FICLETS! Holiday: Day Twenty-Nine
For miladygrey
Hornblower/Bush
The room’s only light comes from the coppery gold that filters through slatted blinds that do little to keep out the sun or the heat of the day. Instead there is this light that seeps behind his eyes, refusing to let him rest. His mattress is soaked with sweat, wet from his own fevered heat. Insects buzz lazily in the air around him, settling on him and then flying away, their legs light against his skin.
He senses Hornblower’s presence, his silence giving him away in the way that breathing and shifting would in other men. Instead he sits perfectly still, washed to the same color as the walls against his dark hair and dark uniform and fading into the fathomless depth of his eyes. He sits and watches without a sound, leaving and arriving in the few moments of time that Bush finds sleep.
When Bush sits up, Hornblower comes to life. He moves his chair next to the bed, making conversation that is never the small talk so many others embark upon, but logistics and orders, victualling and stocking. He paints pictures with his words so that Bush can see the ship as clear as if his room faces the sea, the copper glinting occasionally in the sun as the tide dances with her.
He feeds Bush fruits, cutting them carefully on the table beside the bed, letting the juices pool in the slices in the wood. His fingers are delicate around the flesh colored all manners of pinks and greens, yellows and purples. He takes them between his teeth, lips grazing Hornblower’s fingers. It means nothing, as little as the soft touches as Hornblower chases drops of juice with his fingers, catching them before they slide down Bush’s chin.
At the end, Bush’s lips taste of the sweet tartness of the fruit chased by the bitter sting of tea and he closes his eyes, willing himself toward sleep as night seems tempted to fall, watching as Hornblower sits off to the side, chair in the corner, licking the remnants of the afternoon from his fingertips.
For musesfool
Neville
One of the casualties of the war isn’t buried in any of the grand cemeteries, and there are no names etched on marble or stone. There is probably more than one such casualty, all mourned privately and silently, as if they don’t matter as much as the names that everyone speaks with such solemnity.
Hagrid knows them all by name. Neville learns this three days after the official end to the war, when the Ministry makes an announcement and the country breathes a sigh of relief. The world, maybe, he thinks, wondering about wizards and witches in other places that are now just as free of the specter of Voldemort as England. It’s that same day that Neville is standing on the grounds of Hogwarts near the edge of the Forbidden Forest when he feels a massive hand land on his shoulder, fingers tightening just enough that Neville can feel the pressure all the way down to his bones.
“I’m right sorry about Trevor, Neville.”
Neville nods and stares down at the small grave marked only with a sprig of holly. There are others like it, he knows. Harry lost Hedwig in a far worse way than this, and there must be more besides. It doesn’t do anything to mitigate his loss. “Me too, Hagrid.”
“There’s a list I’m keepin’.” Hagrid pulls a parchment from his great coat and unrolls it, showing Neville the list of names. Some he recognizes and others he doesn’t, but he’s heard names similar a hundred times, maybe more. He sees Hedwig’s name through his tears, and Trevor’s too. “It’s not much.”
“It’s enough,” Neville reassures him, squatting down and tracing his finger over the small grave, saying goodbye. “It really is enough.”
Hornblower/Bush
The room’s only light comes from the coppery gold that filters through slatted blinds that do little to keep out the sun or the heat of the day. Instead there is this light that seeps behind his eyes, refusing to let him rest. His mattress is soaked with sweat, wet from his own fevered heat. Insects buzz lazily in the air around him, settling on him and then flying away, their legs light against his skin.
He senses Hornblower’s presence, his silence giving him away in the way that breathing and shifting would in other men. Instead he sits perfectly still, washed to the same color as the walls against his dark hair and dark uniform and fading into the fathomless depth of his eyes. He sits and watches without a sound, leaving and arriving in the few moments of time that Bush finds sleep.
When Bush sits up, Hornblower comes to life. He moves his chair next to the bed, making conversation that is never the small talk so many others embark upon, but logistics and orders, victualling and stocking. He paints pictures with his words so that Bush can see the ship as clear as if his room faces the sea, the copper glinting occasionally in the sun as the tide dances with her.
He feeds Bush fruits, cutting them carefully on the table beside the bed, letting the juices pool in the slices in the wood. His fingers are delicate around the flesh colored all manners of pinks and greens, yellows and purples. He takes them between his teeth, lips grazing Hornblower’s fingers. It means nothing, as little as the soft touches as Hornblower chases drops of juice with his fingers, catching them before they slide down Bush’s chin.
At the end, Bush’s lips taste of the sweet tartness of the fruit chased by the bitter sting of tea and he closes his eyes, willing himself toward sleep as night seems tempted to fall, watching as Hornblower sits off to the side, chair in the corner, licking the remnants of the afternoon from his fingertips.
For musesfool
Neville
One of the casualties of the war isn’t buried in any of the grand cemeteries, and there are no names etched on marble or stone. There is probably more than one such casualty, all mourned privately and silently, as if they don’t matter as much as the names that everyone speaks with such solemnity.
Hagrid knows them all by name. Neville learns this three days after the official end to the war, when the Ministry makes an announcement and the country breathes a sigh of relief. The world, maybe, he thinks, wondering about wizards and witches in other places that are now just as free of the specter of Voldemort as England. It’s that same day that Neville is standing on the grounds of Hogwarts near the edge of the Forbidden Forest when he feels a massive hand land on his shoulder, fingers tightening just enough that Neville can feel the pressure all the way down to his bones.
“I’m right sorry about Trevor, Neville.”
Neville nods and stares down at the small grave marked only with a sprig of holly. There are others like it, he knows. Harry lost Hedwig in a far worse way than this, and there must be more besides. It doesn’t do anything to mitigate his loss. “Me too, Hagrid.”
“There’s a list I’m keepin’.” Hagrid pulls a parchment from his great coat and unrolls it, showing Neville the list of names. Some he recognizes and others he doesn’t, but he’s heard names similar a hundred times, maybe more. He sees Hedwig’s name through his tears, and Trevor’s too. “It’s not much.”
“It’s enough,” Neville reassures him, squatting down and tracing his finger over the small grave, saying goodbye. “It really is enough.”