Surrender
Harry braces himself against the wall with one hand, the exposed brick rough against his palm. This close, he can smell Draco’s cologne—surprisingly subtle and earthy, layered over the salt-warmth of his flushed skin and sharpened by cigarette smoke. It overwhelms his senses and he feels dizzy, but that might just be the alcohol.
It might just be Draco.
Draco’s hair is like spun gold, dark with sweat and slicked back from where he’s been shoving his fingers through it. He lets his head fall back against the wall and the gentle impact sends a lock of blond hair falling onto his forehead to kiss the arch of a pale brow. The jacket of his Auror uniform is open over a thin white t-shirt, also damp with sweat. He’s breathing hard.
Harry leans in a fraction further, unconsciously, as though being pulled toward Draco by some inscrutable magnetism. Opposites attract, Neville had said, shrugging. Only, Harry and Draco are more alike than he had ever realized. Not magnetism, then. Gravity. He’s certainly been caught in Draco’s orbit for as long as he can remember.
Draco sways forward to meet Harry, his body bowing off the wall and his hips pressing carefully, hesitantly against Harry’s. He pulls back almost immediately, as though he’s afraid of the force of his own desire, but Harry chases the sensation, surging forward, consciously this time.
Harry slides his free hand around the side of Draco’s pale throat at the same time that his chest presses against Draco’s. Draco’s pulse flutters under his palm and he can feel Draco’s rib cage expanding and contracting rapidly in time with his own.
The air around them is cold, and Harry is distantly aware of the low murmur of voices, but all he can think about is the delirious heat flooding his body and the sound of Draco’s breathing growing more ragged by the second.
Draco is slightly taller, so Harry has to tip his head back and rock up onto the balls of his feet, and suddenly whatever space existed between his lips and Draco’s is nearly gone.
With one small hand, Draco clutches Harry close by the lapel of his leather jacket. The other slips under the hem of Harry’s shirt, cool fingers curling right into Harry’s overheated skin. Harry fails to stifle the breath that punches out of him.
He feels more than sees Draco’s lips turn up into a crooked smirk, and his heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of his chest.
Harry let’s his mouth fall open slightly, and when he darts his tongue out to wet his lips Draco makes a small, needy sound in the back of his throat, and Harry wants. He wants so fiercely that he can practically taste it.
Draco tips his head forward, his eyes closed, but Harry doesn’t kiss him. Not yet.
He wants to sit in this moment just a little longer, to sink into the yearning that has simmered deep inside of him for months and that is right now boiling over and thrumming through every one of his veins.
This is a feeling Harry has so rarely experienced—the heady satisfaction of getting exactly what he wants, with no caveats or reservations. He’s stunned that after months of longing, of believing that Draco could never want him in return, that he could never be good enough, he’s here. A breath away from all that he desires.
It feels illicit, like he’s getting away with something. It feels incredible.
“Scared…Potter?” Draco mumbles, his lips almost-but-not-quite moving against Harry’s. He says it gently, no hint of teasing in his voice. Like he’s genuinely asking—are you scared of me? Of this?
Harry moves his hand from the wall to cradle Draco’s face. He ghosts his thumb over Draco’s bottom lip, pleased when Draco leans into the caress. He’s so pliant and sweet, and Harry can’t believe it’s all for him.
“No,” he says, honestly, and finally, finally surrenders to the kiss.