well-defined
“What’s this?” to the pile on the kitchen table.
“A present,” Harry said, awfully innocent with the smile. “For you.”
Draco didn’t roll his eyes. “All right,” he said. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why—” would I want a lumpy jumper or possibly a whole wardrobe made of yarn. No, that was rude and not what he meant to say. Why—would you give me anything at all. But that was a bit open; Draco didn’t, er, do, open. Really. Not on a Sunday morning in the kitchen, barely nine and not enough caffeine.
“I just thought you’d like it,” Harry said. “You deserve a nice treat.”
“A nice,” Draco said, “treat,” choking a bit. Harry’s grin grew wider.
“Exactly. You’ve been working so hard, sweetheart.”
Dryly, “Have I.” The whole place smelled of coffee, of Harry, of garlic and thyme from last night’s dinner. His head was still spinning with the wine. With Harry here, morning-fuzzy, stayed over. Making coffee in Draco’s kitchen. Bringing—presents.
His grin was such a gentle thing. “You have,” he said, nonsensically. Draco swallowed.
“All right,” he said. Idiot.
“So, are you going to…” with his eyebrows, towards the lump. Something fluffy and dark green. Draco made his way like an inmate to the gallows, doom-laden, and it really was—yarn. A jumper, maybe. Did Harry make this, he thought, horrified.
“Did you,” no, he couldn’t. “Did—”
“You look like you’re about to have a heart attack,” Harry found it, somehow, funny. Coming closer, “Sweetheart, breathe.”
“What?” swatting away his hands, Harry could be so alarmingly tender in the worst of times and what if this was a gesture, a—
“Draco,” into the crook of his neck. “Breathe.”
Draco had been breathing, he thought. But this tight squeeze in his chest. Oh.
“Did you make this,” he eventually asked, defeated.
“What?” laughing, such a prick, at all times and unbearable, “of course not—sweetheart I wish I were this talented but your silly boyfriend is middling at best, craft-wise, and, oh, what, what did I say?”
To Draco’s face, mouth gaping like a fish. “Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing?”
With that eyebrow. Draco said, “Why did you get me a jumper?”
“Hmm? It’s not a jumper.”
“What,” oh. It did have an odd shape. For a jumper. It was really more of a throw cover, or something; Draco could never trust himself enough with definitions, all borders were spongy and sinuous and malleable and he was, ah, being corralled, boxed against the counter and the Harry.
“Sweetheart,” said the Harry. Draco blinked. Harry smiled at him.
“Yes?” testing it. The pet names were a new development. Draco was only half certain Harry even meant him, and they were alone in the kitchen.
“Sweetheart,” again, delighting in it.
Draco said, “Yes.”
Brighter, unbearable, “Sweetheart—”
“Fine, yes, yes, you got me, I’m—Harry, why?”
Harry laughed, impossible and reckless, and kissed the edge of Draco’s nose. “For your horrible sofa,” he said, like an explanation. “You always say how it’s scratchy and uncomfortable but you refuse to replace it, because—”
Borders and uncertainties, yes—
“—and I really want to snog you rotten but I can’t bear the thought of your bare arse on that fabric, so—”
“You can’t be serious, you’re not thinking of fabric when we—what do you mean snog me rotten—”
“I mean,” crowding him tighter, both hands on Draco’s face, fixing it forward, “snog you so spoiled and happy and loose you’d—you’d—”
Terrified, “So I’d what?”
Harry thumbed his bottom lip, a slow, deliberate motion. “You’d laugh,” he said. Shook his head, smiled. “You’ll be so loose and happy you’d want. To be mine.”
To be—Draco closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure. Which one of them was the greater fool. “Harry,” he said, pleadingly.
“I know,” Harry chuckled. Peppered his face with kisses, first the one cheek and then the other, the dip of his chin, the spot between his eyebrows. “I just. Sweetheart.”
Draco despaired of him. “Fine,” he said, taking Harry’s own chin to stare at his eyes, “fine,” again, stressing it. “I hear I’ve been working very hard.”
Harry’s eyes were so bright. “You have,” he said.
“And that I deserve a treat.”
Brutal, “You do.”
“And my horrible sofa might need a small upgrade.”
“It does,” laughing again, thank Merlin.
Draco didn’t really do open. Certainly not before nine in the morning at the kitchen counter, still smelling of garlic; dizzy with all this Harry-ness, silly and warm and terribly precious.
“You deserve only nice things,” Draco said, hoping he’s coherent, that there was any chance he’d be understood, “but nevertheless—you have me. I mean. I am. Yours.”
Harry leaned in to rest their foreheads together. He was so close, his breath was so warm, smelling of coffee. Draco swooned.
“And if you wanted to snog me rotten,” surrendered, “or anything else. I am yours.”
A shiver sent between them. Harry said, “You have no idea—sweetheart, all the things I want, you’ve no clue.”
“That’s all right,” Draco said. It was odd to feel the sturdier one for once. “You’ll tell me.”
“Yes. I will.”
“Darling,” Draco tried. Harry beamed at him. “I can’t believe you bought me a bloody blanket, come here,” and then they were kissing, and Draco had the sense he might be snogged rotten any moment now, so loose and happy and tittering with it, already on the edge of something frightening or other. It was still Sunday morning and there was yarn in his hands and it would probably clash terribly with his sofa. Harry had no eye for colour coordination. But he had other charms to him, certainly, a non-spongy, non-malleable fact. A well-defined shape fitting seamlessly in place.
“Fiend,” Draco told him, when he was able to speak again. Harry licked him in response.
The cover remained a pile on the kitchen table. They made do with the horrible sofa, for now.
In celebration of @phoebe-delia's existence.
