(no subject)
Title: Without You
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Dennis Creevey (mentions of Colin)
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: All the sads ever.
Fourteen. Dennis was convinced that it was fourteen that was the unlucky number. Not thirteen. Fourteen was the number of years old he was when he went on the run with his family and fourteen was the number of years old he was when he lost Colin. He was absolutely convinced that his heart broke fourteen times, or at least a number divisible by fourteen. Everything hurt and nothing was correct. He wanted to go back to being thirteen. Thirteen was a much kinder number to him than fourteen ever was.
At fourteen Dennis had to slowly piece the world back together, hands bloody from the sharp corners and the little pieces of glass that he could no longer make fit into the broken mess that was his life. At fourteen, part of him died and it was never coming back to him. For fourteen minutes, Dennis hated his brother for leaving him. At least, this is what he claims. He will claim forever that fourteen is the worst number that was ever created. He would give up ever fourteen that he had, every single thing he ever owned, and even his own life to have Colin back but Colin never comes.
Once Dennis was sure that he heard Colin’s voice, heard him whispering excitedly about the birds singing outside, but when he sat up, there were no birds and there was no Colin. He was alone in the dark room that they used to share. He let out a small breath, eyes focused on the glass of the picture hanging on the wall. He watched the way the moon reflected off it. It looked like the glass was smiling, but that was silly, because glass didn’t smile. Glass stopped smiling the day Colin died.
It wasn’t fair. A world without Colin was no world at all. A world without Colin was painful and broken. It was turned into a terrifying monster that hid under his bed, in his closet, and sometimes inside himself. A million times he had written down that Colin should have lived, that a world without Dennis was much more bearable than a world without Colin. A month after his funeral one of his friends told him Colin would want him to smile, but what did he know? Who was he? What did he know about Colin? What did he know about him? What did he know about them? Nothing. They knew nothing.
Over time the sharp stabbing pain turned into a dull aching, and Dennis hated himself for it. Why should he feel better when Colin wasn’t there? Why should he do anything when Colin wasn’t there? It was horrible and bad, and he was horrible for getting better.
At school he broke down in the middle of his dorm room, all limbs and tears and one of the boys he knew hugged him, and it was just like the way that Colin used to hug him, and all Dennis could do was hold on tightly to the last part of Colin he had and hope he’d reach the surface alive. That was when he heard it, loud and clear as if Colin was standing right next to him. “Please don’t cry, Dennis. Please don’t cry. I’m still here. I’m always here. Even in the dark.”
Even though Dennis knew he’d never touch Colin again, never hear him laugh, he finally found the truth he needed. Colin was in his photographs, in every word in every letter he ever wrote him, and in the stuffed elephant he kept with him every night. Colin was gone, but not gone.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Dennis Creevey (mentions of Colin)
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: All the sads ever.
Fourteen. Dennis was convinced that it was fourteen that was the unlucky number. Not thirteen. Fourteen was the number of years old he was when he went on the run with his family and fourteen was the number of years old he was when he lost Colin. He was absolutely convinced that his heart broke fourteen times, or at least a number divisible by fourteen. Everything hurt and nothing was correct. He wanted to go back to being thirteen. Thirteen was a much kinder number to him than fourteen ever was.
At fourteen Dennis had to slowly piece the world back together, hands bloody from the sharp corners and the little pieces of glass that he could no longer make fit into the broken mess that was his life. At fourteen, part of him died and it was never coming back to him. For fourteen minutes, Dennis hated his brother for leaving him. At least, this is what he claims. He will claim forever that fourteen is the worst number that was ever created. He would give up ever fourteen that he had, every single thing he ever owned, and even his own life to have Colin back but Colin never comes.
Once Dennis was sure that he heard Colin’s voice, heard him whispering excitedly about the birds singing outside, but when he sat up, there were no birds and there was no Colin. He was alone in the dark room that they used to share. He let out a small breath, eyes focused on the glass of the picture hanging on the wall. He watched the way the moon reflected off it. It looked like the glass was smiling, but that was silly, because glass didn’t smile. Glass stopped smiling the day Colin died.
It wasn’t fair. A world without Colin was no world at all. A world without Colin was painful and broken. It was turned into a terrifying monster that hid under his bed, in his closet, and sometimes inside himself. A million times he had written down that Colin should have lived, that a world without Dennis was much more bearable than a world without Colin. A month after his funeral one of his friends told him Colin would want him to smile, but what did he know? Who was he? What did he know about Colin? What did he know about him? What did he know about them? Nothing. They knew nothing.
Over time the sharp stabbing pain turned into a dull aching, and Dennis hated himself for it. Why should he feel better when Colin wasn’t there? Why should he do anything when Colin wasn’t there? It was horrible and bad, and he was horrible for getting better.
At school he broke down in the middle of his dorm room, all limbs and tears and one of the boys he knew hugged him, and it was just like the way that Colin used to hug him, and all Dennis could do was hold on tightly to the last part of Colin he had and hope he’d reach the surface alive. That was when he heard it, loud and clear as if Colin was standing right next to him. “Please don’t cry, Dennis. Please don’t cry. I’m still here. I’m always here. Even in the dark.”
Even though Dennis knew he’d never touch Colin again, never hear him laugh, he finally found the truth he needed. Colin was in his photographs, in every word in every letter he ever wrote him, and in the stuffed elephant he kept with him every night. Colin was gone, but not gone.