DRABBLE: To Die By Your Side.
Title: To Die By Your Side
Ratings/Warnings: R; AU, Substance Abuse, Violence, Character Death
Characters: Evan Rosier and Marlene McKinnon
Pairings: Evan/Marlene
Word Count: 761
Note: Written for the SBBC April Activity, HP Couples Remix. The original pairing for this one was Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. I'm toying with the idea of expanding this one into a one-shot; what do you think?
Disclaimer: All characters and things you recognize belong to the genius that is J.K. Rowling. Words are mine.
Title is from "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" by The Smiths.
She stares at the wall across the room, watching the wallpaper dance before her eyes, as she takes another long drag on the cigarette she holds between her fingers. The bed she lies in is filthy but she’s too strung out and fucked up to care. The empty syringe lays discarded beside her; it’s a filthy Muggle habit, but one she has taken to nevertheless, and now she’s hooked and she just wants to die.
Looking up slowly, her eyes find his body cast in shadow across the room, hunched over that bass he still can’t play but that he practices frequently nonetheless. An over-sized t-shirt of his drapes over her body; he, on the other hand, is nude from the waist up. She watches him fiddling with the instrument for a moment before she speaks.
“If I died, would you die with me?”
Her voice is soft and raspy, but Evan looks up anyway. At her words, the plucking stops, and he looks at her for a long moment before he replies. “What do you want to die for?”
She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them, puts out her cigarette and looks at him. “What do I have to live for?” she replies without batting an eyelash.
Putting the bass down gingerly, he crawls up to her on the bed. “No, no,” he nearly pleads as he holds her. “You don’t have it half as bad as I do, Mar. At least you were somebody once. Your side won; you made a difference. Me, I was nothing. If anyone should die, it’s me.”
She curls into him as the memories come back in blotches. An inky house covered in an eerie glow swims before her tear-filled eyes. That was where he’d found her, as she’d arrived home an hour too late. Had she come home on time, it would have been her too, dead back then just like the rest of her family. Not long after that the war had ended, but it wasn’t the joyous aftermath everyone had been expecting; things had been left far too broken. With nothing left to loose and nothing to gain, she had clung to Evan Rosier, and he to her.
And she had ended up here in this dirty hotel room, addicted to a Muggle drug and wishing she was dead anyway.
They stayed holed up in room one hundred for weeks, scarcely leaving for anything. There was no need; there was no one to see, no places to go. Everything they needed came to them, even the drugs. She doesn’t know how they got here; how they spun so out of control. But it doesn’t matter.
They fight and they fight. All they ever do is fight. She screeches at him and he throws things at her, and vice versa. They feed off each other like weeds, eating away at one another. But he loves her. She doesn’t know why he loves her but he does. And she loves him, too.
But she hates her life more.
“Please, Evan,” she begs as she kisses him.
There is love in his eyes as he looks at her, and then it turns into anger. “So you want to die?” he growls. The knife he’d bought from a street vender in Knockturn Alley glints in his hand as he lunges at her. They wrestle and it’s hard to tell whose hands are where, but in the end they both give up and just lie together, holding each other as they drift off into a drugged sleep.
Early in the morning she wakes with him beside her in their bed, his arm curled around her bloody abdomen. The white sheets are now a deep red, but she doesn’t notice as she gets up and staggers toward the light of the bathroom, leaving a bloody trail along the wall where she uses it to hold herself up.
When he wakes in the morning, she is dead on the bathroom floor. He doesn’t say a word, not even when the Ministry investigators are there. He sits in silence and stares at nothing, barely moving at all until they take him away, all the while trying to picture her face the way he wants to remember it, before it was marred with pain and with blood.
It takes him three and half more months, but he eventually follows her, follows her on the end of the devil’s needle, down that dark black hole to death.
A promise is a promise, after all.
Ratings/Warnings: R; AU, Substance Abuse, Violence, Character Death
Characters: Evan Rosier and Marlene McKinnon
Pairings: Evan/Marlene
Word Count: 761
Note: Written for the SBBC April Activity, HP Couples Remix. The original pairing for this one was Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. I'm toying with the idea of expanding this one into a one-shot; what do you think?
Disclaimer: All characters and things you recognize belong to the genius that is J.K. Rowling. Words are mine.
Title is from "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" by The Smiths.
She stares at the wall across the room, watching the wallpaper dance before her eyes, as she takes another long drag on the cigarette she holds between her fingers. The bed she lies in is filthy but she’s too strung out and fucked up to care. The empty syringe lays discarded beside her; it’s a filthy Muggle habit, but one she has taken to nevertheless, and now she’s hooked and she just wants to die.
Looking up slowly, her eyes find his body cast in shadow across the room, hunched over that bass he still can’t play but that he practices frequently nonetheless. An over-sized t-shirt of his drapes over her body; he, on the other hand, is nude from the waist up. She watches him fiddling with the instrument for a moment before she speaks.
“If I died, would you die with me?”
Her voice is soft and raspy, but Evan looks up anyway. At her words, the plucking stops, and he looks at her for a long moment before he replies. “What do you want to die for?”
She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them, puts out her cigarette and looks at him. “What do I have to live for?” she replies without batting an eyelash.
Putting the bass down gingerly, he crawls up to her on the bed. “No, no,” he nearly pleads as he holds her. “You don’t have it half as bad as I do, Mar. At least you were somebody once. Your side won; you made a difference. Me, I was nothing. If anyone should die, it’s me.”
She curls into him as the memories come back in blotches. An inky house covered in an eerie glow swims before her tear-filled eyes. That was where he’d found her, as she’d arrived home an hour too late. Had she come home on time, it would have been her too, dead back then just like the rest of her family. Not long after that the war had ended, but it wasn’t the joyous aftermath everyone had been expecting; things had been left far too broken. With nothing left to loose and nothing to gain, she had clung to Evan Rosier, and he to her.
And she had ended up here in this dirty hotel room, addicted to a Muggle drug and wishing she was dead anyway.
They stayed holed up in room one hundred for weeks, scarcely leaving for anything. There was no need; there was no one to see, no places to go. Everything they needed came to them, even the drugs. She doesn’t know how they got here; how they spun so out of control. But it doesn’t matter.
They fight and they fight. All they ever do is fight. She screeches at him and he throws things at her, and vice versa. They feed off each other like weeds, eating away at one another. But he loves her. She doesn’t know why he loves her but he does. And she loves him, too.
But she hates her life more.
“Please, Evan,” she begs as she kisses him.
There is love in his eyes as he looks at her, and then it turns into anger. “So you want to die?” he growls. The knife he’d bought from a street vender in Knockturn Alley glints in his hand as he lunges at her. They wrestle and it’s hard to tell whose hands are where, but in the end they both give up and just lie together, holding each other as they drift off into a drugged sleep.
Early in the morning she wakes with him beside her in their bed, his arm curled around her bloody abdomen. The white sheets are now a deep red, but she doesn’t notice as she gets up and staggers toward the light of the bathroom, leaving a bloody trail along the wall where she uses it to hold herself up.
When he wakes in the morning, she is dead on the bathroom floor. He doesn’t say a word, not even when the Ministry investigators are there. He sits in silence and stares at nothing, barely moving at all until they take him away, all the while trying to picture her face the way he wants to remember it, before it was marred with pain and with blood.
It takes him three and half more months, but he eventually follows her, follows her on the end of the devil’s needle, down that dark black hole to death.
A promise is a promise, after all.