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***
It starts because Harry has no self-control when it comes to meaningless and entertaining competition. If there's a wager happening, Harry is wagering. If there's a bet to be bet on you can bet your bottom dollar that the bet will get the better of Harry and he will be betting.
So it stands to reason that when someone casually mentions a step challenge to promote wellness and good calf-strength and something else, Harry wasn't listening at that point ("friendly low stakes challenge, Harry, you berk!" Harry's inner Neville says in exasperation, but Harry's not listening to him either), that Harry jumps at the chance. Because of the aforementioned inability to say no to a fun bit of oh-my-god-I-need-to-win.
Because he is incontinently competitive.
Actually no, that's not quite right. It starts because Harry is absolutely plastered.
***
Day 1: tracked step count: 0
All of Draco Malfoy's parties are the same, each set at his house to celebrate the end of a successful (or terrible, take your pick) month at their mutual place of employ, Thistle Teach 'Em Herbologists and Plant Doctors.
Wrangling magical and dangerous plant life is an intense, tiring, rewarding, and often quite ridiculous job. It requires categorising, neutralising, or just giving a stern telling off and a fertilise, to plants that Aurors, Unspeakables, students, and members of the magical and non-magical public have come across and been stung, harassed, bitten, chased, whipped, insulted, or seduced by. A lot of the time, it involves collecting specimens from the dolts at the Ministry who keep getting almost eaten by new variants of Devil's Snare and Medusa's Crawl (and one time, just an actual sweet potato vine that got stuck around an intern's ankle). It's about as much interaction as Harry can stand with that section of the wizarding world, and there's an odd pleasure in knowing that many of the little buggers he's working with have given Ministry higher ups a good kick in the shins. Fighting the good fight, leaf and burr style. Harry approves.
Needless to say, the staff often need to unwind―maybe because they got a rash in the shape of a lollipop from a particularly cheeky Fennis Fern, perhaps because they spent three hours chasing a sentient cucumber through Ministry vents like a scene from Alien, or worst of all because they sadly had to neutralise a mistreated and unrehabable carnivorous Mandrigora that should never have been kept as a pet in the first place.
And Draco's got the biggest fucking house, so he hosts the parties.
There's a comfort in attending the same lazy party over and over again―and Harry fucking loves it each and every time.
He says as much to Neville who laughs generously, and then oofs as Harry plops onto the arm of the sofa he's currently occupying with Seamus and Dean; on the comfy chair opposite sits a girl Harry that knows he's met before and whose name has completely Obliviated itself from his mind. She's looking at him like they know each other too and Harry wonders if maybe they recently snogged. He hopes that if they did it's not an issue; he's a happy drunk and a happy, drunk kisser. He's fucking shit at names though, and if that's a problem he's going to have to leave this spot before things get too awkward, which is a shame, because Neville is possibly the comfiest person to cuddle up to on the planet.
"Having a good night, Harry?" The Comfiest Person to Cuddle up to on the Planet Who is Also Technically His Boss asks.
"Yeah, allright." Harry grins, and then peers into Neville's half empty glass. "You on the wines? Ooo-aah, and in a proper glass no less!" Harry says and Neville nods. "Dead posh, Nev."
"Say it, don't spray it, Harry, christ on a cracker," Seamus slurs, then cackles. He chinks his cup against Harry's. "S'like the tide's coming in."
Harry frowns. "What?"
"No fucking idea," Neville says agreeably.
Harry touches his mouth self-consciously. "Did I spit?"
"Nope."
On the other side of the sofa, Dean rests his chin on Seamus's shoulder, frowning down to get a good look at whatever is in his cup. "You're making no sense, pet," he says fondly.
"None at all," Neville says supportively.
Seamus nods. "Aye, might've gone too hard on the black velvet punch when I got here," he says plainly, stifling a burp into his shoulder, as Harry takes stock of his flushed cheeks and messy hair. (Also, the burp.) Seamus always runs hot when he's drunk. "I am… moderately wankered."
"Oh no." Harry wrinkles his nose. "Luna made the punch again?"
"It's disgusting," Seamus agrees. "I think I keep drinking it because I feel sorry for it."
Harry snorts, and from her comfy chair perch so does She Who Oh God What Was Her Name Again? They make eye contact, and Harry smiles, feeling like he can see a similar level of hesitation mirrored in the responding tilt of her lips. She swings her legs off the arm of the chair, then leans forward and quietly says, "I know I know you, but this is so awkward"―she cringes―"what was your name again?"
Harry feels himself sag with relief like a gloriously deflated balloon. "It's Harry. Oh my god, I can't remember your name either?" He says around his grin.
"Ah, s'Meg. That's a fucking relief, I've been sat here feeling like a real prick for the last few minutes."
Harry waves his hand as if swatting the mutual-forgetting of names away like a fly. "Don't even worry, I'm very forgettable. I expect you to be blanking on me again by the end of the night."
Meg laughs, and Harry heaves himself up out of the sofa ditch he and Neville have fallen into. He's glad there's no awkwardness, and feels almost giddy with the thrill of someone having utterly forgotten him―he's just another thirty-something that someone met at a party and didn't retain the name of.
No Boy Who This and Saviour Who That. Harry takes a generous swig of his gin and pub squash (weird, delicious) and feels the ice cubes bump his nose. He grins.
He bloody loves Malfoy's Muggle friends.
"I'm gonna get Seamus some water, go find our illustrious host," he says, smiling at Meg like she hung the moon and patting Neville on the knee. "Stay out of trouble kids!" he calls over his shoulder right before nearly pranging into one of Malfoy's fancy, enormous (regular) plants. He can hear Seamus's booming laugh (can practically feel it vibrating through him, to be honest) and Harry turns and takes an exaggerated bow, before heading off to find the owner of said ostentatious, prangly-positioned plants.
***
Draco used to work in a Muggle florist.
Not doing flowers, mind. He's got allergies. "Decades of pure-blood breeding have given me the constitution of a German royal," he's told Harry before, washing an antihistamine down with a Diet Coke and a cheesy grin.
Harry doesn't understand why Draco would choose to work in a field like Magical Botany that makes him feel Habsburgian in physical temperament, but Harry's copped enough flack for his choice of career trajectory over the years that he's never going to challenge Draco on it. It takes all kinds to make the world go round, et cetera, et cetera, Harry thinks, snagging a bowl of crisps off of a counter (cheese and onion, heavenly) and scanning the room for overly tall, excessively blond, bean poles of men. He spots him on the balcony and beelines over, like a cheesy, oniony, moderately drunk… bee.
"You haven't got the jaw for it!" he declares, kicking the balcony door open and then managing to hook it with his foot and swing it back shut. The barrage of noise from the party blasts out into the cool, September air, before receding again as the door swings shut, like a noisy aural tide―and scaring the absolute shit out of Draco.
"Fuck!" Draco jumps, bangs his leg, and nearly drops his cigarette over the railing. Harry crunches another crisp. "Shitting hell, Potter, what is wrong with you!" Draco yells, righting himself and rubbing his banged knee. He sticks his smoke back in the corner of his mouth then stands up straight and glares. "Have you got a head injury or something?"
"Nah," Harry says crispily. He tucks the crisp bowl under his armpit and sets his Gin Squash next to the ornamental cement balcony table that nearly turned Draco's knee into a Leg Squash.
Draco looks at him like he's not sure whether to believe him about the status of his head. "So what was that about jaws?"
Harry leans back against the railing; it's just high enough for him to comfortably rest his weight on one elbow, hang on to his crisps, and have at least a solid handful of minutes before he gets a bruise on his spine. He'll take it.
"Oh, I was thinking about German royals," he explains. "You know, inbreeding, allergies. Weird jaws. You don't have that, though, so…" Harry trails off, shrugs.
Draco rests his own elbows against the railing, facing out towards the busy street below them, and slants a look at Harry that says his explanation is, at best, very poor.
"What the fuck, Harry," he states slowly, and then laughs. He sounds almost relieved. "God, I thought you were here to yell at me for bunking off for a smoke."
Harry snorts, then sets his crisps bowl on the floor. "What, thought Luna sent me?"
Draco nods as he takes a drag, then blows out sweet smelling smoke. "So she didn't?" The last few tendrils creep out from between his lips as he speaks.
"Nah, you know I don't care," Harry says, and he means it. He's not sure if it's because Draco smokes cloves and he actually enjoys the smell, or if it's because he just hasn't taken anything that seriously since roughly 1998. Draco will quit when he's ready. Harry pestering him is absolutely not going to speed that up; Draco can be as stubborn as Harry when the mood strikes.
But then Draco says, "So was it Neville then, who sent you to try and get me to do his stupid walking game?" and Harry's drunken ears prick up.
"No and what?" He turns to his side, listening intently. "Also hang on, maybe I just wanted to find you." Harry raises an eyebrow, and Draco raises both of his back, because he actually can't do just one and it's a marvellous point of contention between them. Instead of looking arch and handsome he just looks surprised and annoyed and that warms Harry up almost as much as the Gin Squash.
Pleased, Harry clicks his fingers and Summons the crips bowl to hover between them.
Draco snorts. "Sure, no ulterior motives." He takes a crisp, sniffs it, then pops it in his mouth. He loves cheese and onion; Harry knows this. He's drunk, but he's not gonna bring the wrong flavour of crisps out. He's a good mate to have that way.
"None at all." Harry grabs a handful of chips, hand sinking into the bowl and feels happy as he watches Draco chew and let out a quiet pleased sound from between his lips. "I'm no one's errand boy. "
"Except at work, where you are everyone's," Draco points out, and Harry laughs.
"That's different."
"Because you get paid?"
"Because it makes me useful," Harry replies, surprisingly honest. He's the odd jobs person at work, is the thing, and he kind of loves it. Harry Potter, dog's body. Harry Potter, fixer upper. Harry Potter, man who can reach that thing on the high shelf. He's had a lot of epithets in his time and he likes these ones. Low stakes, but high value. It's the kind of life he wants to lead.
Draco hums again, this time thoughtful. He snags a crisp from the stash in Harry's cupped palm this time and forgoing the bowl and doesn't say anything about Harry's admission. Harry immediately inclines his hand towards Daco for easier chip access. He suspects that Draco feels similarly, who for his own 1998-based reasons is perpetually looking for ways to make himself appear useful but on a grander scale than opening tricky jars for people. He's got something to prove, mostly his own worth, and Harry knows why. He was there, and he's gotten to know Draco well enough now that he knows there's nothing to prove―but that doesn't mean shit if Draco himself doesn't feel it.
Harry stifles a burp into his own shoulder and feels absolutely too drunk to have any kind of serious conversation about this right now, though.
"Gross," Draco says but he's laughing under his breath and Harry makes an apologetic face.
"Espresso Martini," he explains. "Tastes so good, but…"
Draco nods sagely. "Turns into Regretto Martini," he finishes. "I should probably go and see how the drinks are going, you know." He waves a hand, then stubs out his almost gone cigarette. "Host, et cetera." He doesn't look thrilled about the prospect and was probably hiding out here for a brief reprieve from interacting with people. Draco's a social butterfly, but he runs out of steam quickly, needing to recharge in short bursts.
"Nah." Harry offers him another chip from his salty, cupped palm. "Fuck 'em, they're fine."
The laugh that gets out of Draco is extremely rewarding.
"That the Harry Potter guide to etiquette, is it?" he says, still laughing. "Fuck the guests, my hand is a bowl?"
"Exactly. Also, cleaning is a social construct and please everyone be gone in the morning."
Draco's laugh is sweet, pleasant as it titters out of his mouth and then fades away. "Remind me of that tomorrow."
"I will." Harry nods, then frowns. "Now hang on, rewind this back a mo, what was that about Neville and a walking game?"
"Oh." Draco grimaces. "He's on one about getting us all to do a friendly little work step challenge."
"Mmm." Harry blinks, Summoning his drink to take a sip. "I have no idea what that means."
"It's stupid." Draco sniffs. "We wear pedometers and see who can walk the most in a month, or some guff, and somehow money goes to charity as a result." Draco turns and cracks his back, hands on his hips.
Harry leans back, considering. "A competition, then?"
Draco snorts. "Sure, something like that. Morale and wellness and blah blah blah."
"Doesn't sound too bad," Harry says thoughtfully.
"It sounds dreadful, don't lie, Potter."
"Sounds like someone is worried he'll lose."
Draco snorts again, and Harry grins, and this is something Harry thinks he's never going to grow out of: getting a rise out of Draco, getting his attention. It's a wonderful hobby, or a terrible one.
"Lose?" Draco sneers. He kicks one leg up and slams his heel down onto the table next to Harry, nearly dislodging the floating crisp bowl. "Have you seen these calves, Potter?" He smirks. "They were made for walking."
Harry laughs, dissolving into a full-on giggle. He squeezes Draco's leg, making a considering sound as if he's appraising a leg of jamón. "Eh," he says in summary, shrugging, and Draco kicks him.
"Oi! Don't 'eh' me, wanker." He nudges Harry again with his foot, frowning. "Put your money where your mouth is then, I'll sign us up."
"Fine, sure," Harry replies, still giggling, still prodding at Draco's leg. "Put me in, Captain, it'll be my easiest win yet."
"So cocky."
"So righty."
"Ugh." Draco kicks Harry one last time, pulling his leg away, but he's fighting off a laugh and Harry's pretty fucking pleased about that. He's less pleased when he sees that the movement has caused the crisps to have finally fallen out of Harry's flimsy Summoning charm, spilling onto the ground.
Draco makes a similarly forlorn sound at the sight. "Fuck. And also, oops." He rubs the side of his nose, one hand on his hip. Inside, the sound of raucous music comes out from behind the closed balcony doors. Draco frowns in consternation. "Is that… Rock Lobster?"
"Oh Merlin," Harry laughs, "Charlie's got hold of the music."
"Better than Ron." Draco hums the Macarena to really drive home the point and Harry laughs again, apparently having reached the soft and giggly stage of the night. He's going to be cuddly soon, but he thinks he might fancy a dance first, get his Michael Stipe elbows going and see if he can drag Malfoy out to join him. He's fun to dance with, always lets Harry spin him and returns the favour. It sounds like things are heating up, and he should probably go and be social and check on Seamus.
"I'm so hungry," he says, instead of any of that and as soon as it's out there he's even more ravenous. Draco sneaks a hand out to grab his drink and take a sip, and then a full on swig.
"I've got sausage rolls in the freezer," he says, smirking into the drink at Harry's immediate groan.
"Yeeeeeeeees," Harry drops his head to the balcony railing then stands up straight. "I'll have them all."
"You're so easy for a pastry." Draco's smiling over the rim of Draco's glass now, his eyes creasing at the corners into happy lines and Harry just nods, because it's true. He'd sell anyone out for a Cornish pastie. "Come on, then, let's get the oven on and feed the hoards."
"Me, I'm the hoard," Harry says, draping himself over Draco's back like a drunken throw rug, and he feels rather than hears Draco's laugh as he tries to walk them to the balcony door, one hand on Harry's forearm and the other still holding Harry's drink. It's terribly uncoordinated; Harry doesn't help at all.
They make it to the doors, the sound of here comes a bikini whale!! being belted out by Charlie, into Neville's adoring face. Across from them, Hermione screams in her best Molly-Howler impression, Ronald fucking Weasley! Come dance with me! and Harry grins into Draco's soft-shirted back. He loves drunk Hermione like no other woman in the world.
"Fancy a dance?" Draco offers over his shoulder and Harry lets Draco turn in his arms, holding his hands out for Harry to take. He immediately steps into a waltz and Harry snorts a laugh.
"Ah yes, the B52 two-step," he laughs, but going along with it anyway. Draco's free hand feels nice on his hip; Harry holds Draco's wrists so Draco can still cradle their now shared drink.
"It's a classic," Draco agrees, still smiling his warm smiles as he leads them in.
Harry sucks. He doesn't even try not to. The song shifts and PJ Harvey croons down by the water and Draco counts Harry in and Harry's feet count Harry right back out again.
"One two three, one two three, oh my god, one two three!" Draco chokes on his laughter, hectic red on his cheeks, and playkicks Harry in the shins. "You're garbage!" He laughs, giving up and spinning Harry on the spot. Harry fits himself under Draco's arm on the way back, the cuddly stage hitting him right on time. A soft wave of melancholy is threatening to follow in its wake. He gets like this, when things are very good and he's very happy. His brain tries to pop it like a balloon.
"Oh, oof." Draco downs the last of Harry's drink, then plonks it onto the mantle piece. He looks down at Harry and reads him like a book. "You've hit the wall, huh?" Harry nods into Draco's armpit and Draco chuckles.
"Food time!" Draco declares, manoeuvring himself and his Harry-limpet into the kitchen and Harry forgets all about steps and bets and lets himself be happy and in company and fed.
***
Day 3: tracked step count: still 0
Sleep in count: 1
It's Sunday morning and Harry's entirely comatose when his phone rings. And then keeps ringing when Harry ignores it.
And then keeps fucking ringing.
"How far up the leek do I cut?" Draco says when Harry finally slaps his phone to his face and answers.
"Gnuh?"
Harry blinks, confused, half asleep, unsure of what a leek is or his own name or what planet he's on. He's not great when he first wakes up.
"Like, how much of the green do you eat?" Draco goes on, unfazed by Harry's silence. "I can never fucking remember, are the taller bits still good for eating or is that the leek equivalent of a carrot top?"
"Gnuhh." Harry smooshes his forehead into the pillow, bringing his knees up underneath him. Arse up and face down, he tries to find his brain. "What"—Harry takes a breath—"the fuck are you on about, Malfoy?"
He can practically hear Draco's grin. "Sorry, did I wake you? I figured by now you'd be up and about, considering our wager."
Harry groans, joints creaking. Friday was two nights ago and he was hungover Saturday and today he still feels like a mouldy dog's arse. There are wonderful things about hitting thirty, and then there are these kinds of things, where his back always hurts and his knees creak and his liver isn't putting up with any of his shit anymore. Traitor.
He gets his arms underneath him, phone squished between his cheek and shoulder and the horrid curly cord tangled around him. He leans back against the headboard. "I think you can eat some of the green," he says, rubbing his eyes. "Wager?"
"You've saved my omelette, thank you, Potter." There's a sound down the line, like something sizzling in a pan.
Harry hums. "Wager?" he prompts, eyes shut, the comforting embrace of sleep threatening to take him. He's fallen asleep on the phone with Draco before. The sizzling sounds quite nice; he could drift off right now.
"You know, the walking challenge," Draco says casually. "I've been up for a while, had a nice leisurely, long, step-county stroll."
Harry's eyes fly open.
"Oh shit, the comp―fuck!" There's a clatter as the phone slips off the side table, receiver hitting the ground and dangling perilously. Harry tries to catch it, knocking his water glass off in the process. "Fuck and balls." He can hear Draco's laugh getting louder as he reels the phone back in like he's catching fish.
"You started it already?" Harry rubs his forehead. "That's cheating!"
"It's really not Harry, everyone else started this last Monday. We were the last ones on the sign up sheet when I went in to put our names down yesterday."
"What?" Harry racks his brain to remember anyone talking to him about this, and realises that yes, it was on the calendar, and Neville has sent memos, and Sarah actually dropped a pedometer thingy off at his desk, but in his defence, Harry―didn't care. He has no defence, he just didn't retain that bit of information. It seemed boring, and not like something he actually needed to get involved in.
And now Draco was using that against him and racking up sneaky cheating steps since their conversation at the party, and having sneaky devious celebratory omelettes without him.
"Fucker," Harry grumbles. "How far was this walk?"
Draco laughs, delighted. "Get up and come round, I've got your pedometer here. I swung by Cherchonnes on the way back, too, I've got almond croissants."
"Oh, hello." Harry perks up. "Fine, get the coffee on and give me fifteen―" Harry makes a face, thinks about the last time he showered. "Err, maybe twenty minutes."
"I'll see you in thirty."
"You got it." Harry hangs up.
***
Day 7: tracked step count: 70,302
Dog messes stepped in: 0 (almost 1)
Harry doesn't know why their pub quiz team is called The Dead Lemon Society, and he suspects no one else on the team knows either.
He does know two things: that they are chronically incapable of winning, and that Draco is being squirelly about his step count.
"Is it more than fifty thousand?" Harry asks, popping his final chip in his mouth.
"Do you fancy dessert?" Draco says in unrelated response. He sips at the last of his pint, and Harry squints.
Beside Harry, Luna and Neville are counting up their scores, while the Quiz Master gives them encouraging yet perplexed looks. Harry gets it; they've never scored higher than eighth place, in a Muggle pub with eight tables, and Callum on the mic doesn't seem to understand how anyone can be so consistently bad. Harry is certain he's starting to throw a few easy ones their way each week, and Harry occasionally knows the answer if they happened to relate to TV shows from before he turned twelve. Among them, though, it's oddly Malfoy who has the best current Muggle pop culture knowledge due to the slew of Muggle jobs he took post-Hogwarts and pre-feeling courageous and chaotic enough to show his face in Diagon Alley again.
It was insanely brave of him to come back, Harry thinks―or, really idiotic and stubborn. Harry isn't sure which trait it specifically was, but one of those qualities is what drew him to Draco again, this time with his hand out in an offer of friendship. Harry thinks he is a person who holds grudges, but somehow this wasn't one he wanted to keep carrying around with him. They were kids, covered in the accidental blood they spilled. Harry can never forget the smell of Fiendfyre smoke, the way it clung to his clothes and the way Draco clung to his back as he flew them both out, and he's certain Draco can't either. He'd seen enough of the adults in his life let friendship curdle into bitterness in their stomachs, poisoning their lives, and he didn't fancy having to deal with that himself. It was genuinely easier to forgive, and just be Malfoy's friend.
Plus it really confused and pissed off the media circuit in equal measures, which Harry is not above admitting made him very fucking pleased.
"I'm thinking maybe the panna cotta?" Draco says, pursing his lips and resting his hand on his chin and his elbow on the wooden table top. It squooshes his cheek up. "Hmm, but it has coconut. If we share, you'll throw a fit about that."
"Is it more than seventy thousand?" Harry blurts, and gets only a small tilt of Draco's lips, a secretive smile in the corner of his mouth.
Draco licks his free thumb, turning the menu over. "Maybe the espresso brownie with the vanilla bean ice cream? That's nice and basic, you'll like tha―ow!" Draco rubs the shin that Harry just kicked under the table and shoots him a glare. "Fine, have nothing," Draco grumbles.
"Stop dodging the question!"
"Stop refusing to read the room and realise I'm not answering it!" Draco shoots back in exactly the same tone. It's a frighteningly good impression of Harry. "It's a competition, dumbarse," Draco says like Harry is five and Draco is (meanly) explaining to him where rain comes from. "If you know my score, then you will try and beat it.
Harry frowns. "But hang on, I've been telling you my score all week!"
Draco smirks. "Exactly."
"Oh, you absolute―!" Harry gapes. And then seethes. And then leans across the table and snatches the dessert menu. "Wanker," he finishes, with less heat than he was anticipating. The espresso brownie does actually look pretty good, and if Draco gets the lemon and raspberry roulade instead of the disgusting coconut panna cotta, he's right, they can share. And then maybe Harry won't have to kill him for being a sneaky arsehole.
"You're buying," Harry grumbles, and Draco shrugs one shoulder like he was expecting to anyway. "I want a night cap too."
"They have dessert wine on the back, look." Draco flips the menu over, and Harry wrinkles his nose. He's had the dessert wine here, and it was a bit like licking a very old raisin that died in a vat of rum. He's not sure he's ready to venture there again.
Draco registers his expression. "You could come back to mine instead?" he offers. "I've got a black cherry spiced rum Pansy sent me from Australia, we could toast it?"
Harry narrows his eyes. "Fine, but we're walking and keeping pace with each other."
Draco laughs, surprised, and holds his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine. Marching orders all the way there." His laugh settles down into a smile, and it's that nice one that crinkles his eyes and makes that one dimple in his cheek dent out, and Harry―annoyed and un-dessert wined as he is―can't help but smile back.
Luna slumps in her seat next to them, a small furrow between her pale brows. She rests her hands on the table. "Well, we did very very badly," she says cheerfully, and both Harry and Draco make surprised "ooohh noooo, how this could happen, what an upset" chatter for the sake of appearances (and Callum's sanity) before Draco heads up to buy pudding for them both.
Harry watches him go, trying (and ultimately failing) not to surreptitiously count the steps it takes him to get to the bar to order.
***
Day 11: tracked step count: 134,503
Colleagues at the end of their tether: several
"The pair of you," Sarah gets out through gritted teeth, "are driving me up the fucking wall!"
She turns from the white board, pen held in equally white-knuckled hands, and glares. Harry, marching on the spot behind her, has the decency to feel a bit bad about stomping around the office. Draco looks unashamed.
"Sorry―" Harry starts, right as Draco blurts out, "Oh come on, Sez, it's not that bad, I'm incredibly light-footed."
"Argh!" Sarah throws her pen onto her desk, rubbing her temples. "You've been doing this for days now, for fuck's sake, lads!" Her nostrils flare and Harry steps backwards and away from her. And then keeps stepping in place. He knows he's the problem. The movement brings him closer to a small troupe of Ambulating Aspidistra which tilt their leaves curiously, then start to bob on the spot, picking up Harry's momentum.
"This is supposed to be a fun, friendly work thing for everybody's mental health!" she snaps, both hands on her hips now. "That doesn't mean you two get your elephantine rocks off trying to beat each other, at the expense of everyone else in the office's mental wellbeing!"
"I dunno, the plants seem to like it," Harry says, gesturing to the Aspidistras, now happily parading around him in a circle, their tiny, stubby root legs marching in tandem and skipping on the third beat. It's blindingly cute, Harry thinks. Unimpressed, Sarah glares at him, and both Harry and the plants shrink backwards. "Err. Maybe let's go into the hall for a bit?"
"Yes, maybe let's fuck off to anywhere else for a bit, ta, Harry," Neville says cheerfully, from behind his desk. From it's perch on his shoulder, a Mimicking Magnolia parrots out, "yeah fuck off, Harry!"
"Rude," Draco mutters, sparing the Magnolia a glance, and it chirps sweetly back. "And also fine, let's bugger off, Potter."
Oswald, the office cat, swishes his tail back and forth from his current snoozing spot: the top of the filing cabinet. The pupils of his eyes grow large as he clearly contemplates attacking one―or all―of the Aspidistra, but before he can raise so much as his furry bum into pounce-position, Harry scoops him up and plonks him down onto Sarah's desk.
"Sorry, love, I need to grab a file," he explains to Oswald's annoyed, ginger face. "And you need to not murder the rescue plants."
"And you need to invest in quieter shoes," Sarah mutters, pressing her face into Oswald's fur and adding something that sounds suspiciously like, are they being horrid to you, too? Shall we hex their legs off?
Harry snorts. "What if I invested in getting you a hot chocolate on the way back?"
Sarah lifts her head from Oswald's fluffy flank, her mouth twisting as she thinks. She sucks on one cheek and regards Harry shrewdly, her grey hair falling over one eye. "Throw in a biscuit from Nelson's and I could be persuaded not to throttle you."
Harry clicks his fingers, then points at her. "Done."
He marches Draco out of the office before they manage to get onto Sarah's final fraying nerve again, gently holding his foot out as he closes the door to block his entourage from following them out into the hallway while Draco laughs and does nothing to help.
***
Day 12: tracked step count: 160,112
Whinging: endless
Harry's legs are fucking sore.
He says as much, as he and Draco flop onto their rented cabin's sofa, post-hike.
"Take an Anti-Inflammatory Potion," Draco says, midway through pulling off one of his boots. He sounds knackered too.
"Can't," Harry replies shortly, wiggling his socked toes and staring up at the stucco finish ceiling. He needs to have a shower; he stinks, and he's sore, but he's also considering never moving again and never the twain shall meet, or something.
Draco drops his other boot onto the wooden floor with a clunk and a relieved groan, turning to Harry with a confused frown. "Can't, why can't? You're not allergic," he says with the confidence of someone who has spent a lot of time with Harry over the last few years and would have picked up on a potion allergy.
Harry makes a face. "I already took one before the hike."
Draco grunts, flopping back against the sofa as well. His shoulder rests against Harry's, still sunwarm and bare in his thin white vest. "Muscle relaxant, then," he suggests, shutting his eyes.
"Never again," Harry declares. "Last time I took one of them I felt like my muscles were going to become so relaxed I was about to shit myself and die."
"God." Draco chokes out a laugh, rubbing at his forehead. "Well just complain, then, I guess."
"Great advice," Harry says, slumping down until he can rest his forehead against the armrest, one arm dangling and almost reaching the floor. "Merlin, I thought I was in shape."
"You are," Draco says quickly, then clears his throat. "I mean, we just walked up a fucking great big hill, it would be weird if you weren't sore."
It's true; they grabbed a Portkey to the Western highlands and made a weekend of it, renting a nice-enough cabin and getting up at the arse crack of dawn to try and summit Ben Evis. They didn't do too badly, in terms of steps and miles and altitude, but in terms of complaining and sore limbs Harry is the true champion. His calves are burning and he has a blister on his heel that somehow defied the Anti-Chafing Charm he put on his entire body this morning.
"Maybe getting drunk will help," he mumbles into the scratchy material of the cabin's sofa arm and beside him, Draco chuckles. He pats Harry on the head.
"Yeah, come on then." He stands, cracking his back with hands on his hips, and then offers both hands out to Harry. "I'll shower first, then you, then we can get good and wankered."
***
They do not, in fact, get wankered.
The cabin has two bedrooms, with king beds, but they both cram onto Harry's to watch bad television and demolish the wine and snacks basket that came with the rental. The fruit is fine; the wine is mediocre. Harry is too tired and sore and mopey to really give a stuff.
"Oh my god," Draco says, wine glass held in his left hand and remote resting on his right thigh, pointed at the telly.
"Hmm?" Harry says, struggling to chew on a dehydrated grapefruit rind and wondering, belatedly, if it was actually part of the decoration and not meant to be consumed. He's too far in to stop, though. He's no quitter.
"Hocus Pocus is on channel 4. We're watching it. No arguments." Draco throws the remote onto the bed between them, grabs a pillow, and shoves it behind his head and upper back. In his soft grey joggers and black long-sleeved top, he looks the picture of comfort. In his own soft jumper and cosy pyjama bottoms, Harry feels like ten kinds of shit. He sips at his wine, and wonders if a long soak in the bath would help his aching lower half. There's possibly not enough Radox in the world to calm his sore arse and thigh muscles right now. He shifts on the spot, curving one leg up and then out again, trying to get comfortable while jostling Draco as little as possible. He thinks he manages to be pretty subtle despite his dodgy mood.
"Jesus Christ, Harry, you fidgety fuck."
Or not.
Harry sighs, opening his mouth to do something adjacent to apologising (he's not actually sorry for being in a bad mood due to being sore, and he's not about to lie about it, but he can admit that he is indeed fidgety nuisance as a result) when Draco interrupts him.
"Right, that's it." Draco sets his wine glass on the table, tucking his hair behind his ear and rising up onto his knees. "Roll over, come on."
Harry blinks. "What?"
"I want to watch the movie in peace, and you're carrying on like a boiled kipper, so shift onto your front and I'll give your legs a rub."
Draco says it like it's obvious that's what he meant, and also like this is an obvious response to Harry being a pain in both of their arses. Harry's spent a decent amount of time on his belly but never been told quite so unceremoniously to get there. Beside him, Draco twirls one raised finger in a universal gesture for 'roll over, buddy'.
"But then I won't be able to see the telly," Harry protests weakly. Draco just shrugs.
"Just face the TV." He gives Harry a softer look. "I'm good at this, don't worry. And I won't touch your arse."
Harry snorts, getting up onto his knees. He grabs a pillow at the last minute before flopping onto his belly, arms around the pillow and chin resting a dent into it. "But that's the sore bit," he says, turning to look over his shoulder and catch Draco's satisfyingly unimpressed look in response.
Draco rolls his eyes, settling onto his side. His cheeks look flushed in the low light of the room, pale skin turning ruddy. He must have had more wine than me, Harry thinks, before turning back to the TV. He's not going to be weird about this; Draco is his mate and Harry's given Ron a shoulder rub when he hurt his back before. Harry settles in and watches whatever nonsense is happening on the telly.
Draco's right; he is good at this. For one, it doesn't feel like he's trying to hurt Harry, which is how Harry has felt about most massages he's had in his life. Harry's not sure if it's him, or if massages are meant to be hard and painful, but generally it's been a 'grit his teeth and bear it' kind of situation. Draco, though, seems to have a lighter hand, starting with Harry's aching calves and seeming to alternate between using the flat base of his palm, and all five fingers. It's… rather bloody nice.
"S'good," Harry says, heavy lidded as Draco starts on his other leg.
"Glad to hear it," Draco says quietly. In his periphery, he sees Draco Summon his wine glass to hover by his shoulder so he can take breaks from dealing with Harry's limbs and have a sip. "I'll send you the bill when I'm done."
Harry snorts a laugh into his pillow, having given up on watching the movie and just listening to it instead. "I'll chuck you a fiver on your way out."
Draco clucks his tongue. "Devaluing me. Don't make this sordid, Potter."
Harry just hums into his pillow, feeling relaxed and warm and full. The TV sounds wash over him, a musical number blending into a more whimsical musical score, and Harry doesn't notice at first when Draco moves to start massaging the backs of his thighs. It's a subtle shift, Draco's long fingers working up the inside of his left leg and then the flat of his palm working back down again. Harry fights a proper sigh; he's incredibly sore, right there, and Draco's hands are just the right kind of pressure.
"Allright?" Draco asks, and Harry grunts out a noise, shooting a thumbs up over his shoulder. He's wonderful, and he's going to melt into the bed.
"Keep going," he mumbles and Draco chuckles. He carries on one-handed as he finishes the last of his wine; Harry hears the clink as Draco sets his glass down, and then sighs as Draco starts on the backs of his legs with both hands again.
Harry shifts against the covers, trying to give Draco space without really paying attention to what he's doing and then shifts again, letting out another soft sound into his pillow dent. His glasses have lifted up, resting against his forehead now, and it's a precarious situation (one wrong move and the nose rests will poke him in the eye, a non-fatal yet extremely annoying occurrence) but Harry's not moving. He's liquid. Draco alternates between using both hands on the one leg, moving up from the soft ditch behind Harry's knee and over his tight hamstrings, and running both hands down each leg. It all feels wonderful. The ache in Harry's muscles is still there, but mellowed out into a kind of red-tinged pleasure. Harry shifts again, rolling his hips mindlessly as Draco runs his thumbs up the insides of both legs, rucking up the material before running his hands back down again, harder this time. Thoughtlessly, Harry lifts his arse up, widening his legs to give Draco more space―and then suddenly realises, what the fuck am I doing?
He freezes. He's half hard in his joggers, more than, his cock rubbing against the mattress. He's not sure if it's obvious, if Draco can tell―if he noticed Harry was basically humping the mattress before Harry even bloody did.
Behind him, Draco's hands stop too. "Too hard?" he asks, in genuine enquiry.
"Um," Harry licks his lips, relieved Draco hadn't noticed what he was doing and also…
not relieved. Which is something he needs to unpack, and probably quickly, but he feels relaxed and soft and stupid. "No…" Harry says, eloquently, and Draco takes both hands off him.
"Just not good, then?" he asks, and there's something in his voice, a tone Harry can't place or hasn't heard before. Harry immediately wants Draco's hands back on him. It's a startling thought, overruled by Harry not wanting Draco to think he was doing a bad job. His priorities are… possibly out of whack.
"No, uh." Harry raises himself slightly, leaning on his elbows to adjust his skew whiff glasses. "More like." Harry bites his lip, then figures fuck it. He's shit at keeping secrets from Draco. Maybe they can laugh about this. "I think I am enjoying this too much? If you follow?" Harry confesses.
There's a brief moment where Draco just frowns, confused, and then his eyes widen and Harry gets to see the information process and land in Draco's mind in real time. The room is dimly lit, but Harry can still see the way his cheeks and pale throat flush russet.
"Oh," Draco says. His hands are in his lap now. "Well that is… flattering. My work here is done, I guess?" he says croakily. Harry can't tell if he was trying to joke, if Harry's made this so awkward they can never be friends again, if Harry should roll off and under the bed and live there forever now. He needs to think, properly, get them back on regular footing. He's never thought about Draco like this before. He's never been turned on by Draco before, but Draco is staring at him, the light from the television making his eyes shine, and then his lips too after he licks them, and Harry has always, always, had poor impulse control.
And really poor impulse control about Draco.
"It doesn't have to be," Harry blurts, before he can think himself down from that ledge, and he sees Draco's breath catch. Harry realises that he's holding his own breath. His heart is racing. He forces himself to breathe evenly.
"Oh," Draco says again. His voice is low, soft. He watches Harry, not moving, and Harry keeps eye contact even though his neck is killing him and he thinks his heart is going to explode out of his chest. "Now that is flattering," Draco mutters, this time almost to himself. He looks away first, briefly breaking eye contact. He raises one hand to his mouth, fingers touching and then tapping at his bitten lower lip. Harry wonders what's going on in his head, if he's thinking the same things as Harry. If he's figuring fuck it too. For a long moment, Harry waits, and forgets how to breathe. He doesn't think at all.
Then Draco meets his eyes again, places his hands back on Harry's thighs, and Harry's breath leaves him in a shaky sigh.
"You sure?" Harry says, suddenly need to know that he's not being… a pushy creep here. That Draco is on board for this, whatever this is. Harry will take blue balls over ruining this friendship any day.
"Mmm," Draco says, squeezing the back of Harry's thighs. His hands are hot, even through Harry's joggers. It's not really an answer, but then Draco squeezes again before he rises up on his knees, swinging one leg over Harry's legs. He sits on the backs of Harry's thighs, palms sliding up to settle just below Harry's arse.
"This okay?" Draco asks, and Harry almost loses his glasses he nods so fast.
"Yep," Harry almost laughs. He pulls his glasses off and chucks them over the end of the bed, onto the floor. "Is this insane?" he says as Draco moves his hands up, skipping his arse and kneading into the muscle at the small of his back, then his hips, with his thumbs.
"Probably,'' Draco says, as Harry presses his face back into the pillow. His dick is perking up again, and he shifts his hips, presses them down into the mattress so the head rubs against the soft material of his joggers. Behind him, he feels Draco lean down, his weight resting on his hands on Harry's back. He dips closer to kiss the back of Harry's neck.
"Just to be sure, though," he rumbles, kissing Harry's nape again and then moving up to his ear. "We're talking about getting off, correct?" His hips are flush against Harry's arse and he rolls them, pressing down. He's not hard, not fully, but the promise is there, and Harry pushes back against him.
"Yeah," he says, then swallows. "Sounds like a great, stupid idea right now."
"Mmhmm," Draco rolls his hips again, down with more purpose, before he sits up. He slides his hands up Harry's back, over his t-shirt. "It really does." He pulls the material up, then presses his hot lips to Harry's back, in the centre of his spine. Harry opens his mouth to sigh, tasting the material of his pillow as he flicks his tongue out to wet his lips.
This time when Draco sits up again, he picks up where the previous massage left off―and takes it further.
His hands move from the backs of Harry's thighs, down to meet Draco's own as he sits on Harry, and then up. He cups Harry's arse, a cheek in each hand, and Harry really doesn't mean to make a choked noise already. He doesn't want to be this easy for it, but he cants his hips up and into Draco's hands, tries to spread his legs as wide as he can with Draco's weight on him. Draco presses down again and Harry likes that, very fucking much.
It's a slow build, and one that drives Harry mad; Draco runs his hands over his legs, his back, under his shirt and over his bare skin. He kisses the small of Harry's back as he digs his fingers into Harry's thighs, runs them high up his legs until they barely touch his balls through his pants and then pull back again, tantalising. He cups Harry's arse and squeezes. His fingers feel like they're everywhere.
Harry rolls his hips, humps down against the mattress and curls his toes. He reaches back to grab Draco's leg and pull him closer, knocking him off balance.
"Oof," Draco laughs, breathily, catching himself with a hand on the bed by Harry's head. "Easy, there," he says, but his hips are pressed against Harry's arse, and this time Harry can feel him, hard and hot even through two layers of material.
"Worth it, though." Harry squeezes Draco's leg, a paltry return of the favour, looking over his shoulder. He tugs on Draco's leg again, tilting his face up for a kiss. He hopes he's as easy to read as he feels. Draco leans closer, brushes his lips against Harry's and Harry figures that's a yes.
The angle is bad; the kiss is perfect. Harry moves his hand from Draco's leg to curve around his neck, tangling in the hair that Draco keeps threatening to get cut (but which right now, Harry is glad he hasn't). Draco kisses him softly, then opens his mouth wide and dirty, slips him tongue. He presses a hand on Harry's jaw, soft, and Harry's grateful; his neck is killing him. He says as much against Draco's mouth, and Draco laughs again, breath against Harry's lips.
"Wanna roll over then, get on your back?" Draco says, stroking his thumb over his throat, and Harry makes a considering noise.
"Nah, I think you should fuck me," he replies, pushing up against Draco. "Like this." He kisses Draco again, catches the noise he makes. Harry pulls back, and licks his lips. "If that's not going too far?"
Draco kisses him back, runs his free hand down his side until he meets Harry's hip. "No, I'm up for that," he says. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of Harry's joggers and Harry helps him wiggle them down, the cool air hitting his bare skin.
Draco makes a surprised sound. "No pants?" He says, sitting back and running the backs of his knuckles over the curve of Harry's arse. "Slutty," he adds, pushing his hands up the back of Harry's shirt and rucking it up to his armpits.
"Is it?" Harry laughs, feeling hot. Feeling good.
Harry feels Draco shrug as he leans over him. "Kinda," Draco kisses his shoulder blade, shuffling his knees down his body to properly lie down against him. He presses his still clothed cock down against Harry, fits it between his cheeks. "Kinda stupid hot, too." He rolls his hips. "I cannot wait to fuck you."
Harry laughs again, breathless. "Jesus. You can't just say stuff like that." He licks his lips. "Get naked, hurry up."
Draco just hums, bites at his earlobe. He sits back to pull his shirt off and Harry wrestles with his own, pushing his joggers the rest of the way down too. They catch on his cock, hard and leaking, and he runs his hand over it, bites his lip to hold in a moan. He twists to see Draco kicking his own sweats off and over the edge of the bed, followed by his pants. His cock is long, slim. Harry stares, pulling at his own, until Draco knees up and over him again, pushing playfully at his shoulder.
"It's rude to stare," Draco says, bending down to kiss the shoulder his hand was just on, and Harry muffles a laugh against his wrist. It's just like Draco to talk dirty, call Harry a slut, then get shy when Harry acts slutty. Harry smiles, wriggling his hips to get his dick comfortable against the mattress. He sighs when Draco settles over him.
"You wanna do the spell, or shall I?" Draco says into his ear, and Harry replies, "Easier if I do it." His wandless magic is better than Draco's; it's not a brag, just a fact. Besides, he likes a light hand when it comes to prep spells, doesn't want to feel too loose or too much lube. He mutters the spell, feeling a familiar (but not recent, if he's honest; it's been a while) lightness in his guts. Wet spreads between his cheeks, and up inside him. He makes a face at the sensation.
"Good?" Draco rolls his hips, then sits back when Harry nods. He grips Harry's arse, pulls his cheeks apart and presses them back together. Harry flushes, thinking of the shine Draco must see, and feeling exposed. Draco runs a thumb over Harry's rim, pushes against it. He slips it in easily.
"Fuck," Harry says, dropping his forehead onto his folded hands. He grinds down against the mattress as Draco pulls his thumb out, replaces it with his index finger, slowly pushing up to the first knuckle, then the second. He pulls it out, then back in again.
"God," Draco says, sounding rough. "This is like―" He cuts himself off, moving his finger faster. Harry groans, pushing back. It really has been a while since he was last fucked. He hasn't forgotten how much he likes it, though. Now that it's on the table he feels impatient, greedy for it.
"More," he says, and so Draco kisses his shoulder, adds another finger. The stretch feels good, the drag as he pulls them back and eases them back in, faster each time. Draco rests his forehead against Harry's shoulder, breathes hard into his skin, and his dick drags against Harry's arse cheek, leaving wet smears in its wake. Harry's own is throbbing.
"Holy―shit," he gasps as Draco moves faster, bumping up against that good spot on every other motion. "Okay, okay, fuck me already."
"Yeah?"
"Yes, fuck."
"Yeah," Draco agrees, his voice rough, distracted. He widens his fingers, twists them one last time, then pulls them away. "This is so… fucking hot," he croaks.
Harry looks over his shoulder just as Draco sits back on his heels, holding Harry's cheeks apart. His fingers are shining wet as he grips at Harry. Harry's never felt like he had much of an arse to be proud of, but Draco's looking at him like he wants to eat him alive, like he's never seen anyone hotter. It makes Harry's head spin.
"Staring is rude, remember," Harry says, just to be a little shit, but Draco's too far gone to take the bait. Harry rolls his hips against the bed, his cock pressing into his belly. He wants to reach down, but he also doesn't want to move, doesn't want to stop Draco from looking at him like that. Harry has a complicated relationship with attention. First he grew up with none, and then got way too much too fast, and hated both in equal measure. This, though, is the kind he's always craving. Someone's hands on him, their eyes eating him up, seeing him as he is and not looking away. Draco meets his eyes, mouth carved into a filthy, sweet grin, and Harry's cock twitches against his belly, leaving wet against the happy trail on his stomach. He thinks he might explode.
"Okay," Draco says, shaking hair out of his face and giving Harry another grin. He grips his cock with one hand, presses the head against Harry's hole. "Giddy up," he says with a wink, and Harry immediately, loudly snorts a laugh.
"Oh my god." His shoulders shake and he looks away, dropping his forehead back onto the bed, his pillow pushed aside. "You cannot have just said that, holy shi―ah!" Harry bites his lower lip as Draco presses forward, just enough pressure for the head of his prick to pop inside.
"Can," Draco says, laughter in his breathy voice. "And did. Fuck, you feel incredible." He pushes forward further, another inch slipping inside, and Harry nods his head, rolling his shoulders as he gets his hands underneath him for no other reason than to feel like he's holding onto something. He grips the blanket beneath him, tries to relax. He loves this bit, the push and the burn, the anticipation that it's about to get good. Draco shifts, drapes over him properly with his hands by Harry's head as he pulls back and then moves forward again, keeps sinking in. Gravity helps. Harry groans, loud. He wants this so bad.
"Here," Draco says, curving one hand over Harry's belly and lifting him slightly. "Up, knees."
Harry goes, gets his knees under him and immediately spreads them wider. He arches his back, pushes up into Draco and feels him sink deeper, hears him groan.
"Oh, shit. Yeah," Draco says with feeling, one hand on Harry's hip and the other sliding down from his belly to curl around his cock, squeezing him once before moving to grip his other side. He starts to slowly thrust.
Harry chokes out a sound, stretches his arms out in front of him and lets his head hang. His mind is white noise and it's perfect. Draco's pace picks up fast, building up a rhythm. Harry can hear both their harsh breathing, the slap of Draco's hips. His toes curl, and he cries out when Draco finds―
"Yeah, right there, fuck."
"Yeah?"
"Holy shit, yes, like that." Harry gets one hand between him, pressing his lips together to stop himself from keening, from talking more shit. He gets a hand on his dick, groans long and low as he works himself into his fist, runs his thumb over the wet head of his prick. He's close, he realises, each thrust hitting that spot inside him, sending a jolt up his spine, making him hot, making him burn. He shuts his eyes and feels.
Draco's loud behind him, harsh breathes and bitten off moans. He runs his hands up Harry's back, digs his fingers in. One slides to the nape of Harry's neck, tangling in the sweat damp curls and Harry groans, wanting Draco to pull his hair, to push his head down. He won't ask, not now, but the idea of it makes him ache.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come."
"Shit, yeah. Wanna feel you."
Draco speeds up, hips rabbiting into Harry, and Harry works the head of his prick, keens into the mattress as he throbs, starts to come. He groans, biting down on nothing as the feeling washes through him, body tight and loose all at once and knees skidding against the bed covers. He thinks he'll be embarrassed about the noises he made, later on, when he's back in his head. Or maybe he won't; he feels too good to care, his hand wet with come and his legs shaking.
He feels Draco start to come before he hears him, the way his hips still, stutter, his breath on Harry's shoulder as he leans over him and then lets out a punched-out sounding sound. Harry hums, eyes closed and panting and feels good and sore and tired, Draco's arms wrapping octopus-tight around him as he grinds his hips, working his cock inside Harry and filling him up.
"Holy shit," Draco says into Harry's back and Harry hums again. He wraps his hand (the dirty one, oops, but what can you do) around Draco's on his belly, tangles their fingers.
"Yeah," Harry manages. He moves his knee, trying to get his leg out from under him and knowing the muscles will be screaming at him tomorrow, and Draco shakily helps, propping himself up and gingerly pulling out. He presses his thumb against Harry's hole after, oddly tender and Harry flushes, feeling exposed, liking it.
Harry flops onto his back, exhausted. He makes a face at the feeling of come leaking out of him, an insistent trickle. He has a few more minutes before it's too disgusting for him to ignore. He'll take every second before he has to move. The bed shifts as Draco flops down next to him, shoulder to shoulder.
"Fucking hell," Draco says, staring at the ceiling. He pushes one hand through his hair, gets it off his sweaty forehead. He leaves his forearm against his head, turning to Harry. Harry turns his head too, taking in Draco's flushed face, his chaotic hair, his eye peeking out from under his arm. His slight smile. "Well that was unexpected," Draco says, and Harry bites his lip, fighting a grin. He can't though, the feeling bubbling up, bursting out of him in a laugh.
"Oh, shit," he says, choking on his laughter, and Draco's smile widens. He stretches his arm out behind him, cock softly nestled in the curve of his hip bone, while Harry lets the fit of laughter run its course.
"I take it that's you agreeing with me," Draco rumbles, and Harry nods.
"Very fucking much," he says, wiping at this eyes with his decent hand. He cringes again, the laughter having made his situation below decks worse, and Draco sits up suddenly, resting his weight on one arm as he looks down at Harry.
"Shower?" he says
Harry nods, struggling to sit up himself. His arse twinges, and he knows a Cleaning Spell wouldn't go astray right now but he hates the way they feel inside him (minty and effervescent is not a way he ever wants his arse to feel).
"You might have to carry me, " he says, watching Draco stand and trying not to let his eyes linger too long on the hang of his soft cock.
Draco just smiles at him, holding a hand out. "No trouble at all," he says, fond as anything and Harry lets Draco pull him up and towards the bathroom.
***
Day 13: tracked step count: 160,330
Harry wakes up before the sun. His left arm is numb, half buried under the pillow and his own head, and his other hand is lying on the bed between them. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, unsuccessfully, and reaches out to brush his knuckles against Draco's back. He shuffles closer and falls back asleep, waking again when the sun is fully up and so is Draco and check out is in half an hour.
Harry eats toast while Draco showers. He sips coffee as Draco packs the last of his bag and stands, shooting Harry a cheery smile and clapping Harry on the shoulder.
He can't tell if this is awkward, if this is fine, if this is a thing they'll do again. If they need to have a "we okay?" flavoured conversation, or if that's a foregone conclusion. Harry feels okay; Draco seems okay, and Harry knows Draco is shit at hiding his emotions if he's genuinely upset or out of sorts about something.
Harry grabs an apple from the complimentary fruit basket for the car ride, but ends up just holding it most of the way home, rubbing his thumb over the same spot again and again and making it new and shiny.
He sits in the rental car as Draco drives them back to the Portkey meet. Harry leans his elbow against the door, props his chin in his hand and thinks, your dick was inside me. I can still feel it.
Draco catches him staring as he stops at a red light and he says, "You want the radio on? We have a bit of a drive, still." And Harry nods, smiles and shifts again in his seat, just to feel it.
He drifts off before they get there, waking up in a place he doesn't know but with Draco's familiar face smiling at him and his gentle hand shaking Harry awake.
***
Day 14: tracked step count: 178,567
Awkward situations: possibly 1
They haven't talked about it.
Granted, it's been one day, but still. And it's not like they haven't talked at all. It's been usual programming really; they chatted when they got to work, chatted during tea break, and now they're sitting in the afternoon Monday catch-up meeting, not chatting because Marvin has the floor and is prattling endlessly about the week's goals and Harry is chewing the end of his quill and not thinking about how he and Malfoy fucked over the weekend.
But still.
Harry doesn't often fuck his friends. It's not something he's made a conscious decision to not do, it's just genuinely not come up much. He's slept with quite a few of his friends' friends though, truth be told. There was a period after the war, when going out drinking with Charlie's crew inevitably ended up in Muggle bars and Harry still remembers the sheer thrill of being nobody fucking special at all in each and every one. Just a guy, learning how to dress in a way he liked, learning that he liked boys as much as girls, learning how to pull on his own merit and without the weight of his stupid fucking name.
It was exhilarating, and Harry hadn't realised he should really be getting some therapy, so he sort of fucked his way across London in lieu of that and had a mostly good time. He had a casual arrangement with Charlie for a time, and then also came quite close to sleeping with Neville―which ended with a cuddle and Neville drunkenly confessing his crush on Charlie. (Awkward, yet not the most awkward situation found himself in; twenty three was a messy year). Harry's not sure when Neville and Charlie did get together, properly, but it was long after Charlie and Harry had stopped trading blow jobs after seedy nights in the West End, while Harry was busy getting his heart (see: ego) broken by a man named Keith of all fucking things.
That's as close as Harry's come to fucking his mates, until approximately forty-eight hours ago when his dick decided that years of a tremendously close and valuable friendship was worth risking for a shag on slightly foreign soil.
A really good shag, mind.
Harry sighs as he keeps aimlessly gnawing on the end of his quill. He watches Draco across the meeting table as Marvin flicks his wand and projects a spreadsheet into the room. Draco is resting his chin in his hand, the signet ring on his thumb pressing a dent into his cheek and his eyes looking dangerously close to sliding shut. Harry feels similarly―and also feels something else stirring in his gut as he watches Draco's hands, his full lower lip.
Harry looks away, determined to be normal and to pay attention to whatever Marvin is trying to cram down his throat about synergy and monthly projections and whatever else Harry will absolutely not be paying attention to.
"Lord, I thought that would never end," Sarah says to Harry and Draco when it's just the three of them left in the room, pretending to pack up their notes and coffee cups so they can get a good whinge in. Lost in thought, Harry hums a reply. He taps the pedometer on his leg.
"I know, Marvin's a nice chap but god can he drone," Draco agrees, leaning against the table. He looks at Harry, waiting for him to get a wriggle on and leave the room with them. Harry looks back, trying to articulate his thoughts and continuing to feel distracted out of sorts. He taps the pedometer again. Sarah notices, rolling her eyes.
"Lamenting all of the time spent sitting down in here in meetings when you could be upping the step count?"
Harry grunts a response, trudging along behind them towards the lifts. He ends up between the two of them, far too conscious of any bodily contact he makes with Draco. He's aware of a tension coming from Draco, now, that Harry thinks he might be responsible for.
Sarah bumps her shoulder against Harry's, good naturedly. "I wonder if stomping your feet under your desk during the meetings would count as steps?"
Harry grunts again. Draco hums thoughtfully. The lift dings.
"I wonder if doing it in time to Marvn's powerful drone would break the pedometer and end up with minus steps?" Draco adds, drily, and Sarah laughs.
"I wonder if fucking counts as steps?" Harry says, and the lift doors open at Sarah's floor as Harry wonders what the fuck has happened to his brain to mouth filter. He absolutely had not meant to say that out loud.
"Oh, for the love of god," Sarah mutters, laughing to herself as she exits the lift and wanders back to her office. "Bye Harry, have fun frog marching during sex for the sake of a meaningless competition!" she calls over her shoulder. The lift door slides shut again. Neither Harry nor Draco move to press the button for the ground floor. They stand in silence, Draco stiff as a board with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes wide like big grey lily pads. It's fucking awkward.
Great, Harry thinks. It wasn't weird before, but I have absolutely ensured it is now. Ten points to Gryffindor.
"Err," he says. "Penny for your thoughts?"
Draco opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He leans forward and presses the button for the ground floor. He clears his throat. "Make it a fiver and you can have them," he says, and Harry barks a loud and awkward laugh.
"Jesus," Harry says, but it's enough of an opening.
"So― " he starts to say, right as Draco says, "Look―" and then they're back at an awkward stalemate. Shit.
"You go first," Harry says, figuring he owes it to Draco after being such a huge weird knob all day. He braces himself for the 'we are okay, calm down' chat.
Instead, Draco says, "Yes, we should fuck again."
Harry turns his head to look at him so fast his neck cracks. "Pardon me?"
Draco sighs right as the lift dings to let them know they've arrived at the ground floor. He holds the button to keep the doors closed, turning back to Harry. His face is flushed again, but he doesn't look uncomfortable. Harry thinks it's a nice look on him.
"Look," Draco starts again. He pushes his hair off his forehead with his free hand. "You've clearly been thinking about it. What we did," he clarifies, flushing even harder but not breaking eye contact. Harry nods, stepping closer. "And I can't stop thinking about it," Draco adds, waving a hand at himself. "So maybe we should…" He breaks off with a shrug, seeming to have run out of steam.
"Lean into it?" Harry says, taking the wheel. He can feel himself fighting a smile. Draco snorts a laugh, not bothering to fight his own relieved grin.
"Yes, something like that. I mean why not, right?" Draco shrugs one shoulder. "Fun is fun." There's something hopeful in his voice, and that other tone, the one Harry couldn't place at the cabin right before he accepted Harry's move. Harry sets it aside, tentatively labelling it as "Draco's anticipating a shag mood, pending further information".
Harry considers it. Or pretends to; he was on board essentially since Draco first suggested it. He's thought about nothing else since, really.
"Your place or mine?" Harry says, biting the inside of his cheek gently to quell some of his excited nervousness.
"Mine," Draco says immediately, pressing the elevator button. "I have new lube. And I live closer. If that works for you, of course."
"Lead the way," Harry says, flushing hot at the idea of fucking Draco, getting fucked, honestly even just a handjob― and at the idea of Draco having bought new lube in case this happened again. It's a bit self-absorbed to assume Draco bought it for Harry, but whatever. He's feeling selfish.
"Come on, then," Draco says, grinning. He releases the button to let the lift doors open (thankfully with no one waiting on the other side, Christ) and Harry follows, falling into step with Draco trying not to be too obvious about what they're off to do.
***
Draco kisses him as soon as they're through the door.
It's good. Draco tastes like the tea he had in the afternoon meeting, faintly sweet. He sucks on Harry's lower lip, kisses his jaw, puts his hands on Harry's neck and holds his head. Harry slips his hands up Draco's top and sighs, happy horny and already starting to feel his head blissfully empty.
Draco drops to his knees, runs his hands up and down Harry's legs and presses his face to his groin and Harry groans, shocked and turned on.
"Holy shit." Harry swallows. "Please tell me you're about to suck my dick."
"No, your shoelace was untied," Draco replies drily, pushing Harry's top up to kiss at his belly, following the trail of hair down to his fly.
Harry groans out a laugh. "You're so funny," he replies faux sweetly, carding his fingers into Draco's hair. It's soft. He pushes it off Draco's forehead.
"I'm so funny," Draco agrees, pulling Harry's jeans and pants down to his thighs. He looks up at Harry through his lashes. "And if I actually catch you stepping on the spot to test your hypothesis from earlier, I will bite your dick off."
Harry barks a laugh, the sound cutting off when Draco sucks the soft head of prick into his mouth, taking the rest of him in hand. Harry widens his legs as much as he can before letting his head thump back against the door, laughing at the ceiling.
***
Day 23: tracked step count: 340,567
Realisations: imminent
Walking is boring; fucking Malfoy on the regular is not.
Walking, fucking Malfoy, and ignoring the niggling thought in his head saying what are you doing shagging one of your closest mates, Harry!?!, which is getting a bit harder to ignore as the shagging goes on.
It's seven am, and Harry has to be at work at nine, but he is walking through a park with the rest of the early morning joggers and runners and people with prams and thinking, Jesus this is no way to live.
Actually it's not that bad, it's just… very early to be breaking a sweat. And having a mild crisis.
The thing is, Harry can't shake the feeling that he is both fucking something up and not fucking it up at the same time. Doing something stupid and doing something great. The sex is fantastic and the friendship is the same; he's seeing Draco roughly the same amount as usual, but this time it ends with them in bed together. Harry likes being the little spoon. He likes the way Draco tucks his knees into the backs of Harry's, slipping a hand under his pillow to be comfortable.
Harry doesn't like the growing worry that this is a stupid thing to have so casually entered into with someone he genuinely cares about.
Harry stops at a large tree to fix one sock that's gotten twisted in his shoe—the name of said tree eludes him even though this is apparently his job (although if the plant isn't doing something sentient then it's not really in Harry's purview). Sock fixed, he stands and does some half-hearted calf stretches, holding his foot against his arse and squinting into the sun because he's crap at remembering his clip-on sunnies.
He switches to the other leg and does what he's been avoiding; he unpacks.
Draco is his friend―probably his best friend these days (don't tell Ron, never tell Ron). Actually Harry corrects himself, Ron might not be too bothered now; he's got Hermione and undoubtedly they are close in a way that Harry and Ron aren't. Ron would genuinely want Harry to have… that… with…
Harry pauses, then loses his balance as the realisation unfurls. He balances himself with one hand on a tree.
Is Draco his Hermione?
"Oh fuck," Harry says, resting his shoulder, and then his forehead, and then most of his body against the tree. "Fuckfuckfuck."
Harry doesn't consider himself an unintelligent man. He was integral in saving most of wizarding Europe, and while his being involved was against his will, his own quick wits and skill got him through. He does okay in the brains department. And yet, he can't believe this revelation snuck under his radar.
He has feelings for Draco. More than friendship, but so entwined with his friendship that maybe that's how he didn't fucking notice he had a thing for him.
Or maybe that's not it. Maybe it really was nothing more than deep friendship, right up until Draco put his hands on Harry and that little spark ignited something. Harry supposes that makes him more like a frog in a pot of boiling water that's heating up so slowly he hasn't noticed he's cooked until a Frenchman starts to slather him in butter and nibble on his legs.
Harry turns and slumps backwards against the tree. He leans forwards, hands on his thighs. He does feel like a mildly cooked frog. He tries not to panic.
A few more minutes pass and a jogger stops, asking Harry if he's okay, and Harry waves them off, lying that he's got a stitch. The jogger nods commiseratingly, picking up their pace again but not before giving Harry a weird look. Harry adds this to the slew of ways he can be described:
Harry Potter, tree annoyer and local bloody weirdo.
And man who is in love with Draco Malfoy.
He ends up sitting in the park for a long, long time.
***
He takes the rest of the day off work.
He calls it a mental health day, feeling like it's a lie or like he's getting away with something even though that's absolutely what it is.
He sort of regrets being home alone with his thoughts, though. He does several loads of washing and tries not to think about what to say to Draco. He cleans his kitchen and runs hypothetical conversations in his head, variations of: I know we've been having fun, and what if we kept doing it? And, I know we've been having fun and I don't think I'm ready for it to stop, and, I don't know if this is more than just having fun for you but it means something to me now and I don't know how to undo that.
He feels like several different kinds of arse as he runs through all the ways Draco might respond to that. He sits on his floor in his half-cleaned kitchen and eats plain bread and peanut butter and then goes back to bed until late afternoon, dozing on and off and reaching no conclusions other than: the friendship means too much to not be honest with Draco, and if he calls it off then Harry will get over himself.
He's also fairly certain that will be the outcome; Harry doesn't think he's a pessimist, but he can't shake the feeling that Draco will want to call it off. He doesn't date, or hasn't in the time Harry's known him. He's taken people home, but there's never been anyone he's seemed keen to see more than a handful of times. He's generous with introducing his friends, Muggle and otherwise, into their groups, but has never done so with a lover. Harry hasn't asked him about it, because it's rude and also Draco's barely thirty, it's not like he needs to be settling down or finding his Mr Darcy. Harry is very desperately interested in the reasoning behind it now, for selfish and pathetic reasons.
Harry sighs, dragging his arse to the fridge to peruse a takeout menu. He could go for a Chinese. Or a kebab. Or a kick in the nuts. Anything to get himself out of this fucking mood―
The kitchen phone rings and Harry wrinkles his nose. Okay, anything except that. He answers after a groan, assuming it's Neville wanting to check if he'll be in tomorrow. He nearly drops the receiver, his gut sinking when he hears Draco's familiar drawl.
"Potter, are you dead?" Draco says without preamble.
Harry laughs despite himself. "Nah." Harry pulls a chair out, close enough to the phone that he can sit down without pulling the curly cord too tight. "Just having a day."
"A day off?" Draco says, assuming he's finishing Harry's sentence. "Yes, I noticed, that's why I'm calling to inquire after you." His voice is fond, pots clanging in the background. He's probably making dinner, got home from work and grabbed the phone to check on Harry. Harry feels touched, and also a bit sick.
"No, reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated." Harry rests his hand on his knee and his cheek in his hand. "I'm just having… a day."
For a moment Draco doesn't say anything, and then the sound of cooking prep pauses. "Are you okay?" Draco asks, much more attentively.
"Oh yeah," Harry replies, waving a hand to show it's fine even though Draco won't be able to see it. "Right as rain. I'll be back tomorrow."
Draco hums, sounding unconvinced. "Would you like a visitor then?" he says, and Harry's chest tightens. "I can pop over, bring you something for tea?"
"Umm." Harry stalls an answer, and he knows immediately that Draco can tell. Harry very rarely turns down a visit, or Draco cooking for him. He rubs one eye with the back of his knuckle, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. "No, it's fine. You don't have to."
"It's no trouble," Draco says quietly, hesitant, and Harry winces.
"I'll probably just go to bed early, anyway," Harry adds. Draco doesn't reply.
The change of mood on the phone is palpable; Harry knows what's going on in his head but he can't place why Draco would pull back so easily or withdraw so quickly.
Draco hums again. "Well," he says, and he sounds resigned. "Don't forget to eat something, at least." His tone is flat, but not unkind, more like he's annoyed with himself than Harry. Harry feels as confused as ever, and even worse than before.
They make small talk for a bit longer but the mood is rotten lemon sour. Harry hangs up, turning the receiver back and forth in his hands and deciding that at least he now knows he has to bring this up quickly, sooner rather than later.
He starts planning out how he's going to broach this with Draco tomorrow―and properly planning it this time, not just moping. Might as well rip the bandaid off and be ready to put a new one right back on.
At least having a plan makes him feel marginally less shit.
***
Day 24: tracked step count: 348,567
Harry corners Draco in the office tea room, bright and early and while Draco is distracted looking at the step challenge sign-ups. 'Corners' is generous, really: Harry actually just sidles up to him, holding a mug of tea and with his nerves in his throat.
"Morning, Harry," Draco says over his shoulder, sparing Harry a quick glance. "Results are announced tomorrow." Draco gestures at the board and the names on the list. "Count us all up, announce me the winner." He turns to Harry and his smile is almost normal. Almost. Harry steels himself.
"Hey, can we talk?" he says before he can chicken out, and Draco's smile morphs into a cringe.
"Oh God." Draco looks like he's suddenly looking down a firing squad. "Of course." He takes a steadying sip of his tea, his shoulder straight but his eyes wide. "Shoot," he says with a tight expression.
"Err." Harry looks around the tea room, the eleven am early lunch crowd milling around. No one is looking at them, because they're being amazingly dull, and Harry would rather it stay that way. "Maybe somewhere private?"
Draco's mouth thins out into a line. He sets his tea mug down. "Of course," he says again, and there's that odd note of resignation in his voice. Harry thinks he hates it―the idea that Draco is resigned to Harry saying something shit to him, or saw it coming. This is already going terribly. Wonderful.
Harry shifts his weight from foot to foot, then takes a sip of his too hot tea. He makes a face and wandlessly sends it to the sink, along with Draco's half drunk mug too, and tipping them out before letting them rest on the metal sink. The Illuminating Loofah plant, growing slowly and comfortably out of an abandoned shoe that they positioned on the shelf, begins to slowly wash the mugs, glittering with happy purpose as it goes.
"It's annoying how good you are at that," Draco mutters, and Harry nods.
"Shall we go to the Match and Box, get an early lunch?" Harry offers, trying for an encouraging smile.
Draco swallows, nodding and holding his hand out to say, lead the way.
Harry wipes his own sweating palms on his corduroys and then heads towards the door.
***
The Match and Box isn't as quiet as Harry hoped, but they order a quick sandwich (cheese and pickle for Draco, ham and mustard for Harry with chips on the side because he's nervous as fuck but he'll never turn down a salty potato) and find a thankfully free booth.
Draco sits first, and Harry dithers about whether to sit opposite him, radiating awkwardness, before deciding fuck it and sliding in next to him. This will go better if they aren't looking at each other maybe, and if Harry can feel his shoulder against Draco's. Remind himself he's still there, regardless of if Harry temporarily buggers it all up between them.
For some reason, it makes Draco look even more miserable. Harry hopes he hasn't made Draco feel trapped.
They sit in silence, each lost in their thoughts, and Harry thinks he has never had such a prolonged period of awkwardness with Draco in their entire acquaintance. Including Hogwarts. It's a new record.
Their food arrives, and the smell of melted cheese and salty, oily potatoes fortifies Harry. Or something. He takes a sip of his sparkling Pompelmo and clears his throat.
Draco gets in first. "You don't have to do this, Harry."
Harry shuts his mouth, brows knitting together in confusion. "Huh?" He blinks. "Do what?" he mutters, feeling something uncomfortable crawl up inside him next to the surprise and confusion.
Draco sighs, shifting on the wooden booth seat. Harry watches his profile. "Look," Draco starts. "We've been sleeping together." He pauses, licking his lips.
"I've noticed," Harry mumbles, to keep the conversation flowing.
"And now you don't want to anymore," Draco adds, as if he hadn't paused at all. Harry stills, mind temporarily wiped blank.
"I―what?" he says, tongue thick and brain trying to catch up. He does not remember saying that. He does not remember implying that. Draco turns to him and gives him a sad, resigned look, though, like Harry has said, implied, and interpretive danced those very words in front of him. Harry feels so fucking lost.
"You don't need to let me down easy, Harry." Draco pats Harry's thigh under the table, once, quick and patronising. Harry looks down at his hand, as the long fingers withdraw and return to Draco's own lap. Draco begins picking at the corner of his thumb nail, pulling the skin. He does it when he's upset, picks enough to make his cuticles bleed. Harry knows because he usually would gently grab Draco's hand to stop him. He doesn't think he can now, though.
"Draco―" Harry starts, but Draco shakes his head once.
"I mean it. It's fine. We don't need to do a break-up speech." Draco doesn't do inverted commas, but Harry can hear them in his tone. "Or break-up adjacent, seeing as we're not actually… Whatever." Draco shrugs one shoulder. "It's okay if you want out, is what I'm saying." Draco swallows, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks… a bit like shit, Harry realises belatedly. Like he hasn't slept well. "Just say, thanks for the ride Draco but I'm ready to get off now." He tries a smile and Harry almost recoils, it looks so forced and miserable. "We stumbled arse first into sleeping together anyway, we can just stumble back out again."
"Arse backwards," Harry says quietly, still shocked. Processing. If he was a computer, his brain would be hot to the touch, he was working so hard to make sense of this.
Draco nods, laughing wryly. He raises his soda water but doesn't quite meet Harry's eyes. "Yeah, that." He takes a deep breath and a tiny sip of his drink. Harry watches his lips, his pale cheeks and the mottling of red colour on them.
"What if I don't want that?" Harry says softly.
Draco shakes his head, looking down, picking at his fingers again. "Okay, well, arse whatever way you want then," Draco says in a rush. "I'm just saying we can go back to how it was before, it will be fine, and we don't need to do this whole talk―"
Harry gently places his hand on Draco's just as he picks it hard enough to bleed. He squeezes, and Draco holds still.
"Quit that, ow," Harry says. "No, I mean what if I don't want to stop," Harry says. He cranes his face to try and get into Draco's eyeline, but Draco's still staring at his own lap. At Harry's hand on his.
"Pardon me?" Draco says, deeply polite in the way he gets when he's thrown off guard, the posh breeding coming out to take the wheel while his lizard brain reels.
"Like." Harry runs his hand through his fringe, with his other hand pushing it away. "God, this is fucking… not going how I thought it would." He laughs once, mostly at himself. He thinks he's starting to piece things together, though. What Draco thinks is happening. It would be funny if it didn't make Harry's chest ache. "I wanted to talk to you because I wanted to say, what if we keep doing this? Sleeping together, plus hanging out. You know. The opposite of what you have assumed I'm doing here." Harry scratches his chin. "A break on speech, I guess."
"Break on," Draco repeats deadpan. He raises his head, staring ahead at the empty other side of the booth now.
"Yeah," Harry soldiers on. "Like, keep doing this. Sort of, properly."
"Properly," Draco repeats again, and Harry's starting to worry that he's broken him.
"You can say no," Harry says quickly, "and to be clear―I had a whole bit prepared about this actually, but then you said, anyway―if you want to stop, you can say it and I will get over it and be normal. I might need a bit of time to, you know, sort out how to"—Harry cringes—"not be into you. But the friendship, us, it's important and we would. You know… Draco?"
Draco still hasn't said anything.
"Draco?" Harry says again, turning to face him in his seat. He keeps his hand on Draco's, runs a thumb over his wrist.
Draco looks… shell-shocked. He blinks, dark blond lashes brushing against his cheek, before he frowns and looks at Harry. Harry thinks Draco's brain would be hot to the touch right now too. He smiles when Draco looks at him, tries to look earnest, and wonders how the hell they ended up on such different pages when they seem to have been reading the same book this whole time.
"Fucking hell," Draco says suddenly. He breathes out a sigh that turns into a loud surprised laugh. "Jesus fucking Christ, Potter."
He pulls his hands away from Harry, elbows hitting the wooden table in front of them with a clunk. Draco covers his face with both hands, briefly letting out a muffled yell into his palms.
"Are you okay?" Harry asks, worried.
"Yes!" Draco replies, pulling his hands away. His eyes are bright, alert. "I'm―fuck!" He laughs again. "Jesus. You're into me? This is what you're saying?"
Harry nods, frowning slightly even though he's smiling. "Was that not clear?"
"No!" Draco says, laughing again. He slumps back in his chair. "Fuck. Fuck!" They're getting looks from other people, but Harry doesn't give a shit. He casts a brief Muffliato and a Distraction Charm, subtle enough none of the other Muggle patrons would even notice but enough to make them lose interest in Harry and Draco and whatever the fuck they're working through here.
"I've been trying so hard to be easy about this," Draco goes on, his voice almost wobbling with an emotion between laughter and exasperation. "Relaxed, chilled, normal." Draco shakes his head. "Just go with the flow, see where this takes us, see how long you would be interested in fooling around and not let my stupid"―Draco briefly strangles the air―"thing for you fuck it up. He lets his hands fall down on the table. "And don't get me wrong, it hasn't been a hardship"—he gives Harry a look—"it was bloody great, but I just assumed this was a passing thing, a moment of madness and then you would get sick of me and call it off and we would go back to. Us. With just. The memory of shagging."
Harry frowns. "You think I'm like that?" He doesn't think he likes this assessment of how he would treat a friend, but he supposes Draco's not entirely wrong.
Draco holds his hands out, palms up, and looks at the ceiling in exasperation. "No, I'm saying I am! It's how my brain works. You just." Draco turns to look at Harry. "I made some assumptions, okay," he says, catching Harry's wounded expression. "About what you would be in this for, based on… what I think of me, not what I think of you. And the…torch. I've been carrying." He clears his throat. "Friends with benefits. Just fun." Draco says it like it's been weighing on him. "No annoying feelings getting in the way, so I figured I would set them aside and just enjoy it and try to be easygoing and low maintenance for once in my life," he mutters.
"Feelings?" Harry asks, his voice feels scratchy. They are going to revisit his self-esteem issues in the future, maybe, if Draco feels like it. Harry'll let it slide for now, though.
Draco shrugs. "Yep. Loads of them", he adds, his voice a deep rumble. "It's not―" He looks Harry hard in the eyes. "I'm your friend first, though," he says, like it's suddenly very important that Harry know this. "I never thought we'd ever even be cordial with each other, let alone proper friends, and me having feelings that might go a bit sideways as well takes a backseat to that. Just so we're clear, I haven't been… playing some kind of long game here."
"Yeah," Harry nods, dumbfounded. "Yeah no, I believe you."
"It just happened and I went with it," Draco goes on, and Harry smiles.
"No, I know. I was there." Harry licks his lips. "You never said."
"No, and I wasn't likely to." Draco steals a chip off of Harry's plate. "Unless it came up somehow."
"Like I made a move on you." Harry grabs a chip himself, then moves a whole handful of them onto Draco's plate. They're getting cold, but he wants to share.
Draco shrugs. "Still wasn't going to, really." He smiles wryly. "I'm a coward, Potter. I was going to avoid this forever and nurse my wounds when you got sick of me and just keep being your good friend." He holds a finger up when Harry starts to argue with that (because Jesus, that's… miserable). "I would have been fine. Truly."
Harry realises, suddenly, that miserable or not, he believes Draco―because it's exactly what he was planning to do. And he would have been fine, as well. Sad, but Draco's friend still, and eventually okay.
Harry slides down the booth seat, and rests his head on Draco's shoulder. He shuffles even closer after a moment, wanting to curl into him. Draco makes a startled noise but then lifts his arm, letting Harry slip underneath into a seated hug. Harry's quiet, oddly emotionally wrung out. Head resting on Draco's sternum, he feels Draco chewing on a chip.
"How come you never said?" Draco asks, quietly. It takes Harry a moment to pick back up where the conversation stalled and realise what he's referring to.
Harry bites his lip. "Didn't realise. Or didn't know. Or… I don't know to be honest. I just like this." He runs a finger over the wood grain of the table. "And realised I wanted to keep you." He sniffs. "And made a few assumptions of my own, I guess."
Draco hums, pulling Harry closer. "And at no point were either of us assuming the same thing."
"Or the accurate thing," Harry adds, letting his hand fall onto Draco's leg. He tucks his fingers between his knees, burrowing into the warmth there. Draco curls his own fingers into the hair at the nape of Harry's neck, then tugs at it gently. He kisses Harry's forehead.
"We're good now, though?" he says, confident but still questioning, and Harry nods in agreement. He tries to get closer, wanting to crawl into Draco's lap or make a home in his rib cage if he could. He thinks this is them finally having the belated 'are we okay?' chat, and he smiles.
"Yeah we absolutely are," he says, kissing Draco's neck just above his collar and letting himself be held and hanging onto Draco in return.
***
Day 25: tracked step count: who cares
Mid afternoon, the results of the step challenge are announced. The staff of Thistle Teach 'Em Herbologists and Plant Doctors mill around the tea room, congratulating the winner in good-natured fun.
Shoulder to shoulder at the corner of the room, Harry and Draco lean against an empty desk. And sulk.
"Who the fuck even is that guy?" Harry says, trying not to glare.
"Ben from marketing," Draco replies, in the same tone of voice he might say, 'salmonella from last night's chicken'.
Harry grunts. "Didn't even know we had a marketing department," he mutters.
They both raise a hand in a friendly wave when Ben looks over at them, holding up his little plastic painted gold trophy and laughing. A magnanimous winner. What a prick.
"Wanker," Draco says sotto voce, teeth bared in his smile. Harry vehemently agrees, rictus grin still fixed in place for the sake of not being (outwardly) a sore loser.
"Harry, Draco!" Luna claps them both on the shoulder. "We're all going out to celebrate Ben's win, meal is on the office account." She squints, looking from one of them to the other. "You both look constipated, though, so I understand if you don't want to come.'' Her tone is kind and Harry feels slapped.
"Err," he says, feeling Draco's shoulders start to shake with silent laughter. "No, we―"
"Free food!" Luna says before Harry can respond to any bowel accusations, and then she's off, giving them one last pat on both of their shoulders.
Harry turns to Draco. Draco has his hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes giving his amusement away. He catches Harry looking at him and pulls his fingers down, bumping his shoulder into Harry's. He leaves it there so they're pressed close.
"Shall we go?" He asks, and Harry puffs his cheeks out, blowing a horsey breath.
"Yeah, come on." He stands upright with an exaggerated moan, Summoning his coat, and then Draco's. They're not the last people in the room, but most of the others have milled out. A few of them spare Harry and Draco a look, wondering why they're straggling or wondering why they're so close. Harry has a brief panic about rumours, a lingering hold out from the Rita Skeeter days, but then he reminds himself he doesn't care; people will figure it out when they do, and that's not his problem. "Let's go."
He holds out Draco's jacket, and Draco takes it. "Sure you don't need to try for a poo first?" Draco says, and Harry gives him a withering look.
"Oh, very, very funny," he deadpans.
Draco just laughs. "I suppose there were worse ways of letting us know we look like a pair of sour lemons about losing."
"I bet he cheated," Harry grumbles, and Draco laughs harder. Harry inwardly awards himself ten points, knowing this was exactly the reaction he wanted. Anything to make Draco laugh―that's Harry's standing order.
"We should walk," Harry says, with a grimace and a sigh. The pub they're heading to is barely a ten minute stroll away. It's a nice day too, sunny but not hot. It would probably be wonderfully uplifting to get out there and have a meander. Harry would rather poke himself in the eye with a cocktail sausage.
Draco steps closer, humming as he nods in agreement. He stops when he's toe to toe with Harry, his leather boots pushed up against Harry's scuffed vans. Harry cheekily steps closer so the toes of his shoes are just on top of Draco's, and Draco chuckles, then does the same right back to Harry, fighting to get his own toes on top. It's childish. Harry loves it. Draco hooks a finger into the belt of Harry's jeans, pulling him close enough that their noses touch. Harry's smiling when Draco kisses him, soft and sweet, just a press of lips that turns into something more when Harry opens his mouth.
"Nah," Draco says against Harry's lips, now smiling himself. "To hell with walking, let's fucking Apparate."
***