Liz has always refused to become like her family. Even though the blood of the Black family flows in her veins. Adopted by Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange after the death of her father Regulus - in hopes of "setting her on the right path" , she st...
Mattheo had cried himself to sleep that night in Liz's arms. Like a little child, he had buried his face against her shoulder and held her close. At the slightest movement he had woken up and pulled her closer to him again.
Liz had gently brushed his hair from his tear-soaked face and let him cry. Once the dam broke, it was hard to stop the flood again. How strange it was that they, of all people, had to go through this shit. Why was someone like Potter, whose parents were still being sung about today, the chosen one, everyone's favorite? Wasn't it much more impressive what she and Mattheo were going through here? They had to face death at the hands of their own families and yet they chose not to become like these people. What an unjust pile of shit.
It wasn't until the sun stung her eyes sharply that Liz realized she had been awake most of the night. She hadn't minded. On the contrary. There had been something oddly comforting about being there every time Mattheo woke up from a nightmare and reassuring him that all was well. But her body had a different take on the whole thing. Her eyes burned and her stomach grumbled.
Grumbling, Mattheo rolled to the side. "Sorry," was the only word Liz could understand before he sat up and rubbed his face sleepily.
Again the sun framed his wild curls and wrapped him in a golden cloak. This time Liz did not resist her urge. She reached out her fingers. He must have seen the movement out of the corner of his eye, because he turned back to her and grabbed her hand. His fingertips were cold, but his touch was still pleasant.
"Thank you," he finally said, seeking eye contact. "I-" He rubbed his thumb over the calluses on her fingers. "Thank you for making me feel so safe." Before Liz could say anything in response, Mattheo squeezed her hand and stood up. "Don't get up. I'll make us breakfast." His ears flushed, he disappeared from the room.
Liz rolled onto her back. When had their relationship changed so much? She still felt that hard core in her chest, reminding her that this familiarity couldn't last forever. At the same time, something was growing inside her that hoped against all logic. Hope. How stupid.
And yet she couldn't stop herself from rolling onto Mattheo's side of the bed and burying her face in his pillow. Ever since he stopped smoking, she couldn't get enough of his smell. There was something warm, tangy about it. She could smell the herbs they used when they cooked together. Basil, sage. But also the oranges, of which he always had to buy twice as many because he ate half before they even got around to processing them.
How long did they have left before they had to go back to the cruel reality?
-
Since his breakdown, Mattheo had changed. More and more often, Liz caught him just looking at her. Whether she was just sitting there reading, or hanging her bedclothes over the banister to air for the hundredth time.
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Liz was sure he was thinking the same thing she was. That they were living on borrowed time. But she didn't dare ask. So she smiled every time she caught his gaze and just went on with her work.
