Author: our dancing days PM
/"But the war-" a trail of kisses, a dance of fingertips, "-is not yet-" a meeting of tongues, a joining of hands, "-won." / For M&MWP. Guaranteed to be the oddest thing you read today.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Hurt/Comfort - Fat Friar & Nearly Headless Nick - Words: 732 - Reviews: 8 - Favs: 1 - Published: 07-02-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8278465
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Prompt: #78, The Fat Friar/Nearly-Headless Nick
Challenge: 2012 Mew and Mor's Weird Pairings Competition. Pairing: slash. Format: drabble. Length: 600 words.
Notes: This was written for M&MWP 2012 Competitions over at HPFC. Six characters... three pairings... one month... one drabble... one one-shot... and one freeverse... What have I gotten myself into?
Oh, wow. I don't know how exactly, um, unique this is, but gah, I love this pairing so much. Something about a Gryffindor/Hufflepuff ghost relationship just makes me smile. The pairing belongs to M&MWP, and this will definitely be the weirdest thing you read today. So, without further ado... I present Battle.
"S-Sir Nicholas! How are you, my friend? Well, I hope?"
"Friar! I'm very well, I'm sure you'll agree. My Deathday party, a fortnight from now!" He grinned wildly. "Though the Headless Hunt has once again rejected my plea to join their group..." Sir Nicholas looked briefly down at the ground, before turning back to the Friar with a optimistic smile. "But alas! Perhaps it shall never happen. I believe I can accept that fate. And now, Friar. I do believe I insisted you called me Nick."
"Of course, of course, Nick!"
"Well, I bid you good day. Peeves has taken to lurking round the fourth corridor this trimester."
Sir Nicholas sighed, then gave an cheery wave to the ghost of Hufflepuff house before departing through the ceiling.
The Friar had always thought of Sir Nicholas as beautiful.
He hadn't known him when he was alive; though, he could imagine the picture Nick would paint. Porcelain skin. Ruby lips. Dark eyelashes. Chocolate Eyes. Chestnut hair. Secretive smile. Lowered gaze. Curved eyebrows. Piano fingers. Small feet. Warm embrace.
And that was simple, easy and natural, to think of him as such. The Friar could not imagine him as past twenty-five, and he was sure that Nick wouldn't have it any other way. That was his imperfection, it seemed.
Sir Nicholas, in return, had always thought of the Friar as handsome.
He hadn't known him when he was alive, either, and so only knew the delicate, faded image before him. He was rather rounded, some might say, but his face was kind and boyish. Friar had no colour to his face and, honestly, Nick liked him like that. What would his father think?
Now that was a question.
The Friar had always thought Sir Nicholas was... wild.
He was this kind of untameable, deadly creature who flitted through the walls and whose gaze could kill, or set fire to, whoever it was set upon - well, that was still to be proven, but Friar could feel the heat already, and it was the first thing he had felt in a long while.
Nick had always presumed that Friar was... reliable.
That's what they all thought, wasn't it? Ask the Fat Friar, the Hufflepuff ghost - he would help you. The Grey Lady? Helena Ravenclaw? Who? Ask the Friar, he was usually floating about the Charms corridor right about now.
And, well, it was true. It was though he was running on a clock, in a pattern. Easy to follow, Friar was. Easy to read.
And, being a Gryffindor, Sir Nicholas didn't imagine that he had purposely left out the wrong book.
"I do believe-" a breath, a pause, "-that we are-" a moan, a sigh, "-breaking multiple school rules." A gasp, a shout.
"Rules were made-" a smile, a laugh, "-to be broken, Friar-" a caress, a touch, "-surely you remember that?" Nick fingered the ghostly black-and-white cross, the rosemary which hung around the Friar's neck and chuckled softly. "Perhaps not, then."
His companion made a soft noise of disagreement.
"Some rules-" a whimper, a whisper, "-must be followed-" a lick, a taste, "-for the sake of following them, Nick." A flutter of eyelids, a shiver of spines. "We must pick our battles."
"But the war-" a trail of kisses, a dance of fingertips, "-is not yet-" a meeting of tongues, a joining of hands, "-won."
"Then we fight on."
A promise of love.
Apart, they were simply the ghosts, Fat Friar and Nearly Headless Nick, but to each other, they were special, they were fighters, they were lovers, they were in love, and most importantly, they were alive.