(no subject)
Title: Fit the World Inside a Picture Frame
Fandoms: Harry Potter, Twilight
Characters: Cho Chang, Edward Cullen
Rating: G/PG
Word Count: 462
Note: Not beta'ed because I just feel like posting it and it's almost 4am, bleh.
The first thing she notices is the lack of warmth from him. She is used to the warmth, the comfort, the security she felt once upon a time.
No one could bring back the dead, they’d say. She knows that, her rationality always wins over her impulse, even if it means sacrificing her sanity. It isn’t until now, though, that she is starting to believe them, whoever “they” are.
The playfulness that always hides behind his eyes is gone. In its place, instead, is a glint of topaz, fiery and dangerous. You’ll get burned if you get too close. She does not dare, of course. Mum and Dad and Gran-mama have always taught her to not play with fire. Always stay away, fires are too hot to handle.
What will they say about ice fires, she wonders? Gran-mama probably won’t have a long-winded story about the detrimental consequences of playing with those.
“What are you?” She would like to think she’s read and seen everything. Perhaps there are really some things you can’t learn from textbooks. There’s something about this particular hands-on activity that sets it apart from any other. After all, the subject of love and lust is often, if not always, more complicated than re-potting mandrakes or approaching Hippogryffs.
His fingers linger on her cheek, her jaw, and she’s frozen like an icicle. She shivers, from the coldness, from the tenderness, from his ghostliness. Ghosts aren’t supposed to be cold, she remembers. They are transparent and intangible, it says so in her fourth year textbook, one that she’s memorised from cover to cover one night as she studied for her exams. With him.
Ghosts are, however, supposed to have things they can’t leave behind. That is, after all, the reason why they are what they are: they remain because they can’t move on.
Maybe he really is a ghost.
(It’s just not her that he can’t leave behind.)
“Someone who never learns.” She shakes her head and doesn’t dare break their contact, skin to skin. She craves for his hands, fingers with calluses, so unlike these cold, smooth marble stones. “What was he like?”
What a pointless question, she thinks. Why couldn’t he just dive into her head himself? Her finger twirls in his bronze strands. “Exactly like you.” Instead of the future she sees in his, his eyes are filled with guilt, loss, and the past, haunting his every fibre. A reflection of herself. “And completely opposite of you.”
She declines his offer of immortality, and she wonders if she is the only one. His skin may be cold by nature, yet his heart still burns for her. She insists he’s still got his soul, constantly. After all, how would she have found her kindred spirit if it’s gone?
Fandoms: Harry Potter, Twilight
Characters: Cho Chang, Edward Cullen
Rating: G/PG
Word Count: 462
Note: Not beta'ed because I just feel like posting it and it's almost 4am, bleh.
The first thing she notices is the lack of warmth from him. She is used to the warmth, the comfort, the security she felt once upon a time.
No one could bring back the dead, they’d say. She knows that, her rationality always wins over her impulse, even if it means sacrificing her sanity. It isn’t until now, though, that she is starting to believe them, whoever “they” are.
The playfulness that always hides behind his eyes is gone. In its place, instead, is a glint of topaz, fiery and dangerous. You’ll get burned if you get too close. She does not dare, of course. Mum and Dad and Gran-mama have always taught her to not play with fire. Always stay away, fires are too hot to handle.
What will they say about ice fires, she wonders? Gran-mama probably won’t have a long-winded story about the detrimental consequences of playing with those.
“What are you?” She would like to think she’s read and seen everything. Perhaps there are really some things you can’t learn from textbooks. There’s something about this particular hands-on activity that sets it apart from any other. After all, the subject of love and lust is often, if not always, more complicated than re-potting mandrakes or approaching Hippogryffs.
His fingers linger on her cheek, her jaw, and she’s frozen like an icicle. She shivers, from the coldness, from the tenderness, from his ghostliness. Ghosts aren’t supposed to be cold, she remembers. They are transparent and intangible, it says so in her fourth year textbook, one that she’s memorised from cover to cover one night as she studied for her exams. With him.
Ghosts are, however, supposed to have things they can’t leave behind. That is, after all, the reason why they are what they are: they remain because they can’t move on.
Maybe he really is a ghost.
(It’s just not her that he can’t leave behind.)
“Someone who never learns.” She shakes her head and doesn’t dare break their contact, skin to skin. She craves for his hands, fingers with calluses, so unlike these cold, smooth marble stones. “What was he like?”
What a pointless question, she thinks. Why couldn’t he just dive into her head himself? Her finger twirls in his bronze strands. “Exactly like you.” Instead of the future she sees in his, his eyes are filled with guilt, loss, and the past, haunting his every fibre. A reflection of herself. “And completely opposite of you.”
She declines his offer of immortality, and she wonders if she is the only one. His skin may be cold by nature, yet his heart still burns for her. She insists he’s still got his soul, constantly. After all, how would she have found her kindred spirit if it’s gone?