Oh, poor Atlas
What a beast of a burden
-Florence and the Machine
She pulls away from him and shudders at the globe between his shoulderblades.
Second sight, she calls it, the thing that comes to her sometimes in horrible, shuddering moments like these
Moments when his hands are hothothot and his fingers are slick on her neck and her hair which he's (t)eased from its rubber confines and falls, all red and orange and yellow, onto her shivering, shaking shoulders.
A moment ago, she was fierce and careless and shattering under his hands and his mouth, fingers tracing history onto his back in hot, hasty trails.
Now she sees earth grinding into the tender space where his neck meets his back and she's so fuckin scared and guilty and why, why, why did it have to be him, the boy with the too big hands and the eyes green like avarice was supposed to be.
Why did it have to be him, the boy holding, hefting the world on his back with too many bones?
"Harry," she whispers. Presses the words against his neck where she feels a throbbing thumpthumpthump.
He takes a breath, pushing it into him.
"Yeah?"
"You have to leave." It isn't a question, nor is it a command. It only states what is and breathes, what aches unseen between their breathless, shaking bodies.
She can feel him swallow. She marvels at the lovely, awkward clunkiness of his Adam's Apple.
"Yeah," he says. Swallows again. Sounds scared, scared, scared.
Or maybe it's just the aching, glassy planet balanced on his shoulders.
"Harry, I love you," she says, gathering speed, pushing these clumsy, meaningless phrases into his skin. Shoving them into his veins.
Her hands wander onto his back and she feels sick because she knows everything she says everything she fucking breathes is pressing Earth onto him, harder harder harder.
But God he's so damn nice and he's murmuring I love you too, Gin like she's not sitting on top of his burden, the girl with the accidental heart and the wide, woeful eyes.
"Don't," she start—chokes—tries again. "Don't—" Means to say 'don't die,', but it's stupid and doesn't come out and besides, saying the word would admit the possibility that he could die, die, die and that the thing on his back would fall and break like she does with his knee between her live, writhing legs.
But he knows cause he's effing Harry Potter (but she loves him loves him loves him for just Harry, without the effing Potter) and he knows her silences.
He knows, and he can't make any promises, and she wants to jam her skeleton against his until they blend because he's just not close
enough.
But he presses her into him against his raging innards and she can only leave scarlet scarlet fingernail crescents like bloody bloody moons on the helpless white of his back.
And in the hot coils of her hair, where only she hears, he breathes:
"I won't if you won't."