Another D/H snippet! ^__^
Well, today I had a talk with my mom, so everything's all patched up there. ^__^
I also went to my grandparents' house (mom and I never did wind up visiting last week #sheepish#) for my great-grandmother's birthday party, so that was nice. <333333333333
And, for some reason, I've been wanting to write a soft, gloomy sort of D/H drabble for the last day or so, so I've gone ahead and written it, and it's posted below. It's sort of melancholy, so if you don't like that sort of thing you probably shouldn't peek under the cut. ^__~
Angsty D/H snippet
Draco touches Harry’s face delicately; carefully; spreads his palm and long fingers slowly over one smooth, pale cheek and brushes his thumb for one lingering moment over the insolent curve of Harry’s pouty pink mouth-from its center to the very corner of his lips in a slow, sloped/dragging line too gentle to even make the other boy to flutter his long eyelashes and shift.
His skin is cool under Draco’s hand, and Draco thinks that’s wrong; Harry should be burn-your-fingers hot-should be bubbling, boiling, impatient fire, stinging/fierce under his touch.
This calm, this stillness in this gentle rest is all wrong, and Draco wants nothing more than for Harry to snap open his bright green eyes and fight-grab his wrist and yell and rage and shatter the eerie quiet into brittle-thin shards that crunch under hard words that make things right right right right right again.
This doesn’t happen; Harry is peaceful and undisturbed, and doesn’t flinch or stir when Draco leans down and kisses him-doesn’t wake up when Draco sobs into his mouth; when Draco clenches one fist in his red-and-gold pillowcase and his fingertips press into the messy mop of tangled black hair.
Harry is as lovely and serene as a mute marble statue; he is a study of light and dark and unmoving tranquility that Draco cannot so much see as sense, since tears have somehow found themselves blurring his vision and burning down his blotchy white cheeks.
Harry’s corpse is beautiful and unconcerned, and, somewhere inside him, some fragile could-have-been curls up tight in Draco’s shuddering chest, and dies.
I also went to my grandparents' house (mom and I never did wind up visiting last week #sheepish#) for my great-grandmother's birthday party, so that was nice. <333333333333
And, for some reason, I've been wanting to write a soft, gloomy sort of D/H drabble for the last day or so, so I've gone ahead and written it, and it's posted below. It's sort of melancholy, so if you don't like that sort of thing you probably shouldn't peek under the cut. ^__~
Angsty D/H snippet
Draco touches Harry’s face delicately; carefully; spreads his palm and long fingers slowly over one smooth, pale cheek and brushes his thumb for one lingering moment over the insolent curve of Harry’s pouty pink mouth-from its center to the very corner of his lips in a slow, sloped/dragging line too gentle to even make the other boy to flutter his long eyelashes and shift.
His skin is cool under Draco’s hand, and Draco thinks that’s wrong; Harry should be burn-your-fingers hot-should be bubbling, boiling, impatient fire, stinging/fierce under his touch.
This calm, this stillness in this gentle rest is all wrong, and Draco wants nothing more than for Harry to snap open his bright green eyes and fight-grab his wrist and yell and rage and shatter the eerie quiet into brittle-thin shards that crunch under hard words that make things right right right right right again.
This doesn’t happen; Harry is peaceful and undisturbed, and doesn’t flinch or stir when Draco leans down and kisses him-doesn’t wake up when Draco sobs into his mouth; when Draco clenches one fist in his red-and-gold pillowcase and his fingertips press into the messy mop of tangled black hair.
Harry is as lovely and serene as a mute marble statue; he is a study of light and dark and unmoving tranquility that Draco cannot so much see as sense, since tears have somehow found themselves blurring his vision and burning down his blotchy white cheeks.
Harry’s corpse is beautiful and unconcerned, and, somewhere inside him, some fragile could-have-been curls up tight in Draco’s shuddering chest, and dies.