“Headstrong,” Draco murmured, running his hands through Harry’s soft curls, rubbing a few strands of the deep brown hair over his fingertips. His hair felt like threads, wrung loose from a comfortable sweater that he would keep wearing day in and day out because it feels so right.
“Mmm,” Harry said, eyes closed, head on Draco’s lap. They were both naked, skin warm in the gentle morning light. The window was open with the curtains drawn closed, sending the soft beams of yellow dancing about the room as the sun rose in fits of orange and yellow and pink outside. Harry pursed his lips for a moment, and said, “Dramatic.”
Draco gasped, tugging at the hair in his hand in retribution, “Am not.” He frowned down at Harry, but couldn’t keep the smile from creeping back to his face. He wound his fingers back into Harry’s hair, letting his other hand drift over the soft edge of Harry’s chin. “Honest,” he offered, “Ridiculously so, if you ask me,” he muttered afterwards, smiling down when Harry’s eyes flicked up to him and back shut.
“Too honest isn’t a bad thing,” Harry said, fingers tracing over the soft silk sheets, pale and crisp and smelling like the morning after Laundry Day.
“No,” Draco murmured, tracing over the rough patch of yet-unshaven hair at Harry’s chin. “It’s your turn,” he added quietly.
“I know,” Harry huffed, “Distracting.”
Draco reached down with the hand that had been wound up in Harry’s curls and scratched his fingers over Harry’s bicep. Just enough to send shivers over Harry’s shoulders, down his spine. “Am I?” Draco drawled, arching an eyebrow.
“Incredibly,” Harry sighed, shifting his head on Draco’s knee so that he could rest against the soft inner part of his thigh, his curls tickling over the back of Draco’s knee where he was most sensitive. “You go.”
“Horrible,” Draco scoffed, though the curl at his lips betrayed his honest thoughts. “Absolutely horrible.”
“Liar,” Harry said, reaching up with both hands to snag the hand Draco had scratched over his bicep.
“That doesn’t start with D,” Draco started. “--Oh. I swear it, you’re horrid,” but he was smiling too much to be telling the truth, it effused from it. He shook his head at Harry, letting him press light fingers over his palm, down his wrist, tracing the fine bones there, the tendons taught, the muscles flexing over as he made a fist and released it. “I suppose you’re not so horrible, are you?”
Harry shook his head, grinning up at Draco. “You haven’t run out of words already, have you?”
“Hotheaded,” Draco shot back, and let his eyes drift shut. The soft smell of citrus from the lit candle at the bedside drifted over him, relaxing him. It was his favorite scent, brought out all the softest edges of him. Harry only lit citrus candles when he was in this sort of mood, and when he knew Draco would need a bit of gentling. Harry was stroking carefully over his left wrist now, tracing the edges of that awful smear of black ink.
“I am a bit, aren’t I?” Harry asked, mirthful. He gazed up at Draco, taking in his soft blond hair, all shaken out of place and messy from the night’s sleep, taking in the crinkle at the corner of his right eye that was uneven in his left, but which Harry would never mention to him. It would set Draco’s teeth on edge to know he was unbalanced like that.
“Only a bit,” Draco breathed, lost in the sensation of Harry’s fingers curling over each of his, one at a time. Ring finger, first, middle finger, thumb, touch, fingerprint brushing against fingerprint, the feeling so soft Draco could swear he could make out the whorls of Harry’s fingers, could feel out the very surface of Harry’s skin.
“Deserving,” Harry’s voice was so quiet it could have been a brush of wind. He looked up at Draco, meaning every syllable, but knowing he would have a difficult time hearing it. Draco began to say something, probably to disagree, and Harry interrupted more firmly, keeping the lightness in his eyes, “Defensive.”
Draco hummed at him, not quite dissent, not quite agreement. Harry considered it a win anyway, blinking up at Draco with wide eyes and reddened lips, softly parted as if he had just been kissed.
“That’s two from me,” Harry breathed, drawing Draco’s hand up to his face to press a kiss into the palm. His skin was warm and smelled like Draco, most traces of his orange and bergamot hand cream long faded in the night. His palm was soft, unworn by labor, but with less of that aristocratic arch Draco carried in his bones when he was out and about. Here, in their bed, he was only soft curves and gentle angles.
“Two, hmm,” Draco purred, eyes on the spot where his hand now cradled Harry’s face once more. “How to catch up?”
“You’re meant to be the wordsmith,” Harry looked up at him, gazing at the soft curve of his chin, hairless and neat as ever. Yet he still bore the signs of sleep, a slight red mark in his cheek where the pillow had bit into his skin, a spot at the corner of his lips that he had not yet washed away. “I’m sure you can think of something.” He nuzzled his cheek over Draco’s palm, both hands holding it in place.
“Heroic,” Draco said, knowing Harry’s reaction. Harry tossed Draco’s hand aside, mouth agape at his challenge, but Draco ran a hand over his shoulder, over his pectoral muscles, soothing him. “Handsome, in the right lighting.”
“In the right lighting,” Harry harrumphed, frowning up at him. “And I am not heroic,” he muttered.
“No?” Draco asked. “Not even a bit, Head Auror Potter?” There was a smile in his eyes, Harry could hear it in his voice without needing to look for it. The corner of Draco’s eye, just at that uneven corner without the crinkle, would curl whenever he was laughing at Harry, balancing him out exactly right. “I think your staff might disagree,” Draco mused.
“Difficult,” Harry shot back, and shut his eyes in silent protest.
“Oh, Harry,” Draco laughed, and Harry knew he had his other Harry-smile on, where the corner of his lips would twitch because he was trying to hold it back (and utterly failing). Draco wore his heart on his sleeve and in his lips. It had only taken Harry half a decade to sort that out. “Hilarious,” Draco snorted, running his fingers over the corners of Harry’s shut eyes.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Harry muttered, opening his eyes purely to roll them at Draco. But he found himself smiling again as their eyes met. Draco’s gentle gray eyes, with tiny flecks of blue right where the irises met the pupils, like sapphire studded into slate stone, marred by the tiniest bit of gold right in the corner of his right eye. Harry could fall into those ridiculously striking eyes. Or instead, fall into Draco’s hair in the morning, scruffy in all the most tuggable ways, and softer than satin or silk.
He could fall into Draco’s skin, the way the soft morning light glanced over his shoulders like he was cut from marble, all edges and curves and looking like someone had cut away anything that could possibly be wrong with him. Harry turned his head towards him, nosing over the soft part of Draco’s thigh. Draco ran his hand across the upturned side of Harry’s head, curling into the waves of his hair, brushing over the soft shell of his ear.
“Divine,” Harry whispered, looking back up at him, falling into those eyes as he had done every morning for what felt like a lifetime. “Utterly divine in every possible way,” he said. And in the sun’s shadows through the flickering curtains, Draco did look like a god, his blond hair lit with gold, skin nearly glowing. Harry could stare at him for hours and never grow tired or bored.
“Happy,” Draco breathed, pressing a finger to Harry’s nose. Harry tilted his chin up and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of it, blinking at Draco in agreement.
“Happy,” Harry echoed, and meant it.