a hundred names for flowers
Characters: Pansy, Blaise. Draco, in theory.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 647
Summary: "I don't know how you stand this," she says. Her eyes are glossy, tears unspilled.
Note: For![[info]]()
hereticalvision! A bit late, sorry about that! Er…this turned out quite differently than I anticipated, and might not be what you were looking for exactly. What can I say, writing is strange. I hope you like it anyway!
Pansy brings a shaky cigarette to her lips, puffs her childish pink smoke. There is a ring of dark purple lipstick left on the cylinder when she sets it down, the same color as her nail polish. She is always put together, Pansy is, matching from her eyelashes to her spike heels.
"I don't know how you stand this," she says. Her eyes are glossy, tears unspilled.
"Don't make a fucking disgrace of yourself," Blaise says, lip curling. "He's dead, sobbing over the coffin isn't going to change that."
"And you're just a bad impersonation," she says.
Blaise rolls his eyes. "I'm wounded."
"You will be," Pansy says, with her odd determination, and a look in her eyes like she might stab him with her cigarette holder.
Tears and tantrums aside, they'd always known Draco might come to a sticky end.
Pansy brings flowers to Draco's grave with determined regularity and finally just plants some.
Blankly, Blaise says, "Pansies. Really."
"So he'll know I'm thinking of him," she says.
"He's dead," Blaise reminds her, as though she's forgotten.
Pansy flicks her cigarette butt at him.
After the plants the pansies, the time between her visits gets longer and longer.
Pansy gets stinking drunk on Crème Yvette (that sounds like the name of a french prostitute, not a liquor, Blaise says) and clings to Blaise's pretentious decorative silk scarf, says, "You're just like Draco, only straight and black and I hate you. You're like one of those things."
Blaise raises his eyebrow. "Care to elaborate?"
"Like they give to smokers, or heroin addicts," Pansy says. "You can wean me off of friendship."
After a moment, he says, "I'd rather we just had sex."
Pansy thinks about it. "Acceptable."
Blaise is gorgeous, obviously, because his mother is the loveliest woman Pansy has ever seen in real life and also the most vicious. Pansy aspires to be just like her. The problem is that Blaise is completely aware of his face and that ruins the whole thing.
"You're vainer than I am," she says, sitting up in bed and casting about for her lighter. "And I invented vanity."
"At least I have something to be vain about," he says. "You still haven't gotten your nose fixed?"
"I will set fire to your mattress and laugh," Pansy tells him.
Draco wasn't very good-looking, fond as Pansy was of him. Everything about Draco came to a distinct point – his chin, his nose, the bow of his lips, his widow's peak, his words. He was too sharp to be handsome, or even particularly interesting to look at; his only irregularity was his paleness, his shock of nearly white hair.
He was so boring, really. He wanted so badly to be interesting. Little snot, Pansy thinks affectionately.
Blaise is gorgeous, though similarly boring, and he doesn't appear to have a thought in his head; not one he'll reveal to Pansy, at any rate. She imagines most of his thoughts consist of what light he looks best in, or which cut of suits is most flattering to his figure.
"I am in a downward spiral," Pansy says.
Blaise is uninterested. "Aren't you always?"
She brings her cigarette to her lips, tremors running through her. Despite herself tears keep slipping down her cheeks and when she wipes them her fingers come away black with makeup. A murmur, an honest one, "I've been so unhappy."
It was only once Draco was gone that she realized just how much she built her life around him.
"I surround myself with such careless people," she says. People who don't care enough, or at all, about her or about themselves. She adds, "And I hate you."
Blaise reclines next to her and plucks the cigarette from her fingers. "I'm not all bad."
Pansy takes a small, shuddery little breath and turns her face to the side. "Remains to be seen."
Characters: Pansy, Blaise. Draco, in theory.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 647
Summary: "I don't know how you stand this," she says. Her eyes are glossy, tears unspilled.
Note: For
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=90.3)
hereticalvision! A bit late, sorry about that! Er…this turned out quite differently than I anticipated, and might not be what you were looking for exactly. What can I say, writing is strange. I hope you like it anyway!Pansy brings a shaky cigarette to her lips, puffs her childish pink smoke. There is a ring of dark purple lipstick left on the cylinder when she sets it down, the same color as her nail polish. She is always put together, Pansy is, matching from her eyelashes to her spike heels.
"I don't know how you stand this," she says. Her eyes are glossy, tears unspilled.
"Don't make a fucking disgrace of yourself," Blaise says, lip curling. "He's dead, sobbing over the coffin isn't going to change that."
"And you're just a bad impersonation," she says.
Blaise rolls his eyes. "I'm wounded."
"You will be," Pansy says, with her odd determination, and a look in her eyes like she might stab him with her cigarette holder.
Tears and tantrums aside, they'd always known Draco might come to a sticky end.
Pansy brings flowers to Draco's grave with determined regularity and finally just plants some.
Blankly, Blaise says, "Pansies. Really."
"So he'll know I'm thinking of him," she says.
"He's dead," Blaise reminds her, as though she's forgotten.
Pansy flicks her cigarette butt at him.
After the plants the pansies, the time between her visits gets longer and longer.
Pansy gets stinking drunk on Crème Yvette (that sounds like the name of a french prostitute, not a liquor, Blaise says) and clings to Blaise's pretentious decorative silk scarf, says, "You're just like Draco, only straight and black and I hate you. You're like one of those things."
Blaise raises his eyebrow. "Care to elaborate?"
"Like they give to smokers, or heroin addicts," Pansy says. "You can wean me off of friendship."
After a moment, he says, "I'd rather we just had sex."
Pansy thinks about it. "Acceptable."
Blaise is gorgeous, obviously, because his mother is the loveliest woman Pansy has ever seen in real life and also the most vicious. Pansy aspires to be just like her. The problem is that Blaise is completely aware of his face and that ruins the whole thing.
"You're vainer than I am," she says, sitting up in bed and casting about for her lighter. "And I invented vanity."
"At least I have something to be vain about," he says. "You still haven't gotten your nose fixed?"
"I will set fire to your mattress and laugh," Pansy tells him.
Draco wasn't very good-looking, fond as Pansy was of him. Everything about Draco came to a distinct point – his chin, his nose, the bow of his lips, his widow's peak, his words. He was too sharp to be handsome, or even particularly interesting to look at; his only irregularity was his paleness, his shock of nearly white hair.
He was so boring, really. He wanted so badly to be interesting. Little snot, Pansy thinks affectionately.
Blaise is gorgeous, though similarly boring, and he doesn't appear to have a thought in his head; not one he'll reveal to Pansy, at any rate. She imagines most of his thoughts consist of what light he looks best in, or which cut of suits is most flattering to his figure.
"I am in a downward spiral," Pansy says.
Blaise is uninterested. "Aren't you always?"
She brings her cigarette to her lips, tremors running through her. Despite herself tears keep slipping down her cheeks and when she wipes them her fingers come away black with makeup. A murmur, an honest one, "I've been so unhappy."
It was only once Draco was gone that she realized just how much she built her life around him.
"I surround myself with such careless people," she says. People who don't care enough, or at all, about her or about themselves. She adds, "And I hate you."
Blaise reclines next to her and plucks the cigarette from her fingers. "I'm not all bad."
Pansy takes a small, shuddery little breath and turns her face to the side. "Remains to be seen."