A/N: Gift piece for Relle. It's probably bad and cliché, but then I don't read HD. Title is… meh. If you were expecting romance, dear… You were wrong. If you hate it, ask for something else. I have mixed feelings myself. I'll do another if you want.
Summary: One-shot. Bad angst. HD slash. An endless tryst. Gift piece.
The war's been on for years now.
Years and years.
He can't remember when it started. Intellectually, he knows. He knows the year, month, day, hour, and second. He knows the facts…
But his heart does not. It's just dead weight in his chest now. He's been told it's funny. He doesn't know.
The war's been on for years now, and the trysts for two. It feels like more.
He's on his back, silent. Awake, physically at least. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Mind blank, running furiously. Eyes focused on the stars above.
Always, always. The door's cracked. Has it always been? Broken-broken.
The tryst again. Again and again and again.
His eyes have deep bags under them. People think it's because he's up all night, creating strategies.
They're wrong. He's no tactician. He tried in the beginning, when he was young and idealistic. When they lost.
He never sits down. He's always running, running, running. They think he's running to take his secret strategies to the front lines.
They're wrong. He runs away every morning to get away from the nights. He never sits down because it hurts too much.
He has no appetite. They think it's because he's stressed. They think it's because he's tired. They think he's on drugs, sometimes.
They're wrong. He has no appetite because food revolts him. It makes him think of what has already gone down his throat.
His hair is disheveled. They marvel at how devoted he is to the cause that he forgoes personal hygiene, resorting to cleaning spells instead.
They're wrong. His hair is disheveled because he can't bear to touch his hair, knowing who was the last to touch it.
He's a demon on the battlefield. He wields himself and his talents as he would anyone else. They think he's a fanatic.
They're wrong. He's a demon on the battlefield because he wants to die, to escape forever. To not have to run anymore.
His room is sterile. They think it's because he has no time to live.
They're wrong. His room is sterile because he can't give the other a weapon to hurt him with.
His hands shake. They think it's because he doesn't eat right.
They're wrong. His hands shake because he's terrified.
He reacts slowly. They think it's because he saves himself for the battlefield.
They're wrong. He reacts slowly because he can't think.
His eyes don't focus. They think it's because he's planning.
They're wrong. His eyes don't focus because he's afraid of what he'll see.
He refuses to see the nurse. They think it's because he's paranoid.
They're wrong. He refuses to see the nurse because she will know.
He's always drinking. They think it's because he exerts himself so much.
They're wrong. He's always drinking because he needs to wash away the taste.
Every morning he has a strategy. They think it's because he's a genius. It always works.
They're wrong. Every morning he has a strategy because the other gives him one every night.
He never stands still. They think it's because he feels the need to risk his life for everyone else.
They're wrong. He never stands still because if he tried he wouldn't be able to stay on his feet.
When he's alone he dies. No one sees it. He lies alone, waiting.
When the sun falls, he enters his hidden rooms. No one is supposed to know where he is.
He's being drained. The other takes and gives as he wishes. Sometimes he takes more and gives less. Sometimes he takes less and gives more.
Sometimes he takes too much.
Voldemort's dead. Thomas Marvolo Riddle merely a boogeyman. Now there's only the other.
Only the other… and him.