“There’s flowers growing in my ribcage.” + Tomarry?
“There are flowers growing in my ribcage.”
“That’s… nice, I suppose. Although you ought to curse the coffin-maker for designing you a coffin so faulty as to let dirt in.”
Harry nodded dreamily. “Maybe. I could just leave that to you, though.”
Tom smiled. “I’d be delighted to.”
“Do you know what’s happening to your body?” Harry asked. Tom could never decide whether he liked or disliked it when Harry looked at him, for in death his eyes had gained an eerie, ethereal glow to them.
“No. It wasn’t even truly mine by the end. I guess I’m glad.”
Harry nodded again, leaning his head on Tom’s shoulder. They hadn’t figured out all of the rules to the afterlife yet, but they had figured out that even in their translucent forms they could still touch each other and other things. Tom appreciated that; he found himself appreciating a lot more in death than he ever had in life.
“I asked them to bury your body in Godric’s Hollow,” Harry said after a while. In his mind’s eye, Tom could see the graveyard Harry was referring to. There were wreaths on James and Lily Potter’s graves. There was a solitary white rose on his own.
“Doesn’t it bother you? That I’m next to your parents- who I killed?”
Harry sighed exasperatedly. “You’re different now. The fact that you even ask the question proves that. Anyway, the polite response would have been thank you.”
Tom paused reluctantly, longer than was necessary, long enough for Harry to start laughing at him. “Thank you,” he finally answered, matching Harry’s mirth with a wry smile of his own.
He had always wanted to be busy, to be doing something, to be powerful. Dominant, even. But just sitting here with Harry, not speaking, barely even existing, Tom was content.
Yoo so I’m doing it, I’m dipping my tootsies in the kagehina fanfic waters for aweekofkagehina and I’m gonna post it now before I lose my nerve.
So this is for Day 2 and the prompt is ‘subtle’.
In which Kageyama
is the exact opposite of subtle, and Hinata is the definition of clueless.
“Come have some fucking lunch with me.”
In hindsight, Kageyama could have worded it better. He
rolled the volleyball in his palms and frowned down at the stripes, twisting
and turning with each spin between in fingers, and tried his hardest to fight
the blush heating his cheeks.
“I have lunch with you every day, idiot.” Hinata danced
from foot to foot and stretched his arms, shaking sweat-dampened locks out of
his eyes. “It’s kinda weird that you’re asking.”
Kageyama hurled the ball at Hinata, who barely managed to
duck away from it before it ricocheted off a tree trunk and rolled back across
the grass. Hinata bent and scooped it up, then spun around on his heel.
“What the hell was that for?” He whined, and launched it
“Like I need a reason.” Kageyama grabbed the ball and squeezed
it, eyes furious and staring at the leather, and then he said, “so are you
gonna eat with me or not, dumbass?”
(a sort-of epilogue to this because I can’t stop writing about it, apparently.)
“You’re still sandy,” Emma remarks, running her fingers through his dark, damp hair after they finally pull themselves out of the water. She knows she’ll be washing sand out of her own hair for another week or so too, but when he pulls her into the hammock to sit in his lap she decides it doesn’t matter as much as she originally thought.
He’s doing his best to avoid getting ready for dinner, even though they both agreed to get dressed up for this particular excursion (or at least more dressed up than usual. The silky button-down and the jewelry are about as fancy as Emma gets these days, and he can’t say he minds.)
“You’re still sunburnt,” he answers back, leaning into her touch and laying his hand against her thigh. He can feel the heat of the sun on her skin just as much as he can see it in the pink on the apples of her cheeks, a color he knows will turn more red as the sun continues to sink. Every good sunburn takes a few hours to really show and hers is only just coming up.
He trails his thumb back and forth over her smooth skin, tracing around a freckle that he’s never seen before. Granted, they finished the list of goals she wrote out for him a year ago ago, the day he came into her clinic, but he likes to think he knows her better than almost anyone else. He’s almost sure, in fact.
Sometimes he thinks losing his hand might have been the best thing that ever happened to him, if it led them to each other.
“We can’t sit here forever,” Emma reminds him gently, doing absolutely nothing to extract herself from his hold and go back inside to grab her shoes. “We’re going to be late.”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you there’s no such thing as late at the beach, Swan?”
“Only you, and only when we’re running late to to something.”
She smiles one of his favorite smiles then, tracing the curve of his eyebrow and looking at him like he’s just told her the best secret in the world. The small velvet box in the pocket of his most formal pair of shorts shifts slightly as he leans up to taste her smile, but it’s not time yet. He pushes it back out of sight as he allows Emma to pull them both off the hammock, hoping he gets to see that same smile when the right moment comes.