Fic: I See Our Toaster -- Harry/Draco -- 1/1
Title: I See Our Toaster
Author: suki_blue
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warning(s): Mind the Fluff
Summary: It's their first home together. It's empty, bland and cream all over, and Harry doesn't have a clue what to do next. Until...
Beta'd by the stunning, the spectacular, the sensational kitty_poker1!!
Written for literati to say thank you for the wonderful work she's done to make we_love_dick, we_love_damian and we_love_secret6 look so frakking beautiful (I cannot look at that Dick Grayson banner without falling down).
I See Our Toaster
By Suki Blue
They are going to be flatmates, maybe more but Harry isn’t sure. He stands in the empty flat with Draco and nods to himself. A blank canvas, he called it when they collected the keys earlier in the morning. The flat is wall-to-wall cream; cream carpets, cream doors, and a slightly lighter cream ceiling. It’s bland, it reeks of paint. It’s a new building and they paid far too much for a quick sale. It’s their first place. Harry’s excited and he hasn’t thought much beyond that.
‘Of course, I’m sure you’ll turn it into a den of clutter and chaos in no time at all,’ Draco says. His expression dares Harry to contradict him.
‘You know me so well.’
‘I know Gryffindors so well.’ Draco walks slowly around the flat and Harry watches him. Draco’s fingers skim the door frames, touch the walls; an index finger slides along the mantelpiece and Draco looks satisfied by what he finds.
‘I like it,’ Draco says as though he’s never seen the place before, and maybe neither of them actually has. Harry has a vague recollection of someone showing them around a flat that might have been this one and at some point they both signed some papers, but mostly Harry remembers asking Draco a question and Draco saying yes. Since then life has been a haze of happiness and a reality that doesn’t matter much because they’re both rich, alive and finally free.
There’s sunshine streaming through the balcony windows and Draco skirts around it. Harry teases him about vampiric ancestry, but he wishes Draco would accidentally step into it because he’s feeling sappy and he wants to see Draco bathed in sunlight. He considers pushing him into the sun-patch until Draco asks him where they’re going to put the sofa they haven’t bought yet.
‘On the floor,’ Harry answers, and Draco rolls his eyes and calls him a prat.
Draco has called Harry a prat exactly forty-two times (that he knows of) and Harry loves it because no one else gets called that. Everyone else gets called worse. Far, far worse. Prat is reserved for Harry only and it always gives him tingles because every time Draco says it Harry sees the ghost of a smile. Sometimes the smile is just in Draco’s eyes or a crinkle or two to the side, but it’s always there if you know where to look. It makes Harry so happy because Draco never smiled during the war but he does now, and sometimes it’s Harry that puts that smile there and he’s incredibly proud of that.
‘I do really like the flat, Harry,’ Draco says, and suddenly he’s close and Harry wonders how long his mind wandered because Draco’s ice-blue eyes are staring into his. It’s a severe look and Harry thinks Draco would make a great professor one day based on that look alone. Draco’s severe look is somewhat like his smile. It’s tricky to interpret. Harry thinks he’s just about worked it out after two years of research and right now that piercing gaze is saying that Draco is worried about something.
‘You okay?’ Harry asks, and Draco nods and says nothing. He’s still wearing that expression and Harry is starting to sweat. He feels hot all over and he’s squinting and that’s when he realises he’s the idiot standing in the patch of sunlight and he’s sure he looks nothing like Draco would look. Draco would look like an angel, with his long, almost-white hair, tall and slim figure and his perfectly sculptured features. Harry, on the other hand, is sure he looks like an embarrassed tomato in a woolly jumper.
Draco moves closer. There’re standing almost nose to nose, except Draco’s nose is a little higher. Suddenly Harry realises what this is, why Draco looks worried, and now Harry is wearing a matching expression because he knows the time has come and it’s a crucial moment that he’s terrified of fucking up.
Draco smiles with his eyes, in that way only Harry knows about. ‘Don’t over-think it,’ Draco tells him.
A pale hand touches his cheek. Harry’s not blushing exactly, but he’s hot and nervous standing in the sun and Draco’s hand is cool against his flushed cheek and he wants to lean into it. He feels even hotter now and damn this stupid knitted jumper in the middle of spring and damn spring and damn all the knitted jumpers in the world! Any minute his glasses will fog up and then instead of an incredible first kiss all he’ll be able to hope for is that Draco will draw him a little love heart on one of the lenses instead of an ‘L’ for ‘loser’.
He sees Draco’s hand move towards his glasses and for a horrible, illogical moment he thinks his glasses really have fogged up without him realising, but then Draco delicately traces the wire frames with his index finger and it’s just like he touched the mantelpiece except this time there’s more concentration on Draco’s face and it’s almost like he’s touching a flower or a butterfly or something else beautiful. Harry isn’t sure what’s beautiful about his tatty old glasses. He really needs to go to Specsavers.
Draco glares at him like he heard the thought, but Harry isn’t up to speaking so he reaches for Draco’s hands and rubs his thumbs over his wrists. He can feel Draco’s pulse and he takes a deep breath because it’s only now really occurred to him that they made it through everything and they’re both alive with a real chance at a happy future. He lets go of Draco’s wrists and trails his fingers over Draco’s bare arms, featherlike touches that skim the golden hairs and raise little goosebumps. Draco’s hand touches his jumper and he knows Draco is thinking he hates the itchy, stupid old thing. Draco moves his hands from the wool to the denim over Harry’s hips and they smirk at each other because they both know Draco is binning that jumper the first chance he gets.
Harry has been confused for a while now. He knows he likes Draco, more than likes, but he’s not sure how it happened or when and how Draco stopped being a complete bastard. Draco was once a pointy git and a bully with an acid tongue. He was ugly. But now Draco’s standing with Harry in a patch of sunlight looking like some sort of Adonis, way out of Harry’s league. How in Merlin’s name had it happened?! Harry’s not sure at what point their nights out started to feel like dates or how many innocent and accidental touches it took to become not-so-innocent and not-so-accidental caresses. Harry is only certain of one thing. He wants to kiss the man standing in front of him.
Harry takes Draco’s face in his hands, brushes rough thumbs across the soft line of Draco’s jaw and presses their lips together. He’s relatively sure Draco has been expecting this action and yet it takes Draco several seconds to respond, to clutch at Harry’s sleeves, make something like a whimper at the back of his throat and move closer.
It’s then that Harry sees everything.
Draco’s mouth opens beneath his and Harry tastes tea and sees a large comfortable sofa in the middle of the room. It’s lush and burgundy and Draco is perching on the edge and sipping from a bone china mug. There’s a big, beefy coffee table covered in dirty mugs, magazines and unopened letters; Draco hates it and stubs his toe on it, swears at it and turns it into a large pot-bellied pig that they can’t turn back and eats all the magazines and unopened letters.
Harry pulls him closer and Draco snakes his arms around him. He sinks his fingers into Draco’s hair and slides his tongue into his mouth. Draco’s hair is soft and Harry sees him blow-drying it with his wand and a charm in front of the bathroom mirror, and he imagines the half-wondrous, half-disgusted look on Draco’s face when Harry gives him a Muggle hairdryer for Christmas. Draco’s hair feels like silk and he knows as soon as the bed arrives he’s going to buy Draco those silk ties he was eyeing up yesterday and he’s going to tie Draco to the bedpost, kiss him all over and find out which kisses produce the best effects. Their clothes will be scattered all over the floor and, when they’re tired and sore and a little bit dizzy and Harry has kissed Draco’s wrists in apology, they’ll laugh at each other and wonder why Draco is still wearing one sock.
Draco breaks the kiss first, relaxes and gasps, leans his forehead against Harry’s. Harry feels his breath on his cheek and then Draco tightens his hold again and goes for Harry’s neck, kissing and mouthing, his long arms coiling back around. The magnolia melts away and one wall is a modern art catastrophe, stripes, slashes and annoyed splashes of paint in various colours and all because he’s left Draco in charge of the decor. Draco cannot decide on any colour because the only decision he’s ever made before the paint on the walls was choosing Harry over his family and everything he’s ever believed in and he’s all decisioned out. They don’t care anyway. The paint isn’t life or death and it’s not as important as Chinese or curry, Pizza Hut or chips from the chippy. Harry’s reassured him that no-one’s ever died eating a curry. He’s secretly not sure if that’s true.
‘Draco,’ Harry says. He’s got his fingers buried in Draco’s soft strands again and he thinks he might be developing a fetish. ‘We’re sharing a bedroom, right? We’re not just flatmates.’
Draco pulls away then and gives Harry another dose of his stern gaze. It’s icy, but that’s just Draco, and after a moment there’s a barely discernable change, but Harry knows the answer is yes.
Draco says, ‘Of course. I need the other room for my shoes,’ and just like that Harry sees pointy boots all in a line by the front door and one in the middle of the floor where Harry’s tripped over it and the dog has carried it off thinking it’s a game. The dog, probably a dachshund, has licked it all over and it’s all shiny with saliva with a nice convenient hole for Draco’s big toe. Draco gets a cat as a revenge tactic and it pisses in Harry’s balcony garden.
Their lips touch again, more confident this time. Draco’s hands smooth over his hips and then his fingers scrunch into Harry’s jumper and his hair. It’s a little bit desperate and Harry has to hold tightly to Draco’s shoulders and neck and arms and, whoops, now he’s the handsy one.
Generally speaking, Draco has a rigid look to him, severe, hard and angular and he’s sort of scary but that’s not what he’s really like. He’s soft all over, skin so smooth, his lips supple and his kisses tender. Harry rubs his thumb behind Draco’s ear and he’s rewarded by a hum and hands slipping under his jumper.
Harry sees lazy mornings, newspapers on the floor, tea and cake on the balcony, too many products in the bathroom, a dartboard exactly where Draco doesn’t want it and lots of internet shopping because neither of them can be trusted with a trolley. The carpet is staying cream for all of a week until it’s covered in muddy footprints, paw prints, and a splash or two of Ribena. He’s going to get Draco drunk and see if he can get him to spill an expensive Claret somewhere that can’t be hidden by a hunk of antique furniture or a multi-functional flat-pack unit - a perfect excuse for a gaudy, deep-pile rug that Harry can sink his toes into and Draco will bitch about but secretly like.
Harry sees everything now, and when Draco pulls them out of the sun and pushes Harry against the wall, Harry can smell the pie they’ll overcook and the bottle of vinegar one of them will drop on the kitchen floor. He sees the blue sparks that fly the first time Draco sticks a fork in the toaster and the looks on their faces when Draco thinks he’s set the cat spinning in an economy wash, forty degrees, extra spin. Draco kisses him again, deep and desperate, a groan in his throat and his fingers alternately clutching and smoothing. When they both stop and thread their fingers together, Harry sees serene Sunday mornings, white sheets draped over their hips, mugs of tea steaming on the bedside tables and the private smile Draco reserves just for him.
They kiss one more time, unhurried and gentle, and it’s on the tip of Harry’s tongue to tell Draco everything he’s seen.
‘I’ve got lots of ideas for the place,’ Draco says. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. I know you’re not the imaginative type.’
Harry says nothing, just grins and thinks about the grill they won’t know how to work, the sausages they’re yet to burn and the smoke alarm Draco will tear off the ceiling with his bare hands.
The End
Author: suki_blue
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warning(s): Mind the Fluff
Summary: It's their first home together. It's empty, bland and cream all over, and Harry doesn't have a clue what to do next. Until...
Beta'd by the stunning, the spectacular, the sensational kitty_poker1!!
Written for literati to say thank you for the wonderful work she's done to make we_love_dick, we_love_damian and we_love_secret6 look so frakking beautiful (I cannot look at that Dick Grayson banner without falling down).
I See Our Toaster
By Suki Blue
They are going to be flatmates, maybe more but Harry isn’t sure. He stands in the empty flat with Draco and nods to himself. A blank canvas, he called it when they collected the keys earlier in the morning. The flat is wall-to-wall cream; cream carpets, cream doors, and a slightly lighter cream ceiling. It’s bland, it reeks of paint. It’s a new building and they paid far too much for a quick sale. It’s their first place. Harry’s excited and he hasn’t thought much beyond that.
‘Of course, I’m sure you’ll turn it into a den of clutter and chaos in no time at all,’ Draco says. His expression dares Harry to contradict him.
‘You know me so well.’
‘I know Gryffindors so well.’ Draco walks slowly around the flat and Harry watches him. Draco’s fingers skim the door frames, touch the walls; an index finger slides along the mantelpiece and Draco looks satisfied by what he finds.
‘I like it,’ Draco says as though he’s never seen the place before, and maybe neither of them actually has. Harry has a vague recollection of someone showing them around a flat that might have been this one and at some point they both signed some papers, but mostly Harry remembers asking Draco a question and Draco saying yes. Since then life has been a haze of happiness and a reality that doesn’t matter much because they’re both rich, alive and finally free.
There’s sunshine streaming through the balcony windows and Draco skirts around it. Harry teases him about vampiric ancestry, but he wishes Draco would accidentally step into it because he’s feeling sappy and he wants to see Draco bathed in sunlight. He considers pushing him into the sun-patch until Draco asks him where they’re going to put the sofa they haven’t bought yet.
‘On the floor,’ Harry answers, and Draco rolls his eyes and calls him a prat.
Draco has called Harry a prat exactly forty-two times (that he knows of) and Harry loves it because no one else gets called that. Everyone else gets called worse. Far, far worse. Prat is reserved for Harry only and it always gives him tingles because every time Draco says it Harry sees the ghost of a smile. Sometimes the smile is just in Draco’s eyes or a crinkle or two to the side, but it’s always there if you know where to look. It makes Harry so happy because Draco never smiled during the war but he does now, and sometimes it’s Harry that puts that smile there and he’s incredibly proud of that.
‘I do really like the flat, Harry,’ Draco says, and suddenly he’s close and Harry wonders how long his mind wandered because Draco’s ice-blue eyes are staring into his. It’s a severe look and Harry thinks Draco would make a great professor one day based on that look alone. Draco’s severe look is somewhat like his smile. It’s tricky to interpret. Harry thinks he’s just about worked it out after two years of research and right now that piercing gaze is saying that Draco is worried about something.
‘You okay?’ Harry asks, and Draco nods and says nothing. He’s still wearing that expression and Harry is starting to sweat. He feels hot all over and he’s squinting and that’s when he realises he’s the idiot standing in the patch of sunlight and he’s sure he looks nothing like Draco would look. Draco would look like an angel, with his long, almost-white hair, tall and slim figure and his perfectly sculptured features. Harry, on the other hand, is sure he looks like an embarrassed tomato in a woolly jumper.
Draco moves closer. There’re standing almost nose to nose, except Draco’s nose is a little higher. Suddenly Harry realises what this is, why Draco looks worried, and now Harry is wearing a matching expression because he knows the time has come and it’s a crucial moment that he’s terrified of fucking up.
Draco smiles with his eyes, in that way only Harry knows about. ‘Don’t over-think it,’ Draco tells him.
A pale hand touches his cheek. Harry’s not blushing exactly, but he’s hot and nervous standing in the sun and Draco’s hand is cool against his flushed cheek and he wants to lean into it. He feels even hotter now and damn this stupid knitted jumper in the middle of spring and damn spring and damn all the knitted jumpers in the world! Any minute his glasses will fog up and then instead of an incredible first kiss all he’ll be able to hope for is that Draco will draw him a little love heart on one of the lenses instead of an ‘L’ for ‘loser’.
He sees Draco’s hand move towards his glasses and for a horrible, illogical moment he thinks his glasses really have fogged up without him realising, but then Draco delicately traces the wire frames with his index finger and it’s just like he touched the mantelpiece except this time there’s more concentration on Draco’s face and it’s almost like he’s touching a flower or a butterfly or something else beautiful. Harry isn’t sure what’s beautiful about his tatty old glasses. He really needs to go to Specsavers.
Draco glares at him like he heard the thought, but Harry isn’t up to speaking so he reaches for Draco’s hands and rubs his thumbs over his wrists. He can feel Draco’s pulse and he takes a deep breath because it’s only now really occurred to him that they made it through everything and they’re both alive with a real chance at a happy future. He lets go of Draco’s wrists and trails his fingers over Draco’s bare arms, featherlike touches that skim the golden hairs and raise little goosebumps. Draco’s hand touches his jumper and he knows Draco is thinking he hates the itchy, stupid old thing. Draco moves his hands from the wool to the denim over Harry’s hips and they smirk at each other because they both know Draco is binning that jumper the first chance he gets.
Harry has been confused for a while now. He knows he likes Draco, more than likes, but he’s not sure how it happened or when and how Draco stopped being a complete bastard. Draco was once a pointy git and a bully with an acid tongue. He was ugly. But now Draco’s standing with Harry in a patch of sunlight looking like some sort of Adonis, way out of Harry’s league. How in Merlin’s name had it happened?! Harry’s not sure at what point their nights out started to feel like dates or how many innocent and accidental touches it took to become not-so-innocent and not-so-accidental caresses. Harry is only certain of one thing. He wants to kiss the man standing in front of him.
Harry takes Draco’s face in his hands, brushes rough thumbs across the soft line of Draco’s jaw and presses their lips together. He’s relatively sure Draco has been expecting this action and yet it takes Draco several seconds to respond, to clutch at Harry’s sleeves, make something like a whimper at the back of his throat and move closer.
It’s then that Harry sees everything.
Draco’s mouth opens beneath his and Harry tastes tea and sees a large comfortable sofa in the middle of the room. It’s lush and burgundy and Draco is perching on the edge and sipping from a bone china mug. There’s a big, beefy coffee table covered in dirty mugs, magazines and unopened letters; Draco hates it and stubs his toe on it, swears at it and turns it into a large pot-bellied pig that they can’t turn back and eats all the magazines and unopened letters.
Harry pulls him closer and Draco snakes his arms around him. He sinks his fingers into Draco’s hair and slides his tongue into his mouth. Draco’s hair is soft and Harry sees him blow-drying it with his wand and a charm in front of the bathroom mirror, and he imagines the half-wondrous, half-disgusted look on Draco’s face when Harry gives him a Muggle hairdryer for Christmas. Draco’s hair feels like silk and he knows as soon as the bed arrives he’s going to buy Draco those silk ties he was eyeing up yesterday and he’s going to tie Draco to the bedpost, kiss him all over and find out which kisses produce the best effects. Their clothes will be scattered all over the floor and, when they’re tired and sore and a little bit dizzy and Harry has kissed Draco’s wrists in apology, they’ll laugh at each other and wonder why Draco is still wearing one sock.
Draco breaks the kiss first, relaxes and gasps, leans his forehead against Harry’s. Harry feels his breath on his cheek and then Draco tightens his hold again and goes for Harry’s neck, kissing and mouthing, his long arms coiling back around. The magnolia melts away and one wall is a modern art catastrophe, stripes, slashes and annoyed splashes of paint in various colours and all because he’s left Draco in charge of the decor. Draco cannot decide on any colour because the only decision he’s ever made before the paint on the walls was choosing Harry over his family and everything he’s ever believed in and he’s all decisioned out. They don’t care anyway. The paint isn’t life or death and it’s not as important as Chinese or curry, Pizza Hut or chips from the chippy. Harry’s reassured him that no-one’s ever died eating a curry. He’s secretly not sure if that’s true.
‘Draco,’ Harry says. He’s got his fingers buried in Draco’s soft strands again and he thinks he might be developing a fetish. ‘We’re sharing a bedroom, right? We’re not just flatmates.’
Draco pulls away then and gives Harry another dose of his stern gaze. It’s icy, but that’s just Draco, and after a moment there’s a barely discernable change, but Harry knows the answer is yes.
Draco says, ‘Of course. I need the other room for my shoes,’ and just like that Harry sees pointy boots all in a line by the front door and one in the middle of the floor where Harry’s tripped over it and the dog has carried it off thinking it’s a game. The dog, probably a dachshund, has licked it all over and it’s all shiny with saliva with a nice convenient hole for Draco’s big toe. Draco gets a cat as a revenge tactic and it pisses in Harry’s balcony garden.
Their lips touch again, more confident this time. Draco’s hands smooth over his hips and then his fingers scrunch into Harry’s jumper and his hair. It’s a little bit desperate and Harry has to hold tightly to Draco’s shoulders and neck and arms and, whoops, now he’s the handsy one.
Generally speaking, Draco has a rigid look to him, severe, hard and angular and he’s sort of scary but that’s not what he’s really like. He’s soft all over, skin so smooth, his lips supple and his kisses tender. Harry rubs his thumb behind Draco’s ear and he’s rewarded by a hum and hands slipping under his jumper.
Harry sees lazy mornings, newspapers on the floor, tea and cake on the balcony, too many products in the bathroom, a dartboard exactly where Draco doesn’t want it and lots of internet shopping because neither of them can be trusted with a trolley. The carpet is staying cream for all of a week until it’s covered in muddy footprints, paw prints, and a splash or two of Ribena. He’s going to get Draco drunk and see if he can get him to spill an expensive Claret somewhere that can’t be hidden by a hunk of antique furniture or a multi-functional flat-pack unit - a perfect excuse for a gaudy, deep-pile rug that Harry can sink his toes into and Draco will bitch about but secretly like.
Harry sees everything now, and when Draco pulls them out of the sun and pushes Harry against the wall, Harry can smell the pie they’ll overcook and the bottle of vinegar one of them will drop on the kitchen floor. He sees the blue sparks that fly the first time Draco sticks a fork in the toaster and the looks on their faces when Draco thinks he’s set the cat spinning in an economy wash, forty degrees, extra spin. Draco kisses him again, deep and desperate, a groan in his throat and his fingers alternately clutching and smoothing. When they both stop and thread their fingers together, Harry sees serene Sunday mornings, white sheets draped over their hips, mugs of tea steaming on the bedside tables and the private smile Draco reserves just for him.
They kiss one more time, unhurried and gentle, and it’s on the tip of Harry’s tongue to tell Draco everything he’s seen.
‘I’ve got lots of ideas for the place,’ Draco says. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. I know you’re not the imaginative type.’
Harry says nothing, just grins and thinks about the grill they won’t know how to work, the sausages they’re yet to burn and the smoke alarm Draco will tear off the ceiling with his bare hands.
The End