Fic: I'd Give This World
I’d Give This World
Beta:
13_moons
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: #37 - Post-War at
hd_angst
Warnings: Sadness, Suicide, and death, oh my.
Disclaimer: JKR's, not mine, etc.
Summary: “At one time you would have said you’d pay any price to win this war. You did not foresee the slow and subtle torture left behind by that which is most evil. You were not prepared to be blindsided by the fierce grip of absolute devotion Draco brought to your life.”
Breathing is irrefutable. Air goes in, air goes out, you live. Run too fast, swim too far below the surface of the water, and your body reminds you with a piercing burning fire that you need. more. air.
You lean forward, elbows resting on the table, and lift the cup of tea to your lips. Exhale, and the tendrils of steam rising from the cup turn to billowing thunderclouds, fogging your glasses and obscuring your vision. You hold your breath, and watch the world return to view as the moisture evaporates away.
Inhale.
Exhale.
In the grey shadows of morning, back when his breathing was soft and measured, you used to watch Draco’s chest rise and fall. Sometimes, you remember, when the potions hadn’t worked and the pain had been so great that Draco cried himself to sleep, you would lay your hand on the thin skin of his bare chest, feeling the steady heartbeat, the nearly imperceptible movements of a body finally settled in a deep sleep. You would watch your hand on his chest, rub your thumb against the scars, and let the rhythm pull you back down into your own dreams.
Inhale.
The steam curls up in lazy circles, and you watch them rise toward the ceiling, dissipating before they reach their goal. You can feel the heat of condensation, warm and moist on your skin. You run your thumb along your cheek, soft and hot, so different from how Draco’s skin felt by the end, dry and tight and paper-thin.
You had both fought long and hard to keep the poison from working its way through Draco’s body-a cold, hate-filled fire that flared to life on his left arm before it began moving, seeking out his warm blood, his strong muscles. Its progress was slow, maybe a centimeter a month, maybe two. Slow enough to leave you cocky and confident before reminding you of its final purpose with inexorable, mind-numbing pain.
It was almost one year ago, on your birthday, that you finally came to terms with his failing body. He’d argued most passionately for the right to shop for your present on his own. You had opened the door three hours later to fetch the mail, only to find him collapsed on the floor of the hall. Too stubborn and impatient to wait for the lift to only go up one goddamn fucking flight of stairs, he had whispered, voice ragged as his lungs fought for air, his breathing like the sound of dry leaves scraping against metal. You could only sit with him on the ground, arms wound tight around his too thin body, and weep.
At one time you would have said you’d pay any price to win this war. You did not foresee the slow and subtle torture left behind by that which is most evil. You were not prepared to be blindsided by the fierce grip of absolute devotion Draco brought to your life.
Exhale, a sigh, and fade away. You wish you could hide behind the fog forever.
“Hey mate.” It’s Dean’s voice, always soft, steady, even in crisis. Dean’s voice, which probably meant Seamus was there as well. Sometimes Dean meant Ginny, but it was a weekday afternoon in Diagon Alley, and for that, Dean meant Seamus. You tense slightly, but you’ve faced worse, so you tilt your head back and let the fog dissipate, bringing Dean into view, Seamus behind him.
“How’s it going?” Dean was always persistent, where most people would choose avoidance. Seamus simply scowled, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and looked at his feet.
You hunch your shoulders in some semblance of a shrug. “Going.”
Seamus shuffled his feet. He hadn’t spoken to you in six years, and saw no need to start now. Dean spared him a glance, before returning his gaze to you. Exhale, and Dean and Seamus disappear for a few blissful seconds.
“I heard about Draco. I’m sorry.”
You take a sip of the scalding tea and let it burn its way down your throat and up into your ears and through your lungs, hot and red. Then exhale exhale exhale to hide the tears that rise too easily, and blink hard and fast and will them away and will Dean and Seamus and the whole fucking world away. Exhale again, slow and long and careful, and let the anguish sink back down until the lenses clear and you can face Dean again.
“S’okay.”
Seamus snorts softly, and shakes his head. You should feel more hate for Seamus, the bigoted fuck, but you can barely muster the energy to speak, so you let it go. You should never have come to this café, should never have left the house.
Should have, shouldn’t have, should have, shouldn’t have.
The world marched merrily on, riding high on peace and prosperity, and you should have been there even though Draco asked you to go, shouldn’t have left him when you knew just how much he’d been lost to the pain, should have fucking been the one to find him with his Dark Mark slashed to ribbons and one final cut on the other wrist for good measure.
‘I love you,’ the note had read. ‘I’m sorry. It hurts.’
“Harry? I said is there anything you need?” You blink, and look up at Dean. Seamus has turned his back on you in favor of looking out the window. It was a hot day, probably too hot for tea in the afternoon, or so you sense by the comment made at your choice of beverage when you ordered. You spend too much time in the dark of your bedroom to even remember what it is like to feel the wet squelch of spring, the crisp winds of fall, the claustrophobic summer heat. Crowds of people move by, in too bright clothes, breathing in the late August air and exhaling it with too bright laughter.
“Nothing you can give me.”
Exhale. The fog slides up the lenses of your glasses. When the moisture evaporates, Dean and Seamus are gone.
Beta:
13_moons
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: #37 - Post-War at
hd_angst
Warnings: Sadness, Suicide, and death, oh my.
Disclaimer: JKR's, not mine, etc.
Summary: “At one time you would have said you’d pay any price to win this war. You did not foresee the slow and subtle torture left behind by that which is most evil. You were not prepared to be blindsided by the fierce grip of absolute devotion Draco brought to your life.”
Breathing is irrefutable. Air goes in, air goes out, you live. Run too fast, swim too far below the surface of the water, and your body reminds you with a piercing burning fire that you need. more. air.
You lean forward, elbows resting on the table, and lift the cup of tea to your lips. Exhale, and the tendrils of steam rising from the cup turn to billowing thunderclouds, fogging your glasses and obscuring your vision. You hold your breath, and watch the world return to view as the moisture evaporates away.
Inhale.
Exhale.
In the grey shadows of morning, back when his breathing was soft and measured, you used to watch Draco’s chest rise and fall. Sometimes, you remember, when the potions hadn’t worked and the pain had been so great that Draco cried himself to sleep, you would lay your hand on the thin skin of his bare chest, feeling the steady heartbeat, the nearly imperceptible movements of a body finally settled in a deep sleep. You would watch your hand on his chest, rub your thumb against the scars, and let the rhythm pull you back down into your own dreams.
Inhale.
The steam curls up in lazy circles, and you watch them rise toward the ceiling, dissipating before they reach their goal. You can feel the heat of condensation, warm and moist on your skin. You run your thumb along your cheek, soft and hot, so different from how Draco’s skin felt by the end, dry and tight and paper-thin.
You had both fought long and hard to keep the poison from working its way through Draco’s body-a cold, hate-filled fire that flared to life on his left arm before it began moving, seeking out his warm blood, his strong muscles. Its progress was slow, maybe a centimeter a month, maybe two. Slow enough to leave you cocky and confident before reminding you of its final purpose with inexorable, mind-numbing pain.
It was almost one year ago, on your birthday, that you finally came to terms with his failing body. He’d argued most passionately for the right to shop for your present on his own. You had opened the door three hours later to fetch the mail, only to find him collapsed on the floor of the hall. Too stubborn and impatient to wait for the lift to only go up one goddamn fucking flight of stairs, he had whispered, voice ragged as his lungs fought for air, his breathing like the sound of dry leaves scraping against metal. You could only sit with him on the ground, arms wound tight around his too thin body, and weep.
At one time you would have said you’d pay any price to win this war. You did not foresee the slow and subtle torture left behind by that which is most evil. You were not prepared to be blindsided by the fierce grip of absolute devotion Draco brought to your life.
Exhale, a sigh, and fade away. You wish you could hide behind the fog forever.
“Hey mate.” It’s Dean’s voice, always soft, steady, even in crisis. Dean’s voice, which probably meant Seamus was there as well. Sometimes Dean meant Ginny, but it was a weekday afternoon in Diagon Alley, and for that, Dean meant Seamus. You tense slightly, but you’ve faced worse, so you tilt your head back and let the fog dissipate, bringing Dean into view, Seamus behind him.
“How’s it going?” Dean was always persistent, where most people would choose avoidance. Seamus simply scowled, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and looked at his feet.
You hunch your shoulders in some semblance of a shrug. “Going.”
Seamus shuffled his feet. He hadn’t spoken to you in six years, and saw no need to start now. Dean spared him a glance, before returning his gaze to you. Exhale, and Dean and Seamus disappear for a few blissful seconds.
“I heard about Draco. I’m sorry.”
You take a sip of the scalding tea and let it burn its way down your throat and up into your ears and through your lungs, hot and red. Then exhale exhale exhale to hide the tears that rise too easily, and blink hard and fast and will them away and will Dean and Seamus and the whole fucking world away. Exhale again, slow and long and careful, and let the anguish sink back down until the lenses clear and you can face Dean again.
“S’okay.”
Seamus snorts softly, and shakes his head. You should feel more hate for Seamus, the bigoted fuck, but you can barely muster the energy to speak, so you let it go. You should never have come to this café, should never have left the house.
Should have, shouldn’t have, should have, shouldn’t have.
The world marched merrily on, riding high on peace and prosperity, and you should have been there even though Draco asked you to go, shouldn’t have left him when you knew just how much he’d been lost to the pain, should have fucking been the one to find him with his Dark Mark slashed to ribbons and one final cut on the other wrist for good measure.
‘I love you,’ the note had read. ‘I’m sorry. It hurts.’
“Harry? I said is there anything you need?” You blink, and look up at Dean. Seamus has turned his back on you in favor of looking out the window. It was a hot day, probably too hot for tea in the afternoon, or so you sense by the comment made at your choice of beverage when you ordered. You spend too much time in the dark of your bedroom to even remember what it is like to feel the wet squelch of spring, the crisp winds of fall, the claustrophobic summer heat. Crowds of people move by, in too bright clothes, breathing in the late August air and exhaling it with too bright laughter.
“Nothing you can give me.”
Exhale. The fog slides up the lenses of your glasses. When the moisture evaporates, Dean and Seamus are gone.