Soil

by FieryMoment

They say his eyes are a light grey, like the wisps of clouds before the storm. To him they’re darker than any hurricane, like lighting and thunder and pain. He knows the other boy has built himself to never collapse. He wishes he was too. Character Death.

For everything there is a season,
And a time for every matter under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to throw away;
A time to tear, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate,
A time for war, and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

People claim that his eyes are a light grey, like the wisps of clouds before the storm. To him they're darker than any hurricane, like lighting and thunder and pain. They're not clear, but glazed over in a murky mask that shelter's him from everything around. They're not weak.

He envies that.

When he sees the other boy's eyes he thinks of strength, of indestructible metal – rigid and resilient. He knows that the other boy had built himself to never collapse. He wishes he was too.

He's seen those eyes darken, with fury, with exhaustion, with an endless despair that he knows will never truly leave him. He wishes he could lead them to the light, and release the soul that must exist but has since been imprisoned into the depths of nothing.

Because he knows that he's good at breaking people.

He's especially good at getting them killed.

They were doing it again, although one could question if they ever truly stopped. They sit there, not saying a word, sitting in the piercing silence and staring into space.

Around them the world continues to turn as they sit in the stillness, neither of them attempting to stop it. Others come and go, making little impact - it's always about each other. They think it always will be, no matter how hard they've tries to stop it. They have fought brutally for forever and a day, never ending battles that can never be won.

It feels like home.

They know how sad that is.

It's all meaningless, hollow and insignificant. They move in circles without really moving, always ending up in the same place and yet on opposite sides of the spectrum. He knows it's a waste of time, of life, of tears.

And he knows it will never stop.

He knows he should feel like a hero. After all, not only had killed the notorious Voldermort, but a dangerous Death Eater as well.

But he doesn't.

When he had injected the boy with the poison he had only inserted half the contents contained within the syringe.

He had made sure of that.

The irony of a death eater being killed by such a muggle object is not lost to him, and for moments, minutes, hours, all he can do is laugh as though it was some lingering joke between the two of them.

It's been nine months and he still feels his presence. He breathes in his scent and grabs his hips, kissing him like he knows it will be the last. Maybe it will.

He wraps his legs around the other boy (man now), holds onto his neck with a vice grip, not wanting to let go but knowing that he eventually must. Scorching breaths burn against his ear, rough hands bruise (grab, pinch, scratch until blood is drawn and they are covered in scars), skin burns against skin. He cries out, and for one moment he is happy.

Then he fades away.

It doesn't take long to realize that he's no longer mentally stable. He realizes that he isn't really there in front of him. He realizes that every time they kiss, every time they smile, every time they make love it's not real.

He regrets everything – hurting him, throwing him away, losing him.

But mostly he regrets not having a photograph of the stunning boy to remind him of the beauty that has long since been forgotten.

He kneels down to the stone at his feet, feeling the dirt caressing his fingers, sitting static for long moments, refusing to cry (he wouldn't have wanted that) as he placed a single white lily on the soil.

"Forgive me."

There was no reply.

It had been so long since he had been here. The dirt had turned a dark ebony, the grass beside it had rotted (decomposed, decayed, perished along with the body underneath) and stood limp, the stone appeared to slump as though the weight of sorrow and despair was enough to render it useless.

He knelt beside the grave, pulling out an object from his pocket, before simply staring at the dirt like he had months before.

"I love you."

He kissed the earth softly, feeling the smooth soil burn his lips before injecting the remaining poison into himself.

Happy anniversary, baby.

A brief candle; both ends burning
An endless mile; a bus wheel turning
A friend to share the lonesome times
A handshake and a sip of wine
So say it loud and let it ring
We are all a part of everything
The future, present and the past
Fly on proud bird
You're free at last.

Skynyrd