the words of my wrist (the devil in silk and yet I yearn)

chapter 5

Author's Note: I wrote all of this in a 1 to 4 am frenzy of motivation induced by 3 monster drinks; I have all the memory of a goldfish, so I have no idea what was written and I have no wish to edit it. Either enjoy it or do not.

Rabastan is so in love it's ridiculous. Please listen to him gush about his love for Harry in a very nice 1K words before we get to anything else~ it might make sense or it might not. Just now that he is in love.

Harry is also very in love with Rabastan. The murder they would commit for each other should be concerning, but what are morals for, if not to be entirely disregarded?

(For legal reasons, I mean that only within the realm of fiction. Outside of that, I keep my lips closed and my hands clean.)

---ooo---

what's so dangerous about being in love- (the lengths i'd go for him)

Rabastan had never thought that he would have to choose between the two marks on his arm. The name curled around his wrist, the soul of the person who existed perfectly for him; the mark that he took was he was sixteen years old, a voluntary service that he took upon himself.

He remembers being just a child, barely old enough to read, and watching day by day as foggy black swirls formed on his wrist. His parents had been over the moon, crowing proudly about how he'd been blessed with a soulmate.

Ever since he'd been old enough to understand what it meant for him, Rabastan checked every morning to see if his soulmark had snapped into perfect clarity. In Azkaban, he would look at with the dim lighting the guard's patronus provided, and wonder when he would discover his soulmate's identity.

The same day that he'd been freed from Azkaban, when they'd escaped, Rabastan glanced down at his wrist. Mostly expecting no change, it had taken him a few moments to realize that he hadn't glanced at foggy, undiscernable words. Instead there were words in perfect, discernable, clarity.

Hadrian James Potter.

He went by Harry, not Hadrian—a remanent of his muggle upbringing no doubt—but it was a inconsequential, nonsense thing to argue about so Rabastan never brought it up. Besides, Harry is short, sweet, and simple—a perfect reflection of the person who holds it.

(Hadrian is the name of an emperor, a name that makes Rabastan think of endless, drowning power; also a perfect reflection of the person who holds it.)

But it does not matter what his soulmate goes by. All of it reflects him perfectly, encapsulating all the parts of him, no matter that they contradict each other when set apart—because when put together, they form a beautiful painting, a breath-taking person that makes his lungs feel empty no matter how much air he breathes.

His soulmate is perfect.

Perfect with the scars on his body, the fire in his eyes, the tenderness of his touch, the musical lilt of his voice.

Perfect even if the first thing he felt after Harry recieved his soulmark was raw—burning, burning, the sun had taken over the entire universe—hatred.

Perfect in a way that his emotions were so strong, all-encompassing at time, that Rabastan couldn't escape from the eternal numbness even if he wanted to. (By Merlin, he didn't. He wanted to feel all of Harry for the rest of his days.)

He is a deity.

A beautiful magnificent deity that Rabastan did not deserve, but he would take because he is a greedy man. He will grab the offered kindness, the shy-gentle-joyful-blinding smiles, all the soft-inexperienced-loving-hungry-wanting kisses, the bad days that make Rabastan's heart ache, the tears that he doesn't see but he feels them as a phantom touch on his cheeks. He will accept it all with hunger flaming beneath his ribs and an avaricious need tangling through his bones like a poison.