Perfection
Title: Perfection
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: G
Word Count: 928
Summary: "What do you think of this?" "Of what?" "Of us."
Note: This is for zofbadfaith for being so, so supportive the past few weeks. I don't think I could have made it through without you.
If Ginny Weasley had known anything in the many, many years she had been learning Luna Lovegood, it was that she could always find her under the moonlight.
The first time it happened, Ginny was seven, had just figured out how to make the roses in her mother’s garden open up to her in the early mornings. She thought that whispering to them would make them smile when they opened, but she could never be sure because what did a rose smiling look like?
But when she met Luna in the darkness, out in the field between their houses, Luna would take the rose from her with those cold fingers of hers and she would say something that Ginny didn’t understand against the petals. During the winter, when the roses had frost on their lips, it looked like Luna would kiss them and by the time Ginny was eleven, she was jealous of the roses.
It continued in the summers and spring when they were home from school as their lives went on. Ginny always managed to sneak out at night a time or two and Luna was always there, lying down in the grass and looking up into the stars. She always said the same little airy hello and always moved to kiss Ginny’s cheek because that was customary; that was Luna.
Sometimes Ginny would lie down next to her and other times she would sit above Luna, pillow the blonde hair in her lap and run her fingers through the tangles. Sometimes she would ask questions about everything-about love, life, magic, school, boys, girls-and sometimes she would remain silent because sometimes, there was simply nothing left to say.
Ginny only felt that when Luna was short, however, when Luna did not go into grand detail and when Luna did not sit up from the excitement of answering the other girl. It was understood that there were times when Luna did not want to be loony, she did not want to give wise answers hidden underneath a safety blanket of oddity, and she did not want to speak in her normal distracted tones.
It was during one of those moments, when Ginny bore the frail age of seventeen, when she realized that Luna could possibly know everything there was to know, and Ginny could possibly know absolutely nothing.
It was spring then, when the roses were blooming like no other time and Ginny brought them to Luna because the blonde thought them to be pretty little things. Luna was subtly, comfortably cold then, and Ginny was understood to be a heat, a contrast to Luna. Ginny had the warmest palms and Luna had the coolest skin, and together they balanced each other, made themselves nonexistent when they were together.
“What do you think of this?” Ginny asked her one night. The stars were twinkling above them, dancing, and Luna twirled a blade of grass between her fingers as Ginny’s hands slid over her arms.
“Of what?” There was that easy hint of curiosity lying underneath her voice, her dreamy, crazy voice.
“Of us.”
Luna sat up then, because there wasn’t an “us” between them. There was a “them” and a “Ginny and Luna” but there had not been a defined “us”. Luna faced the redhead, put her hands on either side of her face and looked hard into chocolate brown eyes. She looked at twenty-three freckles on her nose (she counted once, in third year) and the blush starting to form under cold fingers and she looked at Ginny, because Ginny was everything to see.
Ginny never knew what to do with her hands unless they were on Luna, so she rested them on cool forearms and she felt better when she was in motion, so she stroked her thumbs along soft skin because that was what Luna was used to, that was what Luna liked. She was rewarded with the quirk of a lip, that hesitation before a smile and she knew that she was doing everything okay.
Luna brushed a hand on the back of Ginny’s neck, pushed some of her hair aside and pulled her forward. She did not bring them together; she held Ginny in front of her and she closed her eyes, breathed in that simple scent of old soil that could only belong to Ginny.
Ginny did the same and she was suddenly reminded of all the times she had eaten peppermints just to remember what Luna smelled like, just to remember Luna. (It was before Harry had kissed her, before he had changed her around and made her his, taken her away from Luna.) Her hand moved to Luna’s wrist (her skin was softest there) and the other clutched the shirt collar of the blonde. It was taking all of Ginny’s power not to pull her closer.
Luna exhaled and without having to open her eyes, she kissed Ginny.
And it was perfection. Luna had cool, cool lips and Ginny had warm ones, and again they canceled each other out. They did not exist when they were this intimate; they were simply not alive in this world when they were together. Luna’s fingers tugged at the roots of Ginny’s hair and Ginny felt her fingernails gently scrape across her cheek because it was too much. They were too much. Ginny’s hand pulled at the collar of Luna’s shirt and if it was possible, she brought them closer, closer still.
Luna’s eyes found Ginny’s in the darkness and she spoke.
“So,” she said, “Where do we go from here?”
Pairing: Ginny/Luna
Rating: G
Word Count: 928
Summary: "What do you think of this?" "Of what?" "Of us."
Note: This is for zofbadfaith for being so, so supportive the past few weeks. I don't think I could have made it through without you.
If Ginny Weasley had known anything in the many, many years she had been learning Luna Lovegood, it was that she could always find her under the moonlight.
The first time it happened, Ginny was seven, had just figured out how to make the roses in her mother’s garden open up to her in the early mornings. She thought that whispering to them would make them smile when they opened, but she could never be sure because what did a rose smiling look like?
But when she met Luna in the darkness, out in the field between their houses, Luna would take the rose from her with those cold fingers of hers and she would say something that Ginny didn’t understand against the petals. During the winter, when the roses had frost on their lips, it looked like Luna would kiss them and by the time Ginny was eleven, she was jealous of the roses.
It continued in the summers and spring when they were home from school as their lives went on. Ginny always managed to sneak out at night a time or two and Luna was always there, lying down in the grass and looking up into the stars. She always said the same little airy hello and always moved to kiss Ginny’s cheek because that was customary; that was Luna.
Sometimes Ginny would lie down next to her and other times she would sit above Luna, pillow the blonde hair in her lap and run her fingers through the tangles. Sometimes she would ask questions about everything-about love, life, magic, school, boys, girls-and sometimes she would remain silent because sometimes, there was simply nothing left to say.
Ginny only felt that when Luna was short, however, when Luna did not go into grand detail and when Luna did not sit up from the excitement of answering the other girl. It was understood that there were times when Luna did not want to be loony, she did not want to give wise answers hidden underneath a safety blanket of oddity, and she did not want to speak in her normal distracted tones.
It was during one of those moments, when Ginny bore the frail age of seventeen, when she realized that Luna could possibly know everything there was to know, and Ginny could possibly know absolutely nothing.
It was spring then, when the roses were blooming like no other time and Ginny brought them to Luna because the blonde thought them to be pretty little things. Luna was subtly, comfortably cold then, and Ginny was understood to be a heat, a contrast to Luna. Ginny had the warmest palms and Luna had the coolest skin, and together they balanced each other, made themselves nonexistent when they were together.
“What do you think of this?” Ginny asked her one night. The stars were twinkling above them, dancing, and Luna twirled a blade of grass between her fingers as Ginny’s hands slid over her arms.
“Of what?” There was that easy hint of curiosity lying underneath her voice, her dreamy, crazy voice.
“Of us.”
Luna sat up then, because there wasn’t an “us” between them. There was a “them” and a “Ginny and Luna” but there had not been a defined “us”. Luna faced the redhead, put her hands on either side of her face and looked hard into chocolate brown eyes. She looked at twenty-three freckles on her nose (she counted once, in third year) and the blush starting to form under cold fingers and she looked at Ginny, because Ginny was everything to see.
Ginny never knew what to do with her hands unless they were on Luna, so she rested them on cool forearms and she felt better when she was in motion, so she stroked her thumbs along soft skin because that was what Luna was used to, that was what Luna liked. She was rewarded with the quirk of a lip, that hesitation before a smile and she knew that she was doing everything okay.
Luna brushed a hand on the back of Ginny’s neck, pushed some of her hair aside and pulled her forward. She did not bring them together; she held Ginny in front of her and she closed her eyes, breathed in that simple scent of old soil that could only belong to Ginny.
Ginny did the same and she was suddenly reminded of all the times she had eaten peppermints just to remember what Luna smelled like, just to remember Luna. (It was before Harry had kissed her, before he had changed her around and made her his, taken her away from Luna.) Her hand moved to Luna’s wrist (her skin was softest there) and the other clutched the shirt collar of the blonde. It was taking all of Ginny’s power not to pull her closer.
Luna exhaled and without having to open her eyes, she kissed Ginny.
And it was perfection. Luna had cool, cool lips and Ginny had warm ones, and again they canceled each other out. They did not exist when they were this intimate; they were simply not alive in this world when they were together. Luna’s fingers tugged at the roots of Ginny’s hair and Ginny felt her fingernails gently scrape across her cheek because it was too much. They were too much. Ginny’s hand pulled at the collar of Luna’s shirt and if it was possible, she brought them closer, closer still.
Luna’s eyes found Ginny’s in the darkness and she spoke.
“So,” she said, “Where do we go from here?”