‘The age of oversized shirts is over, Potter,’ Draco announced, throwing open the front door. ‘I may be a wizard with no knowledge of Muggle culture’ —he marched to where Harry sat awkwardly on the sofa— ‘but you're half Muggle, and I demand that you at least test their products instead of drowning in Weasley’s awful jumpers.’
Harry froze as Draco heaved himself (and a large, lumpy bag) onto the cushion beside him. Draco spoke rapidly, and in the tired, restless state that the past day had left Harry in, he missed rather a lot of what Draco said.
Pretending he’d caught the general gist, Harry eyed the dubious bag. Curiosity, he could do curiosity. Not too much, of course; he didn’t want things to fall apart quicker than they needed to. ‘So...’ Harry avoided Draco’s unfaltering stare. ‘You have a bag?’
‘Oh—’ Draco coughed. ‘I have a few different things.’ His voice wavered just a little, and for someone who’d confidently barged in without warning, Draco’s assertion seemed to be almost a question.
It could be the jumper Harry lent him. Or the Quidditch shirt. It was probably both. Fuck. Everything was going wrong, and it was all his bloody fault. He didn’t need to say anything. He shouldn’t have fucking said anything. And now everything was going to be ruined—
‘So uh... I got tape... not— not duct tape or anything,’ Draco stuttered. The anxiety hidden in his fumbled words drew Harry’s immediate attention. ‘And then there were these compression-top-binder-sorts-of-things, which were all different, so I got three. The, uh... the lady helped show me how to put everything on.’
Like a fish, Harry mindlessly opened and shut his mouth. Tape? Compression tops? What?
Draco hurriedly tugged three binders from his bag, followed by two rolls of tape- one of which fell onto the floor and rolled under the sofa. ‘I can return them if you want, the binders I mean, but I can resize them with magic, you know... if it doesn’t end up fitting right..?’
Harry didn’t understand. Or, he couldn’t bring himself to ask- to confirm anything.
Draco looked at him the way Teddy had, when offering him a fragile, white dandelion. His name might have been uttered, but Harry hadn’t heard it. The world stopped— for a moment— for him.
An ache spread across his chest- a result of the mingling self-loathing, affection, embarrassment, and unripe euphoria.
Still, words did not come, and Harry struggled to regulate his breathing.
A day. It had been a day since he’d come out to Draco. Just a single day since he’d ripped off the bandages and choked out his secret... to his very gay boyfriend. He hadn’t slept. Harry had just let shame bite at him, whispering promises of a breakup—
Cool fingertips brushed against his cheek. Worried grey eyes met his.
‘Harry?’
‘I— I thought—’ Harry’s vision blurred. ‘I thought you were going to... ‘Cause I’m not—’ His voice broke, and tears pricked at his eyes. Pulling Draco onto his lap, Harry buried his face into his boyfriend’s cashmere shoulder.
Draco slipped his fingers into Harry’s dark hair and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. ‘Silly man,’ Draco murmured into his curls. ‘As if I’d ever choose to let go of you.’
