to have your toast (& eat it, too)
the boys have breakfast. ♡ | or: early morning in the kitchen. draco’s awake; harry’s getting there. | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: butt
drarry | word count: ~270 | ⋆˙⟡
It’s a surprise, when Harry’s hands land at his hips— the hour, more than the movement, (the careful hold of him, fingers finding somewhere to stay). On the hidden horizon, dawn is only just unfurling.
“Coffee?” Draco asks, and Harry nods, forehead and curls, pressed to the jut of Draco’s shoulder.
He shifts slowly to keep from jostling. Adds another scoop of Colombian grounds to the press.
Harry hums at the nape of his neck, nosing along the space where it meets his spine.
The warmth in Draco’s chest, through his middle, feels like a laugh he’s somehow managed to contain. Contentment, or its ilk, stoppered and stored— heart-ward, Pensieve-ready.
He pulls the trigger on the toaster, silvery nickel coils going red.
“Did you buy butt— mmph—”
In the interim: One broad palm had crept around, quick and quiet, to cup the side of his face, tip him toward, to where Harry’s mouth was waiting.
The kiss is a sleepy thing that— when Draco pushes back, tongue lightly acquainting itself with the seam of Harry’s lips, hips shifting by what is sworn (fingers-crossed) coincidence— goes un-sleepy, awake.
“The butter?” he breathes.
Harry rumbles, mouth moving mild at his throat, where his words make themselves a home: “Margarine. Fridge. Top shelf.”
Draco’s fingers find the dip of his hair, tangle with an admonishing immediacy that any even half-attentive audience would identify for the intimacy it is.
“So you hate me,” he murmurs.
Harry leaves a kiss at the soft spot beneath his ear, lingering.
“Yes,” he says, voice gone gravel and amusement, before leaving another. “Very much.”
