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Pale fingers press into the tender flesh of his thigh. Draco hums. The sores are barely painful anymore – more a slight tinge than outright stinging. He's done a terrible mistake of starting to treat them before making sure that they would be replaced by a new set as soon as they were gone.
If Harry hadn't so cruelly distrusted their routine this particular patch of irritated skin would be more or less healed already and Draco would be buzzing with the anticipation for the activities that would make his inner thighs burn once again.
Most people see beard burn as an inconvenience. Even more so the wizarding crowd that can get rid of it in an astounding two and a half days for the low low price of half an arm and two-thirds of a leg. But still, some magical remedies are more... convenient than necessary and you just had to deal with paying for that luxury.
But it isn't like Draco was particularly bothered by his thighs. On the contrary, for some unknown reason he had developed a bit of a fascination with the way Harry's oral fixation translated into things more permanent than an orgasm.
With that in mind, Draco's tub of Mrs Barlow’s Triple-B Marvellous Treatment Balm came at the courtesy of his boyfriend's caring concern. He dutifully uses it if only because the look on Harry's face when the redness is persistently untreated is unbearable. And also, it isn’t like the results are permanent anyway – with the way the two of them like to lead their lives that is.
Or at least, the results were not meant to be permanent (in Draco’s head). And they hadn't been (in reality). Until Harry James Potter got the amazing idea of shaving off his wonderful beard to make a Good First impression on the students he's starting to teach come September.
"It makes me look more approachable that way," he said.
"I love more like a weird uncle their parents know than a big scary ex-auror," he said.
"Everyone will think you got a hot new boy toy, babe," he said, and all Draco could do was stare at him blankly and pretend to approve and try not to scream.
From that day onward, the Marvellous Treatment Balm tub was left undisturbed on his bedside table, and he's been doing his very best to savour the last vestiges of an era which he must be waving goodbye forever.
The bedroom door opens. Draco can't help but smile at Harry despite the crime he's committed. He loves him – he'd forgive him anything. Sure he'd sulk about it first, but they'd get back to pre-marital bliss eventually.
It takes Harry barely any time at all to strip to his pyjamas – a ridiculous pair of neon yellow boxers that Draco only excuses because Harry does do him a favour of not wearing anything else to sleep, like, ever – and crawl into bed with him.
It’s summer, the room is pleasantly cool, and yet, Draco has forgone the sheets for now. It allows Harry to settle between his legs without obstruction, as he kisses him thoroughly. It’s not quite the same as kissing Harry with a beard, but it’s still kissing Harry, so Draco cannot complain (too much).
They make out a bit – and Draco takes extra pleasure in edging something more with carefully planned thugs on Harry’s hair and teasing slips of the tongue – before Harry pulls away and grins at Draco in that one specific way that makes Draco’s insides melt and his brain shrink to a size of a dirigible plum.
“Hi, missed you” Harry murmurs and pecks his lips again, and Draco barely has enough sense of mind to mutter his own greeting in response before they’re kissing again and this time the whole thin-line-sharp-edge thing is gone out the window and the room is hot and Draco wraps his legs around Harry’s hips and it’s just the best kind of friction. They need to get out of their underwear.
“We need to get out of our pants,” Harry says, huskily, making Draco dizzy with the mere sound of his voice let alone his apparent legilimency skills. Draco nods.
Harry goes to roll off him but Draco’s legs are still wrapped around him and so he only grins up at him, devilishly, and slides down until his face is at Draco’s crotch instead. He keeps eye contact as his hands slide over Draco’s sides – Draco arches into the movement, but Harry pulls him back down – and past his hips – catching at the edge of his briefs – purposefully ignoring the very attention-seeking part of Draco’s anatomy only to wrap around his thigs.
Neither of them says anything for the next few seconds. Draco is already panting and they’ve barely done anything – it’s been a while, though, since Harry worked a double shift today, so he was gone since morning – and Harry is apparently in his lets-take-this-bad-and-slow mood – which usually Draco doesn’t mind but with the whole beard thing it might be too much – and so they end up just staring at each other, silently deciding how to proceed.
Draco just wants them to get on with it. Harry, apparently, wants a bit more… foreplay.
He leans forward and kisses Draco’s stomach – the muscle quivers beneath his lips – while his fingers splay across heated skin, inching ever closer to the place marked ‘X’. He smirks. Draco rolls his eyes at him. He’s just about to do something about the lack of progress when Harry frowns.
His thumb rubs over a spot near where fabric cuts thigh, once, twice, and Draco starts thinking he’s just teasing again, but then he does it a third time, and pulls back all the way. Draco gets up on his elbows in the same breath when Harry sits back on his thighs, to see what’s going on. But Harry doesn’t even notice the movement. He’s staring – rather very intently – at his thumb on Draco’s inner thigh. Or more like at the skin the thumb is covering.
Oh. The beard burn… Draco should have guessed. He rolls his eyes and lies back down. There goes their unplanned good-evening-good-night sex.
“Did you run out of the balm?” Harry asks. He’s back to rubbing at the rash but it’s more caressing than rubbing now, really. And he looks all guilty too. It’s maddening.
Before Draco has time to answer, Harry glances at the bedside table. The tub is still there. He summons it – wandlessly, the bastard, why does he have to be so intentionally attractive when Draco is trying to be annoyed with him – and goes to open it.
Draco can’t summon the tub to stop him – and he does need to stop him because this is his last beard burn and he’s gonna see it gone naturally and grieve it properly instead of getting rid of it in a cruel and ridiculously expensive manner. But! He can hook his legs around Harry’s back and tip them over and then! When Harry is distracted by the surprise attack, he can steal the tub and chuck it across the room as far as he can!
Harry blinks up at him. He still has his glasses on. He’s more adorable when he’s confused, but very attractive nevertheless. Draco cannot stop himself from kissing him. But Harry can stop him instead.
He turns his cheek – okay then – and when Draco tries to kiss down his face to get to his neck, he takes Draco’s chin in hand and pulls him back up. They stare at each other. Draco does his best to stay completely neutral – it’s more or less successful, he believes, especially because Harry is probably still in shock over the whole rollover stunt. Probably.
“Draco, what the actual hell?”
“I ran out of the balm,” Draco says firmly. Harry frowns at him. He twists his hand to summon the tub once again, but Draco swiftly takes the said appendage and holds it to his chest.
They continue to stare at each other. Harry does not look impressed with him. But Draco doesn’t care.
“I ran out. Of. The. Balm,” he repeats. He fidgets until he is sitting comfortably in Harry’s lap and then grinds down. It’s his prime distraction technique. Harry lets himself be distracted for a second before it turns out it was just a trick all along! As Draco is starting to revel in his success Harry surges forward and flips them back to their original position.
Draco is still holding Harry’s hand to his chest, and Harry uses it to keep him pinned down. How someone so… small could be so strong, Draco will never know, but Merlin be damned if he doesn’t (secretly) enjoy it…
Harry steals a quick kiss – and pulls back when Draco defiantly tries to slip him the tongue, in his secondary distraction technique – and then looks at him straight on, all broody and serious.
“Babe,” he says sounding all worried – and this was exactly what Draco’s been trying to avoid this whole time! “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re not using the balm.”
“I ran out.”
“You still have half a tub.”
“I ran out – are you deaf?!”
“Are you okay?”
Draco rolls his eyes. He hates this more than anything – this etching concern that Harry always pulls out like a joker on a play of poker or whatever muggle card game it is where you can do that.
Harry knows him. He knows how he acts. And the fact that he chooses to take him seriously when obviously nothing is going on currently that’s a big deal – in Draco’s head – is something that Draco can imagine becoming annoying in the future, but he also has hope that they’ll grow out of this awkward phase – and also deep deep down, he has hope that they will once reach their highest forms of being, mainly, being old and annoying and loving each other for how annoying they are instead of in spite of it.
“I’m not okay,” he says, to get this over it.
Harry immediately frowns. Draco rolls his eyes again. He kisses the corner of Harry’s mouth and then mutters, petulantly, “You shaved.”
“I thought you liked the way it looks!”
“I don’t… don’t like it.”
“I was thinking it would be nice since I could be… you know… a bit rougher in our activities.” Harry releases one of his hands and pats Draco’s hip, and Draco has to laugh at the ridiculousness. They kiss, softly, sweetly, and Merlin, Draco doesn’t know how he could ever be seriously annoyed with Harry at all. They’re smiling when they pull back.
“I like when you’re rougher,” he says.
“I know! That’s why I thought shaved would be better.”
Draco takes a deep breath and pecks Harry’s lips again – to remind himself he loves him.
“I like when you’re rougher,” he says slowly, “with the beard.”
Harry’s whole face just sort of freezes. Draco doesn’t roll his eyes only since he believes he’s used his bi-hourly eye-rolling quota.
“With the beard??” Harry squints at him. Draco knows there’s nothing to do now but wait. He starts slowly dragging his fingers through Harry’s hair in hopes that it will help with his thought-processing abilities.
“You like the rash??”
Draco snorts at Harry’s tone. He looks up to catch Harry’s eyes and then nods – slowly – and confirms the conclusion. “Yes, I like the beard burn.”
“But… why??”
Draco shrugs. Harry huffs and collapses against him, knocking some of the air out of him – but Draco doesn’t berate him for it because he’s a good boyfriend like that – and tucks his face into Draco’s neck. Draco continues to pet his hair.
“I don’t know…”, he mutters, eventually, uncurling the curls and then watching them spring! back down. “I suppose I like… feeling it later. It’s like a reminder of you.”
“There are better ways to be reminded of your boyfriend than suffering a continuous and never-ending rash on your thighs,” Harry deadpans, but kisses Draco’s collarbone either way so there’s not as much disapproval for Draco’s life choices as Draco was fearing.
“I don’t think plugs are as universally appropriate,” he says anyway – to counter the attitude naturally.
Harry groans – which Draco takes as a compliment – and then pulls himself up to sit on him instead of making him bear his entire body weight. He takes Draco’s hands again and kisses his knuckles. “We could get rings.”
“You’re not proposing to me right now, Potter.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not,” Draco states, as seriously as he can. He pulls their hands toward himself and kisses Harry’s knuckles in turn. “I’m not being proposed to like this.”
“Noted.”
“Good.”
They fall silent then and just bask in each other’s company. They have two options from here on out, Draco knows: one, to go back to cuddling and fall asleep, or two, to heat this back up and treat themselves to some easy frotage-with-eventual-handjobs and then go back to cuddling and falling asleep. Both options are fine and he’s just contemplating getting his hands back to pull Harry down for a kiss when Harry catches sight of the balm tub and immediately zeroes in on him again.
“Wait – were you even using the balm at all? Was I paying 13 galleons for you to fake using the balm?”
Draco rolls his eyes – he thinks he’s just renewed his allowed eye rolls – then says, as cooly as possible, “Of course I was using the balm. It’s a fine balm.”
“But you stopped using it on Monday – your thighs are worse than usual.”
“You shaved on Monday.”
Harry blinks at him. “So?”
“I wanted to keep the beard burn as long as I could, Potter. Merlin, how dense are you? Why do I always end up spilling my feeling because you are incapable to connect the insanely vulnerable dots on your own?!”
“Oh.”
Harry looks stunned at his outburst, and quite frankly, Draco is stunned by his behaviour as well. He’s starting to grow concerned when Harry doesn’t reply with anything more coherent but then his boyfriend starts smiling in this sickeningly smitten way that is almost too bright to look at. Harry leans down and kisses him briefly and then murmurs, against his lips, with his eyes still closed but smiling, “I love when you’re vulnerable with me.”
Draco huffs, but then kisses Harry back. “I know you do. Dumbass.”
Harry laughs briefly and then they’re back to kissing and it’s all well – more than well – and Draco is distantly glad that they’ve finally finally resolved this issue when Harry pulls back again and asks, “So I shouldn’t shave again?”
His voice is kind of breathless and low, so Draco decides to forgive him the interruption with only a tug on his hair as punishment – as much as pulling Harry’s face closer for a kiss is punishment at all – and allows himself to answer the inquiry too before continuing.
“You should never shave again.”