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"Not here," Draco says, but the edge of the counter scrapes against his trousers, and now he has to bend his neck to whisper into Ha—Potter's lips. "Not here."
"Where else, then?" Potter says. Heat presses against the corner of Draco's mouth, dampening it.
The bathroom. The broom closet, hell, even the pantry. Not the fucking kitchen, the second-most visited place in this household other than the living room. And goddamn, it's just down the hall. Potter's hands squeeze Draco's waist at his silence, then slide up, not really lingering anywhere, as though just checking if the angles and lines of his body are like what Potter remembers.
Draco's brows furrow. He drops his head onto Potter's shoulder, and he doesn't hate the way Potter's lips trail from his cheek to his ear as he should.
"Potter, we're no longer schoolboys trying to get a grope in," Draco murmurs. "The kids are out there."
"Our kids," Potter says, pressing fluttering kisses on Draco's hair. Draco's eyes shut tightly. "This isn't anything out of the ordinary for them."
"Yes, this would be ordinary three years ago," Draco says, "when we still lived under the same roof."
Three years ago, when this kitchen was Draco's kitchen just as much as Potter's. When Albus didn't even realize that divorce was on the table, let alone blame himself for it. Three years later, and James only smiles at Potter after seeing Draco again. He knows because James told him so over his Arithmancy homework, shrugging.
Potter's hand is traveling up Draco's back. For a moment, he imagines that it'll return to its rightful place on his nape. But at Draco's words, the hand stops at the edge of his collar, barely an atom from bare skin. Potter's head turns, and Draco feels the slightest brush of lashes on his cheek. Potter's back shudders as he draws in a breath. Something wet lands on Draco's skin.
His eyes slip open a tad. The grade reports taped on the upgraded fridge's shiny door appear in a stinging blur, and Draco has to close his eyes again, trying not to make a sound. He buries his head into Potter's neck.
Old men, they are. Always get teary over nothing of import. Draco almost says it out loud and maybe draws a half-hearted smirk from Potter, but they're truly not that old. Even after establishing a family, they are plenty young, have plenty of time left to break each other's hearts.
So. "There's Granger out there," he says instead, "Weasley, his wife, their newborn. There's everyone else in your social circle that you can shove in a single room waiting for you."
They'd kill Draco if they find him pawing at Potter like the clingy ex he's tried his hardest to prove he's not.
Potter huffs, and Draco can feel that smirk pressed against his temple. "It's my thirty-seventh birthday bash, they better be waiting."
Draco doesn't remember that he's clinging onto Potter's shirt until his grip tightens.
"And your boyfriend too. Jason, isn't he?"
"What?" Potter rears his head back, staring at Draco. He's about to say something, but then his mouth shuts. Green eyes narrow. "Why're you asking about him?"
"I—" Draco starts, and his brows shoot up. He tilts his head. "Just curious. Maybe he's wondering why you haven't returned yet."
"Since you're curious, y'know, since we were supposed to healthily communicate and all," Potter says. His hands have fallen to the countertop on either side of Draco's legs, and he leans in. Draco clenches his jaw, looking down at the man before him, "he's a colleague. But yeah. Sure. He's nice. Real patient and actually appreciates my suggestions. I don't mind spending eight hours of my day with him and more outside of work."
Draco doesn't reply. He supposes he should be at ease now that the dark blond hair, the light blue eyes, the dry humor out in the living don't mean anything special. But Potter isn't finished.
"But while we're talking lovers," he says, "what about Melissa, hm? Or is it Nino? How many has it been already?"
Ten, Draco thinks. Doesn't matter if he says it aloud; with the strain on Potter's normally calm expression, Draco's sure he's been keeping count as well. How, Draco doesn't know. Melissa is the first one he's ever been seen in broad daylight with.
"What does it matter to you?" He retorts, the sudden realization making it hard to breathe. "You're the one who cornered me out of nowhere."
"It matters when you accuse me of cheating, but who here's with a different bint every other week?" Potter's voice starts to rise. A screechy giggle rings down the hall. Draco lets go of Potter's shirt in a panic, squeezing his bicep. Potter pauses. A hiss: "Not me."
Draco wants to say that she's nothing but a fling. Not even. Melissa got her hands on him one minute, and the next, he was slurring into her vomit-stained skirt. They would've continued any day after if he felt up to it, but he didn't. He hasn't felt like doing anything since the fourth fuck buddy now.
It's a wonder that with how much Potter apparently knows about him, the man still hasn't figured this out yet.
Oh, but Merlin. What is Draco doing, playing mind games at thirty-seven? Good God.
"She's a friend," he says. "Honest. The most we do is go out for tea sometimes."
Potter's eyes flicker between Draco's.
"Right," he replies at last. His stance straightens, the space between him and Draco widening, gaze descending to the tile floor. "Right. Well, if you're shagging, you'd get bored in a few days and move on, don't you? Like clockwork."
Draco wants to say something, but he doesn't quite know where to start.
Potter's hands remain on the counter, and his fingers curl. Move in until their warmth leaks through the fabric and spread throughout Draco's thighs. Potter's head lifts, and he's close again. A lazy smile graces his handsome face. "You know what I want for my birthday?"
"Gift cards?" Draco rolls his eyes. "I got you two. Have fun."
"No, no. Thanks, though, I will," Potter says. Their bodies aren't touching yet, but he's like a walking oven. "How about a kiss?"
"Ridiculous," Draco answers despite them doing just that earlier. "Again, we're not schoolboys. You're not charming a shy Fifth Year to go to Honeydukes with you."
"Of course not, I'm trying to charm you. How about that kiss, then?" Potter noses at his throat. "Just one. I'll leave you alone after, I promise."
Letting his head fall back, Draco tries not to get weepy again. It's not just what lovers they take after separating. It's not just whether they communicated as well as they should have. It's many things that would never be resolved if this becomes a routine, them sneaking around like careless teenagers, ending every argument with superficial kisses.
"It's my birthday," Potter's words sound petulant. There's an almost unnoticeable quiver in his voice. "Just one."
"Okay," Draco whispers.
It's chaste. Slow. But then he opens his eyes to see Potter leaning fully against him, Draco's palm cradling his face. His other arm hangs on Potter's shoulder, fingertips lost in dark curls, and he wonders if he's committed the atrocity of pulling Potter closer.
Potter glances at his lips like they're an afterthought, returning to stare straight into Draco's eyes. "One more?" He asks, except that it sounds more like an acknowledgment. Like they can't ever stop at just one kiss.
He's right. At some point, the situation somehow turns into "Potter, just another one, come here," "Can we—can we—" "Don't go just yet." Potter's hands hike Draco's legs up and around his waist, Draco pushes those annoying glasses up Potter's face, and it's 2010 again. It's "I swear I'm done after this one," "Right, we'll see," "Harry, what have you done to me?" again.
Light returns to Draco's vision bit by bit. Potter's hand is firm, holding Draco's jaw, keeping his mouth open as Potter feeds him honey and memories, one gentle sweep of tongue at a time.
"There you are, lovely," he murmurs against Draco's most likely blotchy skin, just off to the side of his lips. Retreating an inch, Potter's eyes rove all over Draco's face. "Aren't you stunning like this?" He peppers kisses as small as flower buds on Draco's near-lidded eyes, across his forehead. "Like you're all mine."
"I'm..." Draco starts. But he's a bit drunk. Maybe. He can't quite register anything but the encompassing, all-consuming warmth he's succumbed under.
"Yeah," Potter says, and he dips to Draco's throat. His index finger shifts Draco's collar open as much as the snug buttons allow. He'd unclasp them if Potter wants, but the little section of his brain that's still working takes note of Potter's slight panting, and decides to let the man wind himself up in a tizzy.
"If only," Potter mouths at his collarbone, "God, if only."
His arms circle Draco's lower back, drawing him in closer until Draco has to arch his creaky spine, and even then, it's good. It's so good, Draco wonders in a daze if Potter's eyes are threatening to overflow as well.
Down the hall, footsteps begin to emerge from the living room.