Not quite like in the movies
Moscow airport, five AM, and there’s a low-budget grenade constantly exploding behind my left eyebrow. You’re slouched on the bench, all drained out of wondering how water-fountains work and what keeps Muggle airplanes from crashing. You look almost translucent under the neon lights, hair bleached white. The air feels sticky, heavy, like gum all chewed out of flavour. Like special effects in a film. I wonder if we did the right thing, running away.
The yawn tearing your face in two is the biggest one yet. “Time?”
“See for yourself.” I point at the wall, too tired to come up with an insult.
“I never learned how—we’ve different clocks, you know.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. “Asking me again and again won’t make it go any faster.”
“No, but it might make that tortured look on your face more amusing.” The blush on your cheeks comes blotchy, poor make-up. “You’re regretting it.”
“What? I’m not.” Regret is the wrong word for it. I’m just… a bit scared, to be honest, not that I know how to admit that. Scared that we made the wrong choice. That I’m not fit to handle… this, you. Not strong enough to carry such precious cargo. This isn’t a film, no matter how unreal it might feel, waiting for a connecting flight from nowhere to nowhere with you. Responsibility is overwhelming, terrifying. You nod as if you could understand.
“You’re already planning the route back, aren’t you? But you don’t know how to confess to it, because you think you gave me your word.”
I swallow far too loud. Airport security would be on us in a second. “I did, sort of. Give you my word.”
“No, you didn’t. The things you say late at night with your eyes closed don’t count, everybody knows that.” You sigh, bone-deep, and scoot closer. “I won’t be mad. If you left.”
“Draco, it was my plan.” I can’t stand how sad you look, how easily you rid me of any blame. I was the one who said we should go. Who faked all the documents. Who won’t bear any repercussions, should we return.
“It was a good one, too. But that doesn’t mean you have to actually go through with it.”
When did you learn to make that face? Honesty wasn’t exactly something I’d use to describe you, back then. Kindness wasn’t in your repertoire. Not towards me, anyway. But the way you look at me now makes me believe you, makes it ache.
Will Ron and Hermione ever forgive me? Will I be able to write to Teddy, once we’re settled? How fast will you grow tired of me, grow bored, grow out of this unfathomable, irresponsible affection? I swallow again, and I swear the security dog is looking. I’m too loud, too obvious, too me. And yet your eyes never fall from mine, making it seem like I’m really, actually good. It’s a bit far-fetched, like a silly plot in a blockbuster.
“You don’t want me to come? Is that it?” I ask, because I have to. Because if there’s a scab, I’ll scratch it open, because I’m always on the lookout for ways it could hurt.
“Harry.” You don’t say anything for a moment, just rest your hand on my arm, looking so deep in my eyes you’re practically inside me. It’s a reprimand and an embrace all at once. It’s my turn to sigh now.
“I’ll—you know. That I’ll follow you. Wherever you go, wherever… I want to be there.”
It’s a cheesy thing to say, and I know that, can feel it physically in my heated cheeks. It’s no use trying to hide, though. I have literally followed you to the face of the earth; will keep doing it, keep going, wherever you’d let me.
“It’s a lot to leave behind,” you say, and I hate you a little bit, for turning out so good when I ended up broken in pieces. Some of them will have to remain in Britain. I don’t know how well I can manage. One thing is certain, though:
You give me a serious look, so serious I nearly start crying. Or begging. I’ll do whatever. Thankfully I pass the secret inspection you held: “All right, then. You won’t.”
I can’t breathe for a moment. Your hand strokes up my arm, soft on my neck, resting on my cheek. It’s unbearable, how soft you can be. We just sit there, letting the minutes drip down past us, sticky and too bright. But you don’t take your hand off me, and as dawn crashes around us, vivid like nothing in real life, I finally close my eyes. I don’t regret it. It might not be happily-ever-after, but it’ll be happy, for me. With you.
800 words for @drarrymicrofic‘s prompt ‘Moscow’, vague as can be interpreted?
