For the @drarrymicrofic prompt
Word Count: I’m taking a leaf out of @tsauergrass’s book and trying some ~50 word instalments
Thank you to @curlyy-hair-dont-care for the beta!
Draco drags his washcloth across the wet rings dotting the bar. A chorus of satisfied clinks meets his ears when several glasses get set right back down on the tacky surface. One of them is Potter’s gin and tonic.
“My congratulations,” Draco says without meeting his eyes. “Or perhaps condolences?”
Potter tells him where to shove it, then steals his rag to polish his new badge.
Longbottom sweeps Hannah into the air to spin her. Draco’s always thought white was a dry color and pub lighting was abysmal. Both look good against Potter’s tanned skin though; he’s glowing. The Weaslette seems to agree.
But when they throw the bouquet— hyacinths, blue— Potter ducks away. It hits Draco in the chest.
Potter’s back and asking for absinthe.
“I like the taste,” he says. Draco raises an eyebrow. “And the proof,” Potter adds sheepishly.
He drinks it like water and Draco watches his lashes fan across his cheeks when he swallows. Potter’s lips are cracked at the corners, but Draco doesn’t think he’d mind kissing the rough skin.
“I broke up with Gin,” Potter says. Draco doesn’t like what the statement does to his chest, so he goes to collect glasses. Potter slumps a bit lower.
Potter starts coming by every Thursday. Draco wonders what’s wrong with Friday. Friday’s a good day for drinking— he himself is off then, and makes it a point to meet Pansy and Luna.
Potter asks him too many questions. Draco finds himself unable to deny him the answers.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Potter asks. He flushes. “It’s just— I’ve been— sort of, with this one bloke, but I don’t think he knows how I feel.”
Draco slams a glass on the countertop. “I’m not seeing anyone,” he snaps angrily.
Potter’s disappeared. Draco hates the sight of the bar. His neck turns unconsciously at every glimpse of dark hair and his throat gets thick when he serves shots.
He writes letters— long, beautiful professions of an unnamed devotion with no recipient. When he walks his mother’s gardens he stops and sits amidst the hyacinths. They bloom year-round there.
There’s a Potter in his pub.
“What can I get for you?” Draco says. He can’t meet Potter’s eyes. His own are burning and his shirt feels several sizes too tight.
“This,” Potter says, right before he yanks Draco across the counter by his collar and kisses him with enough enthusiasm that Draco knocks over someone’s pint.
“I thought you were seeing someone,” Draco says in pleased bewilderment.
“I’m bloody fucking trying to!”
Draco’s not sure how these things work. He thinks he might be doing something wrong because he feels inordinately happy. He smiles in his sleep and stirs four teaspoons of sugar into his tea when he’s not paying attention. It seems questionably sane.
He corners Harry against the couch one night. “What’s the catch,” Draco says with narrowed eyes.
“You’re such a wanker,” Harry laughs before he bundles Draco up in blankets and cradles him close for the rest of the snowy night.
Harry takes him to Moscow.
“This is where you came when you left?” Draco asks incredulously. The center is lovely, the Red Square lit up as it is— but neither of them were prepared for the snow. It’s fucking excessive, Draco thinks.
“To be fair, I came in the summer,” Harry says.
“You don’t even speak Russian!”
“Zdravstvuy,” Harry says with a goofy grin.
“I wanted to be somewhere where I knew nothing. Not the people, not the language, not the bloody tube system,” Harry quietly admits later in the comfort of their bed. “I was so full of you— my eyes, my lungs, my foolish heart, every part of me. I wanted to be full enough of something new that I wouldn’t miss you.”
“I love you too,” Draco says.
They get married on a distant April afternoon. Draco tucks a stem of hyacinth into Harry’s lapel. Harry can barely curb his grin enough for them to kiss, but Draco doesn’t tease him. He just leans into Harry’s neck as they sway to a faraway melody and takes in the feeling of him.
