"One," Draco sighs, leaning into Harry's touch.
"At least three," Harry murmurs against his bare shoulder.
"They won't even want me there for three hours."
Harry's hand doesn't stop its smooth, meandering of Draco's chest and stomach. "Yes they will. They invited you."
"They invited you." He looks away from Harry's darker hand against his pale skin, whose fingers are dancing over the over the button of his jeans. Well, they aren't his jeans (Draco finds denim way to constricting to ever actually purchase for his own), but these are Harry's and are butter soft from years of abuse.
"And they knew that I'd bring you." Harry presses closer and Draco's own hand slips from the thick, black hair and slides easily down the silky soft skin of the valley between his shoulder blades.
If anyone would have told Draco two years ago that one fine Spring Sunday morning would find him laid out on a couch, in nothing but jeans, with an equally bare Harry Potter discussing his attendance at a Weasley wedding he would have owled St. Mungo's and kindly informed them that they'd lost track of a Thickney resident.
But as Harry's demin clad leg slides between his own and their bare feet tangle, Draco's heart gives an extra beat of pleasure.
"They couldn't be certain," Draco says just to hear Harry's response.
"Of course they were," and Draco still gets a small rush at these causal words of acceptance, the certainty of his role in Harry's life, his place at his side. "Besides," Harry's fingers finally decide that they want Draco's button out of the way and make lazy but efficient work of making it happen. "You owe me one for that Ministry Gala your mum was so gracious enough to host-"
"That is hardly an 'owe you one' situation," Draco says through a slight shiver as Harry's fingers dip teasingly below his waistline. "It was a fabulous event, and you got to rub elbows with the Ministry's finest-"
"And Narcissa nearly murdered me for upsetting that house elf-"
"I told you Nessy was temperamental-"
"I refused a glass of champagne." The tips of his fingers brush the top of a quickly stiffening part of Draco's anatomy as he threads them through and across short, coarse blond hairs, and Draco's hips shift accordingly.
"Very temperamental," he breathes and his hands are back in Harry's hair when cool, dry lips make their way across his collarbone and exposed neck. Fresh, sweet smelling air floats through the open window to play across both their skins, causing the curtains to flutter, and it occurs to Draco that this is a perfect moment.
"Four hours," Harry whispers, and sucks at that spot under Draco's ear.
"I thought you said three," but his words end in a breathy manner when teeth nibble at his lobe, and Harry's hand moves further down.
"Changed my mind." He presses his palm flat against Draco and he closes his eyes. When he doesn't answer right away, Harry whispers in a way that makes Draco body burn, "please," while wrapping his fingers around Draco and stroking.
"Yes." The word spills from Draco's lips automatically and Harry has risen himself up on one elbow to lean down and kiss him. Harry's tongue is curling around his own when he realizes what exactly has just happened and he forces himself to lean back. "I mean-" Harry tightens his grip and Draco feels his eyes roll back slightly and his hips pump up into Harry's hand.
"Too late," Harry says and smiles mischievously against his mouth. Draco wraps an arm around Harry's shoulders and presses a palm to Harry's nape and wonders errantly what one wears to a Weasley wedding.