Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
A commission for S.W.
Prompt: Gregory Goyle and VIncent Crabbe with a baby.
Influences: clearly Peter, Paul, and Mary.
They pulled apart from each other with gasps and haggard breaths.
"I can't," Gregory said, and draped himself over Vincent's body. "I... I just want to be close to you."
Vincent - ever the harder one, the tougher one, despite his softer body - stroked his lover's hair. "Shh," he murmured, "it's all right."
"I thought you were... I thought..."
Greg tended to blubber when he was overwrought, and tonight was no different.
"Shhh," comforted Vincent. "This is the last time I'll be on the crew. I promise."
"But you've said that so many times," Gregory said, "and every time they call, you go back."
Vincent nodded solemnly. It wasn't any use denying it. He had not remained committed to his words.
"It's… it's like our parents with the Dark Lord," Greg added, burrowing his face in Vincent's shoulder, ashamed of the very thought.
The parallels between their current position and their parents' fealty to Voldemort were striking, yes, and Vincent felt the sting of guilt for not having kept his promises to Greg. How could he keep such promises, though, when his conscience bothered him so much that he had to keep himself moving, putting himself in harm's way on behalf of someone else's hide? How could he, when he had just barely figured out a way to provide for them both in this magnificently large Muggle world without any of the requisite skills or documents?
How could he, when his very life seemed to lack so much meaning? For all he really had to live for, he felt, was poor Greg.