"You may tire of me, as our December sun is setting
Cause I'm not who I used to be."
They lay stretched out in the snow, hand in hand as the watery winter day turns into a cold stormy night. The sun disappears behind the frost bitten horizon and they no longer can see the traces of their puffy breath. They move closer, using each other as a warm blanket from the night air. They smell each other's hair, covered in snowflakes.
"You know, no two are the same," the black haired boy whispers.
"No longer easy on the eyes, these wrinkles masterfully disguise
The youthful boy bellow."
It has been years, yet he still remembers everything. He still remembers every beautiful moment of his brief love. But it never could have worked; he knew this. Still, the dark haired man wished he could have had more time. The brief romance had been enough to ruin him.
"We're no good for each other," he remembers the white blond boy whispering to him.
"I know," he would reply.
"Who turned your way and saw something he was not looking for:
Both a beginning and an end."
"It doesn't make sense," he says in a panic, shaking his shabby black hair back and forth as he tried to clear his head. "You… me… we… don't make any sense!"
"Who says we have to make sense?" retorts the other as he places his hands on the trembling boy's face. "But you feel it, don't you? You feel a… drawing to me, as I to you?"
"Yes."
"Then give into it."
"Yes."
But now he lives inside someone he does not recognize
When he catches his reflection on accident."
The blond man remembers too. He has lived his life trapped inside himself and his large home. He never forgot those days, and he never will. He hides and wishes for things to have been different. He wishes he'd made different choices; for his love to have made different choices. He casts a glance at the broken glass of the mirror in his bedroom and cringes.
That cannot be the way things happened.
"I live in but a dream within a dream," he whispers to himself, the lullaby soothing him to sleep.
"On the back of a motorbike
With your arms outstretched trying to take flight
Leaving everything behind."
"Whoa… where'd you get this?" the blond whispers, tracing the frame of the red motorcycle. The other laughed musically and took his hand to help him up onto the back of the giant bike.
"It is… was my godfather's," he replies, hesitating for a moment. The blond touches his dear one's cheek gently in condolences. The moment is fleeting, before they are racing down a country lane.
For a moment, they both forget that tomorrow they must act as if they hate each other once again. The blond, leaning against the black haired boy, stretches his arms far out into the air as they are suddenly soaring into the wide skies of England.
"But even at our swiftest speed we could not break from the concrete
In the city where we still reside."
"You can't run away from who you are!" the dark haired boy shouts angrily. The blond has tears in his eyes as the other grabs his wrists. He's shaken violently for a moment, before he's thrown to the ground, discarded.
"Neither can you," he curses from the floor.
"Well we have been, this whole time!" the boy with the scar cries. "You made me think that we could just run away from everything that has made up our lives. But we can't."
"Why not?"
"Because we can't ever change who we are."
"And I have learned that even landlocked lovers yearn
For the sea like navy men."
"Who's that?"
"My new boyfriend," the blond boy replies silkily. He has grown since the dark haired boy had last seen him. The boy who stood just out of earshot was even taller, stronger and handsome beyond the other boy's belief.
"Oh." The dark haired boy had came back to tell him he was sorry… to beg for his forgiveness. But his old love had moved on.
He is too hurt to see through the façade.
"Cause now we say goodnight from our own separate sides
Like brothers on a hotel bed."
"Good night, Harry," the blond whispers into the night from the third story window of the great manor. No one lives there now, just he. He and all his loneliness, trapped away inside. He could not show the world his face that had been scarred so terribly. Scarred from his own stupidity, his own rash actions.
"Good night, Draco," the dark haired boy whispers into the night from his apartment overlooking the busy rooftops of London. He had long since forgotten what it felt to touch him, but he remembers the narrow and pale face before the scars. Those scars that had been given by Draco's own father had never healed. But he'd still been beautiful to him.
"I love you," they whisper into the deathly silence.
"You may tire of me as our December sun is setting
Cause I'm not who I used to be."