story husk peeled from my bones
and oh Lily, Lily, why did she have to walk? He's fine, he's good, he heeds the cut and does not seek to stitch up what they've shredded; she says go and he goes and he does not come back after the last time, no more begging, no more—he weeps before the Fat Lady's portrait, rounds the corridor, and is shorn from her, from the brights. He seeks to stitch himself up, instead, but sectumsempra the wandwork burns and it's a cold burn when he's alone, like now, like ever as still the dungeons reek of her breath and her fingertips skimming searing the back of his eyes. The slices they made were at least sparks, though, her and his jaws wide at this miracle this horror that was theirs, her blood mixed with his mud in the cauldron, what should not have worked and yet they tried, oh yes they tried. Maybe he severed it all along his slurs but he is half dirty too and maybe he is clean and maybe she is cleaner—Lily always muddled all that, until she'd leave the room.
They dabbled. He wonders if she still dabbles, scribbles theory on parchment and practice on skin, hers, others' or is she above almighty now he keeps his wand to himself these days, for now, for he's come to think mostly that lives are worth keeping, blood's worth flowing but only on the inside, hold it together hold the line. That damn James Potter though; he makes exceptions for self-defense, big ones, gaping ones where hate is concerned, and he maybe should not hate but he does does. He has a lot of flaws a lot of them, everyone does but Sev does.
Lily didn't like to touch much but it didn't matter, he never minded. It was enough to hold her back as she slept in the grasses, chest falling beneath his callous-push, hairs staticking toward him, red as anger; almond eyes thick even when closed, layered like the rest of her; softer than she'd like but firm and smooth and rounder than worlds, richer too, and scarred. They dabbled, he scarred her and she scarred him, or maybe his healed or maybe hers didn't, he loses track which is which it is hard to unweave the braided grain of their fingers, their triage. They are nested so now everything tastes like the bite of her and if she notices she doesn't say, seems pretty happy for frayed wheat, pretty damn content, can she be?
xx
A/N: Title taken from Andrea Gibson's amazing slam poem "Jellyfish," which only loosely relates to the story but which you should all go watch right now because it's brilliant and so is she.