"Galaxies" Ron/Hermione, PG
Title: Galaxies
Ship: implied Trio, Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~390
Warnings: angst
Summary: Ronald Weasley does not need any more adventure.
"the stars fill up my eyes/galaxies pour down my cheeks" -Laura Veirs
GALAXIES
. . .
Ronald Weasley does not need any more adventure.
It has been five days six hours fifteen minutes since Harry Potter died, and every minute, Ron regrets it. It was unavoidable. It was necessary. It was for the better. But it hurts like it wasn't for anything. Ron misses his friend every morning and every evening and everywhere between, and if he believed in religion he might say a prayer.
But he doesn’t. Not any more.
. . .
There is an owl at the window. (Sentence is crossed out.)
There is an owl at the window and it is dark outside. (Sentence is scribbled over.)
There is an owl at the window and it is dark outside, the shadows creeping nearer. (Sentence is wept upon and burned.)
No, Hermione never was a great writer.
. . .
He dreams of galaxies in his sleep, or things like galaxies.
They swirl, and when he thinks of them while conscious he tries to remember what the Astronomy professor called each one.
Ron will never remember unless Hermione tells him.
Hermione.
The name makes a knife of Ron’s tongue and the roof of his mouth is cut and bleeding because he only kissed her once and that seems so long ago. Was it? He bleeds with the want to kiss her again, because only her lips can mend him.
Hermione makes him dream of adventure and galaxies and islands in the tropics where he wants her on the sand.
. . .
Somehow, when Hermione gets Ron’s owl (three weeks five hours eleven-and-a-half minutes) she can only think of the dreams of the tropics where the sand feels so good on her skin. She's been dreaming of the tropics, been meaning to go on a holiday. She has brochures tucked away in a drawer; she takes them out sometimes, flips through them. It always feels too soon.
She doesn't care. She wants it.
The tropics and the separate universe; the brand-new-galaxy of Ron’s skin.
It’s all definite but virtual, known but empirical and all of the big words Hermione has said and used as a dais upon which to stand.
. . .
All Hermione can see are Ron’s bedroom eyes through the lazy ocean of fondness and fondling.
And they don’t need the tropics.
All they need are their galaxies.
fin
Ship: implied Trio, Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~390
Warnings: angst
Summary: Ronald Weasley does not need any more adventure.
"the stars fill up my eyes/galaxies pour down my cheeks" -Laura Veirs
GALAXIES
. . .
Ronald Weasley does not need any more adventure.
It has been five days six hours fifteen minutes since Harry Potter died, and every minute, Ron regrets it. It was unavoidable. It was necessary. It was for the better. But it hurts like it wasn't for anything. Ron misses his friend every morning and every evening and everywhere between, and if he believed in religion he might say a prayer.
But he doesn’t. Not any more.
. . .
There is an owl at the window. (Sentence is crossed out.)
There is an owl at the window and it is dark outside. (Sentence is scribbled over.)
There is an owl at the window and it is dark outside, the shadows creeping nearer. (Sentence is wept upon and burned.)
No, Hermione never was a great writer.
. . .
He dreams of galaxies in his sleep, or things like galaxies.
They swirl, and when he thinks of them while conscious he tries to remember what the Astronomy professor called each one.
Ron will never remember unless Hermione tells him.
Hermione.
The name makes a knife of Ron’s tongue and the roof of his mouth is cut and bleeding because he only kissed her once and that seems so long ago. Was it? He bleeds with the want to kiss her again, because only her lips can mend him.
Hermione makes him dream of adventure and galaxies and islands in the tropics where he wants her on the sand.
. . .
Somehow, when Hermione gets Ron’s owl (three weeks five hours eleven-and-a-half minutes) she can only think of the dreams of the tropics where the sand feels so good on her skin. She's been dreaming of the tropics, been meaning to go on a holiday. She has brochures tucked away in a drawer; she takes them out sometimes, flips through them. It always feels too soon.
She doesn't care. She wants it.
The tropics and the separate universe; the brand-new-galaxy of Ron’s skin.
It’s all definite but virtual, known but empirical and all of the big words Hermione has said and used as a dais upon which to stand.
. . .
All Hermione can see are Ron’s bedroom eyes through the lazy ocean of fondness and fondling.
And they don’t need the tropics.
All they need are their galaxies.
fin