she should really leave. - victoire/scorpius
prompts: rainbow, blame, gold
a/n: wrote this in ten minutes, so it's pretty rough. my personal headcanons are very strong, so the cursed child did not change them. therefore, this is not in compliant with the canon characterizations.
It's stupid, She notes to no one in particular. The whole world is a stupid, silly mess. Life too.
Her slim figure is sprawled under a thin pale sheet, hands clutching the fringes like it's a life boat. She feels him breathing next to her, and against her cool back, she can feel his heart beating through his fragile skin. Victoire can't see him, but she can picture his white hair messily tangled, melting into the sheets until even God can't differentiate between the pale sheets and paler hair. She's always loved the color of his hair.
She pictures the sheet haphazardly thrown over his toned body and smiles. She pictures everything, the wrinkle in his forehead, the dimple on his cheek, the curve of his throat, the thick lashes, everything, so she forgets the hammer pounding in her temple and the guilt and shame knotting in her stomach. After she leaves, she'll wipe this memory from her brain, scrubbing it away with newer men and newer drunken nights, and pray that he'll do the same.
She should really leave.
But she's glued to the sheets, the bed, the room, him. It reminds her of someone else. Someone with turquoise hair and ever-changing eyes. Someone who's liquid gold – loving, caring, warm – and not solid silver. Someone different.
The bed moans and shifts as Scorpius rolls over, and his warm breath tickles her back. Her temple throbs even more now, as if a thousand drills are hollowing out her head, and she bits back a groan. It's not as if she blames Scorpius for this sticky situation, because, really, she partially blames herself. But, back in the young night, she almost believed her hand was running through turquoise hair instead of silver and rainbow eyes stared at her soul instead of pale grey ones.
She shouldn't have used him, but it's Teddy's fault she even slept with Rose's fiancee to begin with. It's his rainbow eyes and stupid smile and quirky laugh and we've-known-each-other-for-ten-years-together mentality that she blames. It's all his damn fault for all of this. Not hers; never hers.
The bed dips and creaks another time as Scorpius rolls over again, and once his breath even out, she throws her legs over the side, plucks her clothes from off the floor, and runs toward the door, tugging on her dress and heels. They don't cover her as much as the guilt and shame.
Several apartment buildings over, a pair of rainbow eyes stare at the ceiling, a nameless girl slumbering next to his rigid frame, and wonders.
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