always forgot his scarf. Why his buttons were loosely done so at any moment, they would rip. Or why he'd tap both his hands, then his shoulders and his neck with a mild cooling charm so he'd shiver on command.
Or why he'd wear a single-layer when those around them wore three because the highs that very evening were at the threshold above freezing. Then the wind made it better; t was like London was Antarctica. And it took everything within his power to not think on it while he moved, while he chattered through a smile that was nothing but real.
Because there was Harry like a penguin — and he waddled with delight! — as he and Tom had ventured out from The Laughing Heart with lighter wallets. But did it matter? No, it didn't. Maybe the wine had done him in.
Tom was heavy from all the laughter, the love and all the food he helped himself and was tucked into when Harry burrowed into his knee, bumping like a tease and was sweeter than the Saskia Von Horst they had with dinner. Or the crème caramel, wobbling at their notice when he took a bite and Harry, too. And when Harry licked his silver spoon, he nudged him with his foot. And there was humor in his eyes, glistening when Tom remembered he had to swallow his own bite.
Because there was Harry like a seal — and the quidditch of his laughter soared above the world of slick, cobbled paths — when he'd gaze and caught the lights flickering above their heads. Like the breadcrumbs in a fairytale as they sauntered without haste, on their way to a witch's house or a wizard's if they couldn't wait. Because it was cold and Grimmauld Place was an apparition and word away, but it was far more romantic and stubborn just to walk there.
And pretend they weren't wizards. Pretend they were muggles. And pretend the cold wasn't a bother because Harry had him and he was warm enough.
He was a furnace, a bonfire and a mug of chocolate — all at once — that it was easier to hold his hand than to finger through his pockets for his wand or a mitten Harry lost inside his coat. It was easier to lean him in than to shudder without him there, and it was easier to pretend for just this once, he was ordinary.
When the word itself was an oxymoron when Tom paired it to himself, yet it didn't hurt and never would because with Harry, that was who he was.
Ordinary was being in love with someone who made you weak, without it turning into a weakness but a strength you could draw from. That like a fire to a moth or a moth to a fire, Tom could touch where he wanted and know that Harry could never burn him.
Because the fear of it was outweighed by what he reveled, what he craved, what he reached for, and what he saved when he wandered to Harry's palm. And then he swallowed it around his own.
And because there was Harry like a deer, or a stag as he preened and bumped him on the shoulder when Tom hissed he was a fiend. The crown of antlers — Harry's hair — was dusted with icicles that every movement, every bump and every rub made an avalanche. As if Harry was a baker with a sieve full of sugar, but what rained was even sweeter than the taste of that when he caught this. Caught the laughter, the giggles, the hitches in his breaths and the wobbles of a disaster more handsome than himself.
His entire shoulder and his arm were coated in sandy frost that Tom could trace the path he took when Harry snuggled to where he wanted. Before the wind came and found them and dashed like a hound riled to its teeth with a summer, balmy heat. Ensnared. Crazy. Gnawing at their skin. Scratching in-between them. Wild. Loving.
That if Harry hadn't squished him to the furnace of his being, Tom would wonder why he was doing this — braving winter when he didn't have to? But if he had his scarf, tight buttons, the forgotten half of Harry's mitten, four or so layers wrapped upon him and Focillo at where it hurt, how would he know that he was the happiest and maybe, the luckiest man alive?
That everything he'd ever done was to have him by his side; and even further, deeper and lower than he thought, that everything he'd always wanted and would strive for was through him. To see him smile, roll his eyes or conjecture about the future when Tom was sure of something with all his logic, and Harry would ask him what about his mind? What about his heart, his soul and his happiness behind the goal?
And Tom was anything but a liar when Harry delved into those words. He was anything but a cunning and distant young man when he shivered and Harry could feel it through the layers of wool and cotton, like a continent in-between them before Harry shrugged them off. But the only thing that could fit Tom was the sunset of Harry's scarf.
The wooly and unruly anaconda around his neck was warmer and sweeter than anything he'd ever felt. It smelled of honey, vanilla and roasted pecans and wore the late summer evenings of Harry's breath and his warmth.
Harry bundled it around his neck and tucked it in like a kneazle, kneading it to his collar so not an inch of him was uncovered. And he was grinning like a fool because Tom was drowning in the fabric — willingly, lovingly, wholeheartedly and with his own. And it was hidden behind the colors before Harry dug it out; he tugged with a fervor about a minute from a simmer and caught a wry, little both endearing and near a chuckle.
And the heat of it and Tom's whispers of mischievous gratitude were his only warnings before he bumped him. Before he sauntered to Harry's forehead, nosed to where he wanted and huffed at his hair because he could, and what could stop him? Like a deer in his behavior, blowing icicles from his love and watching how they crumbled while Harry huffed him right back. And he did so on his tippy toes with a squinted, little glare that was anything but annoyed with how fond it looked to him.
That Tom huffed him back, but from a distance this time, and then he snuggled to Harry's scarf — like at any moment, it'd been taken. But it wouldn't, though Harry humored him: he'd pretend that he was cold, and Tom would snip that he wasn't. And Harry would ask him how he knew.
Tom would mutter that it was easy. And then the answer was forgotten as soon as he bolted down the street like a six-year-old at Christmas. Wind whipping through his hair and Harry's scarf as he escaped, digging all the colors you couldn't find until he blushed. While Harry shouted to the moon that Tom was the epitome of evil before he apparated with a crack and apprehended his silly snake. Catching him with an 'oof!' and a pair of arms you couldn't shake from. Unless you wanted to endure the wrath of a Potter — no, a hugger — and learn exactly what would happen if you tried to wringle your way out of it.
And if Tom were nothing but an honest — saintly — kind of human, he'd admit he stumbled in because in good faith, he couldn't dodge it. Not when Harry had him like this, not when Harry loved him so: Tom was hoisted like a sack full of presents in Harry's arms. And Harry looked to him as a star or as a sprout of mistletoe; Tom looked at him like he was trouble and serendipity in the same gaze.
Because his only goal, if you asked him and had he wanted it known aloud, was to be Harry's weakness and his strength. Just as Harry were his own. And maybe, he already did it when Harry grinned. "What will I do with you?"