Flight
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,651
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,651
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Flight
Flight
Static. Stationary. Stopped. The roof of St. Mungo’s was always blank. Dead. Oliver looked up and could not bear to watch the same vista any longer. He shut his eyes, tears leaking from the corners. Parents dead, static, gone. Life on hold. Broomstick. Ground. Meet your lifeless future here.
Limbs as dead as doornails. No motion, no freedom, just the steady beat of the monitors, the pulses of magic cocooning him from his own demise. Flat, static, wrapped and basted, turned and twisted by the hourly schedule of the nurses and doctors. Specialists prodding his broken back, lifeless limbs. On the hour, every hour. It is quarter past. I close my eyes and weep.
Stumbling, bumbling clanging noise, and I am greeted by a shock of red hair. Charlie. My Charlie. Back from the backs of dragons and the last letter I had written him, breaking all contact off. I did not want Charlie tied to a vegetable. What use is a boneless catamite?
“What in the Name of Merlin do you think you were doing Ol, did you think I would not read the papers, are we THAT behind in Romania?”
If I could move my head to the side I would. If I could just find the words to tell him to leave, I would. But I just stare up insensate at the orange fire before me. Yes the world knows my misery. The-Keeper-That-Couldn’t. Puddlemere was so proud. I do the only thing I can, and close my eyes.
Charlie is crying now, and the clear liquid drips onto my face. Not come, nothing that sticky, just the tepid pale drops of loss. I miss him, I love my Charlie and I miss him, but even with him I cannot live like this. Time on my back is too long, every second a day, every hour a year, every month, a lifetime.
He stops sobbing now, red rimmed, red haired, red eyes boring into me. It must be obvious from my face that there is nothing I would like more that to see him, and yet not to see him at the same time, for he looks puzzled.
“What do you want Ol?”
“Flight” I manage to rasp through the cocoon of contradictory spells and potions.
Charlie slumps to the floor. I guess he knew it was bad, not just how bad it was. He cocks an eyebrow up to me.
“You sure?”
“Yes”
“I’ll be back tonight”
Suddenly the ceiling doesn’t seem so grey. I store up my last impression of noises, of sounds, until the lumos overcomes the sunlight. I wait for even that to fade, and for my Charlie to return.
The door clicks open. He drops his mouth, to ask again if I’m sure, so I stammer out a “Yes.” I pretend not to notice the tears in his eyes as he picks my boneless body up, throwing me over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.
Outside the night is cold, and I revel in the fact that I am no longer in a climate controlled room, not longer stuck to the vagaries of the nurses and doctors. I might not be able to control my own environment here, but at least it is ice, sharp cold ice. It is alive.
Charlie straps me into a harness, and even though my head nods bonelessly as we mount the broomstick, I feel alive, so alive, and I can feel my Charlie behind me, and even though I am dying inside, away from the magic and the spells I am happy.
Up and up we soar, the ground drops away before us, tears course down me, his, mine, I do not know, and I can feel the magic becoming weaker, I can feel myself melding with the night. I see the passage of a shooting star, I make a wish. Then nothing.
Charlie returns Oliver’s body to his bed, and walks out the door.
Static. Stationary. Stopped. The roof of St. Mungo’s was always blank. Dead. Oliver looked up and could not bear to watch the same vista any longer. He shut his eyes, tears leaking from the corners. Parents dead, static, gone. Life on hold. Broomstick. Ground. Meet your lifeless future here.
Limbs as dead as doornails. No motion, no freedom, just the steady beat of the monitors, the pulses of magic cocooning him from his own demise. Flat, static, wrapped and basted, turned and twisted by the hourly schedule of the nurses and doctors. Specialists prodding his broken back, lifeless limbs. On the hour, every hour. It is quarter past. I close my eyes and weep.
Stumbling, bumbling clanging noise, and I am greeted by a shock of red hair. Charlie. My Charlie. Back from the backs of dragons and the last letter I had written him, breaking all contact off. I did not want Charlie tied to a vegetable. What use is a boneless catamite?
“What in the Name of Merlin do you think you were doing Ol, did you think I would not read the papers, are we THAT behind in Romania?”
If I could move my head to the side I would. If I could just find the words to tell him to leave, I would. But I just stare up insensate at the orange fire before me. Yes the world knows my misery. The-Keeper-That-Couldn’t. Puddlemere was so proud. I do the only thing I can, and close my eyes.
Charlie is crying now, and the clear liquid drips onto my face. Not come, nothing that sticky, just the tepid pale drops of loss. I miss him, I love my Charlie and I miss him, but even with him I cannot live like this. Time on my back is too long, every second a day, every hour a year, every month, a lifetime.
He stops sobbing now, red rimmed, red haired, red eyes boring into me. It must be obvious from my face that there is nothing I would like more that to see him, and yet not to see him at the same time, for he looks puzzled.
“What do you want Ol?”
“Flight” I manage to rasp through the cocoon of contradictory spells and potions.
Charlie slumps to the floor. I guess he knew it was bad, not just how bad it was. He cocks an eyebrow up to me.
“You sure?”
“Yes”
“I’ll be back tonight”
Suddenly the ceiling doesn’t seem so grey. I store up my last impression of noises, of sounds, until the lumos overcomes the sunlight. I wait for even that to fade, and for my Charlie to return.
The door clicks open. He drops his mouth, to ask again if I’m sure, so I stammer out a “Yes.” I pretend not to notice the tears in his eyes as he picks my boneless body up, throwing me over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.
Outside the night is cold, and I revel in the fact that I am no longer in a climate controlled room, not longer stuck to the vagaries of the nurses and doctors. I might not be able to control my own environment here, but at least it is ice, sharp cold ice. It is alive.
Charlie straps me into a harness, and even though my head nods bonelessly as we mount the broomstick, I feel alive, so alive, and I can feel my Charlie behind me, and even though I am dying inside, away from the magic and the spells I am happy.
Up and up we soar, the ground drops away before us, tears course down me, his, mine, I do not know, and I can feel the magic becoming weaker, I can feel myself melding with the night. I see the passage of a shooting star, I make a wish. Then nothing.
Charlie returns Oliver’s body to his bed, and walks out the door.