Work Text:
Roxy’s is lovely this time of day. Pairs of elderly early birds sit nestled in their booths, speaking in hushed tones about the warmth of their pancakes, or the lack thereof, and morning sunlight streams through broad windows that touch the ceiling, the heat kept at bay by the most aggressive cooling charm Draco has ever had the pleasure of being enveloped in.
A waitress with a bright yellow beehive of hair and nails that should be classified as weapons comes round to refill Harry’s coffee cup. The stuff is strong enough to rival most amphetamines on the market, and Harry grimaces every time he takes a sip, but he orders it every time.
Draco’s been thinking for the past five minutes, lost for words. Literally.
“...Litany!”
“You’ve used that one already.” Harry points out, not even bothering to look away from the window. A little girl has fallen off her bicycle, and even after all these years there’s still a hint of longing in Harry’s eyes as her mother helps her up, brushes off her knees, murmurs sweet reassurances that hush the girl’s tears. Draco bumps his knee under the table.
“Lard.” he says, hoping the absurdity of it will pull Harry out of his reverie.
“I think–”
“No, I said lord, earlier, not lard. It’s your turn.”
Harry huffs, though he’s never put out– he likes to see Draco win. He taps his chin in contemplation, calling to mind images of The Thinker, and usually Draco would relish in the chance to tell Harry how statuesque he is, how his visage deserves to be framed and painted and sculpted– with that strong nose and that jawline, god– but if he breaks his focus now Harry may never get it back.
“Livid.”
Draco pushes half of a mushed strawberry around with his fork, watching as its entrails leave a path along his plate, “Lopsided.”
“Ooo, good one.” Harry takes another bitter sip of coffee, smacks his lips, “Lawrence.”
“No names.”
“Lawyers?”
“Did that.”
“Ugh. Can we stop now? I’m bored.”
Draco agrees to stop their little game, unsure how it even started, and for the remainder of breakfast he wonders.
How does one tell their boyfriend, ever afraid of living up to the expectations placed on him– to be interesting, energetic, purposeful– that being bored with him is one of life’s greatest pleasures? Perhaps, it is life’s greatest privilege.