Demeter
I'm falling. I'm flying. I'm screaming. I'm everything in a moment; everything I am and everything I'm not and everything I've always wanted to be.
My hands are clenching white sheets, balling cotton into my fists, and I don't have time to think about the thread count of his linens, or ponder the rip in his pillowcase, suspiciously the size and narrow shape of a blade. There is only Harry. Harry's mouth on yours, Harry's hands gripping your back, Harry's nails digging pretty little crescents into your shoulders. Harry pressed hard against you, so good, so bad, so right and so wrong.
This is what you think when you come.
When it's over, and he pulls away, I'm back to reality, I'm back to everything I've always been, back to nothing, just panting breath and sticky skin and guessing the thread count of his sheets. I look at him, and his green eyes seem to flash without fading. It reminds you of an Unforgivable Curse cast in the dark, the light of its power lasting until it will be forgiven.
And you cling to that fire in his eyes, because you think it will always be there; that Harry is and will always be Harry, even when you're nobody, everybody, and something in between.
-
The house was old. It had been falling apart by its hinges for ages, crumbling one decayed shingle at a time for as long as anyone could remember. Demeter couldn't remember. The windows were crusted with dirt or dust or blood or all of those combined; it didn't really matter. What mattered was that flash of green, bright enough to blind in the middle of the night, untouched by the grime of the windows. And, of course, the black silence that followed.
-
When he sleeps, I think, he forgets. Forgets all about his unfinished Potions final, due the next morning. Forgets that he won't be sleeping here in another week, but in a bed that's too stiff, and in a house that's too cold. Forgets about things like destiny and sacrifice and good versus evil.
It's a peaceful sleep, rounded by twitching smiles and lazy half-turns. I picture his dreams as full of blue sky and green grass and white smiles, where laughter is a drug, and nobody has a single scar. Then you picture his nightmares.
Not because you really care, but because I have my own waiting, and it's easier to imagine his.
It's dark behind the curtains of the four-post bed I'm sharing with him. I can't see a thing. But I can feel him. I constantly touch him, brushing against his skin with lingering, absent sweeps of your fingertips, through the strong silk of his hair, then over the softness of the back of his hand, and the hardness of the palm.
And if I hadn't been thinking about the nightmares, and if it hadn't been so dark, I would have noticed that it was my name I was tracing into his hair, his skin, over and over again.
I'm falling. I'm flying. I'm screaming. I'm everything in a moment; everything I am and everything I'm not and everything I've always wanted to be.
My hands are clenching white sheets, balling cotton into my fists, and I don't have time to think about the thread count of his linens, or ponder the rip in his pillowcase, suspiciously the size and narrow shape of a blade. There is only Harry. Harry's mouth on yours, Harry's hands gripping your back, Harry's nails digging pretty little crescents into your shoulders. Harry pressed hard against you, so good, so bad, so right and so wrong.
This is what you think when you come.
When it's over, and he pulls away, I'm back to reality, I'm back to everything I've always been, back to nothing, just panting breath and sticky skin and guessing the thread count of his sheets. I look at him, and his green eyes seem to flash without fading. It reminds you of an Unforgivable Curse cast in the dark, the light of its power lasting until it will be forgiven.
And you cling to that fire in his eyes, because you think it will always be there; that Harry is and will always be Harry, even when you're nobody, everybody, and something in between.
-
The house was old. It had been falling apart by its hinges for ages, crumbling one decayed shingle at a time for as long as anyone could remember. Demeter couldn't remember. The windows were crusted with dirt or dust or blood or all of those combined; it didn't really matter. What mattered was that flash of green, bright enough to blind in the middle of the night, untouched by the grime of the windows. And, of course, the black silence that followed.
-
When he sleeps, I think, he forgets. Forgets all about his unfinished Potions final, due the next morning. Forgets that he won't be sleeping here in another week, but in a bed that's too stiff, and in a house that's too cold. Forgets about things like destiny and sacrifice and good versus evil.
It's a peaceful sleep, rounded by twitching smiles and lazy half-turns. I picture his dreams as full of blue sky and green grass and white smiles, where laughter is a drug, and nobody has a single scar. Then you picture his nightmares.
Not because you really care, but because I have my own waiting, and it's easier to imagine his.
It's dark behind the curtains of the four-post bed I'm sharing with him. I can't see a thing. But I can feel him. I constantly touch him, brushing against his skin with lingering, absent sweeps of your fingertips, through the strong silk of his hair, then over the softness of the back of his hand, and the hardness of the palm.
And if I hadn't been thinking about the nightmares, and if it hadn't been so dark, I would have noticed that it was my name I was tracing into his hair, his skin, over and over again.