Title: Where The Flames Turn Blue
Summary: "My love pounds in my head, like a bullet through a drum. Have you ever heard a beat louder, love?" Lily, Scorpius, and catching falling stars. / freeverse, for Kaia.
Prompts: HPFC gift-giving challenge - LilyiiScorpius
Recipient: Kaia (it's jusst me)
Notes: (okay, these are all going to be frantically out of order, but I managed to churn this one out on time, so I might as well post it, yeah?) Anyway, this is part of my GGE project, for the wonderfully talented Kaia. I hope you enjoy!
ix.
"Because God knows, we have smoked the stars, made wishes on falling ashes." - Andrea Gibson, Stay.
I don't think you quite understand
the concept
of wishing on stars,
because wishing on stars
is like wishing on nightingales or birthday cake candles;
it's like a child's dream and a child's hope
wrapped into a little celebration,
because stars fall
all the time,
but this one's special 'cause we're watching it.
Do you understand yet, Lily?
It's like four leaf clovers;
how many are there, in the world,
do you think?
Do you care?
'Course not, because you're still happy when you find one,
because it's yours, and you've never seen one
before,
have you, love?
It's like counting down the petals
and still believing it is fate
when they read,
"He loves you."
Life is full of 50/50 chances.
It doesn't mean destiny's flipped the coin.
Do you care yet?
.
I spent so long
carving my dignity into my hands
(because my mother said that ink can be washed)
and I scratched my destiny
into my wrists,
(because my mother told me that blood, eventually,
can run clear if you add enough water).
Father said,
ink stains and blood splatters are what make family trees.
Mother said,
don't listen to your Father,
Scorpius,
you are my son and my son only, do you understand me?
I decided not to listen to either of them.
What is blood, after all?
Certainly not family.
Certainly not love.
And does ink truly poison blood?
Do lines on the family tree, marriage lines that lead to black marks;
do they ruin our family?
No.
Ink represents family more than blood ever will.
Do you understand that, Lily?
You might be the only one.
.
My love pounds in my head,
like a bullet through a drum.
Have you ever heard a beat louder,
love?
It stops time
and runs too quickly
because we're in slow motion
going 70 miles an hour
on a motorway that won't end, not for us.
You were going to be Head Girl; do you remember?
Except you got to Kings Cross station,
bought a ticket,
and left
at 10:59 just as the doors closed.
You wished for the stars to save you,
and guess what, Lily?
They didn't.
So smoke your cigarettes
in bars that look the other way.
Do your drugs
in apartments of men who don't care either way.
Drink your heart out
in a little girl's princess bedroom
where you used to sleep,
once upon a time.
But don't you dare come to me
and cry;
because, Lily love, you cry ashes
and you cry sugar
and you cry booze.
You leave lipstick stains on my collar
and cigarette burns on my cheek.
So did you know,
I bought an ashtray,
just for you;
tell me, darling, was it worth it?
.
Sometimes you come to the family gatherings,
posh dos with black ties and pressed shirts,
and sometimes I get dragged along,
next to Al, and Rose,
and-
I go outside,
and wait where the flames turns blue.
You take another drag of yet another cigarette,
and I cry inside, for you,
because I cry blood splatters and ink stains,
and you cry sugar and ashes.
This is what we're made of, Lily.
I am liquid.
You are solid.
The funny thing is,
I always wonder if the stars are solid,
or if they're just an illusion the night sky tricks us into.
Are they really liquid,
like liquid nitrogen and tobacco,
exploding over and over
until they die out, dry up?
Mother tells me that stars are made of gases, not liquids, not solids,
and I should stop reaching for them anyway,
because you can't catch smoke.
Father tells me that you can always catch a falling star,
if you wait long enough.
.
I think I might even love you, Lily;
because this is love,
wondering what stars are made of
and still hoping to catch them;
making wishes on falling ashes.
I met you at Hogwarts, and no, it wasn't love at first sight,
and no,
I won't do anything for you, love,
and yes,
it began with a one-night stand,
and a two-night stand,
'til you started staying over in the mornings,
drinking coffee by the counter.
And yes,
it hurts me when you (pretend to) sleep with other guys, because
you are mine.
But sometimes I look at you and I think
you are imperfect,
and I think,
I couldn't care less.
Love isn't perfection, after all. Far from it.
We. Are. Love.
And no,
we're not controversial,
and we're not substandard,
and all those tabloids can go to fucking hell
if they care so much about where our love
sparked from.
Because that's the truth, isn't it?
Our love isn't pure.
It didn't come from angels' wings,
but angels' tears
as they still mourn for the brother who fell
(and is still falling).
Our love isn't a wish made on falling stars,
or even falling ashes,
because darling,
falling angels are so much rarer.
.
Thing is,
they told me I wasn't allowed to have you.
As if anyone could have you;
as if anyone could own
falling stars,
or wishes on nightingales and birthday cake candles.
As if someone could collect
every single four leaf clover in the world
and call themselves lucky.
After all,
if you collect every coin,
and fill every single jar,
then flip them all -
half are still going to be heads,
and the rest, tails.
That's just the rule, my love,
and loving you; loving you is boundless,
and rules?
What rules?
Rules imply that there's something to rule over, love.
Loving you is playing the drum,
looking though the barrel of a gun,
and wondering which beat is the loudest.