"I believe in you."

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Said the eyes that had never left his for a moment: they were green in an ardent way, spelling trouble to all who found them. But when he did, they were nothing but saints when he caught them. Bound brightly beneath a fringe that was itching to be messed with. Because they hovered and were there and were framing how they looked at him.

As like a bolt before the lightning, as like a howl before the wind, when Harry peered through his lashes when he finished a pirouette. And he looked just as dangerous as the rhythm of their music: what with his shoulders coming forward when he pranced like a lion, what with the footwork beneath his belt as he kicked on every third, and all his lines when they loosened and when they tightened during this dance.

That he was captivating at every turn and not a part of Tom could dart from him. Because if he did, he'd look back and — oh God — he'd be weak for him. Especially when he was looked at with Harry's teeth biting down, grazing lightly at a lip he'd trade anything to kiss it back. And those eyes seemed to brighten when sashaying came this man: all hip, all torso, all fire within an instant.

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And said the sprint of Harry's feet and every breath he'd count from him: as they were fleeting, hungry and gnawing at his person — as they enthralled upon his notice when Tom gestured for him to come. When he crooked his two fingers and motioned for him to run, when he steeled his own gaze and challenged the little lion.

Because to dance in this company, you needed more than just spunk. And Tom was curious if Harry had that and if he could lead in principal: because it was much more than just throwing and spinning your body around. Not that either could describe the ballet Harry had done, or in the artistry of his run as his character came to Tom.

Where the former was a hero and the latter was the villain, both joining for a moment because they loved what they were. Before differences and ideology had torn both characters, and Marvolo — that was Tom — was here to catch a certain potter. By the name of James, Harry's character, and he was as narrow as that man.

Never veering with every step and on point as he went: as if Fate should be damned for stealing him from whom he loved, as if he'd do anything to have Marvolo — near and close. Because from this point in the story and at this point in their dance, he finally realized how the other man felt for him. And so Harry ran into his arms and hoped they'd want him back. As there were parts of him that were gone, but were reunited when he had him.

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And said the fingers when they grasped and held him with all they had, digging into his shoulders when Tom collided with Harry's hips. After his hands were a booster, were like a step for the other man, so he could leap like a dove — and feel the audience all on him. And during production, all the cellos would be aching their hearts out.

As hero and villain had a smidgen of what could've been: what with James in the air and with Marvolo here to catch him, and to cradle him to his chest and consume him through his skin. Because this was all he ever wanted when he was shadowed by the lion. Fingers riding down his thigh and up his back once he caught him; and even if he was anything but Marvolo Bucciarati, Tom would've done this out of instinct for enamored was he.

Because this lion — because Harry — was both beautiful and crazy and was devilish in the details that only Tom would ever see: with his shirt riding up from both jump and adrenaline, teasing at the muscles and the lines that were fervent, coaxing for him to touch him and to feel for what he wanted. For they were powerful while in motion, but were squishy when at rest. He wanted to map them with his fingers and find where he was sensitive.

So he could pinch there and there again to hear the laughter from Harry's lips, to hear the shudders of his breathing and to know they came from him, and to hear the notes of those 'hmmm' s paying rent inside his mouth.

Because more than once while in practice, Tom was tempted by those sounds. And he never failed to pay attention when they fluttered from Harry's mouth — tilting him easily into a smile and making him radiant as a rose, that Tom couldn't help but want to pick him for his own.

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And said the thighs winding tightly and winding lower down his middle, as if to have him just like this and nothing could coax them to let go. Because if someone were to venture and to tell him to do so, Tom wondered if whether Harry or rather, James would forfeit. Or if neither would come to it because this was all they ever wanted — and because they were afraid, unsure if they could have this. Where for James, it made sense. But for Harry, it didn't.

As he held him, as he'd hold himself, when he had nothing but a pillow: to bend where he wanted it and have it flushed before his person, to sink into its essence when he was tired of his own touch.

Yes, these thighs have appraised him and Tom did little to stop that. As he held him around the waist and with his arms for him to sit on, as he was lighter than a feather that had traveled from the sun. Coming to touch him with a fire, Tom knew he couldn't be burned — not with the way Harry had him and how he trusted he wouldn't fall. When Tom plucked him from the air as if from birth, he'd always known this.

That he'd always known he'd be the one to know him as he did now; and by God or some miracle, Harry wanted to know him too. When he squeezed Tom and seemed to eat him through the gap between their clothes, where inches — if not less — separated either man. From chest to chest, hip from hip, and one lung to another when they breathed each other in.

With Harry as cinnamon and other spices to his mouth, concentrated in the places where Tom wondered if he could kiss him. And by the look Harry gave him, it would've been a breathy little 'yes' as his arms and his hands found purchase behind his neck.

As a forest and a cave stared at nothing, not in front of them.

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And said the mouth nearing his and not an ounce of hesitation, bridging the barest gap between them — and it was Tom who then crossed it. Kissing lightly with his teeth before eventually, Harry showed him how he wanted to be bitten and went slowly for him to follow. And he found honey in those eyes, gleaming softly for only him and for a moment, there were no villains and no ideologies to tear them.

Because in the depths of human nature, between the rise and then the fall, what began this was none other than a spark from that of love. And if James and Marvolo couldn't have that, then their danseurs would instead — as they roamed along the other and their stillness broke quick.