title: still alive for you love
author: alex (maraudings)
rating: k+
word count: 1,508
disclaimer: harry potter and its characters belong to jk rowling. written for fun, not profit.
a/n: my first jily fic has been a long time coming. this has been sitting unfinished in a folder for almost two years, and although i got it to a place where it's done i'm still not 100% satisfied with it. still, here it is.
( if you're the type of marauders era reader who likes to know where a fic fits on the timeline, i was thinking post hogwarts and before they went into hiding, so around 1978-79 )
( also, if ao3 is more your style you can find this on that site as well. link on my profile. )
- still alive for you love -
Sometimes he wakes with the sensation of being crushed.
Suffocated.
Smothered.
He lies in the dark gasping for breath, trying his hardest not to wake her. She can't know he feels like this. He's supposed to be strong, supposed to be there for her. He's supposed to keep it together if only to reassure her that everything was and always will be alright.
She can't know he was failing. She can't know that it is not, and might not ever be alright.
-x-
It was his idea, after all. She had wanted to fight, sure—but he was the one who approached Dumbledore. He was the one who actively helped plan missions. He was the one who made speeches about good triumphing over evil, about light always overcoming the dark. The one who was so outwardly optimistic for their cause.
That had always been his way, though. He had to always be looking towards a solution, towards something better. He could not sit still, could not simply watch as others made the tough choices while chaos took hold around them. It was hard to resist the urge to help and the urge to reassure.
But he saw what it did to her, what it was doing to her. Her brave face was not quite as practiced as his was.
He knew it killed her to spend every day waiting for the latest upheaval just as much as it killed him. He knew it killed her that they seemed to be apart more than they were together just as much as it killed him. He knew it killed her each day that went by with no news of his well being just as much as it killed him not to send any.
He knew she was dealing with it just as poorly as he was.
-x-
Some days, he felt as if he'd give in, tuck his tail and run. Some days, he wakes and sees the sun peering through the trees on the edge of the property and wants nothing more than to run to catch it. Some days he sits in the armchair in the living room and does nothing but stare at the door, daring himself to get up and open it and take himself somewhere where the world was different, where the world was better.
But then he sees her.
He feels the trace of her fingers along his shoulders as she passes him in the kitchen. He turns his face away from the morning sun only to be ensnared in a river of her hair. He hears her humming softly as she dusts off the china cabinet in the kitchen.
And then the fighting makes sense again.
-x-
Sometimes he wakes with a feeling of grief so intense that he is already crying when he opens his eyes.
Agonized.
Anguished.
He lies in the dark gasping for breath, trying his hardest not to wake her. She can't know he feels like this. He's supposed to be strong, supposed to be there for her. She can't know he was failing.
She can't know that he keeps count. She can't know that they have almost lost one person for every year that they have been alive. She can't know that the number was pulling him under. She can't know that each time he looks at their friends he is wondering which one he'll never see again.
She can't know. He's supposed to be strong.
-x-
The first funeral was the hardest. It was the wake up call he never saw coming.
He never did realize how dangerous this all was. He knew every mission was risky, and he knew that any mistakes made had dire consequences, but the concept of his own mortality had been lost on him. He was so focused, so ready to do what was needed to rid the world of this evil. And good always triumphed over evil, in the end.
They were on the right side. Everything would be okay.
But as he discovered, that isn't how life works.
-x-
She puts more effort into hiding the full effects of loss than he does. But her brave face was not quite as practiced as his was.
She knows that he's here for her. He hopes she knows he's here for her. They do talk, sometimes, about the people they lose. They do grieve together, mourn together. They carry on as best as they can.
It's the stuff that's unsaid that worries him.
He catches her sniffling over the sink after she refuses help with the dishes. He watches as she stares at the same page of a book for hours. He gets glimpses of her when her guard is lowered, when he can see every ounce of sadness and mourning in her eyes and he knows that she is losing something in her he does think he can bare to see gone.
He reminds her that he's here as best as he can, ducking to hide his face in the crook of her shoulder and grasping idly at her fingers at every opportune moment. He thinks it helps.
He hopes it helps, anyway.
-x-
Sometimes he wakes and he's angry.
Livid.
Hateful.
He lies awake and seethes. He thinks of every person he's ever lost and every time he's ever almost given up and he is enraged.
It isn't fair. It isn't the slightest bit fair. He is young. She is young. They should not be fighting a war, they should not be looking over their shoulders every few minutes, they should not be burying their friends.
They shouldn't have to do any of this.
And she can't know about this anger that festers away inside of him. He's supposed to be strong, supposed to be there for her. She can't know he was failing.
She can't know that sometimes he wanted absolutely nothing more than to kill.
-x-
He breaks dishes.
He breaks chairs and tables and picture frames and door frames and anything else that makes him feel like something is coming from his rage.
They aren't supposed to act from anger, Dumbledore says. It makes you messy, makes you less rational. They have to keep a level head during missions. They have to think clearly if they want to be successful, if they want to survive.
But he does. He will admit that sometimes he's harsher than necessary when it comes to capturing death eaters. That sometimes he throws out curses he's not supposed to. That sometimes every atom in his body is driven by his anger.
And it's still not enough. It still never seems to end.
-x-
It eventually ends in tears.
It eventually ends with him sitting on the edge of their bed, slumped over, head in his hands, unable to stop the emotional buildup of his frustration.
And she'll be there.
Just like she fixes the dishes and the chairs and the tables and the picture frames she sits in the space next to him and guides him into her arms.
And he holds onto her like she is his only lifeline in a sea of what he can't fix or can't change and if he lets go he will drown.
-x-
Sometimes he wakes, and he forgets everything.
It's rare, and it's short lived, but some days he wakes up with a smile on his face.
Some days he rolls over, or looks down at his chest, and is greeted by a mirror image of his expression with green eyes and far neater, redder hair.
Some days he pulls her closer and goes back to sleep, so blissful in this state of ignorance that he's able to enjoy the small sensations of the sheets pressed against his skin and her hair against his nose and the sun warming his back.
He loves her. It's the beginning and the end of everything. She is the reason he has enough strength to get out of bed and the reason he finds enough peace to return to it at night. She is the inspiration for his optimism, for his hope that one day there will be a world that's worthy of her living in it. She is what keeps him fighting—against death eaters, against the world, against anything and everything that threatens their existence right here in their bed. She is his entire life.
On those days, when he isn't yet consciously aware of the dangers that lurk just beyond their doorstep, he lightly traces the shape of her face from her brow to her jaw and knows there is absolutely nothing more important than this moment, in this bed, with this woman.
"'morning," she would say, the corners of her mouth curling upwards and breathing life into his lungs and hope into his heart.
"Good morning."
Because sometimes it was.