Temptation on the Warfront

31

"Stop moving! Or you'll fall and I won't catch you," Harry flicks his hair out of his eyes, one arm around Draco's waist, and the other outstretched and fiddling with the shower taps. Water sprays down in freezing cold rivulets, soaking Harry's arm and half of his face.

Harry curses, and Draco laughs as he gently untangles himself from Harry's side and leans against the tiled wall. Cleaning charms can only do so much before they become ineffective, and after a shit load of Draco's grumbling and whinging, the Healers finally gave their consent for Draco to shower, as long as he accepted assistance.

Draco paled upon hearing that, no doubt disliking the idea of a stranger seeing his naked body nearly as much as Harry disliked the idea of a stranger seeing Draco's naked body.

"I'll — er — help him," Harry volunteered, squirming under the raised brow of Healer Clarke. Harry, embarrassed, but thinking the guy would have to be blind not to notice there was something going on between Harry and his patient, met Draco's gaze across the hospital room, and witnessed his grey eyes go from helpless to excited.

Harry flushed a hopefully not-so-noticeable shade of crimson, because Draco was unwell, goddamnit, and Harry wasn't about to debauch him in a Saint Mungo's shower cubicle, as appealing as that sounded.

Now, after adjusting the water temperature to an acceptable warmth, Harry takes a step back and turns to give Draco the all clear, and is met with something that makes him groan and think that the cold shower is a better idea after all.

"Aren't you going to stay with me?" Draco asks plaintively, his tone a complete contrast to the burning look in his eyes, and his hard, waiting cock, which draws Harry's eyes like a magnet now that Draco's discarded his gown.

Harry's voice seems to have left him, because seeing Draco like that, standing naked and beautiful and aroused, right in front of him, is doing very dangerous things to his brain, heart, and cock. And it should be illegal, Draco being this perfect, because he's supposed to be fragile and recovering, and he's giving Harry the hardest time trying to control himself — literally.

"Fine," Harry croaks, looking away, his face aflame, at anything that isn't Draco. "But don't get any ideas. You're a patient."

"Who said anything about ideas?" Draco takes a step closer, still using the wall to balance himself.

Harry refuses to point out that Draco's erection is the very definition of an idea, and rolls the sleeves of his shirt up. "Get in, then." He gestures into the shower as he moves to the side.

Draco, for once, does what he's told, and makes his way rather capably to stand beneath the shower head. He lets out this delighted little sigh that has Harry's fingers and toes curling, and tilts his head back to allow the water to slide over his neck and chest.

"Aren't you getting in?" Draco asks, and Harry's eyes are glued to the movement of his long, pale throat, and the way the water darkens his hair to a sandy blond.

Harry, jeans now uncomfortably tight, says hoarsely, "My job was to make sure you didn't trip and smash your head on the floor, not — not shower with you."

Draco makes a disappointed noise in the back of his throat, and then turns so Harry gets a clear view of his lithely muscled back, and the pert roundness of his arse.

Harry swears under his breath, pressing a hand to the front of his jeans to try and alleviate some of the ache, some of the need.

"What was that?" Draco's voice travels over his shoulder.

"N-nothing."

"I need help washing my back."

Bloody likely, Harry thinks. But the offer of sliding his hands over Draco's smooth, wet skin is too tempting to pass up, even though Harry is more than certain that Draco is quite capable of washing his own back.