#rockingrobin'sflufftober

[rockingrobin69]

Sugary-perfectly-sweet

It was cold in the kitchen. Draco curled around his cup, warming his nose on the steam. His bones felt melted, stretchy, so tired and so sated. Honey-filled veins, candy-floss head. It still felt like a dream when he snuck out of bed, still so far beyond possible it was silly. But now, watching the day break over the old chestnut tree—now was something else. Draco drew a deep breath, closed his eyes.

Potter took his tea sweet: two and a half teaspoons of sugar, far too much milk. Maybe Draco should surprise him. Come back to bed before seven in the morning with a full breakfast tray. He could smile, be horribly tacky, say something like ‘sweet tea for my sweetheart’, all awful and brave. But he didn’t move. Leaned against the counter, shook himself a little. It smelled like Potter here, in his kitchen, in his hoodie Draco stole off the floor. He wondered what it made him, a bit of a thief, a bit his. Perhaps too much. Soft, though, the fabric, and so nice on his bare skin. Draco decided to keep it. He hoped Potter might feel the same way.

The fingers of the old chestnut tree waved in the wind, yellowy-orange. Leaves littered the whole garden almost on purpose. Like Potter in his mind, everywhere-everywhere-everywhere, colourful and strangely sweet. Draco tried shaking himself back, making his cotton-wool-head work. It was too early. Maybe he should go back to bed, slide under the heavy duvet, back to Potter’s intense heat. Maybe he could wake him up, make him say all those things again, in the light of day. Make him mean it. Maybe he’d be brave enough to do it.

But he kept standing there, holding a long-cold cup of tea. Too happy and too scared. Bare feet on cold tiles, real, here, real. Maybe it was enough for now.

He could feel it still, the ghost of Potter’s gentle touch on his skin. Warm, hungry fingers, tiny kisses sprinkled everywhere. Draco’s hand rose, automatic, to trace their path: behind his ear, the back of his neck, slipping down beneath the hoodie. His toes curled on the floor, heating from the memory alone, from the feeling of Potter in his honey-blood, in his fairy-floss-head, in his dream-filled-eyes—

No, it was actually Potter, the real one, shimmering in the new light. “Hey,” he said, pyjama bottoms with no top, hair mussed and incredibly, destructively handsome. Draco blinked for a long moment.

“Aren’t you cold?” Potter asked, coming closer. Slotting behind him like the most natural thing in the world, as if they belonged like this, together. “C’mere. God, you smell good.” Then, after a beat: “I thought—when I woke up, and you were gone. I thought…”

Draco turned around, swallowed the gasp. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Potter didn’t answer, just buried his face in Draco’s neck. Soft and impossibly real, impossibly bright, like the start of a new day. Sweet and so warm.

(First day of @flufftober! find all Robin’s Flufftober ficlets here or on AO3! )

[rockingrobin69]

Orange

He liked oranges best. Oranges, and blueberries, and star fruit. Perhaps it was the imagery—Harry’s senses were like that sometimes, and he liked things that spoke to him, that sang. Bluebells and raspberries, words that had movement, lolling, wayward, polly pocket. Perpendicular, serendipity. He’d stop in the middle of a sentence sometimes, take a breath. Open his mouth wide on a smile: Draco, listen! Slowly, slowly. Each syllable a present, with that raspy tinge to his voice, straight from his heart. Nothing to do at those moments but pause there with him. Pause and listen.

Orange was his favourites, fruit and also colour, so Draco made sure to suffuse the little flat with it. Orange cushions for the sofa and fish in the bowl, a Cannons poster on the wall and orange curtains for the window. It took time to get used to, the brightness, but it made Harry so happy. Also too bright at first. But Draco’s eyes adjusted, his heart adjusted. Got used to eating oranges, sticky fingers feeding him slice after slice; to run in the forest, aching with laughter, picking brambles (dark only) and collecting sticks and rocks and spotting squirrels. And Harry was happy—he was happy. Only that mattered.

Not a lot of things were important, it turned out. Much of what he expected to consume him as an adult was laughably distant, ended up trifle. It was easy, in orange, to realise. Easier at least. And Draco kept learning: how to wrap Harry in a blanket, tight enough that the nightmares faded away. How to kiss the top of his head so softly, or not to touch him, how to ask for the right move when he’s lost. And Harry was patient, endlessly bright. They learned together. This was important.

There was also breakfast, sugar-coated cereal, a bunch of blueberries in Harry’s bowl. Not forgetting to feed the fish. Taking plenty of walks outside; noting every flower and every tree, every fungus and bird, if not by name, then by feeling. Remembering to tell Harry the most interesting ones. Remembering this, learning how to hold it all in his heart. How to hold on to happiness: slippery-orange, so light and so fragile, but theirs. Not to give it up. That was important too. Not to give it up.

He was tempted to, sometimes: just pack his Harry and go, away from this world that demanded and demanded and never knew satisfaction. On the bad days, when they were both too miserable to try, when exhaustion made them close up and burrow into themselves, when they just didn’t want to. Not to give it up meant taking a step back, finding a breath somewhere in it all. Remembering it will pass. Loving anyway.

Loving anyway. That was important. Draco sighed, rested his forehead on the cupboard. In his hands a bowl of fruit: oranges, peeled and cut, sticky-sweet and fragrant. Divine. Harry always smelled like oranges. Lucky, that—Draco liked orange best.

(Day 26 of @flufftober​! A gigantic thank you to @ladderofyears and @myaulophobia for their help. Find all previous Robin flufftober ficlets here, or on AO3)      

[rockingrobin69]

Any Way

“I don’t play games,” Draco said, something crackly in his voice. He came closer, hips swinging from side to side. Like he was trying to stop himself, or like he was pouncing, Harry couldn’t decide. Draco certainly couldn’t, his head shaking no, but his knees already touching Harry’s on the sofa.

“I don’t take unnecessary risks,” he ground out. Like it hurt, like it was a confession. Harry’s eyes were glued to him, magnetized, head stretched so far up it should hurt.  

“Draco—”

A thumb brushed his upper lip. “You wanted the truth, no? That’s why you suggested that game. Thought you’d have to wrestle it out of me.” Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Draco just rolled his eyes. “Shh. You weren’t wrong. Just—listen.”

He nodded, choked with it all. His smell, chestnuts and cold night air, the look in Draco’s eyes. Molten iron. Hardness made soft.  

“I don’t like being told what to do.” His hands slid up to run through Harry’s hair, chest caving on a deep, deep sigh. “I don’t respond well to authority. Or kindness.”

Then he fell to his knees, right there in between Harry’s. So fast it stole the breath out of him, made his heart leap, trying to tear through his chest. Harry’s hands surged forward, helpless. Touch-reassure-protect-fuck-soft-love-love-touch.

“I’m not a good person,” Draco whispered into Harry’s palm. “I’m not patient. I’m not thoughtful. I’m selfish, and childish, and vain. If lying’s easier, I lie. If leaving is easier, I run.”

He looked up at him. The lump in Harry’s throat tripled in size, with awe and surprise and with tenderness. “I nearly did, Harry. Run. I’m not… strong like you, determined. I was scared. Am scared, still. You could hurt me a lot more than a whip or a curse.”

Harry couldn’t breathe with it. “I wouldn’t hurt you. I promise. Never in a way you don’t—”

“You’re not listening,” Draco chided, but softly. “That isn’t the point. You could hurt me. You’re fierce, and fearless, and immeasurably, unfairly kind. But I stayed, because…” he huffed, and the tears on his face could be Harry’s too, “because I’m. Willing to try.”

Molten silver burned through him, painful and precious. Draco was shaking before him, wide open and scared, but staying put.

“There, your twenty truths. Now you know. Might have known, already, but. If you’ll still… if you’ll have me, even with all—then I’m willing to try.”

It crushed him, the weight of it in his chest, the urgency. Harry pulled him up and Draco let himself be taken, kissed, held, flittering endless eyelashes in Harry’s face.

“Is that… Potter, you’ve not said. If it’s a yes.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Harry laughed, shaking his head, bursting with fondness. “And that’s not how you play the game, you know.”

A small sound of distress. “I’m just—”

“You’re perfect,” Harry said. “Yes. I’ll have you. In any way you let me.”

His own sneaky little truth.

(Day 14 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3)    

[rockingrobin69]

Keeping

It started raining again. Harry leaned his forehead against the window, breathed in the cold, sharp relief. He felt dizzy. Overflown. Like the plant pot outside, tiny droplets trickling down, filled to the brim.

“Harry…”

A hand came of nowhere, gentle on the back of his neck. Warm like the kitchen, Draco loved to overheat a room. Loved it. It gushed in Harry’s belly, all of it, love love love like a string of fairy lights, switching on one at a time. He closed his eyes, tried another breath. Excitement was never this heavy before, he didn’t think. Couldn’t think, with all the tangled, lit mess in his mind, in his heart.

The hand shivered slightly—barely noticeable, but Harry’s every nerve ending was buzzing with it, heightened sensitivity to anything Draco. He wanted to turn around, say something calm and reassuring, but this warmth, this lump in his throat, threatening to overspill. He couldn’t breathe out of fear of it, of losing it.

“I didn’t mean to… Harry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. This can still be—we can keep it as casual as you’d like. We could…”

Harry did turn, no other choice, not with that pause, not with the crack in his voice. Draco looked so scared, so wet, hasn’t changed yet. Caught in the rain picking flowers to bring to Harry’s parents’ graves, and he thought—

“Casual? There’s nothing casual about… you’re such a fucking wanker.”

His hand rose, automatic, to wipe a cold cheek. This magnetic pull in his gut to always touch him, always be close, closer. Wet as a kitten and just as scared, he seemed, just as tiny, as soft, and Harry wanted to pick him up in both hands and squeeze him until they’re both breathless with it. Instead he closed his eyes. Swallowed the jumble of words he couldn’t say. Started over.

“We’re not casual,” he managed, spitting it almost with vehemence in Draco’s pretty face, wet eyelashes. “And you didn’t overstep by—you’re such an idiot. I’m keeping you, you hear me? I’m keeping you. Here with me.”

Draco laughed, big as this crushing feeling in Harry’s chest, lovelovelove and fear and joy and. “Keeping me, are you.” Arms slotting around Harry’s waist. Still so fucking wet.  

Overflowing, terrifying and also perhaps the best thing he’s ever felt, ever allowed himself to have. And Draco so freely offering, himself and his devotion. Love. It felt funny on his tongue, in the rumbling in his chest.

“Yes. Better get used to it.”

Rain kept singing away merrily, collecting in the plant pot outside, flashing and growling in celebration. Harry thought he got it, now. How something can brew inside you until it spills out, spectacular and grandiose and ever so simple.

Love. He couldn’t say it out loud, not yet. But they had all day—all autumn. All year. All the time in the world, and he had Draco, wet, still shaking in his arms. His for the keeping.

(Day 12 of @flufftober​! Find all previous Robin’s Flufftober ficlets here, or on AO3)          

[rockingrobin69]

Ridiculous(ly perfect)

On the table, arranged by size: caramel (Draco’s favourite) in the small bowl, apple cinnamon (seasonal) in the medium-size, and salty (Harry’s favourite) in a ridiculously large bucket. All of it was, a little—ridiculous that is. Two blankets neatly folded, enough cushions to drown in. And Draco, in those god-awful slippers, answering the door in what had to be the softest pyjamas in the universe. Looking at Harry, looking like that, swallowing a lot. 

“I thought—was informed that an official movie night is meant to be... Perhaps Weasley didn’t mean it quite the way I…”

Harry had to close his eyes. “It’s perfect. Looks like such a nice, erm, fabric. Your pyjamas. Comfortable.”

“Oh.” He stood there for a second, or a million, before, “I have another pair, a fresh one. Would you like to? I could get them!”

Leaving Harry here, with all the popcorn and two large bottles of coke (which Harry didn’t even drink. Also didn’t know how to tell Draco when he declared, proudly, that he ‘managed to obtain’ the most ‘popular muggle drink’ Harry probably ‘remembers from his childhood’). Not knowing how to contain this silly, exaggerated feeling in his chest, this lump in his throat.

He melted on the sofa, trying not to imagine having Draco sitting very close, cuddling up against him, the way he only did when he was distracted. Usually this happened in Harry’s sham of a flat, a long-day, after-work type thing with Draco’s berry cider and whatever film they managed to find. Never planned, never like this, like… well. Harry certainly doesn’t prepare so much for them.

(He just makes sure the pantry’s always stocked with cider, that’s all. And keeps his blue hoodie for Draco when he inevitably gets cold. Hardly any work. Nothing compared to any of this.)

Draco came back, with an even softer pair of pyjamas, if such a thing existed. “You don’t have to, really. Only if—I could change. No? You really want to? All right. Let me just set up the film then. It’s, erm, Weasley said you liked it. You can go change while I… oh.”

Harry didn’t realise how close he was, only when he got a good whiff of Draco’s cologne. Appley-sweet, entirely intoxicating. He forgot what he was going to say.

“Erm.”

There was something about it, almost overpowering, the pink in his cheeks. “H-Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re… staring.”

He blinked himself out of the trance, looking around for something, anything to save him. “I just. You look so—everything is—” he took a deep breath, begged his mind to work. “Thank you. For setting this up. For me.”

“You said you wanted a proper marathon,” Draco shrugged, apologetic. “I just thought… I wanted to… is this all right? What you had in mind?”

He took his hand, couldn’t help it. “No. It’s perfect.”

Ridiculous, all of it, yeah. And perfect. Harry sunk into it: a night just for him, soft-soft-soft pyjamas, and Draco’s smile, even softer.

(Day 7 of @flufftober​ [wow, been a whole week]! Find all previous ficlets here or on AO3!)

[rockingrobin69]

Buttery Sweet

It wasn’t meant to happen like this—mismatched socks and ceaseless yawning, eyes glued half-shut, certainly not a morning person—coming out as a sigh, as an obviously, a bit of a joke and a bit far-too-serious. Potter stopped still, spatula vibrating in the air.

“What did you…?”

Draco blinked, suddenly aware of what he said, suddenly—shit, shit, shit—awake, gods bloody damn it, too late. “What?”

“No, you what. Did you mean that?”

“Oh. I don’t—just—” it was too bleeding early, and he didn’t get even three hours of sleep, with Potter’s hand always touching, just where he wanted it, didn’t want it, couldn’t, ahh, couldn’t—“Erm.”

Potter turned around, so slowly it was frightening, blurry in the soft light. Whatever smelled so good in the frying pan kept sizzling away happily. Apples, maybe. And butter. And—

“Draco.”

How can he make his name sound so menacing. Like a threat, a knife to his throat. And like a pillow, at the same time, soft and easy to sink into…

“Draco.”

Shit, he’s expected to answer. “I don’t… what’re you making?”

The frown deepened, twisting until it was almost a smile. “You’re not seriously trying—” then he sighed, shook his head. Made it look almost fond, somehow. Truly was a wizard, that man. “I’m not making anything, yet. Trying to bake those pastries you liked. They’re a fucking nightmare.”

He didn’t add, like you, although he could have, just as easily. Draco swallowed a lump in his throat, begged himself to be more awake, more—braver, better, something, damn it. He flung himself forward, not entirely on purpose, so he was only inches from Potter. Holding onto the counter for dear life, unsure what to do, what to say, how to be a fucking person about it—

“Draco,” Potter said again, laughing this time. Put his free hand on Draco’s bare shoulder, the most benevolent god to ever be fully dressed at six in the morning. “It’s okay. You don’t need to… we’ll have this conversation again later. Tonight. With some wine.” Then, to the look on his face, “Or not. It can wait, we don’t need… I mean… I don’t need, it’s not, I mean, I’m certainly not trying to—”

“Shut up,” Draco murmured, unintentionally(ish) grabbing him by the collar. “You’re—bloody gods above and below, I meant it, okay? ‘Course I did. Really thought I’d get out of bed so early if I didn’t… truly, Potter.”

“So grumpy in the morning,” he said, two hands sliding around Draco’s waist, his smile shining. Coming even closer, nose pressed against his. “You’re—I’m not as good as you. In keeping it down. You already know, don’t you? How I—”

“Shut up,” Draco repeated. Potter smelled like butter, like early morning and something frightening and terrific and apples and so much butter. This wasn’t how it’s meant to happen. They can talk when Draco’s more awake, when he’s coherent; for now, he kissed him, buttery-sunshinely-frighteningly-sweet.  

   (Day 5 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3!)  

[rockingrobin69]

Season

It got cold in the mornings, little patterns in frost on the windows. You had to get up early to see it; Draco used to hate the days his job forced him out of bed, but now there was something sweet to it. Putting the kettle on to sounds from the bathroom, Harry’s a singer, preparing two cups instead of one. Milk for Harry, sugar for him; something comforting in it, in the knowledge. Going in after him through apple-shampoo steam, into Harry’s towel-ed embrace, into every gentle kiss. A murmur, morning darling. Morning.

If it rained, they had lunch inside. Harry always served his favourite soups around this time of year: lentils, cream of mushroom, broccoli and bacon. There was something pleasant to the buzzing of people in the café, to sitting in the kitchen at the back, stealing one more piece of toast. Of Harry, always smelling like coffee, bright and awake and lovely. Draco would sneak kiss after kiss until the chef shooed him out, or until he had to go back to work. Softly touching his fingers to Harry’s lips, to his cheek, to his eyes. Afternoon, sweetheart. Afternoon.

The days were shorter, but in return they got the evenings. Harry liked to play—exploding cards and chess but also strange games, ones that didn’t move or shout or hurt you. Although Draco did get very upset when Harry used that card in Uno, the truly unfair one with the… anyway. They had the evenings to play, to drink Luna’s homemade ‘wine’ and laugh until their throats burned. Evenings that smelled like log fires and felt like Harry’s old jumper, tiny kiss on the top of his head, enough for now. Let’s go to bed. Night, love.

Then there were nights. He used to dread them, to try and stall as much as he could, avoid altogether if possible; now he had Harry’s arms wrapped around him, Harry’s curls in his mouth. And sometimes when he snuck out of bed, back to the moonlit kitchen—sometimes he’d lean against the counter and sigh. Look for his constellation beyond the clouds, think about home, about belonging. About what it means to have something, to have it truly. Then hear a sneaky pair of feet, feel a warm hand on his shoulder. All right? Yes. Just needed some… don’t worry. I know.

So they’d do the silliest things, fight or invent new identities, a whole new life for themselves they’d forget in the morning. Warm up milk for hot chocolates they always leave half-drank, kiss their way into each other, into the dark. Go outside barefoot to run on wet grass, be terrible, be idiots, be free. It was easiest then, pretending the whole world was just for them. Lovely and full to the brim. And all the things that frightened him during the day were just shadows, unimportant. The dark gave them shelter, and they took, grateful and quiet. Close-close, with a little kiss: night, love. Night.

(Day 19 of @flufftober​! Find all previous ficlets here, or on AO3)      

[rockingrobin69]

Brewed out of control

He found the note under a book, only the yellow tip of it visible in the clutter on the desk. Draco never bothered tidying up; said he knew ‘exactly where everything was, thank you very much’. Even if it took him half an hour to find Harry’s hoodie (‘I swear I don’t have it, Potter! You can come search yourself if it’s so bloody important!’). And even though he was relentlessly forgetful, always without just the thing he needed, always having to borrow Harry’s. Pens, for example. And notebooks. And woolly earmuffs, although admittedly only once.

(He quite liked seeing Draco in those. And Harry’s scarf too, ‘just because it complimented the look’. With the cold-pinked cheeks and the smile, bright-bright, and, well. Harry wasn’t immune to cute boys in cute outfits. Certainly not deranged ones.)

He wasn’t looking for a note. Draco said he had eyeglass lens spray somewhere in here—typical. He didn’t have any plasters in the whole flat, had to come to Harry for it, for toothpaste, for a bleeding blanket in the middle of winter, but he had eyeglass lens spray. He didn’t even wear glasses. Didn’t stop him from rolling his eyes at Harry, sending him to the bedroom on a fruitless mission. ‘It’d be a shame if you couldn’t see me properly,’ with that smirk, the one that drove Harry mental. If only he wasn’t right.

In any case, he didn’t mean to, but that yellow corner stuck out enough, and the edge of Draco’s slanted handwriting was like a beacon, not something he could ignore. Not even with blurry eyesight, spray nowhere to be found, and also forgotten. Harry pulled the note free. It was some sort of list, most of the items crossed off. Impossible to decipher anything but the very last line: that coffee he liked from the poncy place downtown (?!?)

He couldn’t breathe after reading it, no idea why. Harry didn’t even know what it meant. The ‘he’ in question could be anybody. Although they did go to a poncy café downtown together, just the two of them, and Harry did go on and on about the Brazilian brew. Draco wasn’t even listening, stirring and stirring his tea. And it was… what, ages ago. Why would he write it down? It wasn’t anything special. Draco wasn’t like Harry, obsessively going over the time they spent together like a sad loser. He wouldn’t…

There was something underneath the note, a receipt. From the café downtown, the one Harry liked. From yesterday, months after they went. After that day he missed the last train, crashed at Draco’s, before he moved in. Before… all this. The receipt was for three bags of coffee beans.

Draco didn’t even like coffee. Certainly not enough to buy three bags of it.

Excitement felt thick in his throat, burny. He had no idea what all of it meant. Shaky fingers, all scraps of his courage finally, finally dredged up, he was going to find out.

(Day 10 of @flufftober is part one out of two​! Find all previous Robin’s Flufftober ficlets here, or on AO3, and come back tomorrow to find out together with Harry! )