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Neville would never say it out loud (he likes having his genitals intact, thank you very much), but Draco looks adorable.
He's always been attractive, but now he knows it. Gone are the years of any schoolyard insecurity—which even someone as arrogant as Draco must've suffered—and what's left is his horrible beauty, beckoning like a piece of art you can't stop looking at. People stare as he passes them. They double-take and turn to get another glance. They forget how ugly his mouth can be because his face draws them in like a siren.
And Neville is no different.
It's not his fault that Draco is so naturally small, or that the Auror uniform hugs his wide hips. He can't help noticing from how plush his arse is in the trousers, especially when he crouches down, or how good he looks in red (note to self: do not imagine him in old Gryffindor uniform). It's really not his fault that he wants to bend Draco over and see how big his tiny body makes his cock look.
The reason that it's absolutely not his fault is Draco knows all this, each one of his filthy thoughts, and does it all on purpose. They've spent months dancing around sexual tension and feelings they're too scared to address.
Even now, Draco is lounging in his chair, legs spread scandalously wide for a workplace scenario (even if it is just their office), draped like a prince sitting on his father's throne. His petite, feminine face doesn't help make him look any older or wiser, despite the bored sneer he wears. He can squint his eyes all he wants, but Neville sees them in all their doe-eyed glory every time he smiles.
"You realise it's because they think we're shit, right?" Draco says. "That's why they've shoved us in this puny broom cupboard and won't give us any cases."
It's not, but Neville knows better than to get into an argument with him. He gives a non-committal shrug and tries very hard to keep his eyes from trailing up Draco's thighs. It's completely unnecessary to wear the uniform straps when not in the field, and yet there he is, the leather laced around his legs and waist like something out of a BDSM fashion catalogue.
"I'm bored," he whines like a child. "Potter gets to play fisticuffs with smugglers and we get stuck with the paperwork. I mean, even Weasley's allowed off his leash, Merlin help us."
"We get cases sometimes."
"Well, that doesn't bloody help me now, does it?" He stands suddenly, with all the unnecessary force he puts into most actions, and approaches his desk. Neville gets the distinct impression of a fox stalking its prey.
"If you're going to yell at someone, make it Maxwell down the hall. I get enough of that from Gran."
Some things never change, even after you destroy a Horcrux.
"I've thought of a much better use of my time than berating plebeians."
And with that, Draco slinks between him and his desk and settles on Neville's lap as if he owns it. His knees slot between the sides of the chair and Neville's thighs, framing him, trapping him, and encircling him with his body. He rests his hands on his shoulders and leans in dangerously close.
He's pretty. Delicate like a girl with his thin-boned wrists and long lashes. Neville wants nothing more than to grasp him by the hips and shove his cock inside him. He wants to know if he cries like a girl, too.
"I'm not a plebeian then?" He's relieved by how normal he sounds, not breathless like he feels.
Draco tilts his head. "Not quite, no."
He rocks forward temptingly, his crotch rubbing against Neville's as it surges to life, taunting him to snap, to grab him and grind them together properly. Their mouths almost touch, but he keeps out of Neville's reach. More toying, more games.
"You're taking this surprisingly well," Draco says. He tilts his head, catlike. "I suppose I still expect that jumpy first year to re-emerge."
"I don't know what he would think of this," he says, nodding between them.
He hasn't been that boy for a long time. There are remnants of him—he's still soft-spoken, and he'd rather be in a greenhouse than a duel, but he's learnt how to stand up for himself, how to hide his nervousness. How to take what he wants.
Draco, tired of Neville's inaction, takes his hands and places them on his arse, giving him a smug smile. He doesn't let go until Neville squeezes the flesh. It's plush even in the tight trousers he wears, the thickest part of his neat little body, and it makes him long to see it undressed.
"I can't imagine he'd have any complaints," he says with a smooth roll of his hips.
Neville (mournfully) releases Draco's arse. He wants this, of course he does, and he's been lusting after Draco for longer than he'd admit, but he can't bear the thought of it being a filthy one-off. Instead, he cups his dainty face, admiring the point of his nose and the upturned corners of his pink mouth. He encourages him closer and joins their lips, knowing if he leaves it to Draco, he'll tease him all day. Draco sighs when they meet, softening in his arms, curving his hands around the back of his neck and playing with the uneven strands of hair that lie there. He much prefers this sweetness—he's not Harry; he fights when he has to, not for fun.
He moves slowly. Draco tries to rush him, moving roughly and nipping at his lips, digging his fingertips into his shoulder. He writhes like an animal caught in a trap, arching his bulge forward. Neville refuses to cave. He hardens his grip on his jaw, tilting his head back, and Draco melts.
"I won't do this if you're going to act like you hate me."
Draco grunts, too cowed to snarl back, but too proud to apologise. He shivers when Neville's breath hits his throat. When he's released, he looks at Neville with blown pupils like he's seeing him for the first time.
"I don't hate you," he whispers, and it feels heavy with all the unsaid words.
"I don't hate you either." Neville kisses his petal-soft lips and this time Draco opens for him like an early morning blossom. "You're witty and smart. I like that you check if I'm following you, I like that I know what you're thinking without you saying a word, I like how you eat your sandwiches in tiny bites. Even when it means lunch takes us twenty minutes longer than it should. You make me excited to come to work because I get to see you."
Maybe he's said too much. Maybe he's bared too much of his soul and risked his ego along with their friendship. But, after the war, he knows the briefness of life and he's so tired of holding back, of being scared.
"I," Draco says, his mouth working around words he can't seem to voice. "It's not that I don't feel the same—"
"But you're not ready to say it. It's okay."
"You're sure?"
Neville nods. He doesn't need Draco to speak to know it’s true; it's loud and clear through the touches and glances Draco gives him. On Tuesday, Neville found hot tea waiting on his desk, alongside a packet of shortbread biscuits. Milky with one sugar, just how he likes it. If that isn't love, he doesn't know what is.
Draco smiles and then smirks. Mischievous is the only way Neville can describe it. "I can still show it, though."
His deft fingers dig under his robes and undo the laces of his trousers. The first touch of Draco's hand on his cock has him gasping. His skin is soft from a coddled upbringing—Neville can imagine him lounging on ostentatious chairs while being waited on hand and foot—but he's incredibly grateful for it now. The smoothness feels blissful. He wraps his thin hand around Neville's prick and it really does dwarf it, just as he'd hoped, making Neville look even bigger. If this is just his hand, how small and tight would his hole be?
Draco tucks his face sweetly into the crook of his neck, while his hand starts up a steady rhythm. He makes kitten-ish noises whenever Neville twitches against him or leaks pre-cum over his pale fingers. Neville holds him, sneaking under Draco's shirt to brush over his back, stomach, chest, anything he can get his hands on. Even though Neville wants him closer, always, with a kind of fervency he doesn't fear, he keeps his movements slow and savouring. Draco responds in kind, like it's a dance he's learning the steps for.
He hums approvingly when Draco focuses on the head; even that simple praise is enough to have him trembling.
"You're so pretty."
"Handsome," Draco corrects, though his voice is quiet.
"Mm," he says vaguely.
He cups his sleek waist and admires how defined the curve is as it blends into his hips. The same with the swell of his arse and the feminine arch of his back. He'll take Draco out for coffee, then take him home and spread him bare along his bed. The thought doesn't frighten him like it would've just a few years ago.
The clock above them rings six chiming bells as Draco strokes him to completion, the sound dimmed by the buzzing in his ears. He doesn't let go until come has stopped drooling from the tip and Neville fidgets in over-sensitised discomfort. His hand is a whitened mess of spunk that he can't stop looking at. Neville's come on Draco Malfoy. It's almost comically impossible.
Draco digs his sharp nose into his cheek as he kisses it and then pulls away with a displeased noise.
"I wish you'd shave this monstrosity," he says, eyeing his stubble with scorn.
"Can you even grow facial hair?"
The glare tells him he struck a chord. He wonders about Draco's body and if it shares the same nakedness, and the yearning to find out starts back up in earnest.
"Would you like to go for coffee?"