Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Probably the closest thing to a creepy!fic I will ever write. A vague plot and a vague meaning.
soulless
There is a blood red rose, perfectly shaped and of exquisite color, sitting right in front of him. He should take it; he knows he should, and he is just one step away from actually doing it…
But there is something stopping him.
A flower is meant to be delicate; to represent a love full of happiness and delight and...something that is completely not him. And certainly not something that his giftee will appreciate, he is sure.
He decides to pick it anyway, just in case.
He doesn't really know why, but he takes no precautions when he seizes it from its stem and the thorns puncture his skin. The blond savors the feel of it, the pain like little pricks; it is the most delectable agony. He watches as blood flows slowly from his hand, watches as it dribbles towards the ground, splashing the ground with red.
It gives him a strange satisfaction.
---
It is only three days from the special day, and still he has nothing.
It doesn't fit, somehow. Just like the perfect red rose doesn't quite cut it. Perfection has never been a close friend of his, and never will.
He wants it to stay that way.
---
The day of his beloved's birthday starts off like a regular one. He'd insisted on it: saying, "I just want it to be the two of us." Draco does exactly as he says, because he finds that he can't disobey.
He doesn't mind as much as he thought he would.
---
Sunlight fills the room and there is the smell of burnt pancakes, and this is the kind of morning that the birthday boy wakes up to. He doesn't notice it, but just as his eyes flicker open, there is a smile on his face.
By this time the rose—the infuriating, not-quite-right rose—has wilted from lack of sunlight and water. Its petals, once vibrant and lustrous, are dark and flat. The stamen is bent at almost ninety degrees, and Draco sees it—and finds that maybe it isn't so bad after all. There is a certain tragic beauty about its drooping petals, their luster long gone but their essence still oddly intact.
The illustration of a bodiless soul.
Then he walks in and Draco turns around and smiles; offers him a burnt pancake and some soggy cereal, giving him a long, full kiss before he can even say anything.
The blond turns around and takes something to the table and he hands him something. It is a wilted rose, with petals a dark blood red. His grey eyes linger on it and in their depths there is a look of held secrets.
"Happy Birthday, Harry," he says.
xx
