“Theo said I’m a failed boyfriend because I’ve never taken you out on a date.”
The crunch-snap! of Harry’s knife dicing onions ceases for a moment. Draco can see his poised hand, the leather bracelet at the wrist brushing against the chopping board, the raised bulb of the onion secure between his fingers.
“Taste the sauce,” Harry says, starting back up. “And stop paying attention to Theo after he’s had more than two drinks.”
A bare hint of a smile curls around the edge of Harry’s mouth, soft under the yellow lights. “Taste the sauce, darling.”
Draco wants to grumble, just a little. Answer me. You didn’t say he’s wrong. I won’t taste the sauce till you look at me. I need you to look at me because when you do, I forget to worry. But the kitchen swells with the scent of the sauce, bubbling quietly in a lopsided pan and Draco doesn’t have it in himself to protest something he wants right now.
“Kiss me,” he says at Harry’s shoulder.
“You’ve been tasting it every two minutes, don’t pretend otherwise. I know you.”
Harry laughs. He’s quiet about it, low and sweet, happiness a simple secret Draco adores too much to let him keep.
Harry tips the chopping board sideways, diced onions sliding gently into a bowl that rattles with the soft thuds of them falling in. He reaches for Draco, thinks better of it, and pulls him in, the back of his hand slung around the nape of Draco’s neck. The leather bracelet, worn soft with use, presses in.
The kiss is quiet, unhurried, welcome home and stop worrying and I love you. Draco tastes the sauce on Harry’s lips, on the brief brush of his tongue. It’s good— of course it is— but it tastes better this way.
Draco pulls away. Presses a kiss to the five o’clock stubble shadowing Harry’s jaw. Presses another one to the crinkle at the corner of his eye. Harry laughs again, so Draco does it again, and Harry draws away, still smiling.
Harry turns back to his onions, shaking his head.
“Am I, though,” Draco says, perching on the counter. “A failed boyfriend. I thought all those late nights in the bullpen, Indian takeout from that place Hermione recommended, those were our dates, but—”
Harry sighs, exasperated and a little amused, knife snipping at chillies. “It was never about— takeout. Or dates. Or whatever it is Theo has decided is the reason he dumped the last one.”
“It wasn’t about those things, it was about you.”
Draco stays quiet, watching Harry’s deft fingers sweep the chopped chillies into the sauce. “Oh,” he says again, because sometimes watching Harry makes him stupid, makes him fumble with his words and repeat them, because words aren’t— haven’t ever been— the point of this.
“Stop listening to Theo,” Harry says, looking up at him, serious through his eyelashes. “He doesn’t know me. He’s lonely and being a dick about it.”
Harry gestures between them, smile dimpling his cheek. “Good. Always.”
It’s Draco’s turn to laugh, surprised and punched-out. The kitchen is quiet, sauce turning heavier with every stir. They’re both smiling.
“Set the table,” Harry says when the stirring spoon comes away thick with red, peppered with cooked, clinging herbs. Draco swings down from the counter and reaching around Harry with one arm gripping his shoulder, pulls out two china plates.
for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: laugh. i’ve been writing a lot of angst lately and usually a happier prompt would mean an angstier fill, but this one begged to be taken as it came. so here we are.