Burn
by : epiphanies AKA MarkEvans
Summary: "Are we ready for this, do you think?" he murmured, staring at the moon, a pearl in the velvet black sky. "Well," she inhaled the crisp November air, brushing his red cheek with her own hand, "I'd say that it's been a long time coming."
Pairing: D/P (of course!)
Dedicated to Liebling. :D
"I'm always in the dark with you," she said quietly. If anybody else had seen the curl of her pout, the edge in her voice, they'd have thought her bitter. A bitter girl, who would live and die as a bitter, alone old woman.
He knew better. He knew that she wasn't bitter, but wistful. That she wouldn't die a bitter old hag, but a beautiful, elite woman of class who died to the sound of clinking martini glasses.
Her face was young and smooth and soft - all for her ancient wise eyes, colourless in their silvery shine, limitless in the x-rays they shone into your mind, invading your opinions and challenging your intellect.
"And you know that's the way you like it," he replied. She slapped his pale cheek.
"Ouch!" he exclaimed, surprised. It had stung like a fresh needle.
"What was that for?"
She sniffed, "You know that's the way you like it."
It took him a moment to realize the grin on her bony face. He chuckled.
"Are we ready for this, do you think?" he murmured, staring at the moon, a pearl in the velvet black sky.
"Well," she inhaled the crisp November air, brushing his red cheek with her own hand, "I'd say that it's been a long time coming."
"But it's such a huge step," he sighed, "My father's been pressuring me to do well and keeps telling me to practise burning myself, so I don't cry when the real thing happens..."
"Don't pretend to act worried," she scoffed, "You've been playing with fire since you were eight years old."
"Six," he corrected, "Remember first form?"
"With Mrs. Gillis?"
"And the autumn leaves?"
"You mean-"
"Bonfire."
"You set that? Why didn't you tell me?" she exclaimed, beaming with unabashed pride at her best friend, who shrugged modestly.
"So," he blinked up at the sky again a moment later, "You ready for yours?"
She raised her thumbnail to her teeth, "Of course."
He rolled his icecube eyes and gently removed her thumb from her mouth, "Really, Pansy, if you're not ready-"
"My parents would kill me." she said flatly, twisting a strand of artificially black hair around her index finger, "They'd use the shackles in the basement-"
"Which we are stealing when you marry me one day," he winked at her, and she, smiling, leaned her head on his surprisingly sturdy shoulder.
"We'll be great," he patted her head, "We'll blow them away."
"If only."
"Touche. But let's abuse optimism. We won't force our fat, beautiful children to because He'll probably be falling apart by then. So we won't have to worry about them, anyways."
"He? The Dark Lord?"
"No," he glanced down at her with a quirked, half-joking eyebrow, "My father."
They laughed and thought and hummed and leaned on one another, and before they said goodnight they shared a kiss.
And fell asleep hours later, both clutching the white of their naked, unspoiled inner-arms.
And the nightmares visited them both and it comforted them, and gave them confidence and ice-blood.
It made them brave enough.