Title: insufferable (nostalgia)
Author:

ashkitty
Rating: Oh, pretty much G.
Canon: post-HBP, no spoilers.
Length: 900 words.
Scenario: I promise to dress in my old Quidditch gear for you.
Summary: Bringing back old memories. And old uniforms.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the sole property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Christopher Little Agency and associates. No money is made from this work, it is purely a work of fanfiction.
Notes: I came up on the deadline with about 45 minutes to write the scene in my head, which means I suck. It's short and tame because I have to be up early. But if you like cute, you might like this.

insufferable (nostalgia)

"I said I don't want to." Defiant bastard. I just grin.

"So? That's not the point." A scrap of paper, folded, weathered on the edges. He unfolds it, stares, his eyes wide.

"What the fuck. How long have you kept this?"

"That's a stupid question. Since you gave it to me."

Draco shakes his head, and it's like he can't tear his eyes away from that paper. "That's been�years. Ten years. At least."

I hook a finger in his beltloop, tug him close. "Twelve, actually. Now get on with it. You promised."

He shakes his head. "Bastard."

"That's what I was just thinking about you. Go on." I turn him, nudge him toward the bedroom. I can hear him grumbling all the way there, but he doesn't mean it. There's a softening of his face, of the lines around his eyes, and you can only notice if it you know where to look.

I know where to look. I've made a habit of it.

Twelve years ago, Christmas eve. Draco had this idea of giving me a book of sex cheques for Christmas. They were silly little things; it was his way of getting me to be more open about what I wanted. I'd never really been able to say what I wanted, and it drove him nuts. Do you want me to kiss you? and I'd nod, but What do you want me to do? and I could only stare. So he wrote all these little things out that I could ask him to do, and I wouldn't have to say it, I could just hand him the coupon and that's what we'd do.

This one said, "I promise to dress up in Quidditch gear for you."

I don't know why it never came up. I am not going to lie and pretend I didn't always find that idea incredibly hot. But I put it away, and since I save everything, I found it when I was going through some things, and thought I'd spring it on him.

"Harry! This doesn't fit anymore!" I can hear him from the other room, grumbling. I whine back.

"You promised!"

"�So I did," he admits, and there he is, in the doorway to the bedroom. For a moment he looks like I remember him, not from this morning or last week or even twelve years ago, but from school, from a time when hating each other was so much more important. With the green and silver draping over him he even stands the same, the lift of his chin, the way of standing that says Potter, I am going to win this time. And who knows? Maybe this time he will.

He's older now, to be sure, but he wears it well. He's taller, his face rounded out, the faint shadow of laugh lines crinkles around his eyes, and he smiles more than he ever used to. But then I do, too. He's taller, his arms longer. There's a scar on the side of his neck the quidditch robes don't hide, one he only talks about getting when he's drunk or nearly asleep. Part of the little finger on his left hand is gone, and another small, thin line cuts through one pale eyebrow. He's a casualty of war, damaged and brilliant and beautiful. I wouldn't be alive today without him. I don't know if I'd want to be.

His eyes are soft now, his lip caught in his teeth. He looks self-conscious. I guess I can't blame him. If I were wearing a uniform from back in school, I probably-hm. Now there's an idea, actually.

"Harry?"

I tug him toward me, kiss the corner of his mouth. "It's too bad, you know."

He relaxes, laughing, his arms around my waist. "What is?"

"That I never got you like this back when we were in school."

He snorts. "God forbid. Come on, you fetishist, get in the bedroom and worship me."

"You," I tell him, "are insufferable."

He kisses me. It doesn't prove me wrong, but it shuts me up for a while.

His skin is soft in place, rough at elbows, knees, the palms of his hands. He tastes like salt and soap and familiar things, and smells of shampoo, and he presses me down into the bed with a knee between my legs. His fingers dig into my shoulders, and I kiss him, and I will never get enough of him. The uniform brings something out in him-he's rough movements and passion, competitive, who can kiss harder who can last longer who can oh fuck Draco you win, all right, you win I love you oh--

"It's like going back to it." He nestles against me. His hand drags slow trails across my chest, four nails and the stub of a little finger. "To all that�before."

"Mm. We wouldn't have lasted this long, before."

He pushes himself up onto an elbow, smirking down at me. "You mean you wouldn't have lasted."

He's probably right, but there's no reason to let him get away with that, so I push him off the bed. He grabs, clutches, and we both tumble off the side onto the floor.

Who would have ever believed this of us?

But that's not the question Draco's thinking. I can tell he's thinking; his brow is wrinkled, lips parted, his breath warm against my cheek. "So tell me, Harry," he whispers, "did you save any more of those cheques�?"

I grin at him. "I might have."

{About the Eros Affair • Fics by Scenario • Fics by Author • Project Notes}



	Title: insufferable (nostalgia) Author: ashkitty Rating: Oh, pretty much G. Canon: post-HBP, no spoilers. Length: 900 words. Scenario: I promise to dress in my old Quidditch gear for you. Summary: Bringing back old memories. And old uniforms. Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the sole property of J. K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Christopher Little Agency and associates. No money is made from this work, it is purely a work of fanfiction. Notes: I came up on the deadline with about 45 minutes to write the scene in my head, which means I suck. It's short and tame because I have to be up early. But if you like cute, you might like this. insufferable (nostalgia) "I said I don't want to." Defiant bastard. I just grin. "So? That's not the point." A scrap of paper, folded, weathered on the edges. He unfolds it, stares, his eyes wide. "What the fuck. How long have you kept this?" "That's a stupid question. Since you gave it to me." Draco shakes his head, and it's like he can't tear his eyes away from that paper. "That's been�years. Ten years. At least." I hook a finger in his beltloop, tug him close. "Twelve, actually. Now get on with it. You promised." He shakes his head. "Bastard." "That's what I was just thinking about you. Go on." I turn him, nudge him toward the bedroom. I can hear him grumbling all the way there, but he doesn't mean it. There's a softening of his face, of the lines around his eyes, and you can only notice if it you know where to look. I know where to look. I've made a habit of it. Twelve years ago, Christmas eve. Draco had this idea of giving me a book of sex cheques for Christmas. They were silly little things; it was his way of getting me to be more open about what I wanted. I'd never really been able to say what I wanted, and it drove him nuts. Do you want me to kiss you? and I'd nod, but What do you want me to do? and I could only stare. So he wrote all these little things out that I could ask him to do, and I wouldn't have to say it, I could just hand him the coupon and that's what we'd do. This one said, "I promise to dress up in Quidditch gear for you." I don't know why it never came up. I am not going to lie and pretend I didn't always find that idea incredibly hot. But I put it away, and since I save everything, I found it when I was going through some things, and thought I'd spring it on him. "Harry! This doesn't fit anymore!" I can hear him from the other room, grumbling. I whine back. "You promised!" "�So I did," he admits, and there he is, in the doorway to the bedroom. For a moment he looks like I remember him, not from this morning or last week or even twelve years ago, but from school, from a time when hating each other was so much more important. With the green and silver draping over him he even stands the same, the lift of his chin, the way of standing that says Potter, I am going to win this time. And who knows? Maybe this time he will. He's older now, to be sure, but he wears it well. He's taller, his face rounded out, the faint shadow of laugh lines crinkles around his eyes, and he smiles more than he ever used to. But then I do, too. He's taller, his arms longer. There's a scar on the side of his neck the quidditch robes don't hide, one he only talks about getting when he's drunk or nearly asleep. Part of the little finger on his left hand is gone, and another small, thin line cuts through one pale eyebrow. He's a casualty of war, damaged and brilliant and beautiful. I wouldn't be alive today without him. I don't know if I'd want to be. His eyes are soft now, his lip caught in his teeth. He looks self-conscious. I guess I can't blame him. If I were wearing a uniform from back in school, I probably-hm. Now there's an idea, actually. "Harry?" I tug him toward me, kiss the corner of his mouth. "It's too bad, you know." He relaxes, laughing, his arms around my waist. "What is?" "That I never got you like this back when we were in school." He snorts. "God forbid. Come on, you fetishist, get in the bedroom and worship me." "You," I tell him, "are insufferable." He kisses me. It doesn't prove me wrong, but it shuts me up for a while. His skin is soft in place, rough at elbows, knees, the palms of his hands. He tastes like salt and soap and familiar things, and smells of shampoo, and he presses me down into the bed with a knee between my legs. His fingers dig into my shoulders, and I kiss him, and I will never get enough of him. The uniform brings something out in him-he's rough movements and passion, competitive, who can kiss harder who can last longer who can oh fuck Draco you win, all right, you win I love you oh-- "It's like going back to it." He nestles against me. His hand drags slow trails across my chest, four nails and the stub of a little finger. "To all that�before." "Mm. We wouldn't have lasted this long, before." He pushes himself up onto an elbow, smirking down at me. "You mean you wouldn't have lasted." He's probably right, but there's no reason to let him get away with that, so I push him off the bed. He grabs, clutches, and we both tumble off the side onto the floor. Who would have ever believed this of us? But that's not the question Draco's thinking. I can tell he's thinking; his brow is wrinkled, lips parted, his breath warm against my cheek. "So tell me, Harry," he whispers, "did you save any more of those cheques�?" I grin at him. "I might have." {About the Eros Affair • Fics by Scenario • Fics by Author • Project Notes}