Cut From the Sky

Chapter 8: Making Amends

"Talk, then." Malfoy waved a magnanimous hand.

Harry breathed a small sigh of relief at the familiar line. He hadn't been following the script very closely and hadn't been certain they'd find their way back here. Mostly, he just hadn't felt like having any more cake. After Malfoy had left him here yesterday, he'd eaten a rather obscene amount of it, and while his body didn't remember, his mind certainly did. In front of them sat two steaming mugs of jasmine tea and two deep bowls of miso ramen.

He didn't quite remember what he'd said in reply to Malfoy's ridiculous demand, only that he'd thought he wouldn't see him tomorrow. Now that it was tomorrow, Malfoy was vibrant and thistly and very much right in front of him.

"I'm bisexual," Harry said, because that had proven a safe thing to say, "Thoughts?"

Too late he remembered that Malfoy had been taking a sip of tea at the moment of his announcement. He sighed. Apparently, today he wouldn't even get the satisfaction of seeing it leak from his perfect nose. The flush discolouring his neck where it peeked out under his dramatic neckline however, was just as vivid, just as pleasing as it had been. Harry watched it spread. Licked his lips.

"Well?" Malfoy said, and Merlin, his voice was unsteady. "I suppose that explains the getup. Are you having an identity crisis?" Malfoy's finger was pointing, his mouth was smirking and his breathing was shallow.

"I am," Harry offered, because he spent a rather disheartening amount of time thinking about it last night, nothing but him and an empty hotel ceiling. The truth of it had carved into his very core, had taken residence on his shoulders. "My job is stupid. My house is stupid. And I got a book yesterday at the library that detailed pretty comprehensively how to transfigure my jacket and I'll have you know, I did it successfully."

He had, mostly. The zipper hadn't quite worked, but he had looked disgustingly cool. "But then I thought I'd botch it again, just so you could ask me this bloody rude question."

"Pardon?" Malfoy gaped. His lips were pink and full. Yesterday they had been stained with the juice of red berries, and Malfoy didn't have a cake to press against his plate. Instead, he caught slippery noodles in between chopsticks and snapped them. They fell back into the broth, mangled and limp.

"I mean," Harry said, remembering his line. He needed to say it, didn't he, to get back to a question for a question. "I wanted to look cool before coming to yours."

Malfoy blinked. Sending his chopsticks to hover by his side for a moment, he grabbed the large porcelain spoon. He dipped it slowly under the surface of his broth, then lifted it to his mouth. Harry watched the ripples in the liquid as Malfoy blew onto his spoon. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with confusion. "You wanted to look cool before coming to mine?" And Harry knew that wasn't quite right, but it was close enough, probably.

"Look who wants to have a conversation now," Harry replied and tried not to frown. It seemed like a rather dickish thing to say.

Malfoy, too, seemed to think so. Underneath his bewilderment he looked distinctly annoyed. "Answer my question, Potter."

"If I do, will you answer a question of mine?"

Malfoy hesitated. He swallowed another spoonful of broth, then another, then frowned at a piece of shiitake mushroom clinging to the porcelain and let it drop back into his bowl. Harry's stomach growled. Sooner or later – hopefully later – Malfoy would leave him and Harry would be able to eat. For now, he needed to focus.

Finally, Malfoy's posture relaxed and he really did look golden in the light of the café. Outside, sheets of rain were pressing against the windows, but iimori was bright and warm and alive.