Written for the Quidditch League Round 11 - Appleby Arrows - CHASER 2: Write about a death on a spring day(s) OR a birth on a winter night(s), (song) Let It All Go - BIRDY RHODES, (word) asleep, (song) This is Why I Need You - Jesse Ruben, and Hogwarts' Around the World Event - Lesotho - Song: Leave Before the Lights Come On - Arctic Monkeys and the Transfiguration Assignment: Write a fic from the POV of someone in some form of captivity, (quote) "The chains are broken, but am I truly free?".

Word count: 2319

if it takes a war for us to meet (it will have been worth it)

Fabian is still asleep when Edgar wakes up, and he looks so peaceful like this, his red hair shining like copper in the low light, that Edgar can't bear to disturb him.

In this bedroom, only barely lit by a handful of sun rays filtered through the closed shutters—their teasing tickle of light on his face had been what had woken him up—it feels like they're in another world.

A perfect world—a world untouched by war.

Like this, there isn't a trace of the stress lines that mar Fabian's face. There's no sign of the concern his lover tries to hide so swiftly during the day—he rarely ever manages to, but it still hurts Edgar's heart every time Fabian makes an attempt to conceal just how strongly he feels—and it's almost easy to believe that nothing can ever touch him.

That nothing ever should.

Edgar closes his eyes tightly and tries to ignore the burn of his unshed tears, clenching his jaw to restrain the keening sound he can feel building in his chest. With a trembling finger, he dares to trace the contour of Fabian's face, noting with a kind of joy that makes his soul sing how soft his skin is.

"I don't deserve your love, Fabian," he tells the darkness.

The darkness doesn't answer, and Edgar tastes salt on his lips as his tears finally fall, unrestrained.

Five minutes, he tells himself. Fives minutes to savor this glorious, golden instant, and then I'm leaving.

Five minutes later, heart heavy in his chest, Edgar slips out of the bed silently and dresses quickly. It's only spring, but Fabian's flat is never cold. He almost wishes it was—Edgar feels like he should be shivering as he struggles to get his clothes back on, instead of slipping them on easily.

Half of him hopes that Fabian will wake, but the other half hopes that he won't—Edgar knows that if Fabian wakes now, when every single cell of his body yearns for the touch of the redhaired man sleeping so peacefully in the bed, he will never leave. Because when they're together, Edgar never, ever wants to leave—Fabian has that effect on him. He quiets all of the thoughts in Edgar's mind, makes all his demons fall silent.

But Fabian really does deserve better than a man who can't choose between the man he loves and the woman he married.

Her name is Meredith, and Edgar married her because he had to. He never loved her, but once, he had hoped that he would come to.

That had worked for his parents, after all. Arranged marriages do, sometimes. When you're lucky.

Edgar isn't lucky. He's never been lucky a single time in his life—his mother used to say that he was lucky to be born, premature and weak as he was, and that him living and having magic was all of the luck he would ever get.

Still, for a time, he had hoped that the quiet, easy kind of friendship he enjoyed with his wife would blossom into love—if not the torrid kind you read about in books, at least something that wouldn't have him see Meredith as another sister. Something that would stop him from feeling so disgusted with himself every time he had to hold her or kiss her.

And then he had met Fabian—or rather, Fabian had blazed into his life. He and his brother burned as bright as any star in the sky, but of the two of them, it was Fabian who caught Edgar's eye.

Edgar had felt like he could breathe again—like he had broken the surface after so long spent underwater, drowning slowly without ever noticing it.

Meredith doesn't even care—as long as they don't flaunt it to the world, they've long agreed that they could have affairs on the side. For all he knows, Meredith herself fell in love with someone else.

And yet, this disloyalty sits ill with him. He can't stay by her side, and he can't stay away from Fabian—Fabian, who miraculously doesn't even mind that his lover is a married man, a damaged wizard he'd be so much better off without—and he hates himself for it.

It makes Edgar sick, how much he loves Fabian, how entirely unable to stop it he is.

In a way, Edgar is almost thankful for the war. Not only is it only through the Order of the Phoenix that he and Fabian have met, but these days, Edgar finds that he lives for the way battle makes his blood sing.

For as long as he fights, his shackles loosen just a bit—just enough for him to be able to see more clearly.

When he fights, Edgar doesn't feel quite as lost. He has control then: it's him and the enemy, and if his curses are a little more violent than Professor Dumbledore would approve of, well, no one's ever going to report him. Not when they're all doing the same thing beside him.

And Fabian is glorious in a fight. He fights like a dancer, almost. Like an artist. It makes Edgar's mouth run dry and his chest grow tight, how beautiful Fabian looks when he's fighting.

It's kind of ironic, really. Funny, even. Edgar had hated fighting as a child. He'd never have dreamed he'd end up fighting in a war, one day—even less that he'd end up enjoying it so much that he'd wonder what his life would be like, without that war.

The worry, however, he could do without.

Once, Fabian is struck by a curse so bad Edgar fears he'll bleed to death right in his arms before Edgar manages to bring him to Hogwarts, and Mrs. Pomfrey there, who'll know how to fix him better than Edgar's poor attempts at holding the man he loves together.

Fabian is unconscious but Edgar keeps on holding his hand anyway, slippery as it is.

He begs, out loud and in his head, swears a thousand promises he vows to keep, if only the universe lets Fabian live—he doesn't even remember a quarter of those, and muffled as they were by his sobs, he doubts anyone could have ever understood him anyway.

"Please, please let him live," were probably the most common, though.

His heart stops when Mrs. Pomfrey tells him Fabian will live, and it's only then that he realizes he's still covered in blood.

Fabian's blood.

Fabian's blood is drying on his skin, still sticky and warm in some places and already itchy in others, peeling off in red plaques that make him sick. There's so much of it, it's hard to believe Fabian had any left in him by the time Mrs. Pomfrey got to him.

He doesn't dare leave so he just casts a Scrubbing charm on himself. The uncomfortable feeling of magic vanishing away the blood and grime as it scrapes his skin clean is just about what he deserves, he thinks.

After all, if he hadn't looked away, if he had had Fabian's back, the way he should have, Fabian would never have been hit. If anything, Edgar is the one who deserves to be in that bed, looking half an inch away from death. Not Fabian. Never Fabian.

It would be so easy to pull a chair by Fabian's bed to sit on, or even to conjure up one, but Edgar hesitates. In the end, he kneels on the ground. The floor is freezing and uncomfortable. He can feel the cold seeping in through his clothes, but like this, he can rest his head on the bed in a way that lets him see Fabian's face and the way his chest rises up ever so slightly as he breathes.

If he reaches over, he can even keep on holding Fabian's hand, his pulse a reassuring thrum beneath his fingers, despite how cold and clammy Fabian's skin still feels.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to Fabian, wishing, not for the first time, that he could stop apologizing to him. That one day, he wouldn't have anything to be sorry for. "I'll do better now," he says, biting back the words 'next time'—he hopes there won't be a 'next time.' He doesn't want to have to do this again, to have to fight back the bile as Fabian's life literally slips through his trembling fingers.

He never wants to feel that hopeless again.

Tears burning at the corner of his eyes, Edgar presses a soft kiss on the back of Fabian's hand, and then another, and another.

He only stops when the sobs start to escape him, tears blurring his vision. He presses his eyes closed until he sees red, and buries his head against the white sheet.

He wishes he would suffocate like this, or drown in his tears—at least then, he wouldn't' have to feel this pain, clawing at his chest.

"So, who do you think will die first, of the two of us?" Fabian jokes one day. He's sweaty and his arm is so very heavy on Edgar's chest, and yet, Edgar wouldn't move for anything in the world.

Still, his blood freezes in his veins at Fabian's words. "Don't even joke about it," he hisses between his teeth, fingers digging into the bed. "I don't, I can't—don't even joke about it," he settles on repeating, unable to find the right words to express the jungle of feelings tangled in his chest.

Fabian only laughs, pressing a soft, damp kiss against Edgar's temple. "Sorry, love. But seriously—who do you think it'll be? I'm betting it'd be you. You'd be hopeless without me, anyway."

Despite himself, Edgar lets out a strangled wet chuckle. "You'd be hopeless without me," he retorts. "Remind me again who saved who last time?"

Edgar feels Fabian's lips stretch into a smile against his skin, and he grins back helplessly, heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings in his chest. "Point," Fabian says, and for the next glorious instants, Edgar loses himself in his lover's skin.

It would be so easy, to let the anger festering in Edgar's soul like a cancer speak. To let it spill out all the wickedness Edgar himself would never say.

"I wish I had never met you."

"I was so much better off having never known the taste of your lips."

"I was happy before you came into my life."

They're all lies, of course.

But the worst part is that they're also so very, very true.

"When the war ends," Edgar promises Fabian feverishly one night, "I'll leave Meredith. I-I'm tired of hiding. I just want to be with you."

The bedsprings creak under them, but Edgar barely even notices. He hadn't even known how much he means it until he'd said it—but now that he has, this elusive future is all he can see. It shimmers before him like a mirage, and Edgar hadn't realized he was so starved for this chance at something real.

"We might even leave," he adds, laughter bubbling in his chest. He feels lighter than he has in years—perhaps than he ever has in his entire life—but more importantly, he feels free. "Go somewhere—explore the world, just the two of us. Wouldn't that be something?"

Fabian stays silent for so long that the familiar dread starts pooling in Edgar's stomach, causing his smile to drop.

"We don't have to," he starts, forcing fake cheer into his voice. "It was just an idea—my idea. If you'd rather we did something else, we could-"

Fabian's index on his lips cuts him off. He shuffles closer, until Edgar can feel the heat radiating off his skin. This close, all he can see clearly of Fabian's face are his eyes, and they're so very blue. It is frighteningly easy to get lost in them—they're like pools of light, and in them, Edgar sees his every emotion reflected.

"I," Fabian starts to say, "would love to run away with you. If you really want to run away with me."

"Of course I do!" Edgar retorts, but Fabian's sad, loving smile tells it all—they both know he never will.

Here is the question Edgar would ask Fabian if he could ever dare:

"How long are you going to stay by my side?"

And here would be Fabian's answer, should he ever be asked to give it:

"Forever."

It's funny, really. It had never actually occurred to Edgar that he could die anywhere but battle.

And yet, his house burns down around him, the wife and children he likes but doesn't love screaming as the air scorches their lungs and throats until they can't even make a single sound.

It had been such a beautiful day, too. A nice, lovely spring day. Edgar had been going to take Fabian on a date—a proper date, for once. They were going to have a picnic in a park, like Muggles did.

It had been the perfect day for it—Edgar had known it as soon as he had opened his eyes this morning and had smelled the blossoming flowers in the air.

It was such a shame Edgar wouldn't be able to make it. Would Fabian wait? he wondered. Would he worry? Would he, too, feel the gnawing pain in his stomach when Edgar failed to show, the way Edgar had when Fabian had been bleeding to death in his arms? Would he cry?

Edgar hoped he wouldn't—Fabian shouldn't cry over Edgar. Fabian should never cry over Edgar.

It was such a shame, really. Such… a… shame…

They say Edgar Bones almost made it—that he crawled all the way to the window. His fingers are still fused to it, you see? From when he tried to open it.

A few more minutes, they say. Not even a couple, and he'd have made it.

One more minute of air, and he'd have been free.