Cities Under Crowns Of Snow
Title: Cities Under Crowns Of Snow
Summary: There is the smell of copper and regret in the air.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Godric/Salazar
Genre: AU, angst
Rating: PG; non-graphic violence
Warnings: None
Word Count: 413
Author's Notes: For Amy/etacanis's prompt: "But tell me you love this, tell me you're not miserable." Inspired by that and the poem it belongs to, 'Seaside Improvisation' by Richard Siken.
This is them.
They are standing in an alley, all cobblestones and bricks. Everything is dusted with dew and light morning rain. It's quiet; the moon is just fading away, and the crickets chirp, a lonely chorus hidden in the grass and rocks.
There is the smell of copper and regret in the air.
Godric is the one with the bloody fist and blank look. He's the one leaning against the wall, chest heaving, shirt wet with sweat and echoes of palms.
The one on the ground is Salazar. He's tall, and lean, and has a bloody nose, and he's twisted in pain but doesn't make a sound. There're eight drops of blood on his jeans and three on the buttons of his shirt. They gleam like rubies in the dawn. There are drops that look like diamonds in his eyes.
The words and the fight hang in the air like how Godric hangs the laundry on the clothesline two streets down. Messy, stuck clumsily to an almost-invisible line that his fingers never touch, because if they do they bleed.
There is no wind, and the crickets fall silent as the sun slides over the rooftops. Salazar stands and the tears shimmer like liquid gold, and then the illusion breaks as they fall uselessly to mingle with the puddles on the cobblestones.
There is a kiss, and Godric's back hurts. His sobs have nothing to do with the way Salazar is gripping his hips, not the way slender fingers card and tug through his too-long hair, and definitely not the way Salazar sends a bite to Godric's bottom lip.
It's never this furious, or this painful, and Godric doesn't let go, even though he tastes salt on his tongue, just whispers please as though Salazar will be bound by the letters and stay.
They head in for breakfast, and Godric's mother fusses over Salazar as they munch on bread and jam. Godric finds it hard to swallow but does, and drinks his tea, burning his tongue, and somehow that's preferable to the ache that's building in his chest and stomach and his bruised knuckles.
There's a uniform hanging on a thread in the yard outside, crumpled and still wet. There is a war coming, and it's too soon.
Right now though, this is them, Salazar with the swollen nose and Godric with the red-rimmed eyes, their hands locked tight in a promise under the kitchen table, fingernails pressing into skin.
Summary: There is the smell of copper and regret in the air.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Godric/Salazar
Genre: AU, angst
Rating: PG; non-graphic violence
Warnings: None
Word Count: 413
Author's Notes: For Amy/etacanis's prompt: "But tell me you love this, tell me you're not miserable." Inspired by that and the poem it belongs to, 'Seaside Improvisation' by Richard Siken.
This is them.
They are standing in an alley, all cobblestones and bricks. Everything is dusted with dew and light morning rain. It's quiet; the moon is just fading away, and the crickets chirp, a lonely chorus hidden in the grass and rocks.
There is the smell of copper and regret in the air.
Godric is the one with the bloody fist and blank look. He's the one leaning against the wall, chest heaving, shirt wet with sweat and echoes of palms.
The one on the ground is Salazar. He's tall, and lean, and has a bloody nose, and he's twisted in pain but doesn't make a sound. There're eight drops of blood on his jeans and three on the buttons of his shirt. They gleam like rubies in the dawn. There are drops that look like diamonds in his eyes.
The words and the fight hang in the air like how Godric hangs the laundry on the clothesline two streets down. Messy, stuck clumsily to an almost-invisible line that his fingers never touch, because if they do they bleed.
There is no wind, and the crickets fall silent as the sun slides over the rooftops. Salazar stands and the tears shimmer like liquid gold, and then the illusion breaks as they fall uselessly to mingle with the puddles on the cobblestones.
There is a kiss, and Godric's back hurts. His sobs have nothing to do with the way Salazar is gripping his hips, not the way slender fingers card and tug through his too-long hair, and definitely not the way Salazar sends a bite to Godric's bottom lip.
It's never this furious, or this painful, and Godric doesn't let go, even though he tastes salt on his tongue, just whispers please as though Salazar will be bound by the letters and stay.
They head in for breakfast, and Godric's mother fusses over Salazar as they munch on bread and jam. Godric finds it hard to swallow but does, and drinks his tea, burning his tongue, and somehow that's preferable to the ache that's building in his chest and stomach and his bruised knuckles.
There's a uniform hanging on a thread in the yard outside, crumpled and still wet. There is a war coming, and it's too soon.
Right now though, this is them, Salazar with the swollen nose and Godric with the red-rimmed eyes, their hands locked tight in a promise under the kitchen table, fingernails pressing into skin.