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decay

Hands grasp a fistful of matted black hair and pain is suddenly in a world far removed from their tiny universe, at which they are the center in a small, dusty room with tattered hangings at the window, where scant slits of light invade through gaps in the boards.

Delirious grey eyes slide in and out of focus as the face above them hovers, glides down swiftly and their lips collide. To an observer they might look like two animals devouring each other. Mouths crashing down and they are tangled, heaving. The storm rips through every desperation-filled thrust and the blood that pounds in their ears and rushes through the narrow channels of their veins. Adrenaline tingles and entangles every sense in its turbid trap but the light is feeble and so is their adequacy.

Wary living is lonely, just like the morose isolation of captivity by moonlight and sleepless nights in a house where you are not wanted.

Instead here they have hands scratching and fumbling, a hot tangled mess of skin and tongues, like the wild merging of a storm at sea. They are not alone and instead of the silence drowning them, they break its wall and puncture it with tense moans and shuddering breath.

Their entangled bodies slam and jerk against the wall and dusty furniture. With the impact, grime and splinters flutter dismally down from the ceiling, which creaks when the wind blows.

Outside rain tumbles down like rose petals from a dying fading bloom. The sky is mottled and dark as it withers like flowers do.

The tawny-haired boy thinks Padfoot, that hot scratchy tongue and brash affection and digging paws at his prickling skin. He's in no condition for this but the sharp pain is shoved further back in his mind as long as he doesn't look down.

Bruises bloom like battered blue-black roses beneath his aching skin. Criss-crossing gashes from unrelenting claws have raked his body, merging and separating the older, jagged scars that lie pale on his flesh. But the other boy's thumb brushes tenderly against the lacerations and instead of feeling pain he shivers with wonder, small pricks of thrill that flutter like butterfly-wings against his shell.

fingers flying over sweat-slick skin, clenched muscles; hands catching on the curve of hollow bones jutting out as their bodies arch and twist

The black-haired boy is gentle; still excitable like a dog. He sees flashes of claws like scraping thorns behind his closed eyelids and so limpid grey eyes tremble and open wide.

His lips part and move to form soundless words against the other boy's mouth.

Outside, stormclouds blur and thunder snarls at the ground.

And they are flying past it all.

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