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For the Tentatively Titled Competition. My Cliché was Forbidden Love, my Prompt was rote, and my given title was Delphiniums.
Delphiniums are a violet flower that symbolize heavenly qualities.
For Adam, because it's kind of Drarry. Don't worry, I'll write you a proper one soon.
Merlin, but it's all so rote, all so routine. It's, dare he say it, boring. He was used to rote, used to routine, once upon a time. He was used to everything being the same, day after day. And then he went to Hogwarts, and everything was different, and around every corner there was some new adventure, and of course he got used to it. Can you blame him?
So now he's used to adventure, used to variety, but he comes home from the same day of paperwork to the same dry, home-cooked meal and the same girlfriend, and at one point that was enough for him, but now it's just bland. It's rote; it's routine.
Not that that makes this right. No, it isn't. And he's not trying to justify it to anyone, least of all himself – or maybe he is. Maybe he is trying to explain it, to justify it to himself, so that maybe, maybe he can explain away the guilt.
The guilt of falling in love with someone who should, by any definition of the word, be forbidden. He can't fall in love with his childhood rival; he can't. So why is he?
And Merlin, but the guy who named it got it right, didn't he? Falling in love. He has most certainly fallen. Fallen from grace, fallen from his pedestal.
He used to believe in the essential goodness of people – that most people, when faced with a decision, will do what is right. He used to be like that.
He isn't, anymore. Not with this. This isn't the decision that's right. It's what he wants, and only what he wants. It's making one person – maybe two people – happy and screwing over the rest of them. His girlfriend, his best friend, his family. And why?
Because he can't take the routine. He can't take the dry, boring life that he's living, because he's addicted to danger, now. It's been a part of his life for so long that he doesn't know how to live without that adrenaline high anymore, because it's become a part of him.
And he wonders why, why is that enough reason for him?
It doesn't make it right, he knows. It doesn't make it good, or noble, because it isn't. It's wrong. It's selfish. It's cruel, even.
And he could – should – just break up with her, then. His girlfriend. If this is what he wants, this whirlwind romance with an ex-enemy.
But that's just it, isn't it? He's not sure what he wants. He's only sure that he can't take the dry routine anymore.
That's why he's here. That's why, when the offer was proposed, though he didn't answer verbally, they both knew he wouldn't – couldn't – say no. He's losing himself, losing his willpower, and losing who he used to be. And he's oddly all right with that, because this is strong and fast and exciting, and that's what he wants, isn't it? Something that's wildly unpredictable and dangerous – and that's exactly what this is.
So he stands in the field of delphiniums and he thinks that maybe it's oddly poetic – it's what he's decided is heaven, for now. Until it all comes crumbling down as the world finds out. Because they will, he doesn't doubt that. He's still their savior, much as he never wanted to be, and that tends to come with a certain lack of privacy. They'll find out, he knows. The papers will, and then everyone will know, and he can imagine the hurt on her face and it kills him, just for a moment, it kills him, what he's doing to her.
But then he's there, and everything else stops mattering. Suddenly, nothing matters but the feel of his lips and the rush of adrenaline through his veins and the heavenly scent of delphiniums.