Draco has never been kissed.
He’s twenty-fucking-two and has never been kissed.
And yes, it’s probably foolish of him to hope it might happen this evening, at Madam Malkin’s Grand Reopening Gala, but Potter looks like a walking wet dream in those shimmering blue robes Draco picked and tailored for him.
“Eyes up here, darling,” Pandy reminds him.
Easy for her to say - her lipstick’s all smeared after Ginevra snogged her silly in the restroom earlier.
“You could simply ask him to dance, you know?” Blaise drawls, sipping on his drink, but Draco huffs in irritation.
Because he’s twenty-two, gay as a rainbow, stupidly in love with Harry Potter and has never been kissed.
And why would Potter even consider dancing with him, let alone kiss him?
“I’m off,” he declares, summoning his cloak and ignoring his friends’ dramatic eye rolls.
He has nearly made it to the Floo when a hand wraps around his elbow.
“Malfoy, wait!” Potter calls, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red when Draco turns around and gapes at him. “I mean…hi, how are you? Fancy s-seeing you here…”
“At my employer’s party?” Draco asks, confused. “She kind of forced me to come.”
“So I heard,” Potter says, then clears his voice, looking even more embarrassed. “Thanks for picking these robes for me. People keep on saying that I look great.”
“I’m sure that’s just because of you. Nothing to do with the robes,” Draco points out, then feels like an utter idiot for saying that out loud.
“No, no,” Potter insists, shaking his head. “I always find wizarding robes uncomfortable and stiff, and Hermione says I walk like a robot penguin, but these…they feel amazing!”
Draco smiles despite himself, proud of the work he’s done. He cast every softening spell under the sun on those robes, eager to make them perfect for Potter.
“I’m glad you like them,” he replies, tilting his head to better appreciate the way they hug Potter’s marvellous figure.
“There’s only one…err…problem,” Potter mumbles, torturing his curls with his fingers and suddenly staring at his feet. “I don’t…I have no idea how to take them off…”
“Oh,” Draco breathes out.
“So, if you could…maybe…” Potter says, moving his hands in the air in a sort of panicky wave. “Show me, you know.”
“Oh.” Draco murmurs, feeling his cheeks on fire, the blush probably spreading to his ears and neck. “Sure.”
“Great!” Potter exclaims, so loudly that a few heads turn in their direction.
Draco barely has the time to register Pansy’s evil grin and Blaise’s thumbs up when Potter grabs his wrist and side-alongs them to a cluttered bedroom decorated in Gryffindor colours.
Draco takes a deep breath and tries to remind himself that he needs to stay professional.
Potter just needs help getting out of his robes, nothing weird about that. He grew up as a Muggle, and he doesn’t normally wear intricate formal robes, as he told Draco himself during the fitting.
Potter stands in front of him, eyes so green behind the lenses of his glasses, his lips slightly parted and his skin smelling of oranges and cinnamon and something that makes Draco’s head spin madly.
“Can…can I touch you…I mean, I need to…” Draco starts, his hands shaking as Potter moves closer and nods.
“Okay, so the key is to start with the clasp at the top,” Draco explains, fingers moving tentatively over the smooth surface of the fabric, unfastening the silvery clasp with ease and noticing the way Potter’s gaze won’t leave his face, suddenly uninterested in learning how to get out of his clothes. “Then you need to undo the three buttons on the left side of your chest,” Draco continues, sliding each mother-of-pearl button into its eyelet with trembling hands.
“Hmm,” Potter murmurs, eyes lingering on Draco’s lips.
Salazar wept, Draco is about to spontaneously combust.
“The good thing about this type of formal robes is that they’re all pretty much the same,” Draco blabbers on, Potter’s gaze so intense that Draco feels he’s going to burn a hole through him and see all the love pouring out of Draco’s faulty heart. “And once you undo the clasp and the buttons, and then move on to the laces on the side, then,” he continues, Potter’s hands suddenly moving and resting on Draco’s waist, tentative and warm. “T-then they all come undone,” he says, his voice faint when his fingers clutch desperately at the laces as Potter’s eyes lock with his, his lips only a few inches away, “…in one…” Draco pulls without thinking, and Potter’s robes all fall down with a loud thump, pooling at his feet and leaving him in only a pair of boxers. “…go.”
Draco looks down, swallowing loudly.
He stares at the expanse of Potter’s chest, his breathing irregular as Draco takes it all in, his lovely skin and broad shoulders, the golden snitches dancing on his underwear.
“I fucking hate parties,” Potter announces, his cheeks flushed again.
“Right…” Draco breathes out, still unable to pry his eyes away from Potter’s gorgeous body, his fingers resting on Potter’s shoulders, slowly moving down, then up, unsure where to go, what to touch.
“I hate parties,” Potter repeats, “but I only went because you were going to be there.”
“Oh,” Draco says, surprised and relieved as he takes a step closer, until their chests are touching, and it all feels so surreal to feel Potter’s breath on his skin, to marvel at how lovely it feels when his nose nuzzles Draco’s cheek, and his eyes close.
“Can I kiss you?” Potter asks, sounding desperate, and Draco smiles.
And it all feels so lovely and close, and wet and soft. Draco’s fingers flutter aimlessly on Potter’s skin as they kiss for what feels like hours, or maybe seconds, his head swimming as Potter holds him close and doesn’t seem to want to let go.
