Big Deal

~~Big Deal.

"It's not a big deal, I can kiss you," he says.

He has to stifle a gasp. He is unable to keep still, unable to think or speak without stuttering. The lights are turned down low, and for that he's grateful. He stares at the other's lips, barely colored, mostly shades of grey in the dim light. He stares at the quirky set of the other's mouth, the careless way his hair is falling over one eye, the gentle slope of his chin, the fuzz softening the sharp angles of his cheeks. He looks at the gleaming of the pale strands curling around his neck, tucked behind one ear, parted carefully down the center at the top of his head.

The other's eyes are half-closed and he's watching him too. He doesn't know what to do, and the other isn't giving him any clues or help for that matter, only sitting there, reclined against the wall, seemingly amused. He swallows. He could sit there forever, staring, letting the moment stretch out, but he feels as if he would snap from the tension before long. His tie feels too tight around his neck, suddenly, and he loosens it. A lone, cold bead of sweat drips uncomfortably down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. He shifts in place, and curses himself for his ridiculous awkwardness which had never quite left him ever since they'd stopped playing the game. Or rather, ever since they'd started playing for real.

He makes some excuse about needing some water, and bolts to the bathroom. He's in a frenzy of movement all of a sudden, brushing his teeth like there's no tomorrow, piling on the mint toothpaste, rinsing his mouth out again and again, wishing he could rinse himself out of his mouth, so that the only thing remaining would be minty freshness, so that he'd taste as cool and sweet and addictive as ice-cream, or maybe he just wishes for some sort of innoculation. Could he wash the fear right out?

He realizes he has to go back, otherwise it'd all be too suspicious. He forces himself to walk normally, he forces himself to step back inside the room, to bend down on his knees in front of the other boy, to look him in the eye.

His breath stops. Time stops. His heart is hammering inside his chest at twice or three times its normal rate, and his hands are starting to shake, and yet his courage is mounting, because there's just something-- something about the way the other is looking at him. Something intoxicating, something so real and... thick with some new emotion he can't bear to identify, not now, not when it's likely to give him a heart attack.

He feels no longer in control of anything within him, not his heart, not his muscles, not his ability to hold back any movement he makes. Any second now the words will tumble free, uncensored, and he has no clue what those words would be saying.

"Kiss-me-now-I-love-you-and-just-kiss-me-just-kiss-I-need-you-to-just-kiss-just-"

He doesn't think he says it, but it's right there, right there, at the tip of his mouth, which is tingling, and his tongue, which is swelling, like his heart and his blood is rushing around his body like it doesn't know where to go. And then he is leaning forward and his lips are pressing softly, oh so softly against Draco's and he's sighing, all the tension suddenly completely changed in quality, like the sun hiding behind a cloud, and a sudden, blessed muted light spilling over everything.

Their lips are barely touching, and they are barely breathing, and the muscles in Harry's thighs are starting to make him tremble, or maybe it's something else, because he's leaning forward on his knees, and he has no support but he doesn't need it. All he needs is this, this bare brushing of lips against lips, starting to flutter open, eyes fluttering shut as they do.

And now they're breathing in each other's mouth, and he lands on his palms, which are splayed to the side of each of Draco's thighs. They're both gulping air, and shaking, and yet still not moving, just sitting there, with their only point of contact being at the mouth. Distantly, he's surprised his heart has managed to stay inside his chest so far, because it seems like it is really wanting to escape right through his throat, and he's too far gone to stop it. They stay like this, not really kissing, just barely pressing against each other with their lips, for what seems like small eternities. Their breaths come ever-harsher, until they're panting into each other's mouth, and he notices all sorts of things in his near-delirium, like the way Draco smells like rose-water rain and violets and pumpkin juice, and something spicy he couldn't put a finger on, something that makes him think of forbidden things and secret rooms in an alchemist's shop or an exotic candy store. It's making his already racing pulse flip frantically into his throat, and his head begins to swirl until he no longer knows which way is up.

Draco's tongue flicks across his upper lip, and Harry's strength gives out, and he collapses fully against Draco and moans, and their mouths are mashing together in earnest now, and no one can tell anymore, who's moaning and who's panting and whose insides are disintegrating into a fine gooey mess, because all of it is happening at once. This is now, before they fall completely into the future, before they are back within the familiar boundaries of desire, where they're rolling on the floor and tearing off each other's clothes and growling senseless words at each other, biting feverishly at the other's neck, leaving their mark, fingers too insistent at each other's thighs, nails rasping down the other's back. This is when they speak mostly with mounting pressure of mouth against mouth, with the screaming beat of their hearts, with the helpless twining of their fingers on the floor, slick with sweat and tight with promises they never speak except in moments like this.

This is unmarked, this is painful and in deadly earnest. Their tongues clash again, and it's the first time, over and over it's still the first time, it's still the unbreakable knot in the belly and the lump forming in the throat, and the heat sinking leaden to the groin, gathering and pooling, settling into every inch of muscle and flooding into every corner along with blood, becoming more than breath, more than anything. Harry bites Draco's lower lip, unable to take anymore, his mind fleeing from the intensity and the hunger, which feels more and more raw and more and more like it could never be appeased, even though common sense tells him otherwise. Draco moans low, the need for more ripping out of him, swelling the sound until it bursts, spilling all over Harry's skin, running in rivulets all over his shoulders and down his arms, dripping off his fingers.

"I-want-you-I-need-you-I-want-you-I-want-you-I-want-you-now-now-now-now-nownownownownow..."

Their tongues rasp and slide and flex against each other, Harry's frantic and clumsy and moving inside the other's mouth in a jerky, quick rhythm, saliva trickling out of the corners of both their mouths. He has an acute sense of danger, of something vital and irretrievable being taken from him along with his breath, along with his willingness to ever move away from this delirious, heavenly sensation. He wants to throw everything at the other's feet, he wants to drown and he wants to be taken away, far away, inside the other's body until he forgets what being stuck inside his own felt like. His fear merges with excitement and once again, he's startled that he's still breathing at all.

In a moment of white-hot, blinding panic, just before the moment when he would've growled and started licking and sucking his way down the salty-sweet chin and the ghostly-pale shining throat, he tears himself away, and scrambles up to stand, his hand flying to his mouth. He's breathing faster than if he'd run circles around the castle, and it seems like he'd never achieve normality and calm again. Without waiting for reaction, without waiting the second or two it would've taken him to throw himself back into the other's lap, he practically runs out of the room, not sure where his feet are taking him, but sure that when he sees the blond again, there'll better be a damn good excuse. He'll better convince himself of something, else the second he sights that mouth again, his own will launch itself heedlessly over the edge once more, like the lust-striken lemming it was. He throws his back against a stone wall countless turns and flights of stairs and corridors later, his chest heaving, his sides in stiches. He's still producing way too much saliva, and his hand is still pressed against his mouth, to hold back moans or screams, he's not sure. Harry sinks down to the floor, closing his eyes, unable to feel either relieved or as delirious and unaware as he'd been just minutes before.

He doesn't know how much time passes, in his semi-lucid, flushed state of mind. And then he hears the voice, barely two steps distance away from him, amused and entirely contained of breath.

"So there you are, Potter."