Draco Malfoy x you. Lip balm.

Synopsis: (A short story where you both have been friends since forever, unable to express each other feelings.)

Note: Hello, it's me again with a new short story. I had this idea a few weeks ago, but had a hard time writing it. At the end I left it as a short story, probably I will continue it later. Hope you like it.

I was listening "Kiss her you fool by Kids that fly."

Lip balm.

"It started with a lip balm."

The Slytherin sixth year boys’ dormitory is quiet, save for the crackling fire in the grate and the scratch of your quill against parchment.

You’re lying on Draco’s bed with your head resting against the headboard, a half-finished essay on the properties of powdered moonstone between your legs. Draco is sitting beside you with his legs crossed, his own parchment set aside, whilst out of the corner of his eye he’s reading what you’ve written with a critical eye.

“Merlin’s sake” He mutters, reaching past you to tap the parchment. “You’ve spelled effervescent wrong again. It’s two f’s not double s’s. Honestly is like you’ve never read a book in your entire life."

His shoulder brushes as he leans in, and the familiar scent of his cologne fills your space. He doesn’t pull away immediately, squinting at your messy handwriting.

“What would you do without me, really? So pathetic” A smirk curls his lips. His grey eyes meets yours. He says it with affection or his version of it anyway. Draco has always been like this, all sharp edges and sharper words, but he has never once leave your side. Not when you got detention in third year, not when you almost made a fool of yourself in charms trying to cast a cheering charm for the first time in second year, not even now when you’re are in sixth year but still a daft when it comes to flying a broom. He’s insufferable, arrogant and your closest friend in the entire world… But you want more.

You have always been in love with him as long as you can remember, but he has never looked at you like that. You’re his friend. His person. His closest. But never his.

He flicks your ear pulling you from your thoughts “Are you going to correct it or are you going to stare at me like a lovesick troll?” His voice cut through your thoughts sharper, though the smirk hasn’t left his face. “Honestly. Sixth year and you still write like a first year whose hand is being forced.” He tuts but there not real bite in it. Draco leans back against the headboard beside you, his arm brushing yours, warm through his shirt. “Give it here. I’ll fix the spelling, and you can copy out properly in the morning, Merlin knows I can’t watch you butcher another sentence.”

He holds out his hand, expectant, those grey eyes fixed on you with that particular look he gets, the one that says “I’m doing you a favor, and you’ll be grateful for it.”

He snatches the parchment away from your hands and scans your essay with that familiar look of theatrical disdain, but you catch it, the ways his eyes flicks over you before setting back in the words… He sets about correcting your work with quick, efficient strokes of his quill, and you watch him in the fire light. The way it catches the gold in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, and the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates.

He’s beautiful. He always been beautiful, and you’ve always known it.

“There.” He says finally, handing the parchment back. “Fixed. You’re welcome, by the way.” He leans back against the headboard, arms crossed, that signature smirk firmly in place. “Now, are you going to thank me properly or should I start charging you for my services?”

“Thank you, Draco.” You say, drawing his name out with plenty of sarcasm. “Truly blessed to have such a talented tutor.”

He rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to fire back with some clever retort, but before he can, you notice it. His lips are dry, slightly chapped probably from Quidditch and the cold dungeon air. Without a second thought, you reach into your robe pocket, pull out your lip balm, and bring it to his lips.

You swipe a thin layer across the bottom one, then the top one, your touch feather light.

Draco goes still.

Completely, utterly still. His grey eyes fixed on you, wide and unblinking, as if you’ve just grown a second head. His lips part slightly under your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. Then you slowly drawn your hand back, capping the balm like you haven’t just crossed and invisible line you’ve been toeing for years.

Draco clear his throat. “Did you just…” He stops. Swallows. A faint blush creeps up the back of his neck, barely visible in the fire light. “You just put lips balm on me. Without asking.” His voice quiet than usual, rougher.

He’s trying to recover, to lace the words with his usual bite, but it’s not quite there. His fingers reach up, brushing his own lips, almost unconsciously.

He raises an eyebrow, the mask sliding back into place. “Well, are you going to explain yourself, or should I start thinking you’ve finally lost your mind?”

You ignore his comment and press your lips together in an exaggerated smush, demonstrating. “Like this. You’re a pureblood heir, Draco not a troll. Act like it.”

Draco stares at you, something almost unreadable flickering through his eyes before he scoffs a sound that doesn’t quite land with its usual sharpness.

“I know how a lip balm works.” But he does it anyway. A quick, almost reluctant press of his lips together, spreading the lips balm. His tongue dart out to wet them, tasting a vanilla-mint flavor from the balm, and he catches himself, jaw tightening.

“Honestly, why are they so dry?” You continue, settling back against the headboard, your shoulder brushing his. “What if one day you want to kiss a girl and she has to rub her lips against sandpaper? Not a great first kiss, Draco.

He goes quiet for a beat. When he speaks, his voice is lower, careful. “And who says I haven’t already kissed someone?”

“Have you? Who?” You ask him curiosity winning, though you feel your chest ache.

Draco holds your gaze for a moment and something shifts in his expression, a crack in that polished pureblood façade. He looks away, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “That’s…” He clear his throat. “That’s a rather personal question. Don’t you think?”

The silence stretches between the both of you. His fingers run through his hair messing his always perfectly styled blonde hair, and habit you know so well he does when he’s nervous or annoyed.

“Why?” Grey eyes looking at you deeply. “Why do you want to know?”  His gaze drop to your lips, and slowly look away.

“Well, you mentioned it.” You say, shifting on the bed, turning to face him fully. “Now I’m curious. We’ve been close since forever, and you never told me about it.”

You let the words hang between you, Draco jaw tightens, and he looks away toward the fire, you catch the way his throat moves as he swallows. When he speaks his voice is carefully measured. “There nothing to tell. Some things are private.”

He’s lying. You’ve known him long enough to spot it. The way his fingers drum against his thigh, the slight tension of his shoulders.

His gaze flickers down to your lips again.

“Then forget I asked.” Your voice is even, carefully neutral, as you begin to rolling up the parchment with deliberated slowness. You don’t look at him. You focus on the edges of the roll, smoothing them flat, tucking your quill back into its case. The moment stretches thin as glass.

Draco doesn’t move and you can feel his gaze on you heavy and searching, still he says nothing and the silence starts to burn.

Then his hand closes around your wrist gently, not hard to hurt but firm enough to stop you. His thumb presses against the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is betraying you entirely.

And he pronounces your name in a low voice, stripped of his sardonic edge. You look up. His grey eyes fixed on yours, and there’s something raw in them, he holds your gaze for a long weighted moment. And something in his expression changes, like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump.

“Merlin, you’re dense sometimes.” He says desperate and annoyed but there’s not really bite in it. His thumb strokes your wrist again, slow and deliberate. “I haven’t kiss anyone. Not because I couldn’t have, but because….”

He trails off. Looks down at where his hand meets your skin, when he looks back up, and his grey eyes are open in a way you rarely see. “Because I don’t want to, not with them.”

The words hand between you, heavy with implication. His eyes drops to your lips again, and this time, he doesn’t look away.

The way he looks at you; in a profound way, as if he were trying to convey his feelings through his eyes, his pupils like a window, inviting you to peer through them and enter his mind, so that you can see just how much space you occupy in his head.

His muse, his favourite thought, your existence the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up and the last thing that dances through his mind before he drifts off into the world of dreams, where he finds you again.

“Then, who?”  The question leaves your lips softly, your heart hammering against your ribs, and your certain he can feel it through his grip on your wrist.

Draco’s grey eyes search yours. He looks like he’s standing on the edge of something irreversible.

“With you, you absolute idiot.” The words tumble out, rough almost defensive, like he’s bracing for a blow and his grip on your wrist tightens fractionally, afraid that you might pull away.

“There. Happy now? You’ve gone and made me say it.” A humorless laugh escapes him. 

He finally meet your eyes again, there’s something raw in them. Vulnerable. Terrified even when he masks it beneath layers of his Malfoy pride.

So he leans towards you, slowly, bracing himself for whatever reaction you might have, afraid that you might run away and reject him, but he has already crossed the line by confessing that it is you he has been waiting for; he can no longer take it back. It’s all or nothing.

He is so close to you that you can feel his breath brushing against your skin.

Draco stands still for a few seconds, his gaze wavering between your eyes and your lips, searching for a hint of hesitation or rejection. Seeing that you do not pull away from him, he gently slides his hand between your cheek and your jaw and slowly touches your lips with a soft brush, pressing his lips against yours.

The kiss is slow and gentle; your lips are like two petals – soft and rosy – which he longs to brush tenderly, as if the slightest sudden movement might break the spell you are both under.

But like any kiss, once you’ve experienced it, you want more, you long for more, and desire and tenderness intertwine. And what began as a kiss full of unspoken feelings slowly turns into a hunger, a passion. Draco; touch starved and with repressed feelings for you, finally breaks down.

And the kiss that began tenderly, innocently, turns into desire. The tip of his tongue glides gently over your lower lip, as if asking a question, and you respond by parting your lips to let him in.

Your tongues move as if they have danced together many times before. The kiss becomes languid; his hand releases your wrist and slides through your hair, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss. Your hands move over his chest, clutching his shirt. His other hand moves from your cheek to your neck, holding it gently, like an anchor.

The kiss grows bolder and bolder. You don’t know whether it’s him or you who’s making things more intense. But you don’t want it to stop. A soft sigh escapes your lips, somewhere between a moan and a gasp for breath, and Draco’s hand, which had been around your neck, slides down to your hip, pulling you towards him, as if he wanted the two of you to become one.

The two of you continue to prolong the kiss.

And you only slowly break away when you feel the need to breathe. The kiss ends, but Draco’s lips remain pressed against yours for a moment longer, as if hesitating to pull away, his eyes still closed.