więzi

Evan Rosier

Najlepszy przyjaciel jeszcze z czasów dzieciństwa ~ jedyna osoba, której ufał w trakcie wojny ~ uratował go przed śmiercią z rąk inferiusów ~ noce spędzone przed kominkiem ~ palce we włosach ~ krew na rękach i grób, którego nie ma

I can wait for you at the bottom, I can stay away if you
want me to

Sometimes he would look his fill — when Evan was busy, his face turned just enough to not see him looking. He would trace the contour of his forehead and cheekbones with his gaze, draw them in his mind's eye over and over again. He would caress the gentle slope of his nose and the raspberry-pink plumpness of his lips and imagine how it could've felt under his. He would trace patterns on his fair skin, follow every ridge and every line, until he could map them without looking. He would look and look, and look, and look, and wonder...
It made him feel dirty — in a way the blood covering his hands never did, so deeply it was etched into his skin. They were friends, after all — just friends, only friends, always friends, and friends did not gaze at each other in such a manner. It was sick, and wrong, and— oh, he betrayed him, didn't he? With each look he betrayed the trust that they built, torn the walls apart and stripped the humanity off of him...
And he looked. And he looked, and he looked, and he looked—
He could not stop looking. Not when all the beauty of this earth was placed right in front of him, close enough to touch.

(He never touched him, in the end; never dared to cross the line and bring his feelings into light. And he never will touch him, not anymore; you can't touch a ghost after all.)

I can wait for years if I gotta, Heaven knows I ain't
getting over you

Syriusz Black

starszy brat ~ za dziecka wzór do naśladowania i jedna
z ulubionych osób na świecie ~ zazdrość, tęsknota, miłość i nienawiść ~ potrzeba uwagi i bycia zauważonym ~ zaborczość ostra niczym krawędź noża

Did we ever see it coming? Will we ever let it go?

Sometimes he hated him — with a hatred so potent it spread out through his whole body like basilisk's venom and threatened to consume him and dissolve him into pieces so small, that putting them together would prove impossible. It made him clench his fists and seeth every time he saw him in school, walking down the corridors next to James bloody Potter, happy and free, laughing loudly and unabashedly, with no thought spared to their parents, their legacy, him.
He never truly hated him, no — but he resented how easy Sirius made it all look: being himself, talking his mind, ignoring all the ridiculous rules their parents set for them, walking away and never looking back. Regulus was jealous; and hated that he felt that way, hated how much he wanted, needed Sirius around.
Even now, with both of them shattered into pieces, it's still there — the jealousy, the hatred, the all-encompassing love and obsession. Sirius is his brother — not James', his. The same blood runs through their veins, the same weaknesses and obsessions. No matter how different, they're still the same — two fucked up souls who don't know how to exist if not bathed in someone else's light, craving the sun they've been robbed of for so long.

He wishes they could love each other proper; to erase the past and fill it with happiness that was ripped from their hands. He wishes they could be different, better; and that nothing would change ever again.

We are buried in broken dreams, We are knee-deep
without a plea

@necromancer's codes