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[thecoolone]

"You asked me a question downstairs, Fleur." He sits on the bed, looking up at her. Studying her, really, and he reaches for her hands. "Sit with me. Let's talk."

He loves her fiercely.

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[thecoolone]

He catches her hand in his, kissing her palm.

"I think I will keep you, too."

Let everyone who has doubts have them: it can't touch what he and Fleur have.

Let everyone who doesn't understand their relationship be a cynic: it won't change his feelings in the least.

They don't owe a thing to anybody but each other. And that's exactly how it should be, he realises, as he lets his fingers walk down her arm.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

"I love you."

[leplusbeau]

Love you too.


*She nuzzles their noses together and laughs, little huffs of air against his chin and cheeks.*


You make me worry, and I love you for it. You are the one I will keep.

[thecoolone]

He kisses her soft pink lips again, then wraps his arm around her and holds her close.

He's supremely satisfied.

Eyes shut, he settles into the rhythm of her breathing. There is poetry in her eyes, her laugh, her smile.

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

(There is poetry in her soul.)