"Celebration," for EVERYONE!
Title: Celebration
Gift for: EVERYONE!
Author: featherjournals
Pairing: Godric/Salazar
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash. Angst. I suppose 'angst' is a warning, as it isn't everyone's cup of tea.
Genres: Angst, romance.
Author's Notes: Squishes to my beta, who doesn't have an LJ, but squishes anyway. I think this could be continued, or elaborated on, but I thought of leaving it as a stand-alone.
Summary: Godric doesn't feel like celebrating, really.
It was supposed to be a joyous occasion.
He was supposed to be exuberant. Such a grand event, so fortuitous.
The least likely of their number finally deciding to marry, finally settling down to familial life - continuing a long, proud line.
There was such joy, such honour. The school staff, incredibly small as they had just opened their doors a few short years ago, was not above giving the students a whole week off in celebration.
And to be wed to such a person! Such a partner! It would be glorious honour. Surely two hearts like that would tame each other, love each other, make everyone proud.
He should have been proud, too. And happy.
But all he could feel was shards of glass in his heart. All he could feel was the suffocating claw of helplessness about his neck.
Breathing was impossible. Smiling felt fake and brittle. Even blinking to keep up the appearance of normality was a difficult task to manage.
The cup of mead in his hand hadn't been refilled for a while. It was still full, the liquid within barely tasted other than to wet his lips during toasts. He was sure it was delicious - would have been, had he been at all able to enjoy taste at the moment.
For the last two week.
Two weeks.
It had only been two weeks, and yet it felt like an eternity had passed since the last night that he had seen white skin, tasted sweet lips, held eyes with his and felt unable to ever let go of the sensation, the realness of it.
All a mockery. Thrown at his face two weeks ago with a pronouncement made in front of the whole hall.
He had known it would end that way. They had both known - unable to ever be together, circumstances and life would inevitably, eventually, logically pull them apart.
Inevitability. Eventuality. Logic.
Even though he had known all of that from the start, from the moment that he felt that tug at the core of his gut - he hadn't expected for the ending to be so final. To be so sudden, and so inexplicably fast.
There were no familial pressures, there was no necessity for it. Not so soon.
Not that soon.
He was watching the happy couple now, sitting together in the middle of the head table, surrounded by family that talked quietly, composedly to them. The bride was magnificent in her velvet gown, her demure smiles, with her golden hair held by a crown of lilies - enchanted to stay perfectly still, with little magical stars gleaming on the white petals. The groom looked decidedly proud, hand possessively on the young woman's shoulder as he leaned over her to speak with her father who sat at her side.
A sudden slap on his shoulderblade nearly made him drop the drink he was carrying. A bit of the cup's contents sloshed over his hand and the inlaid jewels along the rim. He forbore swearing.
"Cheer up now! You look like you've seen death walking your way and you're about to welcome it." Lyssander was grinning, quite visibly drunk. "Don't be jealous, you'll find a pretty lass for yourself someday soon."
Godric shook his head and managed to pull a smile over his features. His skin felt gaunt, dry, as if it would crack with the expression.
"I'm not jealous," he replied. Hurt, betrayed, but not jealous. How could he be, looking at the groom? "Just tired. Do you know how much it took to put all of this together on such short notice?" And he had done a lion's share with the ornaments and decorating and hunting.
"Come, come, we all see you watching her." Lyssander threw an arm around Godric's shoulders. "Drink, man, and forget it. We'll get you together with a comely girl tonight, make you forget all this."
Godric let out a soundless sigh, hoping it escaped detection. He lifted his cup, touched it to Lyssander's, and downed half of the mead.
Blessedly, it burned right through him. He felt light-headed far too quickly, realizing that he hadn't even eaten more than a few crusts of bread with some cheese that day. And it had been a long day.
A long few days.
A long two weeks.
Perhaps the alcohol would help, ease the sharpness. Some took to it, he had seen it happen. After too much tragedy, too much loss.
Was it too much?
He knew that he was making a horribly big deal out of it in his mind, that it wasn't all that bad. But like a knife wound in the dark, just outside of one's home, unexpected, sudden - it was the shock, unable to understand why or how or who. He knew the who - oh, he knew. Looking back at the groom, how could he deny the 'who'?
It was the why or how that was denied him. It made no sense, despite all the sense in the world associated with the union. Why her? Why him? Their families didn't hate each other, but they certainly weren't on the friendliest of terms. Perhaps a marriage to join the houses, join the fortunes, join the blood. So incredibly pure that no stains of Muggle could be found on them.
With another look, Godric downed the rest of the mead, swaying in Lyssander's grasp.
The other man patted him approvingly on the shoulder and started to lead him in the direction of a small gathering of single witches who were tittering and glancing over at them. Godric was used to it - the attention, the glances, sometimes the very obvious attempts to bewitch him. Quite literally at times, with love potions or moonlight incantations.
But he had been immune to it for years, intended to stay so for many more.
Sober enough to respect his own decision, he ducked out from under Lyssander's arm and offered his friend and fellow professor a smile. "Look, I just need some air. I don't want to embarass myself in front of the ladies." His stomach decided to growl at that moment, the pang of hunger dull even though Godric knew it would have been incredibly painful if he wasn't so preoccupied. But it did provide him with a perfect excuse. "And I also need some food."
Lyssander waved his arm in an exagerated motion, all magnanimous graciousness. "I'll save you one or two of those morsels." He winked, grinned, and unsteadily continued on his path.
Godric rubbed at the bridge of his nose, tossed another absentminded glance at the head table, and turned on his heel, striding across the large hall of the castle to the nearest door. He didn't stop until he was just past the threshold, realizing something.
Only one of the happy couple remained at the head table when he had looked over.
Out of the dark, a hand reached for him, touched his elbow.
Grabbed his arm.
Pulled him into an alcove.
"What --" He snapped his wand out, was about to point it at the assailant, cast a curse - then he stopped, a familiar scent triggering lightning bolts down his spine. His head span, and he pretended that it was just the alcohol.
He was being led away from the great hall, away from the celebration. It felt like forever, stumbling through the dark hallways, unfinished, no torches lit.
They ended up back where it had all started, among shelves upon shelves of scrolls, parchments, quills. Tables and candles and cushions.
Pressed firmly back against a wall, he didn't resist as lips claimed his, barely registered a silencing charm bubbling up around them. His hands stroked up over velvet, twined in long hair, pulled a wreath off. He couldn't breathe, didn't want to. For a reason completely opposite to that which had stolen his breath for the last two weeks.
"I had to," the words were whispered with a panted breath, pained and hoarse.
"I know," he replied, the gentleness in his own voice startling him. The acceptance of inevitability.
"You know it's always going to be you." Grey eyes begged his to understand as hands cupped his jaw, stroked through his own hair. The re-breaking of his heart was a beautiful and terrible thing he would remember for the rest of his days.
"I know...Salazar, I know."
Gift for: EVERYONE!
Author: featherjournals
Pairing: Godric/Salazar
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash. Angst. I suppose 'angst' is a warning, as it isn't everyone's cup of tea.
Genres: Angst, romance.
Author's Notes: Squishes to my beta, who doesn't have an LJ, but squishes anyway. I think this could be continued, or elaborated on, but I thought of leaving it as a stand-alone.
Summary: Godric doesn't feel like celebrating, really.
It was supposed to be a joyous occasion.
He was supposed to be exuberant. Such a grand event, so fortuitous.
The least likely of their number finally deciding to marry, finally settling down to familial life - continuing a long, proud line.
There was such joy, such honour. The school staff, incredibly small as they had just opened their doors a few short years ago, was not above giving the students a whole week off in celebration.
And to be wed to such a person! Such a partner! It would be glorious honour. Surely two hearts like that would tame each other, love each other, make everyone proud.
He should have been proud, too. And happy.
But all he could feel was shards of glass in his heart. All he could feel was the suffocating claw of helplessness about his neck.
Breathing was impossible. Smiling felt fake and brittle. Even blinking to keep up the appearance of normality was a difficult task to manage.
The cup of mead in his hand hadn't been refilled for a while. It was still full, the liquid within barely tasted other than to wet his lips during toasts. He was sure it was delicious - would have been, had he been at all able to enjoy taste at the moment.
For the last two week.
Two weeks.
It had only been two weeks, and yet it felt like an eternity had passed since the last night that he had seen white skin, tasted sweet lips, held eyes with his and felt unable to ever let go of the sensation, the realness of it.
All a mockery. Thrown at his face two weeks ago with a pronouncement made in front of the whole hall.
He had known it would end that way. They had both known - unable to ever be together, circumstances and life would inevitably, eventually, logically pull them apart.
Inevitability. Eventuality. Logic.
Even though he had known all of that from the start, from the moment that he felt that tug at the core of his gut - he hadn't expected for the ending to be so final. To be so sudden, and so inexplicably fast.
There were no familial pressures, there was no necessity for it. Not so soon.
Not that soon.
He was watching the happy couple now, sitting together in the middle of the head table, surrounded by family that talked quietly, composedly to them. The bride was magnificent in her velvet gown, her demure smiles, with her golden hair held by a crown of lilies - enchanted to stay perfectly still, with little magical stars gleaming on the white petals. The groom looked decidedly proud, hand possessively on the young woman's shoulder as he leaned over her to speak with her father who sat at her side.
A sudden slap on his shoulderblade nearly made him drop the drink he was carrying. A bit of the cup's contents sloshed over his hand and the inlaid jewels along the rim. He forbore swearing.
"Cheer up now! You look like you've seen death walking your way and you're about to welcome it." Lyssander was grinning, quite visibly drunk. "Don't be jealous, you'll find a pretty lass for yourself someday soon."
Godric shook his head and managed to pull a smile over his features. His skin felt gaunt, dry, as if it would crack with the expression.
"I'm not jealous," he replied. Hurt, betrayed, but not jealous. How could he be, looking at the groom? "Just tired. Do you know how much it took to put all of this together on such short notice?" And he had done a lion's share with the ornaments and decorating and hunting.
"Come, come, we all see you watching her." Lyssander threw an arm around Godric's shoulders. "Drink, man, and forget it. We'll get you together with a comely girl tonight, make you forget all this."
Godric let out a soundless sigh, hoping it escaped detection. He lifted his cup, touched it to Lyssander's, and downed half of the mead.
Blessedly, it burned right through him. He felt light-headed far too quickly, realizing that he hadn't even eaten more than a few crusts of bread with some cheese that day. And it had been a long day.
A long few days.
A long two weeks.
Perhaps the alcohol would help, ease the sharpness. Some took to it, he had seen it happen. After too much tragedy, too much loss.
Was it too much?
He knew that he was making a horribly big deal out of it in his mind, that it wasn't all that bad. But like a knife wound in the dark, just outside of one's home, unexpected, sudden - it was the shock, unable to understand why or how or who. He knew the who - oh, he knew. Looking back at the groom, how could he deny the 'who'?
It was the why or how that was denied him. It made no sense, despite all the sense in the world associated with the union. Why her? Why him? Their families didn't hate each other, but they certainly weren't on the friendliest of terms. Perhaps a marriage to join the houses, join the fortunes, join the blood. So incredibly pure that no stains of Muggle could be found on them.
With another look, Godric downed the rest of the mead, swaying in Lyssander's grasp.
The other man patted him approvingly on the shoulder and started to lead him in the direction of a small gathering of single witches who were tittering and glancing over at them. Godric was used to it - the attention, the glances, sometimes the very obvious attempts to bewitch him. Quite literally at times, with love potions or moonlight incantations.
But he had been immune to it for years, intended to stay so for many more.
Sober enough to respect his own decision, he ducked out from under Lyssander's arm and offered his friend and fellow professor a smile. "Look, I just need some air. I don't want to embarass myself in front of the ladies." His stomach decided to growl at that moment, the pang of hunger dull even though Godric knew it would have been incredibly painful if he wasn't so preoccupied. But it did provide him with a perfect excuse. "And I also need some food."
Lyssander waved his arm in an exagerated motion, all magnanimous graciousness. "I'll save you one or two of those morsels." He winked, grinned, and unsteadily continued on his path.
Godric rubbed at the bridge of his nose, tossed another absentminded glance at the head table, and turned on his heel, striding across the large hall of the castle to the nearest door. He didn't stop until he was just past the threshold, realizing something.
Only one of the happy couple remained at the head table when he had looked over.
Out of the dark, a hand reached for him, touched his elbow.
Grabbed his arm.
Pulled him into an alcove.
"What --" He snapped his wand out, was about to point it at the assailant, cast a curse - then he stopped, a familiar scent triggering lightning bolts down his spine. His head span, and he pretended that it was just the alcohol.
He was being led away from the great hall, away from the celebration. It felt like forever, stumbling through the dark hallways, unfinished, no torches lit.
They ended up back where it had all started, among shelves upon shelves of scrolls, parchments, quills. Tables and candles and cushions.
Pressed firmly back against a wall, he didn't resist as lips claimed his, barely registered a silencing charm bubbling up around them. His hands stroked up over velvet, twined in long hair, pulled a wreath off. He couldn't breathe, didn't want to. For a reason completely opposite to that which had stolen his breath for the last two weeks.
"I had to," the words were whispered with a panted breath, pained and hoarse.
"I know," he replied, the gentleness in his own voice startling him. The acceptance of inevitability.
"You know it's always going to be you." Grey eyes begged his to understand as hands cupped his jaw, stroked through his own hair. The re-breaking of his heart was a beautiful and terrible thing he would remember for the rest of his days.
"I know...Salazar, I know."