it’s odd, that sense of rhyme
Title: it’s odd, that sense of rhyme
Gift for: lowlands_girl
Pairing: Luna; Ginny/Luna
Rating: PG
Summary: The little ones are grinning fools, packs of giggles here and there, chubby fingers scratching away at status passes. It’s quite a sight to see, children, all children without a care in the world - they understand but it’s Christmas - and watching the train hover and wait; many reckon they won’t be back.
Additional Notes: Thank you, thank you to the many people who sat around and listened to me rant about the story, the beta for working through my insanity and caffeine co-dependency. Appreciate it, y’all. And to lowlands_girl, I hope you enjoy this.
-
And in my thinking
I'd steal you away
Though you never wanted me
Anyway
(pj harvey) silence
The train, the train!
The little ones are grinning fools, packs of giggles here and there, chubby fingers scratching away at status passes. It’s quite a sight to see, children, all children without a care in the world - they understand but it’s Christmas - and watching the train hover and wait; many reckon they won’t be back.
Luna, and her own pass, remains in Ginny’s hand as she kneels to straighten her peacock laces, soft and narrow, always handy as they’re brand new and Daddy’s back to his sullen apologies. It’s in his letters, already, the spread of guilt and the wonders of truth and what people forget that they need to know, to function, it’s really quite silly how people fall to react. But she laughs, a little, stroking her laces as Ginny frowns and the lines to the train become wider.
“Bastards.”
Oh, every right, the girl has every right with brothers, some lost and others found, and the spinning discrepancies choking the rest of the rational lot. Ginny worries. Ginny frowns. Luna tries not to follow, but the other girl is a rather pretty frowner.
“No,” she murmurs, standing. She taps Ginny’s nose, a soft hum, “Mad men are only sad and hungry - hungry mostly, famished, really. ‘suppose they don’t have Christmas biscuits for the lot on the other end.”
The other girl snorts, but presses her hand to Luna’s hip as they turn and wait. Oh, they’re counting heads and her eyes are following, one and two and three and oops, should’ve burned your acceptance letter, sweet, sweet Penny Jones.
It amazes her though, she’d like to have some sense of the moment, that none of these people, the mad ones and the angry ones, have enough sense to keep this a secret. Perhaps, she’s trying too hard to think like them; isn’t that what Harry had said, to think like them? - but she’d rather not and strays away, remembering how disheartened the other girl was.
“Rather sad.”
Poor Penny Jones is being pulled by her hair, away, away.
Ginny doesn’t answer.
-
They are quiet, mostly, again, mostly, because Neville’s left himself behind and she and Ginny are never inclined to talk more than they should.
She appreciates it, yes, the simple subtleties of a right silence. People talk more with ashes and movements, the paper words, the turn of a hand, and maybe a laugh. Luna’s tried studying it, studying it hard, but it never makes enough sense.
“You’re too worried,” she says instead, a twinge of irritation in her voice - she can’t see out the glass, the smoke is kissing too hard.
It’s obvious, yes, the neat little ending between Ginny and Harry are equated to function within fate and love and probable fantasy. She reckons so. But there are endings and there are endings and the thin line across her friend’s mouth is rather unsettling.
And so it opens, to Luna’s sigh, as the other girl turns and faces her. Ginny’s eyes are often too hard, too quick, and too done. It’s rather sad, she thinks, to see her like this; perhaps, it’s the pressure, the knots to be the accounted one in the family, to fulfill loose ends. She’s never really understood it.
“Will you miss me?” Odd question, but proper, yes.
Ginny’s turn fades into a strange curiosity, her knuckles pressing across her jumper. Luna’s hopeful, but not in that sense, it’s mere for a less angry string of words, all, really, that Ginny’s ultimately defined herself by nowadays.
“Miss you, Luna,” there’s coo, a slighting of amusement, as if she were being mocked, of course, as old news, “whatever for? You’re right here.”
It’s obvious too, but she remembers those words, not her words, to Mama some years ago, Mama and her cobweb dance, the pride of grins and Daddy’s laughter filling in somewhere off to the side. Their house was wide, even then.
Luna shrugs. “For now.”
Unrequited, perhaps, but Luna’s leaning forward and brushing her mouth against the other girl’s, soft and curious without hesitation and so becomes the assertion of certain things: you and i and me and you and them. But it will never get past this compartment, thin walls and foggy glass, her tongue lacing over Ginny’s.
Like that, sings her triumph, and she thinks about laughing, but only against her mouth; perhaps Ginny can taste a laugh.
Ginny’s breathing though, life and “Luna,” right into her mouth, over her lips as her fingers curl tightly in her hair. Oh, she must miss him and she misses her too; Ginny is rather lovely wild, bright eyes, and a flush of skin that opens just right for mouth, her mouth, Harry’s mouth -
“Oh,” she breathes, wet pants sliding across her friend’s cheek, “I must have gotten too carried away. Terribly sorry.”
Ginny is silent, still, and hands to the side.
-
Oh maybe, the story starts in a matter of footsteps.
Oh, yes. Luna is humming, a tossing wave to a Molly Weasley, a rather frazzled mum with wisps of gray and red, pink cheeks that might taste like Ginny. Her hand stays circling in the air until her friends stops, frowns and spills a tight worry.
“It’s a lovely day!”
What she doesn’t need to know, Luna hums, not even the mad, mad men are that stupid; they’ve been waiting, it’s in the air, and she folds her hands neatly as she sits on her trunk, one leg over the other.
Her fingers are sighing against her mouth, pressed firmly of course, and waiting for them, the big one and the awful one to come get her. They are slow, always slow, and she hopes that they’d pick up a pace -
Ginny waves goodbye, her hand hooked.
finished.
Gift for: lowlands_girl
Pairing: Luna; Ginny/Luna
Rating: PG
Summary: The little ones are grinning fools, packs of giggles here and there, chubby fingers scratching away at status passes. It’s quite a sight to see, children, all children without a care in the world - they understand but it’s Christmas - and watching the train hover and wait; many reckon they won’t be back.
Additional Notes: Thank you, thank you to the many people who sat around and listened to me rant about the story, the beta for working through my insanity and caffeine co-dependency. Appreciate it, y’all. And to lowlands_girl, I hope you enjoy this.
-
And in my thinking
I'd steal you away
Though you never wanted me
Anyway
(pj harvey) silence
The train, the train!
The little ones are grinning fools, packs of giggles here and there, chubby fingers scratching away at status passes. It’s quite a sight to see, children, all children without a care in the world - they understand but it’s Christmas - and watching the train hover and wait; many reckon they won’t be back.
Luna, and her own pass, remains in Ginny’s hand as she kneels to straighten her peacock laces, soft and narrow, always handy as they’re brand new and Daddy’s back to his sullen apologies. It’s in his letters, already, the spread of guilt and the wonders of truth and what people forget that they need to know, to function, it’s really quite silly how people fall to react. But she laughs, a little, stroking her laces as Ginny frowns and the lines to the train become wider.
“Bastards.”
Oh, every right, the girl has every right with brothers, some lost and others found, and the spinning discrepancies choking the rest of the rational lot. Ginny worries. Ginny frowns. Luna tries not to follow, but the other girl is a rather pretty frowner.
“No,” she murmurs, standing. She taps Ginny’s nose, a soft hum, “Mad men are only sad and hungry - hungry mostly, famished, really. ‘suppose they don’t have Christmas biscuits for the lot on the other end.”
The other girl snorts, but presses her hand to Luna’s hip as they turn and wait. Oh, they’re counting heads and her eyes are following, one and two and three and oops, should’ve burned your acceptance letter, sweet, sweet Penny Jones.
It amazes her though, she’d like to have some sense of the moment, that none of these people, the mad ones and the angry ones, have enough sense to keep this a secret. Perhaps, she’s trying too hard to think like them; isn’t that what Harry had said, to think like them? - but she’d rather not and strays away, remembering how disheartened the other girl was.
“Rather sad.”
Poor Penny Jones is being pulled by her hair, away, away.
Ginny doesn’t answer.
-
They are quiet, mostly, again, mostly, because Neville’s left himself behind and she and Ginny are never inclined to talk more than they should.
She appreciates it, yes, the simple subtleties of a right silence. People talk more with ashes and movements, the paper words, the turn of a hand, and maybe a laugh. Luna’s tried studying it, studying it hard, but it never makes enough sense.
“You’re too worried,” she says instead, a twinge of irritation in her voice - she can’t see out the glass, the smoke is kissing too hard.
It’s obvious, yes, the neat little ending between Ginny and Harry are equated to function within fate and love and probable fantasy. She reckons so. But there are endings and there are endings and the thin line across her friend’s mouth is rather unsettling.
And so it opens, to Luna’s sigh, as the other girl turns and faces her. Ginny’s eyes are often too hard, too quick, and too done. It’s rather sad, she thinks, to see her like this; perhaps, it’s the pressure, the knots to be the accounted one in the family, to fulfill loose ends. She’s never really understood it.
“Will you miss me?” Odd question, but proper, yes.
Ginny’s turn fades into a strange curiosity, her knuckles pressing across her jumper. Luna’s hopeful, but not in that sense, it’s mere for a less angry string of words, all, really, that Ginny’s ultimately defined herself by nowadays.
“Miss you, Luna,” there’s coo, a slighting of amusement, as if she were being mocked, of course, as old news, “whatever for? You’re right here.”
It’s obvious too, but she remembers those words, not her words, to Mama some years ago, Mama and her cobweb dance, the pride of grins and Daddy’s laughter filling in somewhere off to the side. Their house was wide, even then.
Luna shrugs. “For now.”
Unrequited, perhaps, but Luna’s leaning forward and brushing her mouth against the other girl’s, soft and curious without hesitation and so becomes the assertion of certain things: you and i and me and you and them. But it will never get past this compartment, thin walls and foggy glass, her tongue lacing over Ginny’s.
Like that, sings her triumph, and she thinks about laughing, but only against her mouth; perhaps Ginny can taste a laugh.
Ginny’s breathing though, life and “Luna,” right into her mouth, over her lips as her fingers curl tightly in her hair. Oh, she must miss him and she misses her too; Ginny is rather lovely wild, bright eyes, and a flush of skin that opens just right for mouth, her mouth, Harry’s mouth -
“Oh,” she breathes, wet pants sliding across her friend’s cheek, “I must have gotten too carried away. Terribly sorry.”
Ginny is silent, still, and hands to the side.
-
Oh maybe, the story starts in a matter of footsteps.
Oh, yes. Luna is humming, a tossing wave to a Molly Weasley, a rather frazzled mum with wisps of gray and red, pink cheeks that might taste like Ginny. Her hand stays circling in the air until her friends stops, frowns and spills a tight worry.
“It’s a lovely day!”
What she doesn’t need to know, Luna hums, not even the mad, mad men are that stupid; they’ve been waiting, it’s in the air, and she folds her hands neatly as she sits on her trunk, one leg over the other.
Her fingers are sighing against her mouth, pressed firmly of course, and waiting for them, the big one and the awful one to come get her. They are slow, always slow, and she hopes that they’d pick up a pace -
Ginny waves goodbye, her hand hooked.
finished.