title: some boy's been swinging.
author:
featherduster.
pairing: ron/draco.
a/n: for lacakes! unbeta-d.
word count: 315.
Their contrasting colours are what last them through the night, not their energy, not their searching lips, not the speed or direction in which their bodies move. The red matte of hair (natural now, the result of dominant genes because the seven hundred and ninety-two punnett squares through his entire career at Hogwarts don't lie like his lover's name) and the shock of white silk lie atop one another, similar in texture but not history. They have different obligations, each boy and his colour, the red a symbol of obligation to passion, to fire thrown on the changing winds. The white an allusion to stallions and royalty, purity untouched by dyes or dirty blood.
And boys, not men, because they have not fully grown into their oversized hands that play over baby-soft skin, nor has the hint of stubble shown, though school has been their past (collective, because it is the only idea that they share as one) for months. Still they whisper sweet lies to each other, Draco with his pouting lips and Ron with freckled voice, spotty like their ideas of love. And neither seems to mind, because boys can't be taken seriously, never have been, never will be, never want to be. But when conflicts hit and knives are drawn, steely icy wind-shaped silver reflecting, even when covered in the wine that gives us life, those sweet lies become points of interest, points of witness, points of leverage.
When every endeavor ends there are means to be split and spilt and promises broken because they can be. There are teapots to be shattered and vases to be smashed, overgrown and under-cared-for book bindings to arrange into paperwork or cardboard boxes. But neither complete nor broken hearts halve perfectly, never have, so each boy keeps his own, like his colour, to move on or backward in history and in mist and in life.
author:
featherduster.pairing: ron/draco.
a/n: for lacakes! unbeta-d.
word count: 315.
Their contrasting colours are what last them through the night, not their energy, not their searching lips, not the speed or direction in which their bodies move. The red matte of hair (natural now, the result of dominant genes because the seven hundred and ninety-two punnett squares through his entire career at Hogwarts don't lie like his lover's name) and the shock of white silk lie atop one another, similar in texture but not history. They have different obligations, each boy and his colour, the red a symbol of obligation to passion, to fire thrown on the changing winds. The white an allusion to stallions and royalty, purity untouched by dyes or dirty blood.
And boys, not men, because they have not fully grown into their oversized hands that play over baby-soft skin, nor has the hint of stubble shown, though school has been their past (collective, because it is the only idea that they share as one) for months. Still they whisper sweet lies to each other, Draco with his pouting lips and Ron with freckled voice, spotty like their ideas of love. And neither seems to mind, because boys can't be taken seriously, never have been, never will be, never want to be. But when conflicts hit and knives are drawn, steely icy wind-shaped silver reflecting, even when covered in the wine that gives us life, those sweet lies become points of interest, points of witness, points of leverage.
When every endeavor ends there are means to be split and spilt and promises broken because they can be. There are teapots to be shattered and vases to be smashed, overgrown and under-cared-for book bindings to arrange into paperwork or cardboard boxes. But neither complete nor broken hearts halve perfectly, never have, so each boy keeps his own, like his colour, to move on or backward in history and in mist and in life.