i got one foot in the golden life, one foot in the gutterĀ
it has been a hot minute since iāve logged in to here soĀ have aĀ mini royal au,Ā because albus potter is still my favourite fuck jkr .Ā
He doesnāt mind the silk, not really, as it brushes along his forearms. It's fresh, and cooler than the cotton shirt sticking to his skin, peeling it away to plunge his hair into the depths of a basin. His hand grips the edges, thatās cold too, goosebumps caressing his chest .
The silk is the aftermath of something nice, itās smooth, it doesnāt itch, but heās never felt ā good. It doesnāt hang right, fiddling with the cuffs until a heavy exhale pushes past his lips and he gives up, scrunching the sleeves up to his elbows instead .
A soft glow slips between the lines on the window, leaning against the edge of the stone, the curtains pool around his feet and for a moment - or ten - his shoulders relax, swallowed up by the peach and the gold, the watercolour flush seeping warmth in the glisten against the glass .
He wants nothing more than to stay there, wrapped up in the sunset, wrapped up in a forever forged by wistful dreams, and his fingertips tingle pleasantly as they tangle through his hair .
An abrupt creak. A click of the brass door handle and a sigh resonates between his ears .
His lips twitch, her voice bridled with fond exasperation, and his head lolls to the side with a shrug, blinking against the sudden change from the pearly light to the shadows collecting along the walls .
Albus retorts, lazily, a half truth that lingers without heat. Pushing himself off the wall with great effort as his mothers hands slip, brushing out the creases of his shirt , and gently tugging his sleeves back down. Soft, dark eyes , narrowed but tender .
āThis is not ready ,ā The Queen remarks dryly, adjusting the edge of his collar. āYou are stalling .ā
āThe rush is the fun part,ā his lips pull up of their own accord , easier than his shoulders feel as the light of the sun begins to dim, like water slipping down his back.
āYou sound awfully like your brother.ā
āGreat minds think alike.ā
His mother, Queen Ginerva, snorts.
āIām sure they do,ā she responds mildly, āitās a pity you havenāt found any.ā
The mock outrage slipping along his face is thwarted, as she gently hooks a hand beneath his chin, and the pad of her thumb brushes below his eye. His voice falls into his throat and down to his lungs, lost in a swollen, nurtured ache that never quite left.
āYou look tired, Sweet,ā the tension is his shoulders heightens like coiled air, and drifts away as her fingers run gently through his hair, smoothing back dark curls from his face.
āHave you been sleeping?ā
A simple answer, yes, easily placed into the world to push away the concern flickering like soft sundrops in her eyes. But itās a wisp of air that slips past his lips, a half formed thought in the sting of his eyes. He looks away finding the bowl of fruit on the dark oak table, at least the oranges were ripe .
For all the silk in the world , he was not .
( ā oh thatās - oh god -ā soft eyes lashes fluttering , fingers curling into his side , a dramatic slump between fresh slices āyouāve introduced me to heaven !ā )
Indescribable, or not, or wishful, as everything was, and he sucks in a breath of air as the waste of his beating heart faltered. The sun was kind to him, for it had been laces and velvet and petals that adorned Scorpius, like a robe of painted leaves and a ephemeral glow touching every crevasse of his heart. Scorpius was his Achilles and it hurt .
( ā youāre silly ,ā wide eyes between lingering dust in the air , a thick tomb braced on the table ā iām patroclus , you're achilles , al ā it felt like gold dust )
His pause reigns too long, and his jaw clenches, a wince working itās way through his shoulders and his mothers eyes soften in a way he wished they wouldnāt. He was being silly .
āIt's fine ,ā a rasp clinging to his voice, he hurries to push it away, clearing his throat around the lump, knotted and tight and burning . āI am just not used to his absence, that is all .ā
ā He will be back ,ā her hands resume stroking his hair, a gentle kiss to his forehead, and he wants to slump, to falter, to call out and spend the eve like a child curled up into the sheets . āIt will get easier .ā
āHe is not even- we are not ..ā
The words are thick in his chest as they claw their way up to his mouth like acid, but he can not force them out.
āYou donāt have to be together to feel a loss,ā she remarks gently ā he is important to you, you miss him, that is allowed, Albus .ā
ā I have duties, I have other things I should be thinking about .ā
Surprise flurries up his chest as his mother laughs, a warm ringing along the walls and she squeezes his side lightly .
āOh darling if love were that simple to separate you father would not have waited several years before proposing to me.ā
And her eyes crinkle with something albus cannot place , as the air tightens in his chest . love . Was it that obvious ?
āYou will find your balance in time ,ā she adds , reaching across to the back of the chair and lifting up two robes .
He chooses the dark blue, rather than the green though his heart pangs with the loss of the comforting shade, the age old, it sinks further with the absence of him. And so blue slips between his fingers and clings to his shoulders like a haze, a ghost of a hug until his return .
