every scrap of you (you left them all to me)

Chapter 2

𝄞 never be so polite, you forget your power 𝄞

*

It's one date. Nothing serious.

Those were Draco's exact words. So Harry made sure to follow the instructions as closely as possible.

"Why on earth would Muggles pay to toss balls around for thirty minutes?" Draco asks, the crash of bowling pins echoing around him as his latest throw lands straight in the gutter. Harry—sucking his ice cold raspberry slushy—offers a knowing smile with his blue lips pursed around the straw, relishing Draco's reaction as he slumps into the plush leather seats.

"This is fun. It's what the kids do, right? And it's very, very unserious," Harry says, coming up for air and wincing from the brainfreeze.

"Don't even get me started on these hideous clown shoes, either." Draco pulls a face of disgust. Even with his features all screwed up and wrinkled, he's still handsome.

"They stop you from slipping or skidding about, I think," Harry says. "You should be thanking me for providing protection on our first—and only—date."

"Har har." Draco scrunches his face. "I could slip over in my own shoes, crack my head open and still enjoy the concussion more than this so-called 'activity' which quite frankly is the last thing two thirty-year-old men should be doing on a Tuesday night."

"Listen, we could've been sipping pinot on a romantic boat ride, or spoon-feeding each other oysters in that extortionate French brasserie across town, but you didn't want any of that, did you? You said nothing serious." He pokes Draco on the nose, grinning foolishly. "So shut up and drink your stupid slushy, dickhead."

Draco snatches the cold beverage from Harry's grasp, pouting—an expression that Harry has come to admire greatly over the years. His furrowed brow and pale complexion glow vividly under the neon lights of the arcade. It's darker here, too. The stars of the show are the bright white pins lining the end of the polished alley, meaning Harry can steal a moment in the shadows of the leather booth to nestle kisses onto Draco's neck, nibble his earlobe, let his hands rove over the curve of his thigh.

"You know," Harry utters, breath ghosting Draco's turquoise skin, "I really... want to suck your..." he lowers, and lowers more, Draco following his movement with widening eyes until Harry's head is level with his waist. Draco hitches a quiet gasp, gaze shooting across the lively alley, before Harry slowly exposes his tinged-blue tongue, and curls it around Draco's straw.

The slurping sound is obnoxious. It rips through the air, and Harry has to contain himself watching the lust drain from Draco's pupils. Draco groans and whacks him playfully on the head, but his pout fades.

Harry sits back up and smacks his lips with an exhale, turns to Draco and pinches his pointed chin. "I don't put out on first—sorry, singular—dates, I'm afraid. If only we were something more serious."

Draco scowls and drapes, defeated, against the seat. The obvious tenting in his trousers stirs a heat in the pit of Harry's stomach, but Harry slaps his knees and jumps to his feet, scooping up another bowling ball with both hands as he turns on his heel and flashes a smile back at Draco.

"If I get a strike I'll let you finish this date back at my place," Harry says. He launches the ball with determination, the sound echoing through the alley. Time slows as it rolls towards the pins, every second thudding in Harry's chest, and with a satisfying crash, all ten pins fall.

He swivels around to find Draco's face lit up for the first time this evening—the only time he's been thrilled to see Harry score.

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