Swimmer
The pointy shoulder brushing his in walking is not a new occurrenc: Since they have been eleven and newly arrived at the monumental castle lining the mountainslope of Scotland‘s highlands, Barty‘s shoulder brushing Evan‘s while walking has been established as a regular, normal, completely ordinary thing between the three friends: The two boys walking close, Regulus further off to Evan‘s side and Wilkes in a rush to keep up with them. Barty, his constant chatter and wild hand gestures, Regulus‘ eerily silence and Evan‘s listening to the both of them in between. Captured in a world of wonder, possibility and the balance act of mediating aristocratic silence and an unstoppable need for communication. It is nothing new, to watch the dark haired Black heir from afar, while a bony shoulder buries itself bruising into his very own in a chaotic rhythm of the taller boy‘s story telling next to him. It is nothing new that one of the rather long legs of the boy brushes Evan‘s once in a while, as the tale of Barty‘s summer reaches a new high of unbelievable absurdity at the breakfast table. It is nothing new that a long arm reaches over Evan‘s broadened set of shoulders on the way to quidditch practise, when the taller boy continues to spin his story into a far away fantasy that abandoned the basics of physical law long ago.
It is nothing new for Evan to laugh along and brush off the lingering touches with a grin on his face and a challenging comment on his lips, while Barty’s green eyes never stray too far from his own. It is nothing new, when Regulus throws them annoyed glances over his notes in the library and Barty and Evan make a challenge out of it, to collect as many of them as they can in one sitting. It is nothing new, when Barty‘s long fingers brush the nape of Evan‘s neck when they finally dropped their antics to get at least the minimal amount of studying in to pass the next random exam in herbology, for which Professor Moonstrich is most famous for. It is nothing new, when Evan notices Barty‘s intense gaze on him, as he skimms through another heavy book on the table to find the right information for their homework question. It is nothing new, when Barty‘s fingers bury themselves deeper into Evan‘s hair and one of his hands drops silently onto Evan‘s thigh where it plays with the folds of his trouser‘s fabric. It is nothing new - It is, though - something new, when Evan feels an intense burning on his skin.
A burn like dragon fire on dry pine needles - a burn like the searing iron on a tightly shaved shoulder of an unsuspecting lamb - a burn to kindle an everlasting wildfire: Destructive in a sense that it breaks skin like it was meant to, but also carries the warming quality to cure a sailor’s shiver - one of those icily chilled ones - the kind that takes whole limbs with the silent hands of a practised thieve - broad daylight and once you look down half your leg is black and blue and unmoving - gone forever.
The fire of one look - so haunting and yet so tempting - the water after an endless journey through the driest desert. Evan can’t help but to give in to it. The promise of hazel is too sweet, the threat of a storm too exciting to pass on - and he is left without disappointment, when he turns his head in the direction from where the burn spreads over his neck and chest. It leaves a trace of fryndfire so easily detectable - so easily decipherable, dripping down Evan’s forced calmly lifting chest. Darkly framed, hazel eyes collide with Evan’s gaze over a total of seven sets of tables, when he finally lifts them in anticipation of the expression he will find when he does.
To describe the feral swirl of darkened green between the ambers of ashen hazel wood, as livid, wouldn’t do the older boy’s expression justice - it would mute his anger to an insignificant amount of unsubstantial hatred. But Evan can see the thrashing underneath. He can sense the boiling intensity, the dripping rage - the angle. Remus isn’t really looking at him like that, is he now?
No. No - because his gaze shifts - dips, tilts to the side and finally lands -
Barty’s wrist is blocking the view. And once Evan’s gaze flicks up to meet the boiling stare of the Gryffindor across the room, he finds the symphony of hazel averted and directed on a red haired girl instead. There is a shift in the boy’s posture next to him suddenly, one that drags him along and away from the view across the library until his eyes find the papers of his essay spread out before him - chaotically assembled and torn at their edges. Evan can’t help but relate - he feels robbed of air, smiling half heartedly at something the dark haired boy to his right exclaims in an excited shout as an excuse for his distractedness. But the urge to turn around is so pressing, that Evan can’t concentrate. The burn on his skin is unnervingly painful and the arm around his shoulders feels heavy all of a sudden - so suffocating in its ordinariness.
The question of Remus’ targeting gaze leaves no room for Evan to collect his notes as he stands up and untangles himself from his friend’s body draped half-way across him. What has Remus been looking at? What caused that notice? What made him look at me again? What was it that captured the older boy’s attentions so thoroughly that it made him look at Evan from the other side of this grand library?
Of course Evan’s response to Remus’ poem - his poem: not his thoughts, or his corrections - his poem - handwritten and crooked and perfect - has yet to be sent. The word he has written so far ring in his head now, that he makes a beeline between the crowded tables on his way to the toilet stalls across the hall. He is hectic and way too uncoordinated with his movements - to a trained eye his lazy stroll and loosely draped shoulders could appear forced - the neutrally schooled expression on his face too tight to seem natural. Evan hurries down the corridor nonetheless and barges trough the door of the loo with too much force to appear casual.
Whatever it was - whatever caused this - the opportunity, the confirmation of the older boy’s interest in his thoughts - his person perhaps - at least by extension: it has to get explored, sooner than later, if he wants too keep his sanity.
The door barely closes to a heavy shut behind him, when Evan already pulls out a folded piece of extra parchment and one of his muggle pens and presses both against the sturdy door of his chosen toilet stall.
He scribbles feverishly, way too fast and indecipherable for the words to gain recognisable quality, but the rush from the burn spreading further across his chest keeps him on track with the nature of a haunting chase.
Evan writes as if his time runs out on him - as if the fire licks on the walls surrounding him with the promising threat to invade his space at any given minute - he writes as if he is hunted, as if it is everything that will keep him alive, discarding his previous notes with a distracted incendio-charm. As if the speed of his writing will determine whether his certain death comes sooner than expected or as late as possible. - That look - that interest - it can’t disappear before he even got the chance to interact with it - It can’t return to what it has been before - to what Evan thought it had remained to be, all along. He must have missed the change, must have missed the flick of a switch that he never thought was mobile enough to move - Just that tiny bit of something - that minimal hint of more -
He writes and writes, tears the paper with his feverish scribbles, stains it with ink blots of black until his fingers list every trace of his feelings on their surface. He doesn't bother with a cleaning charm when he makes his escape from the stall, brushes past students on his way out and nearly stumbles in his run across the hall. He knows he is in a race with time and a closing opportunity - a metal gate drifting to a close on the horizon ahead - he is fighting the dying light as he picks up a book from their table and slides the still-wet note into the middle of its opened pages. He ignores Barty’s questioning look and Regulus’ pointed eye brow raised at him, as he abandons their shared table in a rush.
The controlled walk to the opposite side of the room appears like a battle lost as he makes out a strand of auburn hair disappearing in the mass of leaving students. Still, Evan schools his face into practised boredom as he chases the hint of red in the pooling-out crowd. The pressure is palpable, yet unreasonable - a haunch more than anything of substance.
And he hears them before his gaze settles on a pair of dark haired mob’s of hair in the distance, making their way like Moses in one of those ancient muggle books his mother has lend him - through the crowd, directly to the table where Evan is headed. Their voices carry and make a head of brown curls turn up, just as Evan collides with the table. He drops the book inelegantly - like a tumbling force, an avalanche of meaningful mystery - straight into the lap of Remus Lupin. A well calculated accident.
Hazel finds its way once again, with the intensity of a million dying suns, directly into Evan’s core. And he is aware of his time running out - the attention drifting away and into the direction of black strands of curly hair and ocean blue eyes approaching them from just mere metres away.
But the glance lingers, clings - his expressionless, drained-of-colour-eyes burning with the contact of unmuted hazel of untouched woods and wildfire. And it burns between them - unsettling, untouched - disturbed all too soon by a shoulder colliding harshly with Evan’s - pushing him to the side and out of the older boy’s reach with the force of a burning star claiming its rightful place at the night sky - sliding between the moon and sun in the distance - leaving Evan brushed off cold and alone - staggering stupidly in the space between book-covered desks and ceiling high shelves. Blown to the side like an afterthought. He almost surrenders to the humility, almost crumbles under the dominance lacing the graceful boy’s movements opposed to him. He almost misses the flicker of rage dying the outline of Remus’ Iris black - almost misses the indignant huff of the older boy as he rises from his seat between the black haired bloke’s mockery and Evan’s clumsy recovery. He almost misses the glare the taller boy sends at his friend accompanied with a threatening step towards his shattered expression.
Sirius’ startling agony is shortly drowned out by the familiar wiry frame of the boy with hazel eyes though - Impossible in theory and practise but unfolding right there in front of his eyes anyway - Potter’s soothing mumbles become a far away note in Evan’s periphery, as he watches the older boy in front of him clasp the dropped book tightly to his side and his left hand extend towards his own inelegantly braced body, scattered against the nearby book shelf. The contact is brief, more a whisper of skin against the inpentrable fabric of his robes, but it makes his breath stop short in his lungs anyway, as Remus hauls him upright with slight upturn in the corner of his mouth.
Seconds pass, that Evan fights with the grin that’s pulls like an anchor on his mouth, as the taller boy takes a step back to create a respectable distance between them. It reestablishes the taunt - the tease - catches Evan entirely off guard in its subtlety - the impossibility.
“Sorry for that, Rosie - r, Rosier. Sirius sometimes forgets the important parts of his education in mannerism when he feels specially vain - see you at the prefects meeting tomorrow?”
The nickname slips and Remus turns already, before the monumental meaning can hit Evan straight in the chest, too distracted and overwhelmed to notice anything besides the fairytale of his most private desperate wishes unfolding before his eyes. Joy overflows him, when he brushes off his robes distractedly; when his gaze lingers on the taller boy’s frame sliding back into his reserved spot on the bench - when he catches a retreating pair of gold and red robes flooding the area in a settling companionship around Remus’ table.
Evan turns on the spot at the same moments blue collides with his side - he misses it. Misses the antagonising punch of an unspoken promise directed at him, as he makes his way back to his own study table, his own friends.
He doesn't notice the burning stare across the library when he collects his papers and settles into the familiar brush of Barty’s shoulder against his, as the three Slytherins pack their bags and abandon their spot at the cluttered table to make their retreat to their dorms in the dungeons.
He doesn’t take note of the way the older Black throws inquiring gazes at his dorm mate from across their table - doesn't witness the soft hold the brown haired boy with hazel eyes and an unnervingly silver lip piercing keeps on the herbology book pressed tightly to his side. He doesn't notice the agony in Sirius’ ocean eyes and the accusation lining the rim of Potter’s amber irises as Remus keeps his stoic gaze trained closely on the lines of his own essay laying scattered across their shared desk.
Evan doesn't notice any of it, as he laughs off the proclaimed assault and Regulus’ inquiring eyes. It is nothing new, when he feels Barty’s arm slide across his shoulders in the corridors - when the other boy pulls him in fiercely when they close the door of their dorm room behind them. It is nothing new, when Barty promises to make them pay for their careless humiliation - nothing new, when Evan laughs off the brutal threat.
It is nothing new, when Evan settles underneath his covers to pull out the folded pieces of paper from his notebook when the others in his dorm are sound asleep. It is nothing new, when his eyes wander over the crooked words of ink, the stains of carefully placed cross outs. It is nothing new, when he wonders in the confidance of the night enveloping him - what the boy of hazel had meant with his words. It is something new though, when he turns around to close his eyes - and remembers instead of imagining - remembers how that burning gaze of hazel had rested on his own instead of ocean blue waves of drowning starlight.
A droning and buzzing -
the silent sound -
waves crashing over my head with a downpour of salt-
we are far from the hallways - far from the drowning masses of ever moving bodies-
yet -
yet -
this hallway is a storm.
It carries me to the shore - a body, a shiver away from falling apart - the slat drenching my lips - its pulling me under -
where is the light in this endless night?
Does the moon hang low enough for me to make out your siluette in the hallway?
Where do we stray from here?
Straying we do.
A question unanswered. A question on the piles of those ahead.
Where does the drowning blue lead? Is it everlasting green between the shores of crushing waves ?
How would I know - I drowned long ago.
Between blue and salt and the brutal waves over my head.
The light is somewhere far away - an answer, a set of cradling hands hold.
Softness in its cruelty - demanding and burning -
(and where did you look? Was it that speck of dust on my robe?)
We’re in the hallway again - the hallway of stones crushing in - blue and black and dark and where is the light?
Was it obvious ? What did it miss again?
You’ll have to excuse the corpse of its undeceptiveness - you’ll have to excuse my freezing limbs - they’re not used to the fire from afar.
From far away.
I read your poem.
I read every word you spelled out in drowning blue.
Where do the waves crash me on the shore? Where will my body drift to?
I sit where you sat. Empty chairs and splintered desks - nothing new to find inbetween the lines.
I skimmed the pages of every book you ever read.
To swim is the dream - the salt too tempting - where does the green lead to in all of this?
I read between your lines - the story obscured - to swim you preach - yet you’re shivering in that staircase unhiding. You don’t stray from the light. You know how to swim - know how to navigate the salt and burning blue. You know how to swim. To swim, you preach.
There are lines erased. It drives me crazy - those lines of hidden meaning - the secret lies in them. Lies and lies and im left with no answers to the piling mountain of questions - a corpse that has drowned in the folds of Summer
a creature reborn - untrusting of the artist’s moulding.
In the lines lies the secret - the lines crossed out. The lines i beg you to write out again - the answers i need from you - sailor, swimmer, drifter -
E.R.