I don't know…this is just another one of my weird one-shots.
Two tangled bodies embraced in a sea of silken luxury, seeping liquids staining them in a mark of all that exists between them. All that should not exist, not in this world because it isn't 'right'. Cool eyes and burning passions, tension humming deep, an echo too far away and too clingingly close.
Just one whisper.
"I love you."
"Why?"
"Because, just because."
"What color is the sky?"
"A cold, cruel blue."
"Why?"
"Because, just because."
Dreary days painting reality a dulling gray, soothing broken scabs with its intensity. Heavy hearts toil on, dragging through a day with too many hours, so completely confined within the frame of time. All that is here falls out of that frame, so fallen out of heaven's graces. No heaven for sinners.
"I'm supposed to kill you."
"I know."
"You're supposed to kill me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because, just because."
Fate has no mercy, not in its dealings. Wooden pieces, polished and shining upon a broken chessboard; victims of its temper, chip, chip, chip. No polish left to conceal the slivers of tears that score their lives. No reason but reason itself, two so similar, in incest of souls.
"Who is God?"
"Someone unkind."
"Why?"
"Because, just because."
"I love you."
"I know."
"Avada Kedavra."
Because this is their punishment, to live a life without their other. Because he never whispered the secret password in response, no opening doors to reveal a cove of honeyed treasure and the villains that lie in wake. It's mistletoe's lover in white, a muse in a cover of black velvet.
Harry Potter took a slow, steady drag of the cigarette, blinking away tears as he stood against the brilliance of the full moon. The sky was dark, the stars were bright and the moon a dreamy white. Then he blew out the smoke and watched with sad eyes as the smoke trickled away.
At his feet was the cadaver of his lover, the man who so completely understood him that he could give what the young man needed most. And what was that? Pain, thrill and love without tomorrows. Who is this mysterious man, this man whose gifts no one else could compare to?
"Tom…" the 20-year-old man whispered into the crisp night air, an eon of grief and bitterness flying into the sky with the name of the man he loved.
Harry let the cigarette drop and he used his foot to ground the dying cig until its flame was dead. Then he turned and walked away from the body and into the woods nearby. The lonely howl of an aching soul resounding from the ominous trees and Harry's soul returned the call silently.
Umm…yeah, my typical stuff, oh yeah and also I've started on the follow-up of Fallen in Ron's POV.
