A/N: Hello, thanks for stopping by =). This little piece was one of those quickly written, quickly posted jobbies, but I hope I've edited it all okay and so on. This piece is a lot shorter than my normal stuff, but then again so is the writing style. This was not the fic I was intending to post next, there are many others ranging in length still waiting on my hard drive to be tweaked and finished. But this scene is something that peeked into my mind and formed itself into what you are, hopefully, about to read.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is not mine, the characters belong to J.K. Rowling sadly, I wish they were mine though.
Waltzing the Knife Edge
Peals of laughter rolled through the house like the tolling of a church bell. Heavy with expectancy and ill-concealed emotion it bounced back and forth for a moment until its source fell quiet. Hitching breaths were caught and she looked up, pink spikes bobbing jauntily. She declared him funny; hilarious even and he beamed at the compliment.
She had him grinning like a schoolboy with a first crush; that was the point he'd reached. An all time low of self control for him. She shifted on the sagging leather sofa, tucking her legs underneath her body and in doing so inadvertently leaned closer to him. This one movement caused filigree strands of whatever scent she was carrying – he suspected it was a variety of fruits and thought he detected the scent of plums and strawberries, or perhaps it was something totally different, like amber and jasmine, he couldn't tell anymore – weaved themselves into the thin tendrils of smoke that were skittering around the darkened room.
Embers in the fireplace their only source of light, he had found himself wishing the chimney had been cleared out properly. The smoke did not filter through it as it should and instead had settled in the room, on the sofa, between the folds of rushing fabric clothes and into the very pores of their skin.
Leaning forward, she refilled their glasses with firewhisky and handed one to him with a coy smile. His enquiry as to whether she was trying to get him drunk extracted a revered chuckle from the back of her throat, the husky sound filling him up and breaking within him like a wave.
This was wrong; the whole situation. He should not be sitting there, she should not be leaning ever closer, dipping her head and her shoulders all in the name of revealing flesh that really should be concealed from his disobedient mind. They should each be in bed – separately, of course – picture-books of innocent slumber dancing through their minds. She didn't seem to care though and he faintly registered the uneven, haggard breathing emanating from her as he took an overlarge gulp of firewhisky, the potent liquid like razors at the back of his throat.
Such a simple substance he thought, the inducer of euphoria and melancholy in equal measure and the destroyer of sense and reason; it was the maker of trysts; the breaker of trust; a thing to sever chastity. A social drug. And here he was, sharing it with her; all bubblegum pink tresses, black jeans and gaping top.
When she offered a knut for his thoughts he told her and he thought perhaps the alcohol was working its own kind of magic because he would never have proffered such an oddity of his mind were he totally sober.
She nodded seriously, regarded the liquid. Swilled it. Drained her fine cut-glass vessel and grimaced. She set it down and began to fidget again. She scooted up the sofa until she was settled against him, her shoulder slotted perfectly into his armpit; two pieces of an ever-shapeshifting jigsaw puzzle. And the puzzle part was definitely correct; they were a pair of ever-changing appearances that shifted with the moon or just with a defiant will.
And he knew all too well that with proximity comes broken-down defences and his were like the splintering of shattered bones, this he could still dimly register. It had become stiflingly hot since they had first sat down that evening and he knew someone should really open a door or even a window. He felt an impertinent bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. Gulping fascination – or maybe it was desperation – drew amber eyes to the hollow of her neck, shining with sweat. A trickle crept daringly downwards, descending with a mutated grace, further along already slick skin, disappearing below her top. This did not stop busy eyes and busy imagination sparking the fragile fuse of jealousy that knew the droplet was pursuing a path between her breasts. Maybe even over her stomach, lower. A path he had dreamt contraband dreams of following.
She whispers huskily that he is staring and brain-cells tell muscles that they should really jerk away. And they do. A muttered apology brings him briefly through the haze and back to the reality he had only just banished in favour of a fabricated fantasy.
It's when she tells him (in that breathy whisper she seems to have perfected) that she doesn't care about the staring that he dares to open his mind, not to mention his eyes, to the golden chance he was presented with. A last-chance ticket to resolution, to a future and away from this disjointed solitude he has grown to embrace. She opened up his world of dirty, early morning skies surveyed from moss-covered floors by naked eyes upon a naked body, clothes ripped to shreds beside him. She lacked the nose-curling, brow-creasing judgement others possessed and brandished in front of him like Muggles brandished pitchforks in front of wizards in times long gone.
All of this she had rejected in favour of short nailed fingers that were currently tracing maddening patterns on his palm, just daring to dart occasionally under the cuffs of his shirt to skim across the skin of his wrist and over his pulse.
The heat between them now had robbed him of his senses. He feels his thoughts that normally glide like satin become sluggish like blackened tar. It's blocking the connections of his brain, stopping him making the right decision.
He's not a child; plagued with naivety, innocence and obedience – he's a slave to no-one but his heart, his head and the moon. Although, he thinks that maybe he's a slave of hers too. But he knows there's a choice to be made. And if the arrow hits the target, the bullseye, the jackpot then there's love to be made from this. But, maybe he is a slave – enchained by his own fear and cowardice.
Because there's a drop on either side; and on the one side there's the wolf and a vision of hurting her, but on the other there's the plummet into that disjointed solitude again. And he's waltzing the knife edge and praying he keeps the balance.
And then, in an instant that was eternity-short and sonic boom-silent her lips were on his and he feels the explosion. She's leaning ever closer, tilting her neck and fusing their lips together. And he's kissing her back, not thinking, only feeling. His hands skim across her back, feeling her muscles like cords beneath her skin.
Soon fevered emotion and clammy-damp skin meets as clothes are slowly, agonisingly discarded, folding in on themselves as they're thrown to the ground. They are like the black hole of his emotions. Small hands are raking through his hair, down his neck and turning his skin to gooseflesh.
And the still, musty evening is now all fiery whispers of sweet nothings echoed around eardrums and he thinks this reckless plunge of emotions isn't so frightening after all. He knows full well that there is a drop on either side, but that's worth the risk and, as her hand glides over his bare shoulder and his own flits around her waist, he knows that this waltz is a dance they can do together.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading. I'd like to dedicate this piece to everyone who commented on my other R/T, 'And You Think I Wouldn't Understand' as I really did not have enough time to write individual thanks' which is something I've felt terrible about ever since.
Hope you enjoyed it, please read and review, this is only my second R/T so I need feedback to keep getting better =).