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rynneTonight I joined in with all these people at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
queerditch_pub for the drabble night, and OMG SO FUN. I will definitely be joining in more often! Anyway, here are my drabbles. The theme was book titles. All of mine are a collective...G o_O.
She’s come undone, she’s still coming undone, and he can do nothing but watch it happening.
Too many responsibilities, he thinks. She tries so hard to fulfill them all and ends up fulfilling none. But isn’t that the way of the world?
He tries to take care of her as best he can, even when her hair, brown as dirt and curling around reed shoots, seems as matted and tangled as his own glossy, greasy black. She doesn’t see the need to take care of it anymore, which is a pity. He’s always liked her hair, however big it was.
She doesn’t act mad, though, and he’s not sure if he acts sane. He takes care of her, because however mad she doesn’t act, she still doesn’t seem like she’s ready to live in the world she left behind, the world full of friends and family. He doesn’t live there either, but he’s not sure he ever did, and so he feels he’s uniquely suited to caring for her.
She’s come undone, but he’s slowly working on putting her back together. Maybe one day she’ll look at him and her brown eyes won’t be so muddy anymore. And maybe then she’ll help take care of him too, because he’s not exactly sane either.
James watched and compared, because there wasn’t much else he could do.
Those lines in his face now—they hadn’t been there before. The stroke of a brush needed to create them had been spent on adding color to his hair—color that wasn’t there anymore either, having replaced the vibrant auburn-brown with grey.
The smile was the same, though, inasmuch as Remus smiled. James had got him to smile for the painting of the portrait, but not much beyond that—he’d always thought it was horrible that Remus didn’t smile as often as he should. Remus’s smile could light up the world—or at least it could light up James well enough.
But Remus smiled as the paint dried, and he laughed when James put down the brush, amateur artist painting the master.
“I’ll never grow old now,” he’d said, his lips so close to James’s, “not as long as you’ve got that portrait of me to remind yourself.”
And James was reminded, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to be. He couldn’t do much else, though—shades didn’t live like Remus did, didn’t laugh like Remus laughed, didn’t smile like Remus smiled, and James was dead while Remus lived and laughed and smiled.
“You’re so young,” James murmured to the portrait. The portrait didn’t say anything in response, of course. But if it had, James could just imagine Remus’s voice.
“I don’t feel young.”
James was young, and would be forever young, as Remus grew older. But at least he’d still have this portrait to look at. He was no artist, and it wasn’t as masterful as it could be, as it would have been had it been Remus painting it, but James didn’t need anything more, not really. He still had the real Remus to look at, after all, even if he wasn’t all that young anymore.
With what remains of the day, they go laughing around the world. It belongs to them, a juicy apply just waiting for them to sink their teeth into, and they will, and let the juice drip down their chins so they can lick it off and laugh some more.
With what remains of the day, Ron says, Hey, remember this? And he trails kisses of fire down Harry's chest and lick at the sweat, as salty as the sea they've seen in their travels laughing around the world. And Harry says, Yes. Because he does remember it, and remembers that he did it too, and shows Ron the same thing.
With what remains of the day, they take each other's hands and fly across the sky, brooms so close together that their knees are touching and the skin is so warmwarmwarm. But that's what Ron is and what Harry is, just warmwarmwarm, and laughter as they fly around the world, because they can.
With what remains of the day, they wrestle with each other ohsogently, and it's almost an excuse they have just to hold each other close and closer, and much as they can. They're close and closer, as close as is possible, and they have been for so long that they think forever will end before they do.
With what remains of the day, Ron says, Harry, I love you. And he shows Harry, because they're closecloseclose and warmwarmwarm and just together the way they are, and it's ohsoobvious that yes, Ron loves Harry and always has. And Harry says, Ron…and shows Ron that he loves him too, even if he doesn't exactly say it because it's hard sometimes, though he doesn't want to remember why. That's for the night, and there's still so many things to do with what remains of the day.
“I hate you,” Harry says.
“I know,” Tom replies. It doesn’t make him stop, though.
“I hate you,” Harry says again.
“Of course,” Tom replies. He’s still not stopping.
“Do you hate me?” Harry demands.
“What do you think?” Tom asks in reply.
Harry wants to say that that’s not an answer, but he knows that Tom knows that as well as he does. And so he sits back, and sighs.
“If I hate you, and you hate me,” Harry says, thinking aloud and watching Tom watch him, “then why are we doing this?”
“Why not?” asks Tom, smoothing back Harry’s hair. “Is there anything else you’d rather be doing?”
“I’m supposed to kill you, you know,” Harry says flatly. “I’m not supposed to sleep with you.”
Tom laughs, and there’s something of a hissing snake in it, somehow. “But if you don’t, then where will you be?”
“…Miserable,” Harry admits. “But nothing ever said that I wouldn’t have a miserable life. And I think that I’d be miserable too, even if I don’t try to kill you. Everyone who thinks I should would make sure that I am.”
Tom kisses him gently. “But which miserable would you choose, if you had a choice?” he asks. “Miserable with me or miserable without me?”
“…I hate you,” Harry says. “You know very well what I would choose. You’ve been inside my head.”
“And you’ve been inside mine,” Tom reminds him. “You know me as well as I know you, don’t you?”
Harry looks up. “I’m not sure,” he answers. “I know your desires…”
“What else is there?” Tom asks. “There’s my desires, and your desires, and everyone else’s desires…”
“My desires…” Harry says slowly. He looks back at Tom, looks down at their fingers and hands curling together, at the way Harry’s head fits so neatly below Tom’s chin.
“What are your desires, Harry?” Tom whispers. He presses a kiss into Harry’s hair and smiles against the soft strands, and Harry thinks that it’s obvious.
“You know what they are,” Harry says, and presses a kiss against Tom’s throat, and feels it move as Tom chuckles. “You know as well as I do, if not better, exactly what I desire.”
“So if you had a choice, what would you choose?” Tom’s eyes glitter, reminding Harry for a bit of the snakes on the door to the Chamber of Secrets, and the secret that started this all.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Harry says, his hands traveling down Tom’s arms and raising the hair on his skin. “I’m not sure if I even really have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Tom murmurs, and stretches slightly against Harry, cat-like, lazy. “There’s always a choice.”
“Miserable with you or miserable without you,” Harry says. “Not much of a choice.”
Tom smiles. “I didn’t say that there’s much of one,” he says, “just that there is one.”
“I should know better than to play word games with you,” Harry tells him, and Tom holds him closer, warm body against warm body.
“You know what I would want you to choose, though,” Tom says almost sleepily.
“I do,” Harry says, “and of course that’s influencing.” Tom smiles.
“It’s supposed to,” Tom replies. “I’ll do anything I can to have you, Harry.” He kisses him again, hungrily, and Harry responds, because he’s hungry to.
“Misery versus misery…” Harry whispers. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Tom smiles.
Luna bought a scarf, and wore it almost everywhere, even during the summer. Ginny told her that her throat would get hot and itchy, but Luna just laughed.
“Other things get hot and itchy, but not my throat,” Luna said in reply, and now it was Ginny’s turn to laugh, because she knew what Luna meant, how could she not…
Luna’s scarf was red, and Ginny told her that a different color would go better with her hair and skin tone, but Luna said no, she wanted the red, and only the red.
“Why the red?” Ginny asked.
“Because of what it signifies,” Luna replied.
Ginny could think of a few things it could signify—blood, chief among those. She shuddered, and wondered why Luna would want that.
But then Luna’s arms went around her and a soft kiss was pressed into her hair. “Blood’s not the only thing that’s red,” Luna said. “And it’s certainly not the most important of them.”
“What else?” Ginny asked. “Why red?”
Luna smiled. “Your hair is red,” she told her. “And your temper is red, and the color of your cheeks when you get angry or embarrassed is red. Your freckles are red. You are red. That’s what else, and that’s why red.”
Ginny smiled and kissed her, and never wondered about Luna’s red scarf again.
queerditch_pub for the drabble night, and OMG SO FUN. I will definitely be joining in more often! Anyway, here are my drabbles. The theme was book titles. All of mine are a collective...G o_O.She’s come undone, she’s still coming undone, and he can do nothing but watch it happening.
Too many responsibilities, he thinks. She tries so hard to fulfill them all and ends up fulfilling none. But isn’t that the way of the world?
He tries to take care of her as best he can, even when her hair, brown as dirt and curling around reed shoots, seems as matted and tangled as his own glossy, greasy black. She doesn’t see the need to take care of it anymore, which is a pity. He’s always liked her hair, however big it was.
She doesn’t act mad, though, and he’s not sure if he acts sane. He takes care of her, because however mad she doesn’t act, she still doesn’t seem like she’s ready to live in the world she left behind, the world full of friends and family. He doesn’t live there either, but he’s not sure he ever did, and so he feels he’s uniquely suited to caring for her.
She’s come undone, but he’s slowly working on putting her back together. Maybe one day she’ll look at him and her brown eyes won’t be so muddy anymore. And maybe then she’ll help take care of him too, because he’s not exactly sane either.
James watched and compared, because there wasn’t much else he could do.
Those lines in his face now—they hadn’t been there before. The stroke of a brush needed to create them had been spent on adding color to his hair—color that wasn’t there anymore either, having replaced the vibrant auburn-brown with grey.
The smile was the same, though, inasmuch as Remus smiled. James had got him to smile for the painting of the portrait, but not much beyond that—he’d always thought it was horrible that Remus didn’t smile as often as he should. Remus’s smile could light up the world—or at least it could light up James well enough.
But Remus smiled as the paint dried, and he laughed when James put down the brush, amateur artist painting the master.
“I’ll never grow old now,” he’d said, his lips so close to James’s, “not as long as you’ve got that portrait of me to remind yourself.”
And James was reminded, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to be. He couldn’t do much else, though—shades didn’t live like Remus did, didn’t laugh like Remus laughed, didn’t smile like Remus smiled, and James was dead while Remus lived and laughed and smiled.
“You’re so young,” James murmured to the portrait. The portrait didn’t say anything in response, of course. But if it had, James could just imagine Remus’s voice.
“I don’t feel young.”
James was young, and would be forever young, as Remus grew older. But at least he’d still have this portrait to look at. He was no artist, and it wasn’t as masterful as it could be, as it would have been had it been Remus painting it, but James didn’t need anything more, not really. He still had the real Remus to look at, after all, even if he wasn’t all that young anymore.
With what remains of the day, they go laughing around the world. It belongs to them, a juicy apply just waiting for them to sink their teeth into, and they will, and let the juice drip down their chins so they can lick it off and laugh some more.
With what remains of the day, Ron says, Hey, remember this? And he trails kisses of fire down Harry's chest and lick at the sweat, as salty as the sea they've seen in their travels laughing around the world. And Harry says, Yes. Because he does remember it, and remembers that he did it too, and shows Ron the same thing.
With what remains of the day, they take each other's hands and fly across the sky, brooms so close together that their knees are touching and the skin is so warmwarmwarm. But that's what Ron is and what Harry is, just warmwarmwarm, and laughter as they fly around the world, because they can.
With what remains of the day, they wrestle with each other ohsogently, and it's almost an excuse they have just to hold each other close and closer, and much as they can. They're close and closer, as close as is possible, and they have been for so long that they think forever will end before they do.
With what remains of the day, Ron says, Harry, I love you. And he shows Harry, because they're closecloseclose and warmwarmwarm and just together the way they are, and it's ohsoobvious that yes, Ron loves Harry and always has. And Harry says, Ron…and shows Ron that he loves him too, even if he doesn't exactly say it because it's hard sometimes, though he doesn't want to remember why. That's for the night, and there's still so many things to do with what remains of the day.
“I hate you,” Harry says.
“I know,” Tom replies. It doesn’t make him stop, though.
“I hate you,” Harry says again.
“Of course,” Tom replies. He’s still not stopping.
“Do you hate me?” Harry demands.
“What do you think?” Tom asks in reply.
Harry wants to say that that’s not an answer, but he knows that Tom knows that as well as he does. And so he sits back, and sighs.
“If I hate you, and you hate me,” Harry says, thinking aloud and watching Tom watch him, “then why are we doing this?”
“Why not?” asks Tom, smoothing back Harry’s hair. “Is there anything else you’d rather be doing?”
“I’m supposed to kill you, you know,” Harry says flatly. “I’m not supposed to sleep with you.”
Tom laughs, and there’s something of a hissing snake in it, somehow. “But if you don’t, then where will you be?”
“…Miserable,” Harry admits. “But nothing ever said that I wouldn’t have a miserable life. And I think that I’d be miserable too, even if I don’t try to kill you. Everyone who thinks I should would make sure that I am.”
Tom kisses him gently. “But which miserable would you choose, if you had a choice?” he asks. “Miserable with me or miserable without me?”
“…I hate you,” Harry says. “You know very well what I would choose. You’ve been inside my head.”
“And you’ve been inside mine,” Tom reminds him. “You know me as well as I know you, don’t you?”
Harry looks up. “I’m not sure,” he answers. “I know your desires…”
“What else is there?” Tom asks. “There’s my desires, and your desires, and everyone else’s desires…”
“My desires…” Harry says slowly. He looks back at Tom, looks down at their fingers and hands curling together, at the way Harry’s head fits so neatly below Tom’s chin.
“What are your desires, Harry?” Tom whispers. He presses a kiss into Harry’s hair and smiles against the soft strands, and Harry thinks that it’s obvious.
“You know what they are,” Harry says, and presses a kiss against Tom’s throat, and feels it move as Tom chuckles. “You know as well as I do, if not better, exactly what I desire.”
“So if you had a choice, what would you choose?” Tom’s eyes glitter, reminding Harry for a bit of the snakes on the door to the Chamber of Secrets, and the secret that started this all.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Harry says, his hands traveling down Tom’s arms and raising the hair on his skin. “I’m not sure if I even really have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Tom murmurs, and stretches slightly against Harry, cat-like, lazy. “There’s always a choice.”
“Miserable with you or miserable without you,” Harry says. “Not much of a choice.”
Tom smiles. “I didn’t say that there’s much of one,” he says, “just that there is one.”
“I should know better than to play word games with you,” Harry tells him, and Tom holds him closer, warm body against warm body.
“You know what I would want you to choose, though,” Tom says almost sleepily.
“I do,” Harry says, “and of course that’s influencing.” Tom smiles.
“It’s supposed to,” Tom replies. “I’ll do anything I can to have you, Harry.” He kisses him again, hungrily, and Harry responds, because he’s hungry to.
“Misery versus misery…” Harry whispers. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Tom smiles.
Luna bought a scarf, and wore it almost everywhere, even during the summer. Ginny told her that her throat would get hot and itchy, but Luna just laughed.
“Other things get hot and itchy, but not my throat,” Luna said in reply, and now it was Ginny’s turn to laugh, because she knew what Luna meant, how could she not…
Luna’s scarf was red, and Ginny told her that a different color would go better with her hair and skin tone, but Luna said no, she wanted the red, and only the red.
“Why the red?” Ginny asked.
“Because of what it signifies,” Luna replied.
Ginny could think of a few things it could signify—blood, chief among those. She shuddered, and wondered why Luna would want that.
But then Luna’s arms went around her and a soft kiss was pressed into her hair. “Blood’s not the only thing that’s red,” Luna said. “And it’s certainly not the most important of them.”
“What else?” Ginny asked. “Why red?”
Luna smiled. “Your hair is red,” she told her. “And your temper is red, and the color of your cheeks when you get angry or embarrassed is red. Your freckles are red. You are red. That’s what else, and that’s why red.”
Ginny smiled and kissed her, and never wondered about Luna’s red scarf again.
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Date: 2004-08-09 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-10 12:04 am (UTC)