Fic a Week 23 - Fabulous Monsters
Aug. 24th, 2009 12:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pauraque_bkCouldn't write a thing this week! I wrote this a long time ago but never posted it.
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Fabulous Monsters
Girls still fall in love with Firenze every year. Neville sees the way they look at him, all moony-eyed; they are always there when Neville goes to meet him after his last class, making up questions about the stars.
They take walks out on the grounds, far enough that no one bothers them. They can't go into the Forest, of course, but they can go out along the other side of the lake. Neville has grown broader in his middle age, but their walks have always kept his legs strong, his lungs clear. Firenze doesn't look any older, and still tempers his gait so he doesn't get ahead.
"I am troubled," says Firenze as they are passing the hill with the spinney of birches.
Neville worries for a moment when he says that, worries that Firenze is troubled because of him.
"Oh?"
"There is a Muggle-born boy in my class," Firenze says. "He claims not to believe in the messages of the heavens. He said that the stars are 'giant balls of fusion', and not animate."
Neville blows out a breath, shaking his head. "And what did you say to that?"
"Not a great deal. I was surprised," Firenze admits. His tail flicks.
"I suppose it's a bit of an adjustment for them," Neville says, wondering when it was that Firenze started saying things like Muggle-born -- recognising human divisions. "They've been told we're imaginary."
Firenze hums, and turns to the little meadow that they've gone to before, nestled between the trees and the hillside. They sit -- Firenze sits too, legs folded up beneath him -- and talk of nothing. They have never seen another person here, and it seems more private than either of their rooms.
Neville stretches out on the grass, and Firenze does something odd, then. He lies down carefully, awkwardly on his side so that his torso lines up with Neville's on the ground, supporting himself with his elbow. Neither horses nor centaurs naturally lie that way, and Neville is surprised, looking at him.
Firenze's hand moves toward him just a little, and as though at a signal, Neville leans in and puts his arm around that marble waist, and Firenze's palm is against his back. He closes his eyes -- he is so uncertain. He has wondered if this is love, or if he is just mad, a silly child infatuated with something so beautiful...
"Don't be afraid," says Firenze; Neville feels it as much as he hears it, feels the rumble of his chest.
Neville laughs a little. "I can't help it."
Firenze hesitates. "Nor can I."
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Fabulous Monsters
Girls still fall in love with Firenze every year. Neville sees the way they look at him, all moony-eyed; they are always there when Neville goes to meet him after his last class, making up questions about the stars.
They take walks out on the grounds, far enough that no one bothers them. They can't go into the Forest, of course, but they can go out along the other side of the lake. Neville has grown broader in his middle age, but their walks have always kept his legs strong, his lungs clear. Firenze doesn't look any older, and still tempers his gait so he doesn't get ahead.
"I am troubled," says Firenze as they are passing the hill with the spinney of birches.
Neville worries for a moment when he says that, worries that Firenze is troubled because of him.
"Oh?"
"There is a Muggle-born boy in my class," Firenze says. "He claims not to believe in the messages of the heavens. He said that the stars are 'giant balls of fusion', and not animate."
Neville blows out a breath, shaking his head. "And what did you say to that?"
"Not a great deal. I was surprised," Firenze admits. His tail flicks.
"I suppose it's a bit of an adjustment for them," Neville says, wondering when it was that Firenze started saying things like Muggle-born -- recognising human divisions. "They've been told we're imaginary."
Firenze hums, and turns to the little meadow that they've gone to before, nestled between the trees and the hillside. They sit -- Firenze sits too, legs folded up beneath him -- and talk of nothing. They have never seen another person here, and it seems more private than either of their rooms.
Neville stretches out on the grass, and Firenze does something odd, then. He lies down carefully, awkwardly on his side so that his torso lines up with Neville's on the ground, supporting himself with his elbow. Neither horses nor centaurs naturally lie that way, and Neville is surprised, looking at him.
Firenze's hand moves toward him just a little, and as though at a signal, Neville leans in and puts his arm around that marble waist, and Firenze's palm is against his back. He closes his eyes -- he is so uncertain. He has wondered if this is love, or if he is just mad, a silly child infatuated with something so beautiful...
"Don't be afraid," says Firenze; Neville feels it as much as he hears it, feels the rumble of his chest.
Neville laughs a little. "I can't help it."
Firenze hesitates. "Nor can I."
