𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

How Long

“Jealous?”

Harry was broken out of his rapt contemplation of the ceiling by the advent of Draco emerging from their bathroom, a towel firmly tied around his slim hips and drops of water falling from the tips of his hair to the carpet.

They had been engaged in one of Harry’s very favorite living-with-Draco pastimes: the shouted conversation from different rooms. Having known for quite some time that Draco was capable of hours of uninterrupted monologue, Harry had found himself subconsciously orbiting Draco wherever he wandered in their flat, content to converse or just sit back and listen. Once Draco had noticed Harry’s awkward lurking, rather than get perturbed that he would never have a moment of privacy, he seemed pleased at the idea of a portable audience. And so, he started addressing Harry directly, either to his face or from another room.

And Harry was happy to be included.

Presently, they had been rehashing the situation with Hannah, which Draco seemed eager to forget but which Harry couldn’t let slide. And Draco, being the sly bastard that he was, had accurately pinpointed one facet of Harry’s personality that they did not appear to have in common.

“Well,” Harry started, wondering if his next statement would be akin to exposing his jugular to a rattlesnake, and then cringing at his own imagery, “well….yes. I get jealous. You knew that, otherwise you wouldn’t have flirted with her in the first place.”

“I was only testing a theory, Potter.” Draco was now rooting through the closet, which allowed Harry an excellent view of the clear lines of water coursing down his shoulders. “I hadn’t anticipated uncovering this volatile layer of your psyche.”

“I am not volatile.” Harry said defensively. To be called volatile by someone who had patently over dramatized every single event from their formative years was a bit much.

Draco caught his tone and threw a small smirk over his shoulder. “Oh yes you are. It’s all right, you can tell me. All of that angst from your childhood and frustration over being closeted for so long, not to mention your painfully unrequited secret longing for your schoolboy nemesis….these things have their consequences.”

Harry got his own little smirk then, and rose from his comfortable lounging position on the bed to pad over to Draco, who was still intent on finding something suitable to wear.

He put his hands on Draco’s towel-clad hips and licked a strip up the back of Draco’s neck, catching droplets of water before they fell. He watched as tiny goose bumps raced across the blond’s shoulders.

Harry leaned forward to speak into Draco’s ear, “Unrequited?”

He watched Draco’s hands still on a pair of boxer-briefs. Draco let out a distinctly shaky breath before responding, “Well, Potter you were intolerable back then.”

Harry pressed on by pressing his hips up towards Draco’s backside, gripping hipbones with more authority under his fingertips. “Intolerable?”

Boxer-briefs slid, forgotten, from Draco’s hands. “Quite. All of your Quidditch-winning and bad-hair-having. Not to mention..”

Draco’s breath caught as Harry ran a hand up his back to tangle in damp silver strands, tugging at their roots.

“Not to mention….?” Harry prodded, running his teeth slowly along Draco’s neck, pausing to suck on the marks from a past lovebite.

“Hmmm….your infatuation with a certain redhead.” Draco’s weight was full against Harry now, his hips making small circular motions, a clear mimicry, even if it was somewhat stunted by the presence of terrycloth.