- Rating:
- PG-13
- House:
- Astronomy Tower
- Genres:
- Angst Romance
- Era:
- Multiple Eras
- Stats:
-
Published: 04/23/2003Updated: 04/23/2003Words: 554Chapters: 1Hits: 2,192
- Posted:
- 04/23/2003
- Hits:
- 2,192
- Author's Note:
- More like *inspired* by Harry/Draco. Grew to become about them, too :-) Thanks to Belinda, Andrew and everyone else who read it through.
There's a moment, every time, just before you kiss me, when I feel shocked. And I don't know if you'll change your mind, all of a sudden, and hit me instead of sliding your tongue over the jagged, defining scar that marks my forehead. Like you might pull away.
Like you might, finally, put a stop to this. Put a stop to us.
What is 'this'? When did it become 'us'? What is the scene out of some forgotten novel we reenact, every moment we are within a hair's breadth of each other? Is it a figment of my sweating, fevering mind? Or is it yours?
Your mind is a mystery to everybody. You keep it locked away behind your blurred, steel-capped eyes, your perfect nose, your moonlit hair and your smiling, poisoned lips. Your mind is always your own and you quite understandably like it like that. When you look at me, just so, with those damned eyes of yours, you trap me. You shackle me and caress me and hurt me and make me shake make me gasp make me moan make me sweat and I crave it. You won't let go and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Yet still you command, you demand an innocence like no other.
In the deep, black part of the night, your part, the part you think I don't notice as it slips by with only the barest, feathering touch, I can feel your silent, slipping tears. Not in a physical sense, because I know you would never allow me the privilege of seeing you cry - but it's almost like I can see you, and that silvery pearl of a single tear as it cascades towards your chin, closer to you than I'll ever be, and it's at that moment I believe I know precisely what you're feeling.
I awaken and your memory lingers just below your scent. Cinnamon for your shampoo, grass from the stains of the sport you love and cigarettes for your addiction. You smell like everything and nothing I've ever known before. And, what's worse, you know it.
I think you knew, too, that I sensed your tears, because it was that morning that I told you I loved you. Your eyes, twin thunderclouds, they tore through my mind as the words slipped from my teeth. You just stared, and I stood there and loved you.
I love you, but I've always known you can't love me. Is that enough of an excuse to call it quits?
It's funny, but I don't think it is. And somehow I know you could never end this on your own terms. It must have crossed my mind a thousand times, and yours a million more, and yet we always end up here, wondering, wondering, (hoping?) if this is what should be. I've seen the doubt shadow your face too many times to delude myself into believing that this is something true, something less ordinary, but occasionally... well, I wonder.
I know this is forbidden. It's Not Allowed. And it doesn't make sense, least of all to me. And every night you stay, you draw me further into a tangled, distraut web of feeling that I don't think even you understand - no matter how hard you may try to convince me otherwise.
Like you might, finally, put a stop to this. Put a stop to us.
What is 'this'? When did it become 'us'? What is the scene out of some forgotten novel we reenact, every moment we are within a hair's breadth of each other? Is it a figment of my sweating, fevering mind? Or is it yours?
Your mind is a mystery to everybody. You keep it locked away behind your blurred, steel-capped eyes, your perfect nose, your moonlit hair and your smiling, poisoned lips. Your mind is always your own and you quite understandably like it like that. When you look at me, just so, with those damned eyes of yours, you trap me. You shackle me and caress me and hurt me and make me shake make me gasp make me moan make me sweat and I crave it. You won't let go and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Yet still you command, you demand an innocence like no other.
In the deep, black part of the night, your part, the part you think I don't notice as it slips by with only the barest, feathering touch, I can feel your silent, slipping tears. Not in a physical sense, because I know you would never allow me the privilege of seeing you cry - but it's almost like I can see you, and that silvery pearl of a single tear as it cascades towards your chin, closer to you than I'll ever be, and it's at that moment I believe I know precisely what you're feeling.
I awaken and your memory lingers just below your scent. Cinnamon for your shampoo, grass from the stains of the sport you love and cigarettes for your addiction. You smell like everything and nothing I've ever known before. And, what's worse, you know it.
I think you knew, too, that I sensed your tears, because it was that morning that I told you I loved you. Your eyes, twin thunderclouds, they tore through my mind as the words slipped from my teeth. You just stared, and I stood there and loved you.
I love you, but I've always known you can't love me. Is that enough of an excuse to call it quits?
It's funny, but I don't think it is. And somehow I know you could never end this on your own terms. It must have crossed my mind a thousand times, and yours a million more, and yet we always end up here, wondering, wondering, (hoping?) if this is what should be. I've seen the doubt shadow your face too many times to delude myself into believing that this is something true, something less ordinary, but occasionally... well, I wonder.
I know this is forbidden. It's Not Allowed. And it doesn't make sense, least of all to me. And every night you stay, you draw me further into a tangled, distraut web of feeling that I don't think even you understand - no matter how hard you may try to convince me otherwise.