Hecate's Rath Presents:
Sunspots, a Fred/Alicia drabble
Alicia is all sunshine and smiles and she leaves sunspots on Fred's vision because she's so bright. Vestiges of her smile and her sunshine twinkle like stars long after she has kissed him goodnight and it almost hurts to look at her, but Fred looks anyway, drinks her bright beauty and eternal sunshine and locks it away inside of him.
(He keeps it in a locked box inside of him in case he's away from her—he doesn't want to forget, he never wants to lose the sunspots.)
She's strangely fragile, too, in all her bright beauty. She's a bright porcelain doll, crafted of glass and dreams and so perfect Fred is scared to touch her. He doesn't want to smear her or break her or mar this beautiful porcelain doll he cradles in his hands.
He touches her anyway, even though it hurts a little bit to mar this bright perfection. And he doesn't just touch her, but he runs his hands through cornsilk hair that took hours to curl and ignores her laughing protests of "Fred, honestly, cut it out, this took me ages." He brushes the planes of her porcelain skin and leaves fingerprints behind that say, in his own Fred Weasley kind of way, mine.
Alicia is everything good and beautiful and bright in this world of broken glass and tarnished sunshine. It's darker; it's harder to live in, difficult to survive in a world that fights against everything you love. And Alicia's light grows dimmer as the days grow darker and Fred clings desperately to his angel of dreams and sunshine and bright beauty.
(Don't let me go.)
They whisper promises they aren't sure they can keep, but promises are all that hold them here, all that's worth living for right now. They whisper against each other's lips in the loft, quiet not to wake George who is snoozing peacefully next to them.
Fred whispers 'I love you' against Alicia's porcelain and she glows even brighter, leaving sunspots in Fred's vision. He drinks it in like it's the elixir of life. It's rushed and hasty and probably rash, but for all they know, their days are numbered and the time for caution has long faded away.
Fred has so much to say to her (I love you, love me, hold me, give me hope and light and love and I'll be yours, all yours) and he can't wait—"I love you" breaks the dam he's built so carefully, forged of caution and bitterness and in the dark silence of the loft, Fred whispers into cornsilk curls how much he loves his porcelain angel and Alicia cries quiet happy tears of glass and sunshine into Fred's chest.
Fred's resentment for Lord Voldemort goes beyond rationality—in the muted morning light that softens the windows, it is so clear to see all that this Lord has ripped away from them.
There is no time for wooing and charming and flirting and coyness. Time has been ripped away and fairytales followed soon after. There is no more falling in love—you jump or you're too late and then your world is all should haves and would have beens.
So Fred wraps Alicia's porcelain hand in his and counts to three and they jump—only to keep from falling.
Alicia leaves him with sunspots and even as he fades away into the warm white light, Fred is blinded by her sunshine. Without her, heaven is rainy and dreary, so Fred unlocks his box and basks in Alicia's sunshine smile.
He'll never look away; he'll never risk losing his sunspots.
Standard disclaimer applies.
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