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The Hogwarts Reunion Is When Everything Changes (6/6)
Back to Part Five
"Wake up, Potter. We need to talk."
Lazy eyes cracked open, blurry from crumbles of sleep still clinging to his lashes, slowly focusing on the Draco-sized hollow indenting the pillow beside him. He knew if he touched the other side of the bed he'd find the sheets cold. Of all the many things he'd ever found impossible about his lover, rising early on Sunday mornings topped the list.
"Hmmm … what time is it?"
"It's nearly noon. Time to shift your lazy arse."
Harry cast a quick Tempus Charm. "Such a bloody liar." Hoping to coax his lover back, Harry stretched his arms over his head. The morning sun streamed in, bouncing off his flexed muscles in what he hoped was an appealing way, one that promised all sorts of enticements if Draco would postpone the day for just a little longer.
From the corner of his eye he saw Draco take note. Instead of returning to bed, however, Draco stubbornly tightened the sash on his emerald dressing gown.
"Fine, if you must quibble, it's just gone ten. But you need to be awake for this." Papers rustled, demanding and slightly violent. "Potter, are you paying any attention at all?"
Harry chuckled. These days, Draco only resorted to his surname when reminded of their school days. That meant he must have found yesterday's owl post. Harry had left the creamy parchment envelope on Draco's antique Chippendale desk in their study. On it were both of their names, written in old-fashioned calligraphy:
Mr Draco Malfoy and Mr Harry Potter, 42 Croom's Hill, Greenwich, London
"I already know what it is. Neville got his at the office yesterday." Harry opened his eyes for real this time and, sure enough, saw the invitation flapping in Draco's hand. "So are you ready to brave my House en masse?"
"I'll have you know that despite lowering my standards to live with one of you lot, I have absolutely no intention of spending a weekend in that lion's den. Really, Potter, how can you stand it? Centuries of sweaty Gryffindors have been marinating in there."
"I thought you liked when I sweat."
Harry reached under the sheet, quite obviously, to cup his morning erection. He noted with satisfaction that it derailed Draco's rant, if only for a moment.
"You manage to distract me from the odour," snapped Draco after a second had passed. "Besides, your grooming habits have improved considerably since I took you on as a special project. But that's neither here nor there. The question is where we shall stay. The dungeons are out, of course—Myrddin only knows what entrapments have been set against invading Gryffindors—and I'm not eager to discover the myriad forms of blight that no doubt flourish in the guest rooms at the Three Broomsticks."
"There's always the Shrieking Shack," suggested Harry helpfully.
Draco's glare chilled the room. "I shan't mind us sleeping apart after all, apparently."
"But Draco," Harry said, adopting a whining edge that he knew his lover wouldn't tolerate, "how will I sleep if you're not hogging all the covers?"
Instead of the expected retort, Draco stared out over the back garden. His features were always fine, but at times like this they looked brittle as bone china, with sharp lines creasing his forehead like the fractures in an antique teacup. The invitation, still in his hand, crumpled against the window frame. Harry's heart squeezed a little at the sight.
"Draco, it'll be all right."
In the instant it took Draco to plaster on a smile, the infamous Malfoy barricade had already reappeared.
"Of course it will. You being the romantic one, I'd naturally assumed that you'd mind us sleeping apart for the first time in– what must it be, eight years now? I see I was wrong."
Smiling a gentle truce, Harry reached out his hand. Almost reluctantly Draco took it, allowing himself to be pulled to the bed but still sitting a fair distance away. His skittish lover was like a wild bird, Harry sometimes thought, and now he forced his thumb to move in slow circles over Draco's knuckles so as not to startle him. His voice, however, was light.
"Eight years. Has it really been that long?"
"Since I opened our Mayfair office, yes." His gaze struggled between suspicion and reproach. "Why? Does it seem longer to you?"
Harry shook his head. "I was just thinking this reunion is a little like our ten-year anniversary."
"I suppose one might think that, yes. If one were given to that kind of sentimentality."
Ten years. Long enough to know that the more precise Draco's words, the more he was dying to say. It was always the first fissure in his lover's façade, one that Harry alone recognised.
"And I didn't really think Hogwarts would be appropriate for the way I might want to celebrate." Harry's hand slid up to Draco's wrist, his middle finger stretching to encircle it while his thumb pressed the pulse point. He might have imagined the next heartbeat was stronger; Draco's cool tone certainly didn't betray him.
"It seems you've thought this through."
"I have indeed. In fact, I've done more than think. I've made reservations at the Spiderwort Spa in Inverness. They're on the Floo Network so we can get to Hogwarts without any trouble."
"The Spiderwort Spa…"
"And I booked extra days on both sides so you can get treatments before and recuperate after. Penelope's already cleared your calendar."
Draco was rarely speechless and almost never surprised. Harry took advantage of the momentary imbalance to tug him over, and his lover tumbled willingly. His long leg draped over Harry's, separated only by a thin sheet, and a smile crept over his face despite the still-stunned look in his eyes.
"You arranged all this without telling me?"
Harry kissed him lightly. "If I told you it would have ruined the surprise."
"I take it back, Harry. You would be perfectly safe in Slytherin."
"Hey, now. I could always cancel the reserve–"
Smiling lips captured his, the words lapped from his mouth by Draco's clever tongue. Harry yielded willingly; it was a dirty trick that Draco employed whenever he might lose an advantage, but Harry could never resist the man's kisses. The merest touch of those warm lips melted his backbone, the thorough exploration of Draco's tongue along the ridge of his teeth turned his insides to jelly. "Lips perfect for kissing," Harry thought dreamily as their tongues tangled together, and remembered his surprise when Draco confessed that he rarely kissed. Years ago now, but still those few men who'd touched Draco's lips were hated with a passion Harry usually reserved for aubergines and Dark Lords. He'd spent the ten years since exorcising their ghosts, revelling in what a quick study Malfoy's mouth turned out to be.
"Another ten years," Draco purred as if reading Harry's thoughts. Sometimes Harry was sure he could. His mouth roamed down Harry's throat and then back up the curve of his neck, all lush kisses and clever tongue until Harry was ready to babble helplessly for Draco to fuck him. Soon Draco was laving the ridge of Harry's ear, knowing well the effect that had on him.
And then he ruined it all by whispering, "Do you think Ianto Jones will bring his American friend this time?"
Harry tensed, his mind rushing to straight to "damn you, Draco." Of course he knew what had happened that night at Hogsmeade, had thought it quite funny, actually. But that was in the past, or at least he'd believed it was. He fought to control his voice, trying hard to make the words less accusatory, less resentful. "Why, do you want him to?"
"And you say I'm the jealous one."
Draco laughed, a warm puff of air across Harry's ear that tickled, although Harry's mind insisted it was simply bristling at Draco's flippant tone. "You hexed Ginny over a new year's kiss."
"That wasn't a kiss, that was a porn movie in the offing. Woman can't hold her drink. But you've got no worries over the Muggle. He's not the one I live with, is he?" The way Draco was nibbling on the skin behind Harry's ear was thoroughly distracting; Harry thought he should answer the question but his lover didn't wait for him. "He's not the one who books us for a spa break—where they'd better have the best privacy spells money can buy, for what I'm imagining doing to you." His lips still teasing Harry's ear, he tugged Harry's hand down between his legs, pressing their fingers together on Draco's hardened flesh. "He's not the one who can still do this to me, every single time."
Ten years Harry had been with this man, ten years in which obsession had transformed into something solid and real, as beautiful as it was terrifying. Over those ten years he'd gotten to know this body as well as his own, yet every time he touched his lover, Harry felt the same surge of lust that he had on that first summer night, when Draco gave life to his oldest fantasy.
Harry turned his head, capturing Draco's mouth in another kiss without ever releasing his grip between Draco's legs. "I want to fuck you," he murmured into those warm lips, deepening their kiss as the body in his arms shuddered. His other hand slipped inside the silken dressing gown, peeled it away; his palm skimmed along skin nearly as soft and twice as interesting. "Need to be inside you." He kissed the words across Draco's jaw, pressed them down his throat, seared them into the smattering of pale hairs on his chest.
"Yes," hissed Draco, again and again until the sibilance mimicked serpent-speech. Like the creature he coiled himself gracefully, curving his back as his legs lifted. With his knees folded to his chest, Draco presented himself to his lover, vulnerable and with not a hint of shame. He reached for Harry with complete trust even as his hips rolled higher, offering the most irresistible seduction.
Reverently, Harry's hands wandered over this prize. "Mine," he thought possessively as his hands worshipped Draco's body, tracing the ridge of his spine and the muscles of his thighs. With wonder he brushed his fingers across the golden hair that dusted his legs and thickened into darker, damp curls. Full of awe, he cradled Draco's pale buttocks in his palms, gently splitting the halves like segments of an orange to make room for Harry's tongue press inside, to invade, to ravish.
Indulging wholly in this intoxicating flesh, in this intimate act that was his alone, Harry only noticed Draco's moans after they'd reached an almost desperate pitch. He glanced up to see Draco's erection bobbing helplessly, Draco's pained snarl in the background. "Fuck me, Harry, or I swear I'll…" The threat was never finished; Draco's voice faded when Harry's crown pressed against his sensitive rim, and by the time he'd breached the ring of relaxed muscle it had transmuted into a breathless groan of pleasure.
Entering Draco was like coming home to the most decadent brothel imaginable. His body was at once familiar and so powerfully arousing, his magic meshing and mingling with Harry's own. Harry slid inside in one slick push, holding his breath until he was buried to the hilt, waiting as Draco's channel stretched and squeezed around him, warring ripples intent on both expelling and embracing him. Even before this pulsing rhythm stilled, strong legs knotted around Harry's back, dragging him even deeper. "Harder," Draco demanded, growling again "harder" despite his unhooked ankles fluttering like wild swans around Harry's ears. Harry captured the flying limbs and shifted them to his shoulders, shins fast in his grip as he stared down with devotion at Draco. His lover's hand swept lightning-quick along his length, pumping himself with such ferocity that Harry redoubled his efforts.
The signs of Draco's imminent climax mounted, clues couched in his guttural not-words and the force of his hips braced against Harry's thrusts. His face flushed violently red, his eyelashes fluttering flecks of silver against his scarlet cheeks. The picture of angelic debauchery, his rococo flush enough to send Harry spiralling into ecstasy had he not fought to forestall it. He watched for that last telltale evidence: the short gasp that left those kissable lips forming a perfect 'O', the sliver of his quick pink tongue quivering to stillness. With that, Harry's hips swung back, withdrawing until only his crown was still tucked inside Draco's opening, and then thrust forward harder than before. Amidst the exquisitely long glide of re-entry he felt Draco's hard shudder, inside as well as out, the vicious rattle strangling Harry's cock with the power of thousands of tiny nooses. Each throb pulled him deeper into Draco, wound their magical energies tighter together until their bodies fused, inseparable and perfect.
When Harry climaxed, just a second later, he could have sworn that it was his seed that lay glistening on Draco's sternum.
More kisses followed, and more touches, slow, sated ones content to while away the morning. Harry tucked his shoulders under Draco's arm and settled his cheek comfortably into the crook of his neck. Here his vision was filtered through fine silver hair, the air he breathed scented with his lover's sandalwood shampoo.
"I need to thank him," Draco finally said, and Harry didn't have to ask who he was talking about. "He made me think of how it'd be if you'd slipped away again."
Harry wanted to protest that that couldn't have happened, but he knew too well it could. With all the possibilities and all the choices in the world, sometimes he thought it was a miracle they'd found each other. "Then I hope he'll come to the reunion. I want to thank him too," Harry said, sleepily tangling his legs around his lover's.
And this time, he would definitely ask Draco for a dance.
*****
Myfanwy's squawk echoed through the Hub's main tower, calling Jack from his monitor. It was a welcome distraction from the chore of staff performance reviews. He'd fully supported rebuilding Torchwood London, there was certainly enough alien activity to warrant it, but he'd never expected the reformed bureaucracy to demand quite so much paperwork. As he was almost sideswiped by a wayward wing, he wondered if they wanted a review of the pterodactyl too. "Enthusiastic if rather indiscriminate in defence of Torchwood … could display more consideration for teammates …"
A flurry of grey caught his eye, feathered wings more appropriate for this time if not this place. "How did a hawk get inside the Hub?" Jack suspected its visit would be short-lived in any case. Myfanwy was closing in fast on the invader-cum-dinner, indignant screeches pouring from her ancient beak. But with only seconds from those tooth-filled jaws, the hawk pulled itself back so suddenly that it seemed to freeze in the air, rising just enough that its hunter slid past with inches to spare. It was a manoeuvre worthy of the best flying ace in the fiercest dogfight, and while Myfanwy wailed in frustration, Jack applauded the escape.
On hearing the noise, the now-circling hawk—no, it was an owl, Jack realised—flew the short distance to him. Myfanwy swung past languidly, her threat revived with the breeze off her membraned wings.
"Hello," said Jack, trying to remember what Ianto had said about owls in his world. He was pretty sure that protecting them from prehistoric reptiles was Rule No. 1.
The owl ruffled its feathers in reply. Balancing on one foot on an extruding pipe, it lifted its other to Jack. He hastily retrieved the envelope tied to its talons, smirking at the address in old-fashioned calligraphy:
Mr Ianto Jones, Torchwood Hub, Cardiff
"They couldn't just use Royal Mail?" he muttered. The owl chirped its disapproval. "No, we wouldn't want you out of a job. Or ending up as a between-meals snack. Hang on." Jack crossed to a nearby wall panel (one of several that Ianto had installed after yet another near-fatal emergency blocked them from the Hub's primary controls) and keyed in an unscheduled feeding for the pterodactyl. As soon as Myfanwy dove towards her trough, he nodded to the owl. "You've got a good ten minutes before she's done. Think you can find your own way out?" Jack would have felt foolish, chatting with a bird like this, had not the owl winked conspiratorially before taking to the air.
Jack went in the other direction, down the steps and into the bowels of the Hub, Ianto's letter still in his hand. He knew where he'd find the man, where he himself would have been if he hadn't buried himself in paperwork. Past the Archives, down concrete corridors damp and tinged too brightly green for anything natural this far below ground, to the part of the Hub where no one ever ventured. Save Ianto. He did know more about this place than anyone and proved it when he shared his most secret hiding place with Jack.
Today being Sunday, with the rest of the team resting, Ianto had no need for hiding. The door to "the Tub" was wide open, freeing the rich harmonies of the National Chorus—Ianto loved relaxing to their recordings—to waft down the hall. Jack stepped into the room, inhaling deep the humid air warmed by the hot spring Ianto had discovered. Or that he claimed to have discovered; Jack knew Taff's Well never reached temperatures like this, never invited you to soak in its bone-melting heat until all your cares melted away. And since that day, nearly five years ago now, that Ianto brought Jack to his family's waterfall home at Pistyll Rhaeadr, Jack had suspected that his lover could make water do things that Jack couldn't even imagine. If Ianto had used it magic create this oasis in the midst of steel and concrete, then who could blame him?
Ianto was adrift in that oasis now, tiny ripples of water lapping around his chin, his eyes closed. Jack wondered how long he'd been here. A good while, by the looks of things; his hair was nearly dry, but pushed awkwardly back, unstyled and haggardly endearing. And his skin, Jack knew, would be unblemished. Anyone else would have emerged like a withered prune, but Ianto never did. "Half Selkie," he'd jokingly explained, but Jack wondered if there wasn't some truth to it.
He slipped his shoes off, then undressed, before turning down the music a notch. Ianto opened his eyes then, and smiled lazily as Jack slipped into the water and settled on the submerged ledge on the other side of the pool.
"I thought you were working."
"I was until your post arrived. Special delivery."
Ianto eyebrow rose, which sent a fat droplet of sweat trickling down his cheek to disappear into the pool. "On Sunday?"
"Apparently owls aren't unionised."
Jack watched gears grind behind Ianto's frown, and then saw a grin erupt. His lover's face grew larger, his smile spreading as he floated closer. "I think I know what it's about."
He didn't explain, though, just straddled Jack's knees, hooking a leg on either side. It was an odd weight, buoyant and lighter than he'd expected but so very solid, graphite mistaken for steel.
"So were you planning to share?"
Ianto's eyes sparkled the brightest blue, the same glittering hues that glinted off the sea at New Quay on those remarkably sunny days. "Do you remember my class reunion?"
The smile bloomed over Jack's face. Of course he remembered it, the day he'd learned the secret of Ianto Jones. Their relationship had taken form that day, both falling into something deeper than they had expected and more challenging than they'd ever dreamed. Through the years they'd continued shaping this rare union, combining their different ways into something that was unique, something that worked for a Welsh wizard and a time traveller from Boeshane. Ten years it must have been, ten years … "Your reunion," Jack said, catching on at last. "So the letter, that means it must be time for another one."
In lieu of an answer Ianto lifted a hand to Jack's face. Clear water flowed like a beaded curtain down his arm, streams splashing loudly back into the pool. Sure enough, his skin was unwrinkled; plump, rosy flesh stroked his cheek, unbelievably warm. Beneath the water Ianto's other hand moved, a simple paddling motions, save for the currents that caressed Jack's bare skin. The ripples swirled like wet tongues, like waving flags, creating all kinds of interesting sensations that seemed to centre between Jack's legs.
Jack shifted forward on the ledge, sliding Ianto closer. With both hands he reached up, cradling Ianto's face and dragging him forward. Their lips joined, tongues sliding together, wiping all the questions from Jack's mind. And wasn't that always the way. Jack had never asked for fidelity and never promised it; Ianto had adopted 51st century ways eagerly and they'd both had satisfying relationships outside Torchwood. But this, this was always what Jack came home to. When his mind was functioning he thanked his lucky stars that wizards led long lives.
At moments like this, when it wasn't, he simply thanked his lucky stars for the amazing things that Ianto's submerged hands were doing. The tiny ripples breaking the surface only hinted at the force of what was happening below. Ianto's touch sluiced circles across Jack's chest, forming tiny wakes that tickled like phantom fingers. The sensations intensified as they moved lower, the pressure of solid flesh not even necessary to swell Jack to full hardness, not when his erection was the epicentre of this whirlpool. Magic, it must be; nothing else could feel like this.
Jack slipped his hands down Ianto's shoulders, down his arms, his chest, tracing broad muscles hewn in over a decade's service to Torchwood. Under the water his fingers curled loosely around Ianto's girth, his lover's flesh sliding in his palm smooth and hard as river stones. Jack gazed down at the refracted images of their hands, blurry and pale like silverfish, like the world's tiniest beluga whales. Jack couldn't hope to imitate Ianto's magic, but the choked hitch in his lover's breath confirmed he didn't need to. As Jack's strokes grew faster, strong enough to churn the surface of the bath, Ianto's head fell back helplessly. Exquisite sounds of pleasure babbled from his lips, urging Jack on.
Their climaxes were pulled forward with the force of the strongest ocean currents. Jack's started with a sucking feeling down in his toes but spread through him like a flash flood. Too powerful to resist, it swept him along as if he was a mere fragment of driftwood buffeted on the waves, sensation washing over him faster and faster until at last he came with a bellowing cry. Ianto followed, falling forward onto Jack's chest with the usual bonelessness that trailed his orgasms, entangling Jack's mouth in another long kiss.
They held each other until their hearts had stopped racing, then a little longer. Finally Ianto shifted to the side, settling next to Jack on the submerged ledge, their legs extended into the pool. Their feet collided together in the warm water and Jack wondered how long it would be before his skin curdled. Not that it mattered; he felt so listless he couldn't have moved if he tried.
"So this reunion," he finally said, "do you think your attractive blond friend will be there?"
Ianto rolled his eyes. "Probably. But don't get your hopes up. From what I hear, he and Harry are inseparable."
As if astonished by that thought, Ianto shook his head, but Jack just smiled. Over the years he'd heard of the rocky history between Malfoy and Potter, and Ianto had always expressed surprise that they had ended up together, but Jack had never doubted it. He'd seen those looks that passed between them, and he'd known what they really meant. "Who, me? You know I'd never dream of disrupting a happy home."
A sideways glance from Ianto reminded Jack of what else he'd said. "So does that mean you're bringing me as your date?"
"I might," Ianto admitted with a cryptic smile. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, making the pool's concrete rim look surprisingly comfortable. "I suppose I'll need to consider my options."
Jack leaned back too, mirroring Ianto's restful pose but adding a smug smile that was all his own. Ianto would invite him to the reunion, he was sure of it. And if he didn't? Then Jack knew exactly where he could find him.
The End
*****
***** 
"Wake up, Potter. We need to talk."
Lazy eyes cracked open, blurry from crumbles of sleep still clinging to his lashes, slowly focusing on the Draco-sized hollow indenting the pillow beside him. He knew if he touched the other side of the bed he'd find the sheets cold. Of all the many things he'd ever found impossible about his lover, rising early on Sunday mornings topped the list.
"Hmmm … what time is it?"
"It's nearly noon. Time to shift your lazy arse."
Harry cast a quick Tempus Charm. "Such a bloody liar." Hoping to coax his lover back, Harry stretched his arms over his head. The morning sun streamed in, bouncing off his flexed muscles in what he hoped was an appealing way, one that promised all sorts of enticements if Draco would postpone the day for just a little longer.
From the corner of his eye he saw Draco take note. Instead of returning to bed, however, Draco stubbornly tightened the sash on his emerald dressing gown.
"Fine, if you must quibble, it's just gone ten. But you need to be awake for this." Papers rustled, demanding and slightly violent. "Potter, are you paying any attention at all?"
Harry chuckled. These days, Draco only resorted to his surname when reminded of their school days. That meant he must have found yesterday's owl post. Harry had left the creamy parchment envelope on Draco's antique Chippendale desk in their study. On it were both of their names, written in old-fashioned calligraphy:
"I already know what it is. Neville got his at the office yesterday." Harry opened his eyes for real this time and, sure enough, saw the invitation flapping in Draco's hand. "So are you ready to brave my House en masse?"
"I'll have you know that despite lowering my standards to live with one of you lot, I have absolutely no intention of spending a weekend in that lion's den. Really, Potter, how can you stand it? Centuries of sweaty Gryffindors have been marinating in there."
"I thought you liked when I sweat."
Harry reached under the sheet, quite obviously, to cup his morning erection. He noted with satisfaction that it derailed Draco's rant, if only for a moment.
"You manage to distract me from the odour," snapped Draco after a second had passed. "Besides, your grooming habits have improved considerably since I took you on as a special project. But that's neither here nor there. The question is where we shall stay. The dungeons are out, of course—Myrddin only knows what entrapments have been set against invading Gryffindors—and I'm not eager to discover the myriad forms of blight that no doubt flourish in the guest rooms at the Three Broomsticks."
"There's always the Shrieking Shack," suggested Harry helpfully.
Draco's glare chilled the room. "I shan't mind us sleeping apart after all, apparently."
"But Draco," Harry said, adopting a whining edge that he knew his lover wouldn't tolerate, "how will I sleep if you're not hogging all the covers?"
Instead of the expected retort, Draco stared out over the back garden. His features were always fine, but at times like this they looked brittle as bone china, with sharp lines creasing his forehead like the fractures in an antique teacup. The invitation, still in his hand, crumpled against the window frame. Harry's heart squeezed a little at the sight.
"Draco, it'll be all right."
In the instant it took Draco to plaster on a smile, the infamous Malfoy barricade had already reappeared.
"Of course it will. You being the romantic one, I'd naturally assumed that you'd mind us sleeping apart for the first time in– what must it be, eight years now? I see I was wrong."
Smiling a gentle truce, Harry reached out his hand. Almost reluctantly Draco took it, allowing himself to be pulled to the bed but still sitting a fair distance away. His skittish lover was like a wild bird, Harry sometimes thought, and now he forced his thumb to move in slow circles over Draco's knuckles so as not to startle him. His voice, however, was light.
"Eight years. Has it really been that long?"
"Since I opened our Mayfair office, yes." His gaze struggled between suspicion and reproach. "Why? Does it seem longer to you?"
Harry shook his head. "I was just thinking this reunion is a little like our ten-year anniversary."
"I suppose one might think that, yes. If one were given to that kind of sentimentality."
Ten years. Long enough to know that the more precise Draco's words, the more he was dying to say. It was always the first fissure in his lover's façade, one that Harry alone recognised.
"And I didn't really think Hogwarts would be appropriate for the way I might want to celebrate." Harry's hand slid up to Draco's wrist, his middle finger stretching to encircle it while his thumb pressed the pulse point. He might have imagined the next heartbeat was stronger; Draco's cool tone certainly didn't betray him.
"It seems you've thought this through."
"I have indeed. In fact, I've done more than think. I've made reservations at the Spiderwort Spa in Inverness. They're on the Floo Network so we can get to Hogwarts without any trouble."
"The Spiderwort Spa…"
"And I booked extra days on both sides so you can get treatments before and recuperate after. Penelope's already cleared your calendar."
Draco was rarely speechless and almost never surprised. Harry took advantage of the momentary imbalance to tug him over, and his lover tumbled willingly. His long leg draped over Harry's, separated only by a thin sheet, and a smile crept over his face despite the still-stunned look in his eyes.
"You arranged all this without telling me?"
Harry kissed him lightly. "If I told you it would have ruined the surprise."
"I take it back, Harry. You would be perfectly safe in Slytherin."
"Hey, now. I could always cancel the reserve–"
Smiling lips captured his, the words lapped from his mouth by Draco's clever tongue. Harry yielded willingly; it was a dirty trick that Draco employed whenever he might lose an advantage, but Harry could never resist the man's kisses. The merest touch of those warm lips melted his backbone, the thorough exploration of Draco's tongue along the ridge of his teeth turned his insides to jelly. "Lips perfect for kissing," Harry thought dreamily as their tongues tangled together, and remembered his surprise when Draco confessed that he rarely kissed. Years ago now, but still those few men who'd touched Draco's lips were hated with a passion Harry usually reserved for aubergines and Dark Lords. He'd spent the ten years since exorcising their ghosts, revelling in what a quick study Malfoy's mouth turned out to be.
"Another ten years," Draco purred as if reading Harry's thoughts. Sometimes Harry was sure he could. His mouth roamed down Harry's throat and then back up the curve of his neck, all lush kisses and clever tongue until Harry was ready to babble helplessly for Draco to fuck him. Soon Draco was laving the ridge of Harry's ear, knowing well the effect that had on him.
And then he ruined it all by whispering, "Do you think Ianto Jones will bring his American friend this time?"
Harry tensed, his mind rushing to straight to "damn you, Draco." Of course he knew what had happened that night at Hogsmeade, had thought it quite funny, actually. But that was in the past, or at least he'd believed it was. He fought to control his voice, trying hard to make the words less accusatory, less resentful. "Why, do you want him to?"
"And you say I'm the jealous one."
Draco laughed, a warm puff of air across Harry's ear that tickled, although Harry's mind insisted it was simply bristling at Draco's flippant tone. "You hexed Ginny over a new year's kiss."
"That wasn't a kiss, that was a porn movie in the offing. Woman can't hold her drink. But you've got no worries over the Muggle. He's not the one I live with, is he?" The way Draco was nibbling on the skin behind Harry's ear was thoroughly distracting; Harry thought he should answer the question but his lover didn't wait for him. "He's not the one who books us for a spa break—where they'd better have the best privacy spells money can buy, for what I'm imagining doing to you." His lips still teasing Harry's ear, he tugged Harry's hand down between his legs, pressing their fingers together on Draco's hardened flesh. "He's not the one who can still do this to me, every single time."
Ten years Harry had been with this man, ten years in which obsession had transformed into something solid and real, as beautiful as it was terrifying. Over those ten years he'd gotten to know this body as well as his own, yet every time he touched his lover, Harry felt the same surge of lust that he had on that first summer night, when Draco gave life to his oldest fantasy.
Harry turned his head, capturing Draco's mouth in another kiss without ever releasing his grip between Draco's legs. "I want to fuck you," he murmured into those warm lips, deepening their kiss as the body in his arms shuddered. His other hand slipped inside the silken dressing gown, peeled it away; his palm skimmed along skin nearly as soft and twice as interesting. "Need to be inside you." He kissed the words across Draco's jaw, pressed them down his throat, seared them into the smattering of pale hairs on his chest.
"Yes," hissed Draco, again and again until the sibilance mimicked serpent-speech. Like the creature he coiled himself gracefully, curving his back as his legs lifted. With his knees folded to his chest, Draco presented himself to his lover, vulnerable and with not a hint of shame. He reached for Harry with complete trust even as his hips rolled higher, offering the most irresistible seduction.
Reverently, Harry's hands wandered over this prize. "Mine," he thought possessively as his hands worshipped Draco's body, tracing the ridge of his spine and the muscles of his thighs. With wonder he brushed his fingers across the golden hair that dusted his legs and thickened into darker, damp curls. Full of awe, he cradled Draco's pale buttocks in his palms, gently splitting the halves like segments of an orange to make room for Harry's tongue press inside, to invade, to ravish.
Indulging wholly in this intoxicating flesh, in this intimate act that was his alone, Harry only noticed Draco's moans after they'd reached an almost desperate pitch. He glanced up to see Draco's erection bobbing helplessly, Draco's pained snarl in the background. "Fuck me, Harry, or I swear I'll…" The threat was never finished; Draco's voice faded when Harry's crown pressed against his sensitive rim, and by the time he'd breached the ring of relaxed muscle it had transmuted into a breathless groan of pleasure.
Entering Draco was like coming home to the most decadent brothel imaginable. His body was at once familiar and so powerfully arousing, his magic meshing and mingling with Harry's own. Harry slid inside in one slick push, holding his breath until he was buried to the hilt, waiting as Draco's channel stretched and squeezed around him, warring ripples intent on both expelling and embracing him. Even before this pulsing rhythm stilled, strong legs knotted around Harry's back, dragging him even deeper. "Harder," Draco demanded, growling again "harder" despite his unhooked ankles fluttering like wild swans around Harry's ears. Harry captured the flying limbs and shifted them to his shoulders, shins fast in his grip as he stared down with devotion at Draco. His lover's hand swept lightning-quick along his length, pumping himself with such ferocity that Harry redoubled his efforts.
The signs of Draco's imminent climax mounted, clues couched in his guttural not-words and the force of his hips braced against Harry's thrusts. His face flushed violently red, his eyelashes fluttering flecks of silver against his scarlet cheeks. The picture of angelic debauchery, his rococo flush enough to send Harry spiralling into ecstasy had he not fought to forestall it. He watched for that last telltale evidence: the short gasp that left those kissable lips forming a perfect 'O', the sliver of his quick pink tongue quivering to stillness. With that, Harry's hips swung back, withdrawing until only his crown was still tucked inside Draco's opening, and then thrust forward harder than before. Amidst the exquisitely long glide of re-entry he felt Draco's hard shudder, inside as well as out, the vicious rattle strangling Harry's cock with the power of thousands of tiny nooses. Each throb pulled him deeper into Draco, wound their magical energies tighter together until their bodies fused, inseparable and perfect.
When Harry climaxed, just a second later, he could have sworn that it was his seed that lay glistening on Draco's sternum.
More kisses followed, and more touches, slow, sated ones content to while away the morning. Harry tucked his shoulders under Draco's arm and settled his cheek comfortably into the crook of his neck. Here his vision was filtered through fine silver hair, the air he breathed scented with his lover's sandalwood shampoo.
"I need to thank him," Draco finally said, and Harry didn't have to ask who he was talking about. "He made me think of how it'd be if you'd slipped away again."
Harry wanted to protest that that couldn't have happened, but he knew too well it could. With all the possibilities and all the choices in the world, sometimes he thought it was a miracle they'd found each other. "Then I hope he'll come to the reunion. I want to thank him too," Harry said, sleepily tangling his legs around his lover's.
And this time, he would definitely ask Draco for a dance.
Myfanwy's squawk echoed through the Hub's main tower, calling Jack from his monitor. It was a welcome distraction from the chore of staff performance reviews. He'd fully supported rebuilding Torchwood London, there was certainly enough alien activity to warrant it, but he'd never expected the reformed bureaucracy to demand quite so much paperwork. As he was almost sideswiped by a wayward wing, he wondered if they wanted a review of the pterodactyl too. "Enthusiastic if rather indiscriminate in defence of Torchwood … could display more consideration for teammates …"
A flurry of grey caught his eye, feathered wings more appropriate for this time if not this place. "How did a hawk get inside the Hub?" Jack suspected its visit would be short-lived in any case. Myfanwy was closing in fast on the invader-cum-dinner, indignant screeches pouring from her ancient beak. But with only seconds from those tooth-filled jaws, the hawk pulled itself back so suddenly that it seemed to freeze in the air, rising just enough that its hunter slid past with inches to spare. It was a manoeuvre worthy of the best flying ace in the fiercest dogfight, and while Myfanwy wailed in frustration, Jack applauded the escape.
On hearing the noise, the now-circling hawk—no, it was an owl, Jack realised—flew the short distance to him. Myfanwy swung past languidly, her threat revived with the breeze off her membraned wings.
"Hello," said Jack, trying to remember what Ianto had said about owls in his world. He was pretty sure that protecting them from prehistoric reptiles was Rule No. 1.
The owl ruffled its feathers in reply. Balancing on one foot on an extruding pipe, it lifted its other to Jack. He hastily retrieved the envelope tied to its talons, smirking at the address in old-fashioned calligraphy:
"They couldn't just use Royal Mail?" he muttered. The owl chirped its disapproval. "No, we wouldn't want you out of a job. Or ending up as a between-meals snack. Hang on." Jack crossed to a nearby wall panel (one of several that Ianto had installed after yet another near-fatal emergency blocked them from the Hub's primary controls) and keyed in an unscheduled feeding for the pterodactyl. As soon as Myfanwy dove towards her trough, he nodded to the owl. "You've got a good ten minutes before she's done. Think you can find your own way out?" Jack would have felt foolish, chatting with a bird like this, had not the owl winked conspiratorially before taking to the air.
Jack went in the other direction, down the steps and into the bowels of the Hub, Ianto's letter still in his hand. He knew where he'd find the man, where he himself would have been if he hadn't buried himself in paperwork. Past the Archives, down concrete corridors damp and tinged too brightly green for anything natural this far below ground, to the part of the Hub where no one ever ventured. Save Ianto. He did know more about this place than anyone and proved it when he shared his most secret hiding place with Jack.
Today being Sunday, with the rest of the team resting, Ianto had no need for hiding. The door to "the Tub" was wide open, freeing the rich harmonies of the National Chorus—Ianto loved relaxing to their recordings—to waft down the hall. Jack stepped into the room, inhaling deep the humid air warmed by the hot spring Ianto had discovered. Or that he claimed to have discovered; Jack knew Taff's Well never reached temperatures like this, never invited you to soak in its bone-melting heat until all your cares melted away. And since that day, nearly five years ago now, that Ianto brought Jack to his family's waterfall home at Pistyll Rhaeadr, Jack had suspected that his lover could make water do things that Jack couldn't even imagine. If Ianto had used it magic create this oasis in the midst of steel and concrete, then who could blame him?
Ianto was adrift in that oasis now, tiny ripples of water lapping around his chin, his eyes closed. Jack wondered how long he'd been here. A good while, by the looks of things; his hair was nearly dry, but pushed awkwardly back, unstyled and haggardly endearing. And his skin, Jack knew, would be unblemished. Anyone else would have emerged like a withered prune, but Ianto never did. "Half Selkie," he'd jokingly explained, but Jack wondered if there wasn't some truth to it.
He slipped his shoes off, then undressed, before turning down the music a notch. Ianto opened his eyes then, and smiled lazily as Jack slipped into the water and settled on the submerged ledge on the other side of the pool.
"I thought you were working."
"I was until your post arrived. Special delivery."
Ianto eyebrow rose, which sent a fat droplet of sweat trickling down his cheek to disappear into the pool. "On Sunday?"
"Apparently owls aren't unionised."
Jack watched gears grind behind Ianto's frown, and then saw a grin erupt. His lover's face grew larger, his smile spreading as he floated closer. "I think I know what it's about."
He didn't explain, though, just straddled Jack's knees, hooking a leg on either side. It was an odd weight, buoyant and lighter than he'd expected but so very solid, graphite mistaken for steel.
"So were you planning to share?"
Ianto's eyes sparkled the brightest blue, the same glittering hues that glinted off the sea at New Quay on those remarkably sunny days. "Do you remember my class reunion?"
The smile bloomed over Jack's face. Of course he remembered it, the day he'd learned the secret of Ianto Jones. Their relationship had taken form that day, both falling into something deeper than they had expected and more challenging than they'd ever dreamed. Through the years they'd continued shaping this rare union, combining their different ways into something that was unique, something that worked for a Welsh wizard and a time traveller from Boeshane. Ten years it must have been, ten years … "Your reunion," Jack said, catching on at last. "So the letter, that means it must be time for another one."
In lieu of an answer Ianto lifted a hand to Jack's face. Clear water flowed like a beaded curtain down his arm, streams splashing loudly back into the pool. Sure enough, his skin was unwrinkled; plump, rosy flesh stroked his cheek, unbelievably warm. Beneath the water Ianto's other hand moved, a simple paddling motions, save for the currents that caressed Jack's bare skin. The ripples swirled like wet tongues, like waving flags, creating all kinds of interesting sensations that seemed to centre between Jack's legs.
Jack shifted forward on the ledge, sliding Ianto closer. With both hands he reached up, cradling Ianto's face and dragging him forward. Their lips joined, tongues sliding together, wiping all the questions from Jack's mind. And wasn't that always the way. Jack had never asked for fidelity and never promised it; Ianto had adopted 51st century ways eagerly and they'd both had satisfying relationships outside Torchwood. But this, this was always what Jack came home to. When his mind was functioning he thanked his lucky stars that wizards led long lives.
At moments like this, when it wasn't, he simply thanked his lucky stars for the amazing things that Ianto's submerged hands were doing. The tiny ripples breaking the surface only hinted at the force of what was happening below. Ianto's touch sluiced circles across Jack's chest, forming tiny wakes that tickled like phantom fingers. The sensations intensified as they moved lower, the pressure of solid flesh not even necessary to swell Jack to full hardness, not when his erection was the epicentre of this whirlpool. Magic, it must be; nothing else could feel like this.
Jack slipped his hands down Ianto's shoulders, down his arms, his chest, tracing broad muscles hewn in over a decade's service to Torchwood. Under the water his fingers curled loosely around Ianto's girth, his lover's flesh sliding in his palm smooth and hard as river stones. Jack gazed down at the refracted images of their hands, blurry and pale like silverfish, like the world's tiniest beluga whales. Jack couldn't hope to imitate Ianto's magic, but the choked hitch in his lover's breath confirmed he didn't need to. As Jack's strokes grew faster, strong enough to churn the surface of the bath, Ianto's head fell back helplessly. Exquisite sounds of pleasure babbled from his lips, urging Jack on.
Their climaxes were pulled forward with the force of the strongest ocean currents. Jack's started with a sucking feeling down in his toes but spread through him like a flash flood. Too powerful to resist, it swept him along as if he was a mere fragment of driftwood buffeted on the waves, sensation washing over him faster and faster until at last he came with a bellowing cry. Ianto followed, falling forward onto Jack's chest with the usual bonelessness that trailed his orgasms, entangling Jack's mouth in another long kiss.
They held each other until their hearts had stopped racing, then a little longer. Finally Ianto shifted to the side, settling next to Jack on the submerged ledge, their legs extended into the pool. Their feet collided together in the warm water and Jack wondered how long it would be before his skin curdled. Not that it mattered; he felt so listless he couldn't have moved if he tried.
"So this reunion," he finally said, "do you think your attractive blond friend will be there?"
Ianto rolled his eyes. "Probably. But don't get your hopes up. From what I hear, he and Harry are inseparable."
As if astonished by that thought, Ianto shook his head, but Jack just smiled. Over the years he'd heard of the rocky history between Malfoy and Potter, and Ianto had always expressed surprise that they had ended up together, but Jack had never doubted it. He'd seen those looks that passed between them, and he'd known what they really meant. "Who, me? You know I'd never dream of disrupting a happy home."
A sideways glance from Ianto reminded Jack of what else he'd said. "So does that mean you're bringing me as your date?"
"I might," Ianto admitted with a cryptic smile. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, making the pool's concrete rim look surprisingly comfortable. "I suppose I'll need to consider my options."
Jack leaned back too, mirroring Ianto's restful pose but adding a smug smile that was all his own. Ianto would invite him to the reunion, he was sure of it. And if he didn't? Then Jack knew exactly where he could find him.
*****
*****
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