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“So did you kiss?”
Harry flinches, accidentally tightening his tie instead of loosening it. He gags slightly, then snorts in laughter. Draco is hovering just in the doorway when Harry turns, dress robes gone but still neatly buttoned in a white shirt.
“What, you mean Pansy?” Harry clarifies, swaying a bit. He definitely had too much punch.
“Yes, Harry, Pansy.” Draco crosses his arms and comes over to lean against one of Harry’s bedposts. His grey eyes skate down Harry’s admittedly disheveled frame.
“Oh, yeah. Was great. Proper snog, actually.” He continues fighting with his tie.
Draco sighs and steps close, batting Harry’s hands away. He makes quick work of the tie, fingers nimble, and Harry lets his eyes slip closed. “You know,” Harry says, “Hermione gets upset sometimes, but you just have to give her a lil’ time to cool off, and I’m sure she’ll be right back with you. That fight was bad, but it’s not the end of the world.”
“Whatever,” Draco says, movements a bit harsher now. He peels Harry’s robe back and tugs the sleeves down his arms. The touch tingles under Harry’s skin. “I don’t care, honestly.”
Harry hums. “I think you do.”
“She can forgive me or not. I never really liked her that much anyhow.”
“Oh, please.” Harry would roll his eyes if he add the energy to open them again. Even though his head feels light, his body is still profoundly physical and seems to be singing, especially as Draco keeps touching him. “She’s like your closest friend.” The besides me needs not be spoken.
“Yes,” Draco says, a tone about him like he’s barely tolerating Harry. It makes Harry smile. “Emphasis on friend. Stupid ball. Forcing us to pair off like we’re—we’re—”
Harry lazily blinks. Even through the glasses, Draco is a bit blurry. He’s closer than Harry thought, too. “Cattle?” Harry tries.
“Who’s pairing off cattle?” Draco asks with a frown.
A wave of dizziness hits Harry. He tilts forward until his forehead lands on Draco’s shoulder. Draco only staggers slightly before his hands come up to Harry’s shoulders for balance. Harry’s robe hits the floor.
“Shepherds, probably.”
“Shep—Harry, how pissed are you?”
Harry just groans, wrapping his arms around Draco’s middle. “How pissed are you?” he eventually slurs.
Draco huffs a laugh, nudging Harry towards his bed. Progress is slow; their feet are tangled and Harry is barely shuffling. Amused by the struggle, Harry pulls Draco closer, lining up their bodies. He tucks his nose under Draco’s ear, inhaling the scents of pine cologne and sweat. Draco’s shoulders shudder and roll, and he exhales hard. Hot breath hits Harry’s neck.
“You know,” Harry says, feeling skin under his lips. He’s warm all over, and he lets his body chase the feeling, now walking Draco backwards. “I’m pretty sure I bit Pansy. She pushed me and left to her dorm.”
Another laugh escapes Draco, but it’s weak. “Oh—oh yeah?” His voice is dry and creaking.
Draco hits the bed at the back of his knees; Harry continues pressing forward, and they collapse into a heap on the sheets. Their feet are still on the floor, and Harry tips onto his toes to push closer to the boy beneath him.
Draco’s head drops back. He lets out an overwhelmed sound. “Harry—”
“Draco,” Harry replies, and it’s as Draco makes another uncouth sound that Harry realizes that his hips are rolling down on Draco’s and perhaps have been since even before they made it to the bed. The heat is extraordinary, ringing from his abdomen through his thighs.
And Draco is rapidly hardening to catch up with Harry. Upon noticing this, Harry groans. He flicks out his tongue to taste the other boy. The open expanse of his throat is intoxicating to Harry, who finds odd surprise in the fact that Draco only tastes like skin and salt. He’d expected a more complicated flavor, like those miniature salmon tarts they’d eaten at the manor last summer. Still, he tastes Draco again, tongue more firm and insistent this time, drawing a stripe from the collar of his shirt to the corner of his jaw.
“Oh, Merlin, Harry,” Draco stutters between breaths. “What—”
One hand keeps Harry propped over Draco, though not so high up that their chests don’t brush with every inhale, while the other tangles itself in Draco’s shirt at his waist. Harry is thrusting in rhythm now, attempting halfheartedly to keep their hard lengths aligned but missing more often than not, rutting helplessly against Draco’s thigh and hip. Draco doesn’t seem to mind, arching to increase the pressure and gripping at Harry’s arms, his fingernails digging into skin even through the fabric of Harry’s shirt.
Harry mouths at Draco’s jaw, and Draco shivers and flinches. Teeth scrape over skin. “Ouch, Harry,” Draco gasps. “It’s no wonder you bit Pansy—”
A particularly powerful thrust shuts Draco up; or rather, it stops him talking. He moans instead, the high whine thoroughly piercing the quiet of the dormitory.
“You sound so nice, Draco,” Harry tells him, surging upwards to kiss his temple. “And you looked so good tonight. Hermione, she… I could only be so lucky…”
Draco’s hands slip up into Harry’s hair, desperately tugging, though not in any particular direction. “What about Pansy?”
Harry growls, hips slowing. “What about her? This is—we’re not—er, we’re just—”
“This is nothing,” Draco suggests, turning his face towards Harry’s.
Their eyes meet, green to grey, and Draco swallows. Harry watches Draco’s lips part, watches the flash of pink as he wets them. They could kiss; they could seal this night of theirs together with further closeness; they could exchange breaths as they come, riding the pleasure and losing control with their lips locked and tongues intertwined…
It appeals to Harry—it very much appeals. With a fumbling hand he removes his glasses, dropping them somewhere on the bed beside them, and he rounds towards making it happen. At the last second, though, Draco’s eyes sink shut and he turns his head to the side, and Harry makes due with the invitation: he returns to Draco’s neck, kissing and lightly sucking at the luminous skin there. Draco’s arms encircle him in encouragement.
Draco starts up their rhythm again, his ankles hooking around Harry’s calves for leverage as he rolls against him. Harry grinds down onto the other boy, absently noting the wetness of precum in his own pants. Part of him wants to strip Draco of his clothes to see if he’s in a similar state; perhaps if he’s feeling extra brave he might taste Draco too, but… the tickling pressure in his gut is growing, and he reckons he doesn’t have long left.
“Draco,” he hisses, dropping his head to hide his pleasure-drunk expression against Draco’s chest. His eyes screw closed. “Fuh… please, Draco…”
“Come, Harry,” Draco urges, voice wrecked between his frequent whimpering. “Come…”
And Harry does, tipping into the rush of his orgasm with frantic, stuttering thrusts that drive Draco into the mattress. Draco’s many noises sound far from his ears as cum pulses from his cock to soak into fabric. He smears it along with slower, less inspired motions.
His awareness comes back to him in waves; first, he notices how sweaty he is and how his cum has already cooled uncomfortably, then he feels Draco trembling beneath him and a hand stroking through the hair at the back of his neck. A moment later, he understands that he just came in his pants from rubbing on his best friend.
“Oh, God,” he starts, levering his body apart from Draco’s.
“‘Oh, God,’” Draco mocks with a sneer. His eyes are closed and his head is still tipped back, freshly-marked throat bared and chest heaving. “Just lay down, Potter. Go to bed; you’re drunk.” His hands scrabble at Harry’s shirt again, dragging Harry to collapse half on top of him. Harry frowns at being called ‘Potter;’ it’s been a long time.
“But—”
“It was nothing, Harry. Just don’t…”
“...Don’t what?”
“Don’t go,” Draco whispers, turning onto his side towards Harry and drawing his legs onto the bed, curling up. Harry thinks he hears something crunch—probably his glasses—but he’ll worry about that tomorrow.
“Er,” Harry says, not even thinking as he folds an arm over Draco’s waist. “Do you… I mean… don’t you want to…?”
“What, finish?” Harry hums an affirmative, and Draco snorts. “That lost in the throes, were you? I did finish.”
“Oh, okay.” Harry is sorry he missed it.
Draco is long snoozing by the time Harry lets go of his tension. He’s still only half on the bed, but he fears any attempt to remedy that will wake Draco up again. In the dark and without his glasses he can’t see much, but he keeps his gaze trained on Draco’s gentle face anyhow.
He doesn’t know where… where all that came from. He’s noticed that Draco is attractive before, of course. It’s not an easy thing to miss. But to practically accost him like that…
After deep deliberation, Harry decides that he must’ve been left in quite a state when Pansy parted with him earlier, and Draco was simply the first person he found afterwards that he’s comfortable enough with to trust to… take care of him. Never mind that he can’t recall being notably aroused whilst snogging Pansy…
It doesn’t matter, regardless. As he drifts off into sleep, clutching Draco close, he finds solace in the knowledge that, tomorrow, Draco will undoubtedly pretend that nothing at all had happened between them. It’s just easier that way.