Title: 3 Sheets and A Home-Made Quilt
Word Count: 1681 words
Summary: Draco/Harry. Add alcohol and annoyingly placed tattoos and you got yourself…neither a plot nor an actual point. Other than driving Draco mad and making my two favorite boys kiss.
A/N & Disclaimer: The marriage story at the beginning of this story is something that actually happened to someone I know. I'm a desperate fangirl that only wishes she owned Draco and Harry.

Draco was sloshed. Drunk, snockered, bombed, inebriated, smashed, intoxicated, soused, completely pissed. He couldn't even recall how to get home. The last time he'd drank this much had been the night before his wedding. When Daphne had found him in the morning in the same bed as Blaise, she'd been amused. Then she'd pulled the covers off them to find that they were naked, cuddling, and covered in various incriminating fluids. She hadn't been so amused any longer. In fact, she'd been downright livid. After she'd finished cussing out both him and Blaise, she'd gone to the papers and exposed him for the poof he was. She'd then set so many curse-mines in Malfoy Manor that he'd had to move out for several months while professional curse-breakers located and destroyed them all (and set wards against all Greengrasses). And, as if Daphne's wrath hadn't been enough for him to endure, he'd been fired from his position at Gringott's because of all the scandal.

Draco gave up trying to remember how to get to Malfoy Manor and began staggering aimlessly down the empty street, his thoughts drifting to the reason for his current condition. He'd finally found a new job at St. Mungo's as a researcher on the fourth floor (spell damage: unliftable jinxes, hexes, and incorrectly applied charms, etc.). It didn't pay very well and he mostly worked alone, but Draco didn't work because he needed money and working alone only meant fewer idiots to annoy him. After a couple of weeks Draco had started adjusting pretty well. He had a nice little routine worked out. He would get to work at 9 a.m. and say a quick hello to Pansy, who was now a mediwitch working on the third floor (potion and plant poisoning), and then grab a cup of coffee from the staff room before heading to his office. Then Draco would work until noon, when he'd take a lunch break with Pansy and her girlfriend, Hermione Granger (a Healer on the first floor: creature-induced injuries). Pansy provided lurid gossip and Granger provided intellectual conversation. As soon as he finished lunch, he'd head back up to his office, grabbing another cup of coffee on his way there. At 7 p.m. he would leave his office and either head home to a glass of brandy and a good book or go out to dinner with Pansy and Granger. It was a good routine, a solid routine, a ruined routine. All because stupid Potter had stopped sulking about his failed marriage to the Weaslette and had come back from America and taken a position as a Mediwizard on his floor and started eating lunch at his table with his Pansy and Granger! The nerve of some people!

At first Draco had tried to take it all in stride (mostly by ignoring Potter unless he absolutely couldn't). It was a good plan. And then Potter had started coming to dinner with them sometimes. In his tight shirts. And unbelievably sinful jeans. And artfully mussed shag-hair. And-and-IT JUST WASN'T FAIR! On these nights when Potter tagged along, Draco spent much of the night trying to forget he had a penis (it just wasn't practical when one was trying to sit comfortably at a table and have a coherent conversation), which mostly resulted in him being squirmy and blushing like a virgin. All of which of course made Pansy (who knew him about as well as he knew himself) immensely suspicious (Draco wasn't known to squirm or blush). When Pansy finally cottoned onto Draco's issues, she was absolutely insufferable. She wanted to know if he was planning on making a move ("On straight-as-an-arrow Potter? Puh-lease!"), if she should start trying to dig up more information about him ("What? Really? I mean, no. Of course not."), and if she could possibly tell Granger ("Only if you wish to die by sand paper!").

Tonight had been worse than usual with the Potter…ness. The brainless twit had worn even-lower-slung-than-usual-as-in-barely-hanging-onto-his-hips hip huggers and a white beater, which had exposed more than just an obscene amount of skin. Draco had caught sight of three tattoos! Three! A large tribal tattoo that seemed to stretch from Potter's upper left bicep and onto his back somewhere, a small snitch on his right hip, and something Draco couldn't quite make out on his neck. Every time Potter so much as breathed, at least one of the tattoos would catch Draco's eye. Draco had thought about complaining about public indecency (Really! Was it too much for him to wear a belt and a proper shirt?), but just slugged back another whiskey sour instead. By the end of the night Draco'd lost count of how many drinks he'd had, but at least his vision was too blurred to be able to see Potter's array of intriguing body art. He congratulated himself on a job well-done and declined any help home. He convinced them to all go home, he'd be just fine, and now here he was; staggering down an unknown road, three sheets to the wind, with no idea how he was supposed to get home.

"Stupid Potter," Draco mumbled to himself.

"Well that was just uncalled for. I wasn't even around to annoy you first," replied a suspiciously familiar voice.

"Balls," Draco muttered under his breath before he turned to tell Potter off, but unfortunately for him, his body chose that exact moment to protest vehemently to the alcohol, stress, and lack of sleep he'd inflicted on it. Draco's last thought, before everything went a welcoming shade of dark, was of the fourth tattoo he'd just spotted on Harry's other hip and how it looked bafflingly like a rainbow heart.


Upon waking, Draco prayed for mercy from the hang-over gods in the form of a long, pained moan. His desperate pleas went unanswered by gods in any form, but seconds later something much better answered: an expertly-made hang-over potion. Draco opened his eyes to praise his savior(ess?), but decided he'd be much better off if he just closed them again. Potter's light chuckle drifted into his ears and Draco made a mental note to buy earplugs.

"I've made brekkie and tea if you're interested," Potter said.

Eyes still closed, Draco sniffed the air. Toast, eggs, ham…cinnamon rolls. Quelling the temptation to lick his lips, Draco opened his eyes once more and looked up at a smiling, shirtless, and deliciously disheveled Potter. Suddenly a random thought hit him and his eyes zoomed to Potter's left hip. Sure enough, there was a small rainbow heart there. "Huh."

Potter followed Draco's gaze to where it rested. Smirking, Potter turned and sauntered off toward the kitchen, humming something that sounded suspiciously like "Private Dancer".

Draco shook his head and wished there was a cure for this. Some sort of potion or patch that would rid him of this ridiculous crush. Draco sat up and the blanket covering him finally caught his attention. It was very poorly made, but it was colourful and Draco was pretty sure it was a home-made quilt. A Potter-made quilt. The work was too shoddy for it to have been a Weasley or Granger. And Pansy sure-as-hell didn't do anything so domestic as making quilts. "Huh," Draco said for the second time that morning, before pushing the blanket into a heap at the end of the couch and following Potter into the kitchen.

Potter was sitting at the table when Draco entered. He was still humming "Private Dancer" between bites. Draco sat across from Potter and began eating. Silence reigned until Draco's curiosity got the better of him.

"Are you gay?" he blurted out and then had to resist hitting himself in the face. Real subtle, Draco, he chided himself.

Potter was grinning again. "Yeah. Not that I hadn't all but shouted it already, but yeah."

"Shouted it? What?"

"A couple weeks ago Pansy spilled the beans. Your beans, to be exact. After I stopped freaking out and realized I liked you too, I tried pretty much everything, short of dancing naked on your desk, to get your attention. I wore my sluttiest clothing, tried on thousands of colognes, and finally resorted to the "sex pants" (or so Hermione and Pansy have dubbed them). I was starting to doubt Pansy's sanity."

Draco nearly choked on his eggs when Harry said "sex pants". He gulped at his tea to give himself some time.

"She is sane isn't she?" Harry prodded looking, for the first time yet, as apprehensive as Draco felt.

"Well I can't be certain about that, but I do like you. Er, quite a bit actually. Uhm…." Draco looked everywhere but at Harry's face. Or incredibly muscled chest. Harry's enticingly beautiful chuckle threatened to send Draco into a frenzied panic, but the large, tan hand that snaked across the table to rest atop his small, pale one stopped it in its tracks and gave Draco the courage to continue. "Would you like to go on a date. Er, sometime. Not right now. I mean, unless you want this to count as the first date. Or something," Draco ended lamely, still not able to look at Harry's face, but more than a little interested in what looked like a snake wrapped around Harry's side.

Suddenly Draco found himself being pulled up and half-way across the table, his lips meeting Harry's half-way across. Draco desperately clawed at Harry's chest, getting increasingly light-headed. Harry's hands were buried in Draco's hair now and his fingers kept doing this little massage thing on his scalp and Draco was pretty sure that if this wasn't the most perfect thing in the world, it was pretty damn close.

When they pulled apart Draco blink several times before breathlessly saying, "Hey, I don't kiss on the first date." He didn't let go of Harry though.

Harry was chuckling. Again. "This is the first date. It's a pre-date."

Draco wrinkled his nose and started laughing as well and wondered Harry would mind if he copped a feel. Smirking wickedly, Draco went for it. Satisfied by Harry's yelp of surprise, Draco whispered, "What are your views on pre-date sex?"