"Mr Malfoy, will you wait right here? We'll just take your forms, and someone will be right out so you can tell them what you've come here for."
Draco looked around the waiting area, crossing his ankles so he would stop bouncing his knee. The walls were plastered with all sorts of very colourful images, ranging from sweet things like cartoon hearts and stunningly detailed flowers to worse things like cartoon naked women and horrifyingly detailed body parts that made Draco flush and look away quickly. He didn't really know how getting a Muggle tattoo would work– it wouldn't summon or move, that was for sure, but the process would also be different.
"Alright," he said, when he realized the buff, tattoo-covered guy was waiting for his confirmation.
"If you want to back out, now's always good," the buff guy said.
That was alright. If it hurt, it hurt. Draco was living in the Muggle world now, trying to stay away from all the Wizarding drama– the rebuilding had shown that there was still prejudice in the society (surprise surprise) and that it hadn't gone away overnight once the war was won, and he'd exploited Wizarding society's bigotry for a while.
Draco shook his head. He was done with this living nightmare on his arm, making his skin crawl every time he saw the inside of his own wrist. "I want to do this."
The society had taken a turn, though, with Granger bringing in new policies every day, Muggle tolerant ones, orphan support programs, Muggle Education initiatives, even though she wasn't even Minister.
Draco had to go, leave before his mere presence in society began to break apart his reputation.
Draco tapped his knee, pulling his sleeve up and forcing himself to look at the ugly black mark on his arm, faded and raised. He didn't touch it. He never did, except when he showered.
Muggle society was a fresh start in a way, or at least a side-step from where he was headed. He figured that if he went off and lived with Muggles for a while, he'd come back and people would forget what he'd done a bit, and then he could say I was living in the Muggle world, and certain people would look at him a second time, give him a second chance, maybe.
Who knew? Harry Potter was forgiving.
"Hello," said a very very familiar voice, and Draco almost bolted out the door– he would've, except he found he couldn't move. "I'm Harry. Can you tell me– Malfoy?"
"Potter," Draco returned dully. His mouth seemed to be the only thing he could move, and he still had his Mark out, for fuck's sake. He yanked his sleeve back down. "What are you doing here?"
That was a stupid question, he knew objectively, but it still felt like a valid one, because who in the universe thought that it was a good idea to have Harry Potter with his bright green eyes and his clunky round glasses and his gravity-defying black hair anywhere near Draco Malfoy?
What kind of stupid universe would do something like that to Draco, when Draco was honestly trying to better himself, to fix his past mistakes, to take the first step in showing people that actually, living with Muggles showed me they're the fucking same as us.
He was really going to try, he really was.
"I'm the guy," Potter said with his pretty lips, his throat moving with the words, "the tattoo guy? They sent me in because they said he looked nervous. I didn't think he'd be you."
"Well, it is," Draco said, his wit fleeing him as soon as Potter stepped closer, taking the seat beside him, his hand flexing like he was trying very hard not to be upset and throw something. Draco thought if Potter got upset and threw something he might cream his pants. "I'm not nervous, so you can leave."
"No, I mean. I do the tattoo, too, they just sent me in to do the people who are nervous," Potter explained, his forearm flexing as he put his hands on his knees and stood.
It was unfair that someone could wear a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off like that, or that anything anyone wore could show off someone's muscles like that. It was unfair that someone could have muscles like that. Who legalized it? Whoever it was ought to be taken off of all legislation immediately.
"Malfoy?"
Draco blinked– Potter had been talking in that deep voice of his, earnest and rich, and Draco had melted into it, thinking about Potter's arms and his shoulders– Merlin, his shoulders– without listening, really, to the words. "You were saying something?"
Potter clenched his fists tightly again. Since when had he even gotten fit? He'd been fit before, of course, but not this fit, and while scrawny had also been hot, this was. This was too much. Wouldn't the papers have picked up a story on Potter getting even more gorgeous at some point? Draco didn't scan the papers for Potter's name and face or anything, but he usually… noticed when a story on Potter was up. He even kept the articles! But only so he could know more about Potter, in order to know the best in order to revive his reputation in Wizarding Society, that's all.
"I asked if you would please follow me," Potter said, still in his voice. Draco supposed he didn't have any other voice, but still, he ought to have some consideration for anyone who might potentially be attracted to men in case they wanted a pillow for their lap or something.
"Sorry, just wondering whether getting this tattoo is worth spending time in your presence." Draco didn't know any other tattoo parlours, but he could find another, he was sure.
Even if he did want to go here, and maybe spend a few more moments with Potter, just this once, since it might be the only time in his entire pathetic life that he'd get a chance to have Potter all to himself, even if that time was spent letting Potter stab him with a needle.
Potter stared at him for a long moment, breathing deeply, his fists still clenched. Would he explode? Would Draco be able to handle himself if he did? Who knew? The world was full of mysteries.
"If you've decided," Potter began, pausing for Draco. Draco nodded and stood, following Potter, and Potter didn't finish his sentence. Draco wasn't sure if he was grateful– that fucking voice– or if he was disappointed– that fucking voice.
The room they made their way into was smaller, closer, less covered in ugly posters. It was obviously Potter's creative space– a picture of Hermione and Ron kissing on one wall, right next to a picture of the Golden Trio.
A long chain of still photographs depicting someone who had to be Potter's father and his friends looped around the entire room lazily against the wall. Potter's dad had the same wild hair, bright grin, Gryffindor-ness written all over him. He didn't have the same eyes. The apple hadn't fallen farther from the tree, but it sure had gotten a hell of a lot sweeter.
Not that Draco knew, though he'd probably give anything to know.
"May I see your design?"
Draco shouldn't have agreed to come. Why did he agree to come? He should've put on a big show of storming out. Anything but being right here, right now. He'd come because he… well.
Because Potter had been distracting him. This was Potter's fault.
Draco pulled the paper from his pocket, wondering why Potter wasn't commenting on his black jeans and his white button-down, which looked fine together, no-thanks for the no-compliment, Potter.
Possibly because nothing would ever hold a candle to Potter's sleeves-chopped-off black T-shirt and his black joggers, like he'd rolled right out of bed into work, without combing his hair or anything and looked like that. And now Draco was imagining Potter in bed…
Merlin.
Draco took a deep breath, attempting to clear his mind, but all he got was a full breath of Potter's cologne, and was this what dying felt like? Potter had rolled out of bed, sprayed heaven all over himself, and then come to work, then.
"Malfoy." Potter, who had been half-professional, half a wet dream all day, now sounded professional, a wet dream, and also wary. "Is this a joke?"
He was holding up Draco's piece in his hands, open and sitting across from him so close, Draco couldn't breathe without getting more whiffs of Potter's cologne– not that he minded, but if Potter wanted people to answer his questions, he might consider toning down the sex factor a little, maybe shrink its huge, tangible presence down a bit so other people had space to think about something other than the way he sat with his legs a little open, or how their design was being held by possibly the most alluring hands to ever grace this earth.
They were large, calloused, a warm, light brown like the rest of Potter– that Draco could see, anyway. All the way up Potter's arm, a steady colour, like he always wore sleeveless tees.
"No," Draco said honestly, trying to sound offended and not entirely embarrassed and possibly a little bit randy (just a little bit). Potter asked with a commanding tone, like it was almost a demand, and wow, he really needed to stop. Like, existing. Immediately. "It is not a joke. How could it have been a joke if I didn't know you worked here? The joke would be on me if I got that for a joke. Literally."
He didn't think this was a very funny joke– the joke would be on me joke, not the joke Potter was suggesting. But Potter laughed a little bit, quick and short, like he was so surprised he'd laughed at all, it had shocked him silent before he finished laughing.
Potter's laugh was made of gold, Draco was sure of it. It was bright and shining, it was rich and full, it was genuine and oddly sweet for something coming from a person Draco wished would take him like an animal, although to be fair, his mouth looked very sweet too, and his laugh had come from his mouth. (Well, really his throat, but Draco didn't think he could go there without–)
"I'm serious Malfoy, what's your deal?" Potter was looking at him, and then at the paper in his hand. His gaze was electric, even if it was casual. Harry Potter looked for all the world like this was a normal day, and everything was completely fine, and Draco wasn't melting in his clothes. Draco thought perhaps this was a normal day for Potter– after all, Potter was normally this hot; maybe he'd gotten used to it. He wasn't sure, though. He didn't think anyone could really get used to this much attractiveness, even if it was on themselves, and Potter should know to keep those fucking eyes to himself.
"I want to cover the Dark Mark," Draco said, and then, afraid he sounded too civil, he added, "Obviously."
"Yes, I know where you want it to go, Malfoy, I'm talking about this," Potter said impatiently, which was a shame, because Draco would have liked to spend forever in Potter's tattoo room, feeling the energy of this man, looking at the pictures on the wall and asking Potter questions about who the fuck was that giant black dog on his wall, and whether that picture of him kissing the girl Weasley meant anything anymore, or if it was just memorabilia and learning this wildly attractive man inside and out, but no apparently Potter had other things to do than sit with Draco and talk to him.
"Um," said Draco, trying to hold on to his dignity. He looked at the paper in Potter's hands, hoping he wasn't flushed too much. Was it hot in here? It must've been a hot day, because Draco felt very warm, and Potter was still only like, two feet from him, two completely unconnected facts.
Potter sighed. "It is a joke, isn't it," he said. "At least it's fun and not inherently harmful. Ha-ha, Malfoy, good day, and goodbye."
Draco sat up quickly. Goodbye? No, he'd just gotten here, thanks, and for a tattoo to cover up something that was inherently harmful, and he was trying to be better and not for Potter but also a little bit for Potter, so Potter was not allowed to just kick him out like that, that had to be as illegal as the way Potter's wrists moved, sure and firm, as they folded Draco's design back up.
"It's not a joke," he said quickly, sounding panicked even to his own ears. "It's not, I really, truly want it done. Please. I didn't know you worked here."
Potter fiddled with the edge of the paper, his head cocked to the side, unbearably adorable, and somehow so assured, too, like Potter knew, joke or no, he was simply untouchable and Draco's petty joke wouldn't hurt him, so he might as well indulge. He opened up the paper again, putting his elbows on his knees, which pulled forward the fabric of his joggers a little tighter so that Draco could see the shape of his thighs.
He opened the paper, holding it out so they could both see, still elbows on knees as if showing off his shoulders. His shoulders were broad and muscled–
"You want a lightning bolt." Potter tapped the open paper. "On your Dark Mark."
"Yes," said Draco, although when put like that it made him think of Potter, the lightning, on top of him, the ex-Death Eater, and– maybe he was getting a little carried away; Potter did not seem to think this implied sex in any way. "It's… it represents what I want." You, you, you. "To be," he added quickly, suddenly afraid of his own words.
Where had that come from? He'd had a better thing to say for if anyone asked him after he got the tattoo: it represents the change I want to see in myself. But he's just said I want like the spoiled child he used to be.
It was Potter's fault, again. His shampoo smelled like he really didn't care what shampoo he used, and had somehow ended up with pineapple. Draco didn't know how pineapple could be sexy, but it was Potter. Potter regularly did the impossible.
Potter was still looking down at the lightning bolt– it was Potter's lightning bolt scar, line for line, to scale and everything, but it wasn't as if Draco searched the papers and copied it from there like a creep, or anything. He'd copied it from memory, and looking at Potter now, his luscious jet-black curls tumbling over his forehead, he could just see the scar well enough to know he'd gotten it right.
"You want to be me, or you want to be a lightning bolt?" Potter's mouth was turned up a little bit now, and had Draco been staring at Potter's mouth? No. He was staring at Potter's hair.
But.
Now that he was looking at Potter's mouth– solely because Potter was half-smiling, mind you, and he suddenly understood why half-smiles were such a big deal– he could testify in court that Potter's mouth was quite a mouth. Full and pink and amused, like Draco was a little bit funny, and Draco felt his stomach flutter at the thought.
"It's the right side of the war," Draco blurted, because Potter was evidently waiting for him to say something. "I want to be more like the people who fought on your side." It was both a relief and an embarrassment to say, because it was true, but also, Draco didn't allow himself to talk genuinely about who he wanted to become, unless it was for useful things, like talking to someone in the Wizarding Society who wondered where he'd gotten to, and they could take back the news that he was being very self-examining and responsible.
Potter hummed, rich and deep, seemingly no longer concerned this might've been a joke. "I don't think– listen if that's what you want, I'll give it to you," he said. Like, if only there was different context for that sentence, Draco would've passed out on the spot. "It's my job to give people the tattoos they want, but I just."
Potter pushed a hand through his hair, making it messier. Draco wondered if he did that just because his hair felt really nice, because surely it did. He looked a little bit upset, and that wouldn't do. If anyone deserved to not be upset, it was probably Potter, and Draco shifted in his chair wondering what he'd done wrong.
If someone had asked him what he thought might happen the next time he saw Potter, he'd probably say he expected to get hexed halfway around the world, but things had been going really well, all things considered, until now.
"Sorry," Draco said without thinking, "I mean, I– I didn't mean to be invasive or anything. I didn't mean it in a creepy way, although now that I think on it–"
"Merlin, you're being nice to me," Potter muttered, sitting up fully. He was taller than Draco, and could probably hold Draco in his arms, envelope him like a blanket, smelling like his heavenly cologne and his stupid pineapple shampoo. "It's not– that part isn't so disturbing, I guess. I mean, you're not the first person who's wanted my scar as a tattoo, that I've heard of, anyway. Not that I've given any."
Draco's heart twisted in his chest– Potter didn't exactly sound flattered. Just tired and resigned to it, and he knew Potter wasn't a fan of the fame, even though he liked to say he thought Potter was an absolute slag for the papers.
"This is the best place," Potter said, gesturing to Draco's wrist. "Sometimes I hear a witch has gotten one on her tits, or something. Once someone told me their client asked for one on his arse. Followed through, too."
Draco winced. He wasn't that creepy. Sure, he thought Potter was incredibly, mind-numbingly hot, but it wasn't like he'd get a tattoo of his scar on his arse or anything. Maybe he'd get one over his heart, but definitely not if Potter was the artist. "I wouldn't…" he mumbled.
"No," Potter said blithely, unaware of how Draco had been mentally undressing him just minutes before, "Of course you wouldn't. I hardly think you'd ever want me on your arse."
Draco felt himself go crimson. Inside, maybe, he thought, and hated himself very much for it. He'd never felt bad about the wanting thing before– sure, he'd felt disgusting because it almost seemed wrong for someone like him to be with someone like Potter (see: lightning and Dark Mark) but he'd always felt perfectly secure loving Potter endlessly from a safe distance.
It was just, it was so much easier to think about how unfairly attractive Potter was than how much he ached to hold his hands, or cook him dinner (not that Draco knew how, but he'd learn) and the overwhelming surge of longing that spilled out of his heart into every last centimeter of him when he laid eyes on the man.
Potter shrugged. "Just, if this is to represent the heroics of the Battle of Hogwarts or the efforts of the winning side, I personally don't think my scar is a good choice." His voice shook, and Draco shook with it, clenching his hands to stop from reaching for Potter and stroking his hair back and murmuring sweet nothings into his ear. "There are so many other people who fought, who died for us and, and I don't think I'm–"
"Of course," Draco said immediately, and then he did reach out, just once, and squeezed Potter's hand, warm and electric. Potter really did have nice hands, with rough calluses that would probably feel like magic running down Draco's sides, not that he was thinking about it at all. "It's not… about the people who fought for the right side of the war, really."
Potter looked up at him sharply, steel in his green eyes. "Sorry, I thought you just said–"
"I'm going to tell you… part of the truth, and this really is part of the truth, okay?"
Potter stared at him again, pulling his hand back. This time his eyes were less electric and more distrustful– not that it made them any less pretty; every time Potter looked at him while they were in school had been drenched in mistrust and Draco had still thought them the most beautiful things he'd ever seen, long before he realized he was in love.
"Part of the truth."
"I can hardly tell you the full truth, it's rather humiliating," Draco said, which was true. He was doing very good at being truthful, even around someone who's presence was a very distracting thing.
Potter sighed, sinking deeper into his chair tiredly. "Just tell me."
"Well." Draco said, and coughed. It was harder than he thought. "See, here's the thing. In essence, the part of truth which I am prepared to tell you, if I were to sum it up honestly, is that– and here it is– I'm just going to tell you, alright? Just this one part, because I really don't–"
"Malfoy," Potter said.
"I think you're very good," Draco explained. "That's why I want your scar over my tattoo. I think Voldemort was the worst person, and this is him–" he tapped the Dark Mark, his heart leaping at Potter's widened eyes when he said Voldemort's name. He'd practiced it a good many times before he'd been able to say it the way Potter could, offhanded and easy, but he'd done it, and that little impressed intake of breath Potter gave him just then made all of it worth it. "And this–" he tapped the paper– "is you. And you are the best person. Don't let it get to your head."
Potter stared at him. "I am not the best person," he said faintly.
That was factually incorrect, but Draco didn't say so.
"You're selfless, caring, compassionate, and you do things like help people who don't deserve it, forgive people for horrible things, use Expelliarmus to defeat the worst Dark Wizard of all time, and also use Expelliarmus for a lot of other things that you could use harmful spells for, but you won't. That's pretty good. You have a whole lot of friends– why do you think that is? You believe in House Elf rights, even, which I never even thought about, and they make you treacle tart in return, which is your favourite– apple, I believe, and–" Draco stopped. "Well, that wasn't completely relevant, but–"
"Thanks, Malfoy," Potter said again, fainter. "That's– I get it."
"I think I sounded like a groupie."
This, too, was honest, and Draco wanted to make sure Potter didn't think these things were pulled out of thin air. He'd seen Potter do wonderful things, he'd been the recipient of good things, like when Potter had saved him, or testified for him, and he didn't want to sound like a million other people who had told Potter he was great, he wanted to sound like Draco Malfoy telling Harry that he was great. But he didn't know how to without giving himself away.
"I am not," he finished lamely.
Potter just stared at him. Draco squirmed. It wasn't as if he didn't know why he was in love with Potter, it was just that he couldn't put it to words. Potter made him feel… Merlin.
Potter made him feel everything. About everything. About the way Potter pushed his hair out of his eyes, or the way he smiled, or the way he donated his money to an orphan support fund or the way he looked at his friends like they were the whole world and held his chin like he was David and the rest of the world was Goliath, the way he put his hands in his pockets like he was no big deal, like he didn't know Draco wanted to scream at him, don't you see? Don't you see how wonderful you are?
Even the bad things, like how he never thought first, always dove in recklessly, made Draco feel dizzy with wishes. How he shouted when he was angry, because he cared so much, when he cried– he was an ugly crier– and was horrid to everyone around him, just for a little bit, because he felt like everything else was horrid, and Draco wanted to give him something, anything to show him that the world wasn't horrid, that there were good things and if Draco could just stop being a coward for long enough, he'd show Harry all of the good things, and then he'd show him more, until he felt better and Draco could stop wanting to cry from seeing Harry hurting.
But Draco was a coward, so he didn't.
"I'll give you the tattoo," Potter said finally, and Draco sighed. This man. This man. He was going to die of loving someone too much, and he thought it wouldn't be a bad way to go.
Except an hour later, he was sure he'd die from Potter's warm, calloused fingers on his wrist, and his heartbeat in his ribcage. "This is a bad idea," he said, his breath coming fast. Potter's fingers paused right before the Dark Mark, and an irrational wave of relief crashed over Draco in a rush. "Don't touch it."
Potter didn't touch it– ever considerate and true– but he looked at Draco like he was waiting for a reason why not.
"It's a Dark Mark," Draco explained, panic rising in his chest. "It doesn't work, I know, but you, but." He swallowed hard. "But you're Harry Potter."
Potter reached out and– and– oh, tipped up Draco's chin just a little, just a ghost of a touch, steady and smiling for the first time since Draco had come, fully at least, his eyes sparkling a little bit, like he thought Draco wasn't so bad after all. Draco would give anything to capture this moment and live in it forever.
"Hey," Potter said, his warm hand still just at the edge of Draco's jaw. "I killed Voldemort, remember? Best person, worst person. We're going to put Voldemort away with lightning right now, is that okay?"
Draco nodded, shaky, because how could anyone deny this man anything? And then Potter was running his fingers lightly down his Dark Mark, and five minutes later, Potter still wasn't dead and there was a careful needle in Potter's hand, and nothing was quite like Potter's soothing hands. Draco didn't even mind the pain. He thought he'd get his whole body covered in tattoos if he could come back to this.
"I was wondering," Potter said when he began to do a little more painful work. Trying to distract Draco, probably, unaware that his mere existence was distraction enough. "If maybe you'd be open to telling me the rest of the truth?"
Draco laughed, breathless from the nearness of Potter and from the feelings washing through him as the Dark Mark slowly went away. "I don't know," he said, "Maybe you can figure it out."
Potter looked at him, and then quickly back down at his work, careful not to mess anything up. "I have a hunch," he admitted.
Draco's heart tumbled wildly. "Let's hear it, then."
Harry looked at him with another of his amused smiles, which were quickly becoming one of Draco's favorite things in the world. It felt personal and intimate, like it was a joke just between the two of them, and even though he knew Potter was laughing at him, it didn't feel malicious. Just interested, kind of.
Harry found whatever it was in Draco's eyes and looked back down to the lightning he was slowly inking across Draco's skin. "Well, seeing as you've been staring at me like I'm the last drop of water in a desert for the past–"
Why had Draco wanted to hear? He heard it in Potter's voice that Potter knew– Draco hadn't been able to keep his eyes to himself and he knew this– "Nevermind," he interrupted, quick and nervous, his voice frantic even to himself. "I actually just remembered I have– a place to be–"
Potter had to move his hand quickly away as Draco moved to stand so as not to stab Draco in the wrong place. "Shame," Potter said easily as Draco scrambled up, "I was going to ask you to lunch, but I guess…"
Draco froze. Lunch? I was going to ask you to lunch? Had Potter really said that? Had Potter really said that? To Draco Malfoy?
"Lunch?" he echoed in a high voice. "Sorry– you and– you and me?"
"Well," Potter shrugged, his eyes sparking mischievously, "If you're not free, then–"
"I lied," Draco declared, sure that if he hadn't been lying, he would've said it anyway. "I'm very free. For the rest of my life."
"For–"
"I meant this afternoon."
"Right," Potter said, still looking like he might laugh. "We'll start there. Why don't you sit back down?"
Start there. Start there, Potter had said, as if there might be more later, maybe. If they started there, and went somewhere else. Like, into a relationship, maybe, although Draco thought he should stop that thought right there before he fainted. Already, his knees were weak and he wasn't sure he could keep standing. Potter had told him to sit down.
Potter raised an eyebrow and looked at Draco's arm– right. Right, he was here for a tattoo. Potter was still holding the needle, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright.
"Oh," Draco said airily, "I suppose that would be easier for you, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, I think so," Potter agreed, "And then we can be done, and I'll clean you up, and we'll be off to lunch."
"I know a place."
Potter blinked at him. Potter's eyelashes were jet black like the rest of his hair, long and thick, like something on the front of a Muggle Magazine. They were so much more visible when Potter cast his eyes down, looking at Draco's arm, his eyelashes right there for the staring at.
"Here?" he asked, adjusting Draco's arm. Draco could hardly even feel it anymore, what with Potter asking him to lunch, with Potter saying very intriguing things like we'll start there. "This is a Muggle area."
"Well," Draco said, feeling like everything he'd ever done in the past couple of years was finally worth it, "I've been living Muggle, you know."
Potter stopped doing his arm.
Draco looked back at him nervously. There was something in his eyes, oh they were such gorgeous eyes, too, forest green and full of fire–
"Would it be completely out of line to kiss you right now?" Potter asked him.
His lips were parted– very nice lips, too, not that this was new information to Draco, only just now it seemed extremely relevant, and Potter wanted to kiss him!? They were parted like maybe Potter was trying to make Draco pass out just from looking at him, his eyes somehow still brilliant from behind those stupid, stupid glasses, and his cheeks pink and his strong, tanned arms so close Draco might be able to run his hands up them if Potter did, in fact, kiss him.
"I think it would be completely out of line for you to not kiss me," Draco informed him very graciously, because really, it was obvious, why did anyone have to say it?
Potter laughed a little bit breathlessly, Draco's new favourite sound, and Draco tried very hard not to look too eager as Potter set down his things and tugged Draco to sit up straighter.
As if he knew that Draco wanted to do this kiss right– not that it was his first kiss, exactly, but it was the first kiss that had mattered, the one that Draco thought counted as his first kiss, the kiss that he'd wanted since probably before he knew what he was feeling, exactly, only that he felt drawn to Potter like a magnet, like a moth to flame, because yeah, Potter was hot.
Potter cupped Draco's chin with those exceedingly perfect, large hands, those callouses dragging across Draco's skin like a dream, sending electricity down Draco's spine, sending his pulse pounding wildly. He still moved surely, sliding one hand back to cup the back of Draco's neck and looking Draco in the eye as if to make sure Draco still wanted this, which, what a stupid idiot, of course Draco still wanted this.
Draco wondered if he could run his hands through Potter's hair, or if that would be too much, whether Potter's cologne would be the end of him before Potter's lips even had a chance to be– it couldn't, it wasn't allowed to; Draco was about to be kissed by Harry Potter, the love of his life–
Potter kissed Draco and Draco stopped wondering anything at all. Every last nerve in Draco's body sparked wildly, every last thought in his head became white bliss, became focused on absorbing the sensation of Potter's faint stubble against Draco's skin.
Who allowed Potter to have stubble? Potter's stubble was probably the best thing in the world, objectively speaking. All of Potter's hair deserved to be appreciated– not that Draco was volunteering to share. But there was something to be said for Potter' determined eyebrows, like he'd ravish you on the spot, maybe, if you paired it with his grin and the fire in his eyes.
Potter's hair was softer than Draco had thought it would be, somehow, and springy, unwilling to be anything but curly as Draco combed his fingers through it, because he couldn't help himself.
And Potter's lips were soft and gentle, easygoing and slow, tasting like chocolate– Draco knew Potter ate a lot of chocolate– and Draco was sure he was dying, he felt so happy.
He felt like he could float away, only the warm, solid press of Potter's hands wouldn't let him, because he was drowning, maybe, instead, in wanting and desire.
Draco couldn't help making a whining sound in the back of his throat, kissing Potter like this man here was air and he hadn't had a breath in maybe forever, any more than he could help running his hands up Potter's stupidly muscled arms, the warmth of that bare skin heaven beneath his hands, the close heat of Potter's body a whole new thing for Draco to obsess over forever– how could he not have predicted Potter would be hot as a bloody furnace–
Potter broke away, his glasses crooked and his lips wet with Draco's spit and his grin lopsided and bright.
And Draco did die, just then, which had been long coming, really. What with every inch of Potter looking like he'd walked right out of a Muggle porn magazine– not that Draco had seen every inch of Potter (he desperately wished he could)– but even clothed Potter looked like a dream.
Now more than ever, mussed by Draco, oh Merlin, and Draco could picture rolling over in bed to see Potter pulling off those crooked glasses and tugging him in for another kiss, his lips already pink and swollen with kisses.
Right now, Potter looked like Draco Malfoy could be something he might be willing to try.
And even though Potter's chopped off sleeves and his muscles; and his warm body and steady, large calloused hands; and his bright stupid eyes and his stupid glasses; and his broad shoulders; and his rich, low voice that sounded like sex; and his joggers, like he just got out of bed; and his stupid, heavenly colonge and the strangely attractive pineapple shampoo, and his beautiful, wild, messy hair– even though all of Potter's existence was criminally inconsiderate for anyone else's sanity, Draco decided Potter was pretty considerate after all.
Because even though Potter was incredibly distracting, and his proximity made it very hard for Draco's brain to function, and his smile was making Draco's mind go haywire, even Draco could understand that Potter, the best person, was giving him another chance.