"Gold wrap, what's that?"
Harry sat in a pedicure chair and read the service menu. Draco emerged from the changing room in a clean spa uniform. He opened a drawer and showed rolls of gleaming gold leaf.
"We slather you in oils and then wrap you from head to toe in real gold. When you're unwrapped your skin will look ten years younger."
"I'm not sure I want the skin of my fourteen-year-old self back," Harry said.
"You didn't have bad skin," Draco closed the drawer and went to the sink to wash his hands.
"How would you know? You never got close enough to see," Harry looked up from the menu.
"I got close enough," Draco said. "I certainly looked at you often enough."
"Really," Harry smiled slyly. "Were you looking at me?"
"Well," Draco spluttered, "everyone was looking at you. Everyone looked at you all of the time. Boy Who Lived, you know."
"Yes, I know," Harry brushed his fingers across the scar on his forehead. He looked up thoughtfully, "Do you have any skin treatments that could remove a scar?"
"What? Why?"
"Maybe to get away from it. From what it means," Harry shrugged. "To me and to everyone else."
"You don't want to get rid of your scar, Potter," Draco said. "It's part of who you are."
"Don't defend it," Harry said. "You've always hated it."
"No," Draco gently pushed back his hair to reveal the lightning bolt mark. "I hated the way it made you special. And by contrast made me unspecial. Not destined for greatness."
Harry stared up at him over his glasses rims but said nothing. Draco released his hair and went back to the sink.
"What is Swedish Massage Therapy?"
"It's a massage. A regular old massage," Draco's stomach tensed. He was torn between hoping Harry would move on to the next menu item and hoping he wouldn't.
"Can I have that?"
Oh gods yes. Oh gods no.
"Take a robe and go get undressed," Draco didn't look up from the sink. He hoped Harry didn't catch how breathless his voice sounded. Strange that his voice would do something so odd. While Harry changed Draco lectured himself about propriety and self-control.
"Where do you want me?" Harry pushed open the dressing room door with the robe wadded up in front of his knob again. His broad shoulders were canted at a self-conscious angle and his chest and abdominal muscles were tensed and defined.
Draco began to sweat.
"Have you honestly forgotten the purpose of a robe?" His voice was too loud now. It was out of order.
"You don't massage through the robe, do you?" Harry looked down and clutched the wad of white fabric tighter in his grip
"Just lie down," Draco waved his hand at the brown leather-clad table and readied a sheet. He swept it over Harry as soon as he laid down and tried not to notice the way it settled into every curve, particularly accentuating the shape and size of his knob and bollocks. "Turn over," he said, his voice thick. Why? Why was his voice betraying him?
Draco waved a hand at the door and locked it, because if ever he didn't want to be walked in on, it was now. He pumped a squirt of almond oil into his hands and rubbed them vigorously to warm it.
"This is an odd turn for my life to take," Harry murmured from the hole in the cushion where his face poked through. "I'm about to get a back rub from Draco fucking Malfoy."
"Is that what you call me?" Draco asked mildly. He drew back the sheet to Harry's waist and laid his slick palms on Harry's shoulder blades. "And it's more than just a back rub."
He leaned his weight into the heels of his hands and pushed outward, dragging through the lines of Harry's back muscles and drawing downward in one fluid motion. Harry groaned in surprised pleasure, sending a ripple of satisfaction through Draco's pelvis. He pressed down again and and moved in small circles, working the strong muscle fibers of Harry's back with a firm touch.
"Merlin, Malfoy," Harry gasped as Draco worked his thumbs up both sides of his spine. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"I've had it done to me hundreds of times," Draco worked his fingers into Harry's deltoid muscles. "And after school I did a year and a half as a masseuse at a posh resort."
"It's brilliant," Harry groaned again.
Draco smiled to himself, a bit smug over Harry's reaction. The man was slowly turning into jelly beneath his fingertips. He thought about how the power dynamic had to have changed in order for this moment to come to pass. Harry had to have decided to trust him in a way he would have never conceived possible. And actually, if he had to really consider it, it required Draco to trust Harry, too. Neither one was in a position to strike, both had to allow a degree of vulnerability to be shared between them.
He moved to Harry's arms, first bending and stretching and pulling, then squeezing and kneading the muscles. When he got to Harry's hands he pressed his thumbs into the palms in tiny circles, then pulled his fingers and cracked his knuckles.
Next came the legs. He worked the back of his thighs, finding two distinctly ticklish spots, one in the middle just below his arse cheeks and the other behind his knees. He worked the calf muscles over and then stroked either side of his Achilles tendons.
"On your back, Golden Boy," Draco said with what might be construed as a saucy tone. He'd given up on trying to control his voice.
Harry rolled over and allowed Draco to adjust the headrest to support him. Then Draco pumped more oil into his hands and stood over Harry, their eyes locked as he warmed his palms. Harry licked his lips and his fingers fluttered the edges of the sheet. Draco found it all terribly distracting in a terribly lovely way.
Without breaking eye contact he pressed his palms into Harry's pectoral muscles and pushed outward, smirking when Harry's eyelids fluttered closed. He worked his way up to his shoulders again and kneaded down to his biceps, eliciting more groans. He chuckled and squashed down a crazy urge to slip one of Harry's fingers into his mouth.
"I think you're enjoying this as much as I am," Harry cracked an eyelid and peered at him.
"No one on earth has ever enjoyed anything as much as you're enjoying this," Draco replied.
"I'd say you're arrogant but oh," Harry's comment dwindled in another moan as Draco moved to his head and began massaging his scalp.
"You're putty in my hands, Potter," Draco lightly dragged his fingertips through Harry's hair, raising goosebumps all down his body. "This next part might just destroy you."
"You're finally getting your wish, then," Harry cracked an eye open again.
"Hm," Draco grunted noncommittally. He hefted one of Harry's feet and held it aloft with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh Merlin," a slow grin spread across Harry's face.
Draco pressed his thumb deep into the sole of his foot and pushed from his heel to his toes. Harry arched his back and groaned in ecstasy, his hands clutching the sheet. Draco went in for a second push.
"I never wanted you destroyed," he said softly. He pressed his knuckles into the meat of Harry's heel and rocked it back and forth, eliciting another groan of approval. "I saw you as the focal point of most of the things that were painful in my life."
"And you wanted me destr— oh," Harry breathed.
Draco worked his way across his toes, bending and pulling and kneading. Harry's feet were large and callused, nearly as wide as they were long. They were not elegant feet, they were hard working feet belonging to someone who spent most of his time on the move, not lounging by pools.
"I didn't want you destroyed," Draco said. He lifted Harry's other foot and began squeezing. "I wanted the pain to stop. And since you represented that pain—"
"You wanted me destroyed," Harry lifted his head and gazed with feverish half-lids at him.
Draco paused and felt a sadness weigh on his shoulders, a weight he had run all the way to the Caribbean Ocean to escape, only to come back and find it still waiting for him. "I wanted you destroyed," he said softly.
Harry watched him for a moment and then laid his head back. "It's okay," he said. "I understand." He peeked down again. "Besides, when it really came down to it, you saved me from being destroyed."
"Yeah," Draco breathed. It did nothing to lift the weight. Too little too late. But it did help to feel like he had Harry's forgiveness. Not that he wanted to need it. He still thought of him as a prat. There, that thought helped lift the weight a bit, let him shove it out of his mind again.
He kneaded and squeezed and rubbed and stretched, trying not to notice the way the sheet was starting to tent across Harry's midsection. A natural reaction, not a conscious choice. Who wouldn't get hard after being touched like that? Besides, Draco had it on good authority that he was quite the turn-on.
Whoa there.
"You're amazing, Malfoy," Harry sighed when Draco finally released his foot and stepped back.
"So I've been told," he said with a smug smile.
"Sorry about that," Harry glanced down at the peak in the sheet.
"Totally normal."
"I don't suppose..."
"What?" Draco raised an eyebrow.
"I've heard of a thing, something they do at massage parlors," Harry said hesitantly. "It's called a happy ending."
"Massage parlor? Like a whore house?" Draco frowned.
"No, like, you can get a massage and at the end for a bit more money," Harry waved his hand vaguely. "Happy ending."
"Are you asking if you can pay me to yank you off?" Draco asked coldly.
"No," Harry propped himself up on his elbows. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I just thought-"
"I'm not a rent boy, Potter," Draco went to the sink to wash his hands. "You can get changed now."
"Malfoy—"
"I need to be heading upstairs. I have to get up early to prepare for breakfast," Draco tried to keep his tone light, his gaze fixed on his sudsy hands. "Hopefully Blaise will have some new girls to fill in tomorrow so I won't have to do this again."
"Malfoy—"
Draco turned and stared at Harry, drying up the rest of the words in his throat. He slumped to the changing cubicle and when he emerged he could only glance at Draco guiltily.
"Well," he said, his hand on the door. "I really did enjoy it. You're very talented. I didn't mean to make you feel cheap."
"Thank you," Draco dried his hands off and refused to look up.
"Good night."
"Good night."