DISCLAIMER : i don't own the characters mentioned .
NOTE : i was unsure if such a short piece could be submitted here , i couldn't find a word limit anywhere , but i figured i would go for it anyway . i'm sure you'll find that it looks better in the smallest view you can see it in ; it makes it look more like a letter .
I ached.
It wasn't in the good way that my fingers tingled and itched, curling against a cotton leg of my trousers. It was in agony. Pure and unadulterated, in its simplest and arguably most painful form. I was awake and suffering, all from my afflicted fingertips.
The only thing I could think to trace my twitching digits back to was you. Your absence is a hex that has no cure, a poison with no antidote. The ache travels, and it usually makes its home deep in my chest, nestled like a pup to its mother up against my aging heart. At times, it will choose my worn feet, or wander into my pounding head, but tonight it had rested in the very tip of my ragged fingers.
They ached and I am painfully aware of what it was they ached for. They ached to feel the thick tresses of your hair, locks that were always far too long to look remotely respectable and always impossibly soft. They twitched in longing for the smooth dip of your shoulder, that stretch of skin at the very top of your delicate arm, pulled taught over curving muscles. They yearned to feel the loving touch of your puckering lips, the same pair that had always been so shockingly soft and delicate. They itched for the warmth of your chest, that rippling expanse of flesh that had never been as tough at it seemed, the very same silky skin that could barely suppress the pounding of your big, tender heart.
I was going to write about the holiday, that perhaps it was this particular night that made me think of you, but to admit to that would be to lie to you as well as myself. A night doesn't go by that I don't think of you; this night merely seemed worse. Worse could be construed as too harsh a word, for the twitching of longing fingers doesn't sound all that bad. It is a misery that I pray you never had to endure. It is a torture that can only be describe as self inflicted; I feel that to rip my hair out or claw at my own skin is the only way to be rid of the terrible feeling. There is only one who I could think to wish such an affliction on, and it is only because she was the one to cause its contraction in the first place.
I needed something to distract myself, to keep these cursed fingers of mine busy. That was when I grabbed this piece of parchment and this quill. Instead of laying in solitary and silent despair, I decided to compose this letter and do something productive with my time, a concept I know you and James had never understood. As I sit here with my aching fingers scrawling out my thoughts, I have come to a definite decision about you, my dearest friend.
Your curse is one I never wish to be taken from. I'd rather live out my life drowning in your loss than swimming calmly about shores you never touched. I'd rather reminisce about you're smiling mouth than never have touched it at all. I'd rather dream about the beloved heart stuck in your lifeless chest than ever sleep again.
Happy St. Valentine's Day, Padfoot. I will always be yours.