Fic: The Other Side of Winter (Rating PG)
Okay. I can't explain this at all. It's not the way I see Peter, it's not the way that I normally write Peter, but...well, here's the story.
Title: The Other Side of Winter
Rating: Under 16. Or PG. I think that I've invented an entirely new category: "genslash."
Characters/Pairings: Peter and Lucius.
Word Count: 918
Summary: Love can be merciless. Especially when you know you're in love with the wrong person.
Author's Note: Four challenges in one--unsympathetic character (July 2004), cold weather (December 2004), unrequited love (February 2005) and "Ides of March" (March 2005)--for hp_literotica. This is also a personal challenge in that it's the most insane pairing I could think of. My apologies for any confusion of pronouns.
I am now going to go write something extremely cheerful about little boys and kittens.
***
The other side of winter burns.
Not physically, of course. The pale blond hair of the man who is winter made flesh burns him no more than January sunlight; his grey eyes are as emotionless as an ice-crusted lake.
Internally, it's a different story.
He should not feel the way he does. He knows that. He should not yearn to hold this man. He should not want to see those cold grey eyes warming as they glance in his direction. He should not ache to feel his man's lips pressing against his own; he should not flush and grow hot at the thought of this man's teeth and tongue clashing with his. He should not want, with an intensity that causes actual pain, pale silken hair brushing across his chest or tickling his thighs.
He should not want this man to cup his plain face within winter-white fingers and smile at some secret handsomeness that has been there all along, but that no one else could see.
He should not, oh, he should not ache to see this man smile at him with blinding joy, like a beam of sunlight blazing through the clouds on an overcast winter day, causing the colourless snow to gleam and glisten with the fire of prismatic diamonds.
He should not want to be wanted.
Most emphatically, he should not ache to be loved.
Love is not a gift given to the ordinary. It is a luxury item, granted only to the rich, the powerful and the beautiful. Or those, like this man, who possess all three qualities.
Love is not for the poor, the powerless, the plain. Parents, teachers and friends have all told him love belongs to everybody, but he knows that is nothing more than a fumbling and well-intentioned lie. Love for the less than perfect is a dream. It only happens in fairy tales.
It does not help to know that this man is married, and happily, to a woman as fair and aristocratic as her husband. Her hair and eyes are a shade lighter than her husband's--hair of winter moonlight instead of sunlight, eyes the no-colour of clouds in February--but she is beautiful in a pristine and untouchable way. She even moves with her husband's instinctive grace, swift as a fox's shadow slipping across a shrouded hill of snow.
He would like to hate her. It would hurt less if he could hate her.
He can't, because she makes her husband happy. He can't wish unhappiness on the man he wants and--admit it--loves so desperately, even if the knowledge of the situation's hopelessness is like an icicle knife to his stomach. No ribs to deflect the attack, no. No strong muscle that could be injured and yet still heal. Just a slow, seeping wound that will eventually destroy him
What frightens him most about this sudden, unreasonable love is that it is not going away. It grows more powerful with every passing hour, never mind each day. It has sunk roots stronger than steel cables into his soul.
And he does not know why.
He does not understand why he loves this man. He has always fancied girls: petite, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with sharp wits and fiery tempers. He still finds himself eyeing such girls when he passes them on the street. He's never wanted any man before this; he doesn't know why he wants this one.
This embodiment of winter is most assuredly not a girl.
And for all his pure blood, the man is scarcely human. Zealous, hate-swollen words, as chill and crisply perfect as snowflakes, fall from his lips. Those flawless white hands have dealt death of Slytherin green too many times to count. Nor would love change anything. If he knew, the man would mock him-- stupid, homely, common little Muggleborn that he is--with a smile as cold as a winter moon, and with laughter like icicles shattering.
No honourable man could love someone like this.
But honour is little comfort in an empty bed at three in the morning. Honour has a November look and a tepid taste. Honour is duty in sensible shoes.
He is weary of honour, and practicality, and chilly common sense. He wants rapture, passion, sin--just once. One word. One smile. It would be enough. Enough for a lifetime.
He doesn't think in terms of lifelong love, or even a one-night stand. Either would involve someone wanting him, and that will never happen. He'll settle for what might be remotely possible--a kind look, a gentle word.
He cannot tell his friends, for they would never understand. How could they? He doesn't understand it himself.
He keeps his own counsel and says nothing. He is used to concealing unspeakable secrets.
It does not occur to him that love, like a cough, is hard to hide.
One day, while on some pointless errand, he passes the man on the street. He cannot prevent himself from glancing hungrily at the man, from raking the man with a look of undiluted yearning and misery. He does not realise that his emotions are smeared across his face like strawberry jam, because he is nineteen.
The man notices. First he gazes at him in startlement, then, slowly and dramatically, favours him with a smile.
He does not see the acquisitiveness in that smile--only the pleasure. He stares for a moment, then smiles in return, incredulous joy lighting his face like Easter sunrise.
And he is lost.
Title: The Other Side of Winter
Rating: Under 16. Or PG. I think that I've invented an entirely new category: "genslash."
Characters/Pairings: Peter and Lucius.
Word Count: 918
Summary: Love can be merciless. Especially when you know you're in love with the wrong person.
Author's Note: Four challenges in one--unsympathetic character (July 2004), cold weather (December 2004), unrequited love (February 2005) and "Ides of March" (March 2005)--for hp_literotica. This is also a personal challenge in that it's the most insane pairing I could think of. My apologies for any confusion of pronouns.
I am now going to go write something extremely cheerful about little boys and kittens.
***
The other side of winter burns.
Not physically, of course. The pale blond hair of the man who is winter made flesh burns him no more than January sunlight; his grey eyes are as emotionless as an ice-crusted lake.
Internally, it's a different story.
He should not feel the way he does. He knows that. He should not yearn to hold this man. He should not want to see those cold grey eyes warming as they glance in his direction. He should not ache to feel his man's lips pressing against his own; he should not flush and grow hot at the thought of this man's teeth and tongue clashing with his. He should not want, with an intensity that causes actual pain, pale silken hair brushing across his chest or tickling his thighs.
He should not want this man to cup his plain face within winter-white fingers and smile at some secret handsomeness that has been there all along, but that no one else could see.
He should not, oh, he should not ache to see this man smile at him with blinding joy, like a beam of sunlight blazing through the clouds on an overcast winter day, causing the colourless snow to gleam and glisten with the fire of prismatic diamonds.
He should not want to be wanted.
Most emphatically, he should not ache to be loved.
Love is not a gift given to the ordinary. It is a luxury item, granted only to the rich, the powerful and the beautiful. Or those, like this man, who possess all three qualities.
Love is not for the poor, the powerless, the plain. Parents, teachers and friends have all told him love belongs to everybody, but he knows that is nothing more than a fumbling and well-intentioned lie. Love for the less than perfect is a dream. It only happens in fairy tales.
It does not help to know that this man is married, and happily, to a woman as fair and aristocratic as her husband. Her hair and eyes are a shade lighter than her husband's--hair of winter moonlight instead of sunlight, eyes the no-colour of clouds in February--but she is beautiful in a pristine and untouchable way. She even moves with her husband's instinctive grace, swift as a fox's shadow slipping across a shrouded hill of snow.
He would like to hate her. It would hurt less if he could hate her.
He can't, because she makes her husband happy. He can't wish unhappiness on the man he wants and--admit it--loves so desperately, even if the knowledge of the situation's hopelessness is like an icicle knife to his stomach. No ribs to deflect the attack, no. No strong muscle that could be injured and yet still heal. Just a slow, seeping wound that will eventually destroy him
What frightens him most about this sudden, unreasonable love is that it is not going away. It grows more powerful with every passing hour, never mind each day. It has sunk roots stronger than steel cables into his soul.
And he does not know why.
He does not understand why he loves this man. He has always fancied girls: petite, dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with sharp wits and fiery tempers. He still finds himself eyeing such girls when he passes them on the street. He's never wanted any man before this; he doesn't know why he wants this one.
This embodiment of winter is most assuredly not a girl.
And for all his pure blood, the man is scarcely human. Zealous, hate-swollen words, as chill and crisply perfect as snowflakes, fall from his lips. Those flawless white hands have dealt death of Slytherin green too many times to count. Nor would love change anything. If he knew, the man would mock him-- stupid, homely, common little Muggleborn that he is--with a smile as cold as a winter moon, and with laughter like icicles shattering.
No honourable man could love someone like this.
But honour is little comfort in an empty bed at three in the morning. Honour has a November look and a tepid taste. Honour is duty in sensible shoes.
He is weary of honour, and practicality, and chilly common sense. He wants rapture, passion, sin--just once. One word. One smile. It would be enough. Enough for a lifetime.
He doesn't think in terms of lifelong love, or even a one-night stand. Either would involve someone wanting him, and that will never happen. He'll settle for what might be remotely possible--a kind look, a gentle word.
He cannot tell his friends, for they would never understand. How could they? He doesn't understand it himself.
He keeps his own counsel and says nothing. He is used to concealing unspeakable secrets.
It does not occur to him that love, like a cough, is hard to hide.
One day, while on some pointless errand, he passes the man on the street. He cannot prevent himself from glancing hungrily at the man, from raking the man with a look of undiluted yearning and misery. He does not realise that his emotions are smeared across his face like strawberry jam, because he is nineteen.
The man notices. First he gazes at him in startlement, then, slowly and dramatically, favours him with a smile.
He does not see the acquisitiveness in that smile--only the pleasure. He stares for a moment, then smiles in return, incredulous joy lighting his face like Easter sunrise.
And he is lost.