A/N: Blame Amber. Written for her Weekly Drabbles Competition, with the prompts "If love were a choice, who would choose such exquisite pain?"- Anna and the King, assume and a word count of 391 words.

Yeah, I don't even know. Just go with it.

Pairing: Bill Weasley/Dean Thomas

Prompt: 50. Incredulous

Darker than dark; he is midnight-painted canvas, teeth like stars; that supernova smile could kill you. He is rough edges, thick wrists, wide shoulders. He is ink stained fingertips and hands made to hold paintbrushes. He is Ginny's ex-boyfriend and Ron and Harry's ex-roommate and your exaltation.

(He is night.)

She, she is pale as the moonlight, ice water touch and blue-veined beauty, turning colder with each passing day. You think you used to love her, but her edges are too smooth, her body too thin, too delicate. She is dainty doll hands, such a fire-breathing fear inducer, a ticking time bomb with your name tattooed onto the inside of her lips. She is your downfall.

(She is daybreak.)

And he says, "I thought you were better than this," as he crashes that supernova smile against your trembling lips. "I thought you loved her."

"So did I," you say, and it's quiet and honest and it doesn't need the burning brightness of his starshine to be utterly freeing, because it has the frostiness of her lips caught in its corners and that is enough. Things are changing.

(You always hated early mornings.)

"I thought you loved me," she says, but it is distant and exhausted, and neither of you really cares enough to lie. "I thought you were better than this."

"Better than what? Better than happiness? I assumed you'd understand; you used to always understand."

"Not this," she says, and she drops her cold shoulder, turns on her heel and leave only winter in her wake. "Never this."

"She always used to understand," you say, and he kisses your jawbone. "I loved her."

"I know."

"Why did I do this to myself?"

"You didn't," he says, kissing galaxies onto your shoulders, "No one chooses this. No one would ever choose this."

"I choose you."

"No," he says, "you didn't have a choice."

("You could've chosen me, Bill," she says, incredulous. "I have always chosen you. Always."

She only cries when there's nobody around to hear.)

"I love you," he says.

But your ex-wife's snowfall teardrops still rattle in your ribcage, still catch you by the throat, and your children don't understand how you've forgotten lightness and daybreak so soon.

(You've always been a night person anyway, right?)