The Broken Children
-Lysander-
She chokes, gasping for breath as he tightens his grasp on her throat, kicking out faintly as he lifts her against the wall. Her fingers claw at his lean arms, nails leaving red and pink lines from elbow to wrist as he glares at her, leaning in to press his lips against hers. As her mouth opens to his tongue, he releases his hold on her neck and she gasps, struggling to draw breathe until at last, he blows a stream of air into her mouth. Eyes watering, she smiles thankfully as they break apart and pushes Lysander to the ground.
He stumbles, a grin spreading across his face as she rubs at her sore throat and breathes in ragged pants, bruises already forming across her caramel skin. He links his fingers behind his head and rests his dirty-blond hair on his palms, smirking as Roxanne snarls and drops down to straddle his bare chest.
"I hate you," she mutters, letting her long nails dig into his chest, delighting in the groans of pain she's able to illicit.
"I love that you hate me," he chuckles, wincing as she digs in deeper, the manicured nail of her right index finger breaking the skin and drawing a droplet of blood.
"It's what keeps you coming back for more," he continues, grabbing onto her waist with all his strength, causing her to throw back her head in pain . . . and perhaps a little bit of pleasure.
"Maybe I'm just a masochist," she replies, drawing her bloodied hand up to his throat and pressing down on his adams-apple. Now it's his turn to fight for breath, and maybe he could have fought her off or shoved her off him, but she's chosen just that moment to reach behind her back and painfully squeeze a part of him that should never be squeezed in such a manner.
"You give as good as you get," he gasps, his voice torn from his throat as her hands slowly increase the pressure. Maybe he's a sadist and a masochist, or a strange mix of the two, because he loves the pain, both the receiving and the inflicting. It's a way of coping with the messed up world they live in, hurting each other so that others can't.
His mother sometimes looks at him and shakes her head at the scratch-marks and bruises, inwardly cringing at the sight of black-eyes and broken dreams. He's seen her mother look at her the same way - and it's not that they haven't tried to help, to try and make them happy and normal again. It's just that everyone is too tired to try and change.
At least, that's how he feels. . .
It's like he's dead or missing a part of him that shouldn't be lost. The only time he feels anything, when he feels alive, is when Roxanne is hurting him or when he's hurting her. It's - they're - broken and twisted and horrific, but it's the only thing that keeps them tethered. So he moans as his lover slaps him across the face, just as he fists his hands in her hair and yanks so that she slams to the floor, effortlessly wrapping her legs around him as she falls so that he's on top.
As he sees her lying beneath him, wincing from the pain he's inflicted, he feels a sense of disquiet. It's unusual – this is their way, it has been their relationship ever since the lines were drawn and the two of them had stood against Albus and the rebels. In their shared misery of both losing their brothers, one to a curse and one to the shadow, this simple expression of sadistic love was what kept them afloat.
"What happened to us?" he asks, as he feels her pull at his hair as harshly as he thinks she can, "We weren't always like this, Roxy."
Maybe it's the use of her nickname that triggers her to drop her facade, allowing her to expose a glimmer of the shattered girl within. A tear sparkles in her eye as she whimpers, curling her free arm across his waist and pulling him down so that their noses brush.
"We fought a war and were the victors," she sighs, "but we lost more than we won."
And it's so intrinsically true that he lets his own tears splash across her cheeks, before losing himself in her nails and teeth as she yelps in pain under his bruising touch.
That night as he lies battered, she throws out an arm in his sleep and huddles into him, whispering through her dreams.
"I love you, Lysander."
He sighs and wraps his arms around her skinny frame, biting at his lips to keep from crying out at the feel of her bruise-mottled skin against his still-too-tender flesh.
"What is lost . . ." he whispers in response, pressing his lips to her temple before falling to sleep.
(Cannot be found again)
Inspired by the quote
"The things we love have a way of coming back to us in the end."
-Luna Lovegood (Order of the Phoenix)
A/N: Feedback is always appreciated. I also want to give a huge thank you (and a virtual cookie) to everyone who has reviewed so far. There will be nine more drabbles in this collection - up next will be either Scorpius or James.