Once Upon An East End (A Drarry FanFiction)

Chapter Three

   The hot water was doing wonders for Draco's cold skin and slowly developing bruises. He was lucky really, those little fucks had all been wearing Converse. If they'd had proper trainers on, or even boots, he probably would be in the hospital right now. He rubbed his hair and the water bounced off him, massaging his sore muscles. He hoped Harry wouldn't be mad at him for wasting so much water, but he couldn't seem to speed up. 

He was able to reflect on how much his evening had changed in only a couple of hours. Finding himself on the wrong end of those kids' feet had felt pretty damn awful at the time, but when he considered it he was extremely lucky they'd not had any knives, and they'd only really got a few swings in each before getting bored and scarpering off on their BMXs. And if he hadn't been attacked, he wouldn't have stumbled upon Harry to come to his rescue.

Was it too much to hope, that they could maybe be friends after this?

Draco shook his head. He'd just have to be patient. He didn't want to push the other guy, but he hoped perhaps he wasn't imagining the connection he felt between them.

Harry seemed to pick his shower products based on colour rather than anything else; everything was a sort of an autumnal orange, all the lotions and gels, even the hand towels. Draco wondered if that was on purpose to match the Au Chat Noir posters, or by accident. If it was on purpose he felt it supported his Team Gay theory.

The shower gel he was using was a spicy orange scent, and Draco couldn't help but imagine that's how Harry smelled. That they would smell the same, be immersed in the same fragrance; it sparked something in him. The wine and the hot steam in the room were making his head swirl, and he found his thoughts drifting to a place where Draco got used to spicy oranges, used to having them around, used to his clothes surprising him with their perfume every now and again.

And then he found his hand dropping below his waist, imagining Harry wasn't downstairs after all but rather a lot closer. He wondered what he would look like with water running down his face and glistening orange suds slipping over his skin.

Draco promised himself he would take it slow with this man he had just met, that there might not even be anything there at all. But for the next few minutes, he imagined there was a great deal indeed.

xxx

Harry wasn't doing as well as he'd hoped. He'd had to count up the till three times now and he still wasn't convinced he'd got it right. Sod it, he thought. He already knew he was out about fifty pounds thanks to that wine he'd recklessly opened, but it had been worth it, so he couldn't bring it on himself to care. The counters had all had a quick wipe down and he had people coming in tomorrow early to deal with the delivery, so as he deposited the day's takings into the safe he reckoned he could probably call it quits. He'd been gone about twenty minutes and he hoped Draco wasn't bored. He had some more of his own wine upstairs, and now he was thinking he should have opened it to let it breathe. Or maybe Draco was already asleep, maybe he was too late?

Harry's insides ran cold as he double checked the locks and flicked off the last of the lights. He'd be pretty disappointed if that was the case. He'd hoped he could maybe get to know him a little more, beyond the incident this evening. What did he do for a living, where did he grown up, what was his last name?

His heart was definitely beating a little harder as he ascended the stairs back to his flat. What if he was imagining the whole thing and after tomorrow Draco just said thanks and wasn't interested in seeing him again. He sighed. He wasn't going to find out hanging around on the stairs.

Before he'd even opened the door he heard the hairdryer was going, but he wasn't prepared to be met with the sight of Draco stood in his living room, dressed solely in Harry's navy joggers, drying his white-blond hair and looking out the window into the darkness of Victoria Park. He was beautiful. Even with the faint purple hints of bruising coming through on the sides of his torso, his skin was pale and perfect, moving over well-defined muscles. He had good posture and the curve of his shoulders was like that of a swimmer. Harry blamed the wine when he instantly imagined what it would be like to cling on to those shoulders.