disclaimer: after all this time? still not mine.
dedicated to: drishti (skandar-loves-redvines), because she's flawless and i love her and happy holidays!
warnings: i don't ... ship ... rosescorpius? so i don't actually know what this is, sorry! also, first-person.
The fragrance of orange blossoms is almost overwhelming, but the lights of New York City tend to drown everything else out. I sit on the window sill of my hotel room as the sun sinks and the stars scatter and I paint the skyline of the city onto the palm of my hand.
(Once upon a time, I'd have you here with me, but childhood has come and gone and you're two rooms down and light years away. Isn't this how the mighty fall?)
A knock on the door and my name, murmured, a question – did you think I wouldn't let you in? We've only been dancing around each other for half a month and a million years, too afraid to bring up old ghosts and too busy running in circles. You can enter my room, you know – I miss being sixteen, too.
"Rose," you say again, louder this time, standing on the right side of the doorway and the right side of my life. Your eyes are almost blue in the light of my room, the same way your hair is more golden. Everything about you looks so different from the boy I remember standing in the garden of my house saying goodbye. The memory is white-hot – is this what heartbreak feels like?
"Can I help you?" I say instead of a greeting because we've never really worked with formalities, and you know I don't mean it. Half the things I say to you, I don't mean, and the other half mean too much. Equilibrium is essential when it comes to you and me.
You're silent for perhaps a beat too long, watching me as I slide my paintbrush aimlessly across my fingers. Dark blue for the night sky, the color of the dragon figurine you bought me five Christmases ago. Why does everything relate back to you? Do you even remember all of the memories embedded under my skin?
"Rose, I – " You pause. Breathe. My paintbrush slows. I wait. "You're still painting."
This is clearly not what you wanted to say when you entered, and I'm not going to hesitate to let you know that I know it. "Clearly," I drawl in a perfect imitation of the pureblood accent you used to mock just to make me laugh. It still makes you smile, here, today, so maybe I'm doing something right.
Your eyes start darting around. I'm not sure what for – it's a hotel room. It's not going to have personal touches. Part of me wants to whisk you back to Italy to see my penthouse, the life I'm living now. I love it, though maybe not as much as I love you.
"Are you – are you excited?" you ask me haltingly, as if we're fourteen and nervously flirting again, though I don't think you're flirting. Nothing we do is the same as it was once, after all. It won't ever be again.
"For my best friend's wedding?" I reply in a tone that implies you're stupid for even asking. You smile again, like you know a secret about me that even I'm unaware of. It's disconcerting, especially when I'm pretending to try to throw you off-balance, but I like your smile too much to tell you to stop.
"Al's really happy," you say, continuing in the same pointless vein. At this point, I have to roll my eyes because this is going nowhere, just like the other three conversations we have had in the past two years. Without bothering to dignify you with a response, I return to my hand.
I'm so caught up in dotting my fingers with painted stars that I don't even notice you sitting beside me on the window sill until you actually do. It's unlike me, I know, because I like to notice everything, especially about you. But you smile at me again and reach out and I give you the paintbrush without even really thinking about it.
"What are you drawing?" I ask, curious despite myself, and you pause, the brush poised over my unpainted hand.
"Whatever you want me to," you tell me, twirling the brush back around until you dip it in the cup of water I keep by my side.
"You're terrible at painting," I say simply, raising an eyebrow in challenge. You grin and don't bother refuting it as you dab the brush in the pool of black paint.
"Only in comparison to you," you say lightly, drawing a line in the center of my palm. "You were always the best out of all of us."
Five years ago, I might have blushed, and the sixteen-year-old girl in me, sweet and innocent and hopelessly in love, still wants to. Instead, I roll my eyes again and settle back in my seat, watching your painting carefully. It only takes me half a moment to realize you're writing instead of drawing.
"Can I guess the colors?" you ask me, bringing my attention back towards your face instead of your hand. I bite my lip and try not to remember the hours of amusement my synesthesia had brought for you back in school. Everyone always treated it like some fantastic new ability, even though I hadn't done anything to earn it, but you treated it like another part of me, the same as my humor or my art.
"Go ahead," I tell you, hiding the smile that threatens to appear. "Do you still remember them?"
"I think so," you say and bow your head, staring intently at my name written in black across the palm of my hand. "R is orange, but soft instead of bright, like the color of your favorite scarf."
I nod and look away from your eyes, choosing instead to test the wetness of my other hand. (Dry enough that I can run that hand through my hair without worrying about having to wash the paint out later.) I could busy myself in enough trivialities to mask you completely, but you know me too well. The paintbrush you hold, now tipped only with water, starts tracing designs on the unpainted parts of my hand.
"O is blue, like your father's eyes," you continue, looking up at me for confirmation.
I hesitate, then correct you. "Like your eyes, actually."
"My eyes aren't blue."
"They are in here."
The way you look at me reminds me painfully of the way we used to be, but I'm in way over my head now and I can't look away. The brush glides down my arm and I have to struggle not to catch my breath.
"S is mint green," you say after a silence that seems to fill the universe. "E is light pink."
"Good job," I remark nonchalantly as if that comes even remotely close to everything I want to say. "You should probably go to bed, though."
You drop the paintbrush in the cup of water, eyes fixed on mine even as you nod. "Probably," you agree, sliding away and standing up. It takes every bit of willpower I have not to ask you to stay with me tonight, and tomorrow, and forever.
"Big day tomorrow," you add, as pointlessly as ever. "I wonder why Al and Emily chose New York to get married."
I send you a look, reminiscent of the ones I used to give you in the days when we were best friends and knew each other inside and out. "They live here."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling and I wish you would stop because it's stupidly hard for me to resist you when you're smiling. "You know what I mean, Rose. They could have come back to Britain for the wedding."
I shrug, tilting my head to look out at the New York lights glittering outside my window. "It's a beautiful city to get married in."
"You think so?"
"Yeah, I do."
More silence – when I look back, you're still staring at me. The look in your eyes makes me think of you and me all over again, white dress, diamonds, happily ever after. Wishful thinking, or something equally inane. That's what I've always told myself, anyway.
"Good night, Rose."
The door closes with a click behind you before I can even remember to say it back.
a/n: well dri asked for a happy ending and this is pretty much the best i can do. i will say that i actually enjoyed this. please review if you read this far!
and DON'T favorite without reviewing, please and thank you!