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You taught me the courage of stars before you left
How light carries on endlessly, even after death
- Saturn, Sleeping at Last
It crept up on him so slowly. He never stood a chance.
Tom can no longer remember when his chest began to tighten at the lilt of lips or at the playful glance thrown at him over slim shoulders.
It was violent at first. There was no kindness. And there was blood. Too much blood. A great deal of passion. There was nothing if not passion.
They were equally ferocious. They tore into each other, drew blood greedily, exulted in the pain.
But one day the scales tipped. Or perhaps a few days. Or perhaps all along.
He woke up and fell in love with the dip in Harry's waist. He did not rise but stared at the dip until the morning slipped away.
Harry's black hair had been splayed messily on the pillow, demanding attention. A line of drool made its way to meet it. But he could not wrench his eyes from the dip. It felt like the pinpoint of his existence.
He felt at once the ruler of the universe and its most insignificant lifeform.
Suddenly, life was more, much more. There was eagerness in every breath. His soul healed.
Every peal of laughter was melody. The slightest expression in those green, green eyes quenched a thirst he did not know he had.
It was terrifying. Some days he was dizzy with fear.
He wanted to crush those slim fingers within his own. Trap him with a hold around his waist. Lock him up in a room and throw away the key.
When he held him, it was always too tight, until Harry squirmed in his grasp, "Too tight, Tom," he would breathe. But he never failed to look up at him and smile.
He soul was gentle and pure. He fought like a wolf, no holds barred, but his heart was too kind.
Tom was drawn like a moth to burning fire.
He shut off his own heart. He banished all weak thoughts to the very corners of his mind, refusing, simply refusing to dwell.
But the lightest brush as Harry reached across him for a book, or the smallest "Oh," as he understood something he'd been grappling with all morning, or the lightest scent of his soap as he turned in for the night, freshly bathed, brought everything back in a rush and tumult.
"T-Tom." Every gasp shot into his bloodstream. Every twitch cut his chest. The lightest stroke left a blazing trail of desire.
Sometimes he couldn't believe the incredible gift he had been given.
Sometimes he cursed the day he first laid eyes on Harry Potter.
His sweetest downfall.
With shortness of breath, you explained the infinite
How rare and beautiful it is to even exist
- Saturn, Sleeping at Last