Insecurity flowed through both of them. They were almost god-like to all those below them, like kings sat upon golden thrones or even gods sitting on clouds looking at humanity below them, but when they were alone?
Harry constantly feels as though he wasn't good enough for Voldemort. Some scrawny boy with his ribs showing, always tiny due to being stunted by years of malnutrition, messy hair that constantly got in his face, and broken glasses held together by tape despite him having the means to get new ones. He can't let go of the past whether it be by something as small as a pair of eyewear or something as big as trauma. He always felt like he was too little. Like he was never going to be what Voldemort wanted.
Voldemort constantly feels as though he's disgusting. His face is snake-like, with no nose and no hair. His teeth are sharp and jagged. Blue veins show under deathly white skin. He's a monster. Harry should be with someone beautiful, and Voldemort will never see himself as anything less than horrific. His body is disgusting too, with scars and scales littering him like patchwork, burn marks and bitter memories of trauma dust him and leave him looking far too ugly.
But right now none of these matter. Insecurities be damned. They tangled their limbs together and kiss each other's chapped lips, teeth clank together and skin hits skin in a beautiful mess of bodies.
Voldemort kisses Harry's scar, places a hickey on each lash that paints his front and back, rubs the skin covering his ribs with such kindness, plucks the glasses off his pretty face and runs his clawed hands through the black tangle that rests upon his scalp. He is in love with this boy.
Harry touches every scar and scale with a tenderness that cannot be explained, he kisses each vein he sees on Voldemort's body, runs his hands over the smooth skin of his scalp, runs his tongue along the jagged teeth resting in his mouth, and caresses every burn mark upon his body. He is in love with this man.
Sheets get tangled, blankets are thrown, body touches body, passion touches passion, they love each Insecurity like it is the heart of heaven gifted to them by God himself. They kiss and scratch and ache and bite and love. They love. They love before all else.
No matter how rough or soft, whether the bed is silent or creaking so loud it echos, whether they are separate or the lines between them blur, they love.
They love each other.
Love flows from hand to back to face to lips, it is a stream of beauty and passion and affection.
Gold and emerald touch and collide and melt and become one and they create heaven.
This is more than passion, it is art.
They paint away their own sadness and anxiety and replace it with each other.
So as they lay beside each other after the hot passion has burnt away and all that is left is warmth,
Harry no longer feels like he is not good enough.
Voldemort no longer feels like he is a monster.
And all has become well once more as silence reins in their embrace.