Draco liked to kiss things.
When Draco was young, he would press his lips against his favourite tree, or his newly bought wand, which he loved. He even kissed the wall. Sometimes. When Draco felt that it looked lonely.
When he got older, he still kissed things. Secretly. Because father didn’t like it. Because father said it made him weak. So he did it only when no one was looking, when no one but the house elves were home.
Draco blew kisses to the clouds and the butterflies and the star lit sky. He kissed roses and the tiger lilies that grew in the large gardens. Draco kissed almost everything but secretly and carefully.
When Draco met Harry, that first time at Madam Malkin’s he didn’t know who the scrawny boy with the big glasses was. He didn’t care. He just wanted to kiss him. He really did. But he didn’t, because he wasn’t alone it wasn’t safe or secret.
So when Harry rejected his hand that day on the train, it hurt. Draco was furious. But mostly he was hurt. So he threw a tantrum. A 6-year tantrum.
When he was done with his tantrum and the hexing and the name-calling, he still wanted to kiss Harry.
So he did.
He kissed Harry in the middle of the night, in the middle of a dimly lit corridor, in secret. He did it without warning and without warning as well Harry kissed him right back.
So now, Draco still likes to kiss things. But he doesn’t do it alone anymore, he does it in front of Harry, with Harry, to Harry.
Draco likes to kiss the air in front of Harry. His sleeve. His Collar. His nose. His ears. His neck. His fingers. His palm. His shoulders.
But most of all Draco liked to kiss Harry’s smile.
Because unlike most kisses, Harry’s smile tasted of lilies and the wind.
His smile tasted of sunlight dancing across a running stream.
His smile, tasted like morning sun on skin.
It was wonderful, brilliant.
And oh so kissable.
Skin on Skin.