It came to mind that I hadn't posted this here. LEGASP! It's on my LJ (aopt), if it sounds familiar. Anyway.
Slash. This is Remus' POV, if you couldn't tell. I love writing anonymous characters. And it's supposed to be pre-Philosopher's Stone. I don't own Remus, but he owns me lesigh...I am doomed to write fanfiction forever in his point of view. Cracking is by Suzanne Vega. BEst if read while listening to it, but still good without.
Not so angsty, more morose.I cried while writing it, but not again. Others said it made them cry. Side effect. I like it.
Please review! And don't kill me for not posting enough...
It's been more than a long time since he's seen that shadow on the ground. But he knows every contour, every detail, because it's the shadow that's been etched upon his heart.
So he knows that this isn't it. It doesn't keep him from remembering when it was, though.
I love you hangs in the air like a forgotten scent. The scent of a dried Victorian rose in his mother's vase, years ago. The Victorian rose that reminds him of himself…his heart.
His broken heart.
I love you is still there. It doesn't show much. The empty park is filled with remnants of when it did. The tree under which they'd kissed the first and last times. The playground, the simple pond that didn't play any role but was somehow etched into what had become broken.
His broken heart.
Walking a hairline could only last so long. The shadows stay frozen, immobile. Something is cracking inside him, but by now he is numb. The sun is blinding him. He doesn't notice, lost in what he had thought he had forgotten. What he had tried to forget.
His broken heart.
He can't help but play through his mind the simple movements of sitting on the swings. The park is a kind figure, simply wondering where he'd disappeared to. But it asks about the other. The shadow now cast in despair by the aging willow. The man who had laughed, who had cried, who had tenderly held the one who now sits on the swingset, alone, missing strong arms around him and the whisper in his ear, I love you.
And now he feels a tear slowly trembling at the edge of his eye, now it slips down silently, to be followed by none. A solitary tear. A solitary name. And the shadow still resembles the one from many years before. He can't bring himself to look away. Coming to terms with emotions never gets easier. He still loves, even if his love is slowly killing him. The willow reaches out to brush his cheek, stopping halfway, like he used to do. But no low whisper calls his name. No I love you is in his ear, save the old-rose scent of the last one, the last innocent butterfly kiss.
Innocence cannot last forever. Spring turns to hot angry summer, and dies with the autumn leaves. Winter has taken his heart into it, numbing where it was stepped on for lack of the healing of spring. Winter is kind, trying to take away the pain. But no amount of numbness can banish the memory of spring, no cold can completely freeze the blossoming vine of love. And pain. And grief. Passion is left far behind. Passion was summer and rage, summer and lust, summer and then autumn cracked what was left behind. What dried in the sun.
The park is damp from recent rain, but a valiant sun tries to warm it. He wants to cry out, wants to fall, wants to be saved from the memories by their object. But their object cannot, and it is treason to wish him to save what has been ravaged by the seasons.
His broken heart.
The sun finally gives up, obscured by a passing cloud. And his head slips into his hands, and the tears do not flee, but stay hidden where it is safe.