fic: Beneath the Stars
Title:Beneath the Stars
Rating: R
Word Count: 300
Pairing(s): H/D
Warnings: necrophilia
Summary: And so, Harry begins. One hinge at a time, one blunt nail against the dull wood, one handful of dirt, one lifeless scream, until he has passed the casket and is reaching for the surface.
Notes: Written for hd_birthdaybash's Harry's Death-Rebirth Comment Fest for the prompt "necrophilia". Yep. Unbeta'd.
The air is cold and stale in his lungs. He is not breathing so much as he is gasping, choking against dirt, gagging on maggots. He cannot see, but he can feel something rumbling in the place where his heart used to be - the aching, the longing, the desperation to claw through the muck, beyond the wood of his funeral prison, to get to the heart that belongs to him.
Draco is above him, somewhere, one half of himself and lonely, searching through the darkness. Life doesn't just end because of death - there is a soul, a thing, an incorporeal light that lingers and that is what Harry has left, all he has left to show Draco, to give him, to reward him for waiting, for staying, for hoping.
And so, Harry begins. One hinge at a time, one blunt nail against the dull wood, one handful of dirt, one lifeless scream, until he has passed the casket and is reaching for the surface. His bones ache to the creak of Draco, Draco, insistent as any pulse and twice as fast, until the name is blurred and breathless on his blue lips and he is kissing the fresh air with a wide open mouth.
Draco is there, kneeling at Harry's grave, his fingers blistered with soil and nails blunt and red. He looks terrified, his large eyes wide and watery, his pink lips swollen and parted, his body trembling in the shadows and his wand gripped into a tight fist.
Harry is on him in an instant, all teeth and tongue and whatever is left of his mouth. He thinks maybe Draco screams, but Harry cannot hear him over the rush of sounds that thrash through the skies. Like thunder, loud and sudden and overwhelming, but the sound wracks his body. He thrusts into Draco desperately, digs his fingers into Draco's skull and pulls out hair in his agony to feel him, all of him.
It is only then that Harry realises he can't feel. Not Draco, not the warmth of the summer evening, not the grass beneath his knees, not the snap of his joints as they fracture - nothing. He thrusts and thrusts and screams and digs his teeth into what he can reach of Draco. There are no sobs - Harry is incapable of crying - but he knows pain and suffering and hollow hopelessness.
"Harry," Draco whispers. It is the only thing that stops Harry moving. "Harry, please.."
They lie beneath the stars, Harry dying of painlessness and Draco dying of pain and the void of despair and the beyond closing in around them without pause, endlessly.
Rating: R
Word Count: 300
Pairing(s): H/D
Warnings: necrophilia
Summary: And so, Harry begins. One hinge at a time, one blunt nail against the dull wood, one handful of dirt, one lifeless scream, until he has passed the casket and is reaching for the surface.
Notes: Written for hd_birthdaybash's Harry's Death-Rebirth Comment Fest for the prompt "necrophilia". Yep. Unbeta'd.
The air is cold and stale in his lungs. He is not breathing so much as he is gasping, choking against dirt, gagging on maggots. He cannot see, but he can feel something rumbling in the place where his heart used to be - the aching, the longing, the desperation to claw through the muck, beyond the wood of his funeral prison, to get to the heart that belongs to him.
Draco is above him, somewhere, one half of himself and lonely, searching through the darkness. Life doesn't just end because of death - there is a soul, a thing, an incorporeal light that lingers and that is what Harry has left, all he has left to show Draco, to give him, to reward him for waiting, for staying, for hoping.
And so, Harry begins. One hinge at a time, one blunt nail against the dull wood, one handful of dirt, one lifeless scream, until he has passed the casket and is reaching for the surface. His bones ache to the creak of Draco, Draco, insistent as any pulse and twice as fast, until the name is blurred and breathless on his blue lips and he is kissing the fresh air with a wide open mouth.
Draco is there, kneeling at Harry's grave, his fingers blistered with soil and nails blunt and red. He looks terrified, his large eyes wide and watery, his pink lips swollen and parted, his body trembling in the shadows and his wand gripped into a tight fist.
Harry is on him in an instant, all teeth and tongue and whatever is left of his mouth. He thinks maybe Draco screams, but Harry cannot hear him over the rush of sounds that thrash through the skies. Like thunder, loud and sudden and overwhelming, but the sound wracks his body. He thrusts into Draco desperately, digs his fingers into Draco's skull and pulls out hair in his agony to feel him, all of him.
It is only then that Harry realises he can't feel. Not Draco, not the warmth of the summer evening, not the grass beneath his knees, not the snap of his joints as they fracture - nothing. He thrusts and thrusts and screams and digs his teeth into what he can reach of Draco. There are no sobs - Harry is incapable of crying - but he knows pain and suffering and hollow hopelessness.
"Harry," Draco whispers. It is the only thing that stops Harry moving. "Harry, please.."
They lie beneath the stars, Harry dying of painlessness and Draco dying of pain and the void of despair and the beyond closing in around them without pause, endlessly.