Another 2:00 piece.
I kind of really like this one. It's a different kind of Rose and I'm shockingly fond of her. It also totally didn't get away from me, which is awesome and rare.
I don't know, I just enjoyed writing it a lot more than the average one shot.
Listening to: The Head and the Heart's Pandora station. Lots of Mumford and Florence and all that good stuff. You can definitely see the mellow music in this piece.
Word count: 2,004
"Run away with me," he says one night and she thinks he's crazy but also kind of perfect so she takes his hand and says nothing, just staring at him with those big, green eyes. He cups her cheek and gives her a soft kiss and she pulls away, surveying him for a long moment. The moonlight makes his skin glow silver and she wonders if he's an angel sent from above to corrupt her or something like that. "Come on, Rosie, let's just get out of here for once. Let's have an adventure."
"Why?" she asks and it comes out as a breath.
He pauses for a kiss. "Because I'm tired of not living."
They're on a train and the stars are streaming past faster than she can count them and it feels achingly lonely but also like art, so she sighs and pulls herself closer to him.
It's been a month since they left home and they're living campsite to campsite, apperating to Gringots for more money when they truly go broke. They hitch rides on the roofs of trains or the backs of strangers' cars and danger seems as commonplace as kisses, as routine as the mundane tasks they fled from.
She finds herself wondering how this is living but also finds herself not caring, too desperate to see every moss-covered tree and every star and every little expression his face makes. Maybe living's in the noticing, the small details that don't get lost when you're truly lost.
"We're so small," he notes and she agrees but says nothing, feeling the rumble of the train beneath her prone body. "Ever think there's anything else out there?"
She doesn't answer him and he plants a kiss on the top of her head, assuming she's asleep.
She stamps neon across the sky, a giant sign that reads "we were here" and is followed by the looping cursive of her signature against the stars.
He sees it and laughs, pulling her closer and placing his mark on her with a bit of her neck that makes her mark the night with a low moan. He claims her as his and she bares his ownership proudly, back arched and head rolled back, a crescent of white teeth peeking over her persimmon lips. She lets him win the battle with the full intention of winning the war, trading him her tensed muscles and heavy breaths for the hours later of closeness.
He might have her now but she'll have him forever and this trade seems a good one for each involved party. She carves herself a place in his heart, nestling in between arteries and veins and pumps in a manner that's always present but never obtrusive, a tattoo by his lungs that announces, "This man is all Rose Weasley's."
She smiles in shy triumph, a finger on the skin directly above her place in his chest. Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy were here, two people who were in love once upon a time, and they announce this in broken twigs and misty breaths and, yes, florescent letters across the night sky.
It's not that they want to leave something for a wandering and wondering posterity, but more that they crave to be bigger than themselves. They're seventeen years old and they're finally old enough to understand that even children with famous names mean nothing, nothing at all, to the vastness of the universe. They're seventeen years old and nowhere near wise enough to know that all the moreness they want can be found in each other, so they instead stamp their message on the passing clouds and get lost in each other's eyes instead of the galaxies rolling by.
The side of the road they're walking along is hot and it's burning the soles of her feet. They stop and sip at water, resting in a meadow as the clouds lazily drift on.
"What happens after this?" She asks and he gives her a curious look. "I mean, we can't stay away forever."
He considers her. "I don't know. Hell, I don't even care. This is about now, about us, about being so fucking alive where the air is clean and we aren't and nothing matters but this-" He kisses her.
"I feel like we're just running away," she tells him.
He tucks a flyaway strand of fiery hair behind one of her shell pink ears. "Is that such a bad thing?"
She looks at him with those big, sad green eyes. "It's a cowardly thing." And she knows it's the wrong thing to say but it's been weighing her heart down since they left. His eyes turn cold and she knows he's hurt but she's a Weasley and her blood bleeds red and gold. She learned to rather death than fleeing.
He can't stop remembering his first years at Hogwarts, his father broken down by the war and the humiliation and his mother only as kind as a person can reasonably be. Meek and small, the boy with platinum hair and long fingers plucked notes from the air and hid in the music to escape the harsh and cruel world. He understands the value of getting away, what being left alone is worth because sometimes reality isn't tolerable and sometimes not being a superhero means doing what feels right, not what is right, and sometimes that means hopping on a half a dozen trains and getting away from judgmental smirks with a beautiful girl and an infinite sky.
He fears more than anything that she'll hate him for what he's not, but he honestly cannot fathom pigheaded bravery that would have him rot instead of run.
It's a little cliché, but it starts to rain right then and the meadow turns to mud and neither speaks to the other as they trek to a distant grove for shelter.
Things fall apart as they have the tendency to do- slowly at first and then collapsing in one big shuddering heave that leaves her feeling hollow and him feeling numb and them both lost in the English countryside.
She wanders fields of lavender and there's not a person in sight, good news for her aching heart. She's living off of the heat of the stars and the beads of rain that catch on her eyelashes and stay there, droplets that glisten and flow and roll down her cheeks and she remembers her tears.
She can't go home because home is where the heart is and she doesn't want to find her heart right about now. Instead she wants to ramble, to roam and move and never settle in one place. Settling means becoming accustomed and becoming accustomed makes things hurt so much more when they're torn away.
He's staying in a farmhouse. It's the home of an older man and an older woman and their cat, Helga.
The two found him in the pouring rain, shivering and chattering and babbling about some girl with hair like flames and eyes like emeralds. They took him in and wrapped his shoulders with blankets and his heart with warmth and gave him kind smiles and chicken soup until he felt like he could breath again.
"Tell me about her," Nancy, the matronly woman said. He glanced out the window and over to the faraway green peaks of rolling hills dotted with fields of some sort of crop.
"She's brave and stubborn and stupid. She never says what she's thinking and sometimes she talks before considering what her words mean. She's a perfectionist and incapable of letting go. She's awful at dancing and terrible at thinking outside of the box. She doesn't know how to relax and she doesn't smile very often."
Nancy takes his hand. Her own feels like paper against his skin, whisper light and spotted with age. "And you love her, don't you?"
"More than anything," he breaths and he's sobbing now but Nancy doesn't look alarmed.
She pays her way into a town without a name where people without faces living on streets without numbers. She rents a room and buys herself books and coffee and pretends there's no world outside her window even though she had previously explored the vastness of it, even once infected by his desire to understand it all.
She devours bread and sleeps on an honest to Merlin bed and can't close her eyes sometimes for lack of the light of the summer moon.
"When I was your age, I met that beautiful woman over there. I saw her and knew, just knew, that she was it. I got down on one knee a year later and she's been mine ever since. And I'm the luckiest man alive. If you really love that girl, go get her. If she's all that you say she is, then why are you here?"
"She doesn't want me anymore."
Henry scoffs a tobaccoed wheeze. "You never stop loving someone, m'boy, you only stop trying to run after them when they walk away. The trick is to show her you mean to stay and then to do just that."
Nancy gives her husband a smile. "And I know just how," she tells the boy, handing him a small box.
Scorpius shakes Henry's hand and hugs a teary Nancy and turns his back on the refuge of their home for the open road and the memory of freckled skin and persimmon lips.
He finds her in a café, eyes glued to a book and lips fanning warm air over her steaming coffee.
"Marry me." He slides into the seat across from her.
She looks up, showing no surprise at his arrival. "Why?"
"It'll be an adventure," he tells her, "you'll yell and scream and nag and I'll drink and complain and we'll fight like hell but I love you, damn it, and I'm not ever going to stop loving you so you might as well accept that and accept what we'll be together, which is utterly and absolutely perfect. Marry me because you're meant to be with me and I'm meant to be with you and anything less than that isn't really living. Aren't you tired of not living?"
They return home in the fall to family dinners and teary mothers that exclaim over the pair's long absence and the glittering diamond on Rose's ring finger.
Life falls into a routine that they make an effort to upset as frequently as possible, going for late night walks on cobblestoned roads and sometimes taking a weekend to runaway into the woods, exploring every inch of this planet they're tethered to.
Henry and Nancy wipe away a few crystal tears at the wedding, the latter loudly and proudly admiring the ring that was once her own.
"That's one for the storybooks," Henry remarks to his wife, watching the glowing couple dance to a slow and beautiful song.
"They really do love each other," Nancy smiles.
The old man extends his arm, taking her small hand in his own, "can I have this dance?"
He twirls his wife, teasing a laugh out of her as they revert to swaying to the music.
"Remember when we ran away together?" She asks, the familiar and comfortable pressure of his hand at her waist making her body feel liquid and warm. "What an adventure we had!"
"And it never ended," Henry says, pulling her close.
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