Ruby-red, blood-rose, his life is smudged on his fingertips, extracted from the sharp edge of a rose thorn. His pale skin makes the red shine brighter, an exclamation sinking in between the folds on his finger pads.
"Darling, you're bleeding."
He knows. He rubs the red between his two fingertips, spreading the color over more skin, hiding more of himself under the liquid. His hand is open; he puts the rose in his other hand. There are dots of red on his palm, running through the crease of his life line. The red is turning brown, turning sticky.
Darling, you're bleeding.
Bleeding fingers, bleeding heart - is there a difference? A rose symbolizes love, a rose pricked his finger - is there poetry in that? A rose made him bleed, a rose stained his fingers red - is there poetry in that? His heart clenches - no. There's no poetry in pain. But maybe there's pain in poetry.
He clenches his hand into a fist again and he feels the blood flake off of his skin. Maybe life is that fragile, too. Blood dries in minutes, is erased in less - is his life lived in minutes as well? Will he flake off in the wind? Has he already?
Darling, you're bleeding.
Yes, Harry, I'm bleeding.
No, Harry, it's not from my fingertips.
He feels the wind on his skin. The red of the rose petals is fluttering in the breeze. The tips of the thorns are red, now, too. Red symbolizes love. His fingers are on the stem, now - he's more careful this time. Maybe that means he's learned something. Maybe that means he hasn't. Maybe that means it's something he should've known all along.
"Here, let me."
Water rushes over his fingers - it's cold and crisp. Rejuvenating. Revitalizing. He rubs his fingers together again, washing the brown away: oxidized, oxidation, oxygen, breath of life. But blood dies outside of the body.
A warm hand brushes over his skin, and he feels fingers lace between his own. He feels the water trapped between the palms of their hands.
"Draco, come back to me. You left planet Earth for a second."
His voice is so calm, and he hears the warmth in between the spaces of his words. He's gentle - soft, like the petals of the rose in his left hand. Draco wonders what he did to deserve gentle. A fluke of fate, he's sure. A destiny meant for another boy, another heart, another soul - Fortune spun the wrong wheel, the Fates wove the wrong string, the Gods blessed him with another man's miracle. But he's not going to correct it; he's too selfish for that. Maybe he would if he were a better man, but he's just Draco. Just Draco.
He feels warm lips on his cheek and his eyes flutter closed. He breathes in.
"Tell me what you're thinking." He feels the whisper against his skin, Harry's nose still barely touching his cheek. He never thought small things could be so intimate, could make his insides swirl and his heart tighten - never thought touch could be something so important - not until he'd felt Harry's touch on his skin.
"I'm alive. You're alive. We're living, breathing, thinking."
Harry's laugh is low and sweet; it fills the gaps inside. "We visit the Manor once and you've turned into a philosopher?"
Draco feels the corners of his mouth tug up into a smile. "Not a philosopher, not nearly smart enough for that. Just... thinking."
"You know, you have this look on your face when you zone out - your eyes get glassy and your eyebrows furrow, creating a crease right about... here." Harry thumps the space between his eyes, a little above his eyebrows softly and Draco swats his hand away.
"Hey!" He looks at Harry with narrowed eyes and a smile he can't stop on his face. Harry catches his wrist in his hand.
"There he is - welcome back to reality, darling."
Draco slumps against the bench they're sitting on and sets the rose next to his thigh. His head rests against the metal uncomfortably, the edges slightly digging into the back of his head under his hair. His wrist is still in Harry's hand, and Harry brings it up to his lips, kissing the inside of Draco's wrist before lacing their fingers together. Draco feels the heat of his blush creep over his skin before Harry even sets their hands on his leg.
Draco wishes he could live in this moment forever - could bottle the memory and return to this bench, on this day, with Harry looking at him like he just hung the moon, whenever he wanted to. He wishes he could paint, so he could paint a picture of the garden, immortalizing the rose bushes and the scuffs on Harry's shoes. He wishes he could write, so he could write a book about the green in Harry's eyes, and the rustle of the leaves on the trees. All he has is his memories, and memories fade. He wants to remember this moment perfectly until the day he dies.
"I wish we could stay here forever - live this moment over and over again, just you and me," Draco whispers, his thumb brushing over the side of Harry's hand. "But they say that life is beautiful because one day it'll be gone. Our blood stops flowing, and our hearts stop beating, and one day everything will end - everything will be gone. Do you think that this moment would be any less beautiful if it didn't end, if we didn't have to go back into the house, and continue on? Would you love me any less if you knew you'd never lose me?"
Harry smiles and brushes the hair away from Draco's forehead. "I don't know. All I do know is that I love you now, and I don't like thinking that that will never end."
"Maybe it never will."
"Maybe it never will," Harry repeats. There's a beat of silence between the two, where they simply look at each other.
Maybe it never will.
"I think your mother has finished preparing the tea, my love."
Draco nods his head. "She probably has. Shall we?"
Harry puts his finger under Draco's chin, giving him a soft kiss - a kiss that conveys beginning and not ending, and Draco's heart swells.
"Let's go."