Word Count: 100
Challenge: Written for hd100's prompt: Holiday + hp100 's Park.
Author's Notes: H/D
On an impromptu pseudo-beach fashioned out of conjured sand and desperate imagination Harry appreciates the concave of Draco’s clavicle, the jutting bones of his wrists. The short half-moons of Draco’s fingernails rake down his chest and Harry shudders, or laughs, or cries. His fingers play simple concertos on Harry’s stomach. Harry pulls his chest flush against Draco, or the other way around, and Draco talks about his father, the war, and what he’d like Harry to do with his teeth right now. Harry tells him not to worry, and Draco says I’m not worried, fool, or something similar.