It's said that the body is like a book, the limbs like paragraphs, and the marks scored upon them tell the stories of one's past — but for Tom, he prefers the pages marked with nothing but empty spaces. Where words could've been written, but where there were none for him to find.
He'd often find these at the beginning, or at the middle and towards the end, just a few leaflets of turning paper that were still crisp beneath his hands. Because many would skip them over, leaving them light between the covers; and if you were to bear this upon its back, these were the pages sticking upward.
Weighed with nothing and not a splatter of ink or of their readers — their presence more prevalent were a book older and well-kept. For these were the pages still sharp and were still rough within his hands, rubbing him pink while he's strolling towards the heart of some narrative. And Tom has never and will never and won't certainly bend these pages, but that hasn't stopped him or prevented him from marking these in his own way.
His hands have touched them, that much is true. His eyes have wandered, as they always do. He knows their scent, he breathes it in. It's that of smoke with hints of cinnamon, bits of pine and that of quidditch, and that smell seems to permeate from the spine to all the pages. These are notes so familiar that without a mouth, he could taste them as they're flooding through his fingers and he's shaking because he can't help it. Because it's as if when he meets them, there's no facade — he's just himself — merely a boy and merely Tom, settling back to where he belongs.
With his nose between the leather or the threads of an old cover, clearing his mind of everything else before he turns the empty papers. He'll always linger at their corners before gradually, he moves on. Fingers slotting beneath the spine and then gripping at the paragraphs, more than acquainted with the material, but he'll read this to stay sharp.
Because a good book is a fine book, no matter how many times he's come to read it. He'll find something he may've missed and could argue with what he hasn't, courting the papers to see his way and shaping their intent. Imposing his thoughts above the author's and relishing how they fade, as what happens when a novel is little different from a strawman. But a good book when he finds one can be a great one in his eyes; not only for the blank pages, but for the spaces where nothing hides. Where the author chose brevity, where they're conscious of who he is, and have splattered bits of cream and that of yellow along the pages. So that his thoughts could now wander and could coincide with the paper, a back-and-forth while he reads — it's a tickmark to his favor.
But an empty space for conversation is hard to come by and Tom knows it. He could count with a few fingers of those he found while in the library and scarcely while in shops, whether in the alleys or at Hogsmeade. Because spaces without words or agendas to latch onto, these were pages of no-use because writers liked to be listened to. And they took unkindly to any space remained unchanged by their quills, citing that the blankness is their enemy for it reminds readers that they have a will. That they can think beyond what's here and can question for themselves, such was the naught for many writers and for many books that have come out.
Which is why for this Slytherin, he has a few he can count on after he combed through the noise to find the gems from the plastic. But were he away from the dormitory and the selections he had found, itching for something for him to read and wanting greatness at his fingertips, there's a novel he could always turn to — it's been a constant by his side.
Although it's far from being finished, it's everything he's ever wanted. From the journey, the tragedies, the triumphs and galore — quilled with nothing but biting comments on what it means to survive, and then a shift at Act II and then another at the midpoint as the novel rambles on, finding something for it to fight for. And along the way, he's become a character; or at least, an author to this book. Tom could thumb to where he started and how he found this lovely work.
Where instead of leather or a hardback, it came in robes with red and gold; instead of paper filled with words, it came with skin marred in calluses; and instead of stories or secrets or a treasure trove of information, it booms with laughter and soft smiles and touches he'll always covet. The blank spaces found throughout it are for Tom's eyes and his alone, and they're bound with moments of nothing said because everything could be felt.
Whether it's a hand on his shoulder or finding refuge near his thigh, more at home than it's ever been while it lingers near his side. Whether it's a weight against his body, slumping upwards then falling down, comfortable with where it is before it's playing with his hands. Or whether it's a stare he couldn't tear from when he finds it locked on him, green meeting brown — a tendril around his person. Until he's tugged from where he is and shimmied to where he will be, so he could grow and blossom beside this wonderful human being.
It isn't strange — at least to him — to compare Harry in this way, to compare Harry with what he loves and watch it flourish as he's gotten to know him. Or if Tom were honest in his assessment and if you caught him at the right time, distracted from everything that didn't remind him of the other boy, he'd say he loves certain books and find them great within his eyes because they remind him of whom he loves, Harry's a story he can't get enough of. And because the two were intertwined and were synonymous with one another, he couldn't read without hearing laughter and couldn't laugh without reading him.
This bright, unruly lion had him smitten with just the thought of him. And as a lover for what is loved and with a bookmark on his person, you couldn't blame Tom if he came over just to finger a few passages. To remind himself of what he's read and what he wants to read again, to turn to the pages that were calling and were waiting for his hands.
Especially the ones on Harry's shoulder, and on his left one to be precise. Because a leaf had fallen on it and it's hitched to his side. He hasn't noticed that it's there, he's busy with what he's sketching. Turning the charcoal in his hand into a creature for this assignment, and it's a large one with how he strokes and his shoulder follows with it. Circle, circle, circle and the leaf hasn't fallen. It must have fingers underneath it. There's no way it hasn't moved. So perhaps, it's a creature. Tom snatches for his charcoal. And like the prefect he's meant to be, he's sketching what he sees. He's narrowed into the silhouette of Harry sitting beneath the trees.
Beginning with a curve, hunched over near the top; almost staring at its toes and then gradually, looking up. Enraptured with what it finds and unperturbed with anything else, there's a tunnel between it and what has captured its attention. And had this shape been in the air, it would've captured the golden snitch. Being that the "snitch" was an owl and by "capture," he meant caress. It doesn't surprise Tom for a moment that Harry's sketching a common pet, or that he's deviated from the assignment when they're meant to be drawing — drawing what again?
Unicorns? Bowtruckles? Ashwinders? A hippogriff?
Dear me, I'm distracted — but he's scattered with a load of sketches, piled around him like a nest while he's outlining his boyfriend. He hasn't seen the beasts with his own eyes, but from what he gandered from other students when they tipped through the forest, searching for something that would stay still.
Charcoal behind their ears while their wands were at the ready because you never knew what you would find, especially if Hagrid was involved. And there were close-calls from what he had seen, but nothing distressing when he looked to Harry. Because by far, the most dangerous thing was that they were alone and that it was quiet.
Not a sound from the forest or from any other student, just charcoal breaking lightly as it crumbles onto parchment. And occasionally, there's a shift when Harry angles to his left. Digging further into the ground to catch the shadows of a few feathers. And that leaf is still there, he hasn't noticed how it's hugging him. Or that it's crawled from his shoulder and is right behind his neck, merely inches from his collar and it's sprawled over himself.
A little flick could send it off, but magic is too good for it. No, it needs to be crushed. Tom will enjoy its bit of suffering. Or as much suffering as one could find from a leaf that hasn't done anything, other than rest where it shouldn't and making hands start to itch. Had it been dust on one of his books, Tom would've banished it with a bit of cotton. Polishing the leather or the hardback until the speck had fallen off and if he were alone in the dormitory, he would've blasted it to kingdom come. So to see a different, but similar thing on his boyfriend pushes a button. Leaving it red and pulsing and the leaf is less than innocent. It's taunting from where it is and is snuggling to Harry's person.
Tom's tearing before he knows it, walking briskly through the forest. He's staring daggers at this tender bit of greenery on his boyfriend. As if to say 'How dare you!' and it's livid on his tongue, bubbling sharply as he nears this little leaf and the other boy. Where Harry's facing him with his back, he's glancing down at his parchment; smudging grey with his thumb to bring out the life in his illustration. Meaning he's blind to the anger and to the bomb behind his notice, ready to wage an epic battle on his behalf and for his alone. Where it'll end with a burning so that every leaf will always know that the only green and fallen thing that could touch Harry was Tom himself.
He's glaring to the treetops before he's plucking the little pest, squishing it beneath his thumb and smooshing it further as he trails it. Flesh rises at his touch and these are muscles that he's feeling — crooking upwards out of habit and stiffening to his movements. And if Harry's turning to see what's up, he'll find Tom — there beside him. Merely rubbing at his shoulder and clapping softly for his attention, lounging next to him on this log and staring fondly at his sketching.
And suppose Tom squeezes him a little harder than he usually does when they're like this, simply bonding in the quiet that has swept through the forest, then Harry quirks a little smile and returns to his illustration. He doesn't hear the little cracks of a leaf in the other's palm, or catches the way that Tom's singling all the foliage up above. Or that he's mouthing that he's won and has a casualty here to prove it.
Crumpled to the ground is the tiny leaf from earlier.