Smiles, Memories and a Dash of Death

If I ever looked straight at you, you never looked back at me. Your gazes were always further away, like you were focusing on something - an unknown - in the distance.

I should have asked what that unknown was before you died. Before you were murdered, I should say. You were murdered; your death could have been avoided if only I'd been there.

I've always blamed myself since then, because I should have saved you, I should have done what best friends - what lovers - are meant to do for each other.

And I didn't.

*~*~*

When was our first secret kiss? Second year, wasn't it? Just for a dare, because Hermione had insulted us about something, and we wanted to prove that we had a soft side as well as a manly one.

I still remember thinking what would happen if we were caught. My mother would probably keep asking where she'd gone wrong.

But then again, she didn't know then that the twins were gay.

But yes, that kiss. That one moment is always suspended in time for me; I can recall it if I ever hear your name, whispered in a room... I think of your hands in my hair.

You were laughing; I was giggling. Later, I only giggled like that when I was really drunk and we were doing something stupid.

Soft lips meeting, mine and yours. I took off those glasses so that I could get closer to you. I remember the feeling of your tongue in my mouth; how we were locked together so tightly in that mad embrace.

I could feel your hardness against me. I wanted you to be mine, wanted you even then.

*~*~*

The funeral - now that was a nasty affair. I've always hated black as is - except in your hair, of course. That black I loved, because it was a soft, glistening black that I could stroke and play with.

Your coffin was dark mahogany.

You hated mahogany - it was what the cabinets were made out of, the cabinets that the Death Eaters came through in sixth year.

I tried to tell them that you hated it, but they wouldn't listen. They knew that I was your best friend, that I knew you best. They didn't know that I knew you best in more ways than one.

We were all wearing black. Ginny and Hermione were wearing the same dress, but Hermione had her hair up and Ginny had hers down.

If you'd been alive, we would have laughed at them for wearing the same thing.

But now, I can't laugh with you any more.

I said that in my speech about you - that speech that I was bullied into doing. I said that what I'd miss most about you was the fact that I would never laugh with you again.

It wasn't really true. The thing I'll miss most about you is the fact that there's no more us.

*~*~*

The first time we slept together? May, fifth year. Just before one of our exams. I remember it, because we were both so nervous about the exam and then we suddenly became nervous about having sex, because we didn't really know what to do.

Sure, you'd kissed Cho before, but that was one or two kisses. It wasn't touching; it wasn't going all the way. I remember how angry I was when you came back and said you'd kissed her. I pretended to laugh at you, to joke about it.

I cried myself to sleep that night. And you never knew. I should have told you.

But us, our union, that was always secret. We locked the door of the dormitory, kept the map open on the floor to make sure that nobody was coming up the stairs.

I started it; I started kissing you and then slid my hands down past your waistband and touched you.

You pulled my shirt off and looked at my chest - I was thinner than you, and you could see the faint outlines of rib bones under my skin. You kissed every bone down my right side; bit my nipple so that I actually moaned.

We were naked, sweaty. That sweat hung between us, connecting us.

I can't remember who came first. Probably me, but you weren't far behind. We were kissing so frantically that I thought I'd suffocate you.

Afterwards, we lay there and looked at each other. You asked me if I'd like a fag - I said yes - you conjured them out of thin air. I caught your eye, and then we both burst out laughing.

*~*~*

After the funeral, I sat down to think about everything. I cried, sobbed, for hours. I remembered everything that we'd ever done, ever said. I realized then how much I loved you - how much I'd miss you - how much I missed you already.

It was hard to believe that you hadn't yet been dead a week.

I got my shaving razor. Well, our shaving razor - you used it whenever you came over. I broke the blade up and drew the sharp point through my skin - why is my skin so fair? I know that I'll scar, but then at least I'll have scars.

Like your scars. The one on your shoulder, the one on your forehead. Scars are memories, bad memories.

Well, this has to count as a bad memory. You only cut if you're desperate.

Not many guys cut. But I did, and I caught you at it once.

We cried together then. Not like now, because now I'm crying alone.

*~*~*

In sixth year, I had Lavender. You had Ginny. Fuck, you had Ginny. You slept with her, you slept with my sister. You slept with me, really, because Ginny's my sister and we're both the same. We've both got that pale skin, that red hair.

Well, I can't blame you. I slept with Lavender.

But you told me something one night that made me laugh - you'd been getting off with Ginny, and you'd almost moaned my name. I laughed and pulled you down.

Sure, we both felt guilty, cheating on our girlfriends.

But cheating is hard, especially when you had the other person first. So it was confusing.

But every night, we'd share a bed. We'd put a silencing charm around the outside of the curtains so that the others - Neville, Dean, Seamus - couldn't hear us.

I always loved you. I said it every night.

You said it ever night too. You said you'd love me forever.

*~*~*

Does that mean you still love me, even now that you're gone?

I guess that there's really only one way to find out, and that would be by killing myself.

Do I want to die?

Do I want to live without you?

Yes, No.

So this is what I'll leave, this musing on paper. I'll leave it on the desk, just as it is now. I'll leave the quill next to it, still dipped in the ink pot.

I'll kill myself with that razor that I used to cut with on the night of the funeral. I'll slit my wrists and then use the killing curse.

*~*~*

Harry, I'm coming. I'm coming for you, because I love you, I always loved you.

- Ron