A/N: Um. If someone could tell me what I'm trying to say here, that'd be great. Also, I was listening to a lot of spoken word poetry, so that's why this is...odd.
Guys, it's 4:30am and why am I even posting at this hour? If this makes no sense (and I have a sneaking suspicion that it won't), I'll edit it tomorrow or something. Do wizards even have religion? Is that a thing?
Prompts, Albus Severus and faith. For Cheeky Slytherin Lass' One Hour, Two Drabbles Thing.
(Albus is the one speaking in italics, in case that isn't clear.)
Dedicated to Ella for no other reason than I love her and she loves these two. Hope you like it, darling!
Look at him; eyes reflecting the light like stained glass windows, telling stories of old in each shade of green, steeple sharp fingers held close in prayer, in wonder. To you, always you, he says, "Hold me."
But he means, "Save me."
He means, "Pull me close to your chest, paint bible verses on my spine so that anyone who asks can know I've turned my back to all scripture, I've turned my back into scripture, I've made it part of who I am in deciding that it's part of who I'm not.
Tell me you love me.
Tell me the windows we broke were just the barriers the priests kept up to keep us out and not fragile glass Jesus thought would keep us safe; tell me you're listening. Tell me there is no God or tell me there is – I don't care. Just tell me you believe that when I wrap my fingers around your wrist I'm counting stars and heartbeats, not clumsy seconds until they pry us from each others' sweat-slick skin.
Tell me you've lost your faith, or you've found new faith, or you never had faith. I'll tell you how to fix it all: keep your faith in me. I'll open my chest and let you store it next to my heart, I'll cut the flesh from my bones and let you wrap it around my limbs like ribbon, I'll keep it warm for you because I want you to know that belief is the only thing we have, and I'd rather belief soak up my blood than the rags of bigots and monsters who don't understand that love is him and her, and him and him, and her and her, and me and you, and they can't break us anymore.
Give me your hand, Scor. Give me your sin. I promise I'll pray for you.
To all the Gods we can't believe in."
Look at him; bones crumbling with each second that ticks by without acceptance, body caving in on itself like anarchy, like loving you is wrong when it's not.
Look at him; pressed against the ground like the church roof won't collapse if he makes himself into nothing, catching words like pansy and faggot and boyfriend between the wooden floor and his own guilty shame, because no one should feel like this.
Look at him; body close to yours, a dance of limbs and love and lust and everything in between, hands on skin and lips on jaws and tongues on collarbones.
Now ask him who he is.
He'll give you a name.
He'll give you a smile.
And he'll tell you he's yours.
He is the only thing that you believe in.