Fic - Big Bang - The Song of Illium
Title: The Song of Illium.
Summary: A story about rebellion, fighting for what is right, and a little bit about love. [Inspired by Achilles & Patroclus].
Characters/Pairings: Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Godric/Salazar, a myriad of OCs.
Genre: AU, romance.
Beta: pointblankdarcy
Rating/Warnings: PG-13.
Medium: Fic.
Word Count: 3892.
Notes: This is just part one. This fic was intended to be 4k at most but it's grown entirely out of control. There was so much to say, so much world building to do, that I didn't feel I could cut anything out and leave it at 4k. Either way, I hope you enjoy it! :)
Prologue
The wall is built before they are born, or even thought of. There is no official reason, no cleverly spun lies falling from the mouths of politicians. It is simply built, questions asked, no questions answered.
Wall security comes next, soldiers and police officers, willing to stand tall against the righteous fury of those with no power. "No papers," repeated, over and over, gates tight shut. No papers, but nobody knows what the papers are for.
Eventually, a statement is released.
"It's for your own safety." The prime minister's tie is askew.
He calls himself the president, he calls the city The City.
It no longer has a name, nor a country, nor a monarchy. It is no longer a democracy. It is the Independence. You are no longer allowed an opinion. You are for the Independence, or you are an enemy, a rebel, a threat.
You are for the Independence, or you are dead.
"We want the best for you." His cheeks are red.
Eventually, people give up. They stop trying to get out. They stand on street corners and sit in dark bars and bitch about the government but they don't do anything.
They make excuses.
I have a family.
I'm just one person.
What can I do?
They have guns.
The rebels don't make excuses.
Chapter One.
On their eighteenth birthdays, Godric and Salazar each make one poignant decision. They both decide to join the Rebels, as soldiers. Godric's parents are proud, Salazar's parents are not.
Their applications are both accepted, though Salazar seems to be overqualified. Godric does better on the fitness test, and Salazar in the interviews. They pass each other in the doorway of an abandoned house they call the careers office, and nod, and smile, and shake their heads because they both know what it's like, and they don't think about each other again.
They both get accepted to training, a lingering remnant of once proud military, led by soldiers and seamen, pilots and Royal marines too old to fight, too tough to work at logistics. Godric packs his bags slowly, over a course of weeks. He's walked to the warehouse that will be their training grounds by his parents and his sister; he hugs them goodbye before disappearing beyond the doors. Salazar packs his bags in the dead of night, leaves a note and arrives alone.
Neither of them know it, as they stand in a freezing cold warehouse with a sparse group of other hopeful future soldiers, but this is the start of something more
Godric wakes up thirteen months after the day he first stepped through the warehouse doors with Salazar's warm breath in his ear, and the long familiar screech of the alarm from the loudspeakers above his bed.
"Rise and shine," he says, and unceremoniously dumps Salazar onto the freezing cold floor. "Last day of basic."
"Fuck you," Salazar replies, already on his feet, arms sharp with whipcord muscle as he knocks his fist against Godric's bicep. "I can't fucking believe it."
"Thirteen months of hell." Godric's left knee screams in protest when he shifts his weight to pull on his trousers. His face doesn't show a hint of pain, not even the scrape of teeth against his lower lip, or a wince around his eyes. "And we're finally real soldiers."
"The day of days." Salazar's shirt is first, and he waits a moment for Godric to tie his tie for him, khaki against camel, dark green jacket over the top of that, brass buttons shining in the barely-there morning light. Their shoes stand at the end of their beds, one that hasn't been slept in a few days, one in desperate need of being made. Salazar will do it, while Godric hurriedly shines his shoes or straightens his tie or shaves the often forgotten edge of his jaw.
Salazar thinks, vaguely, that that's not the way the military is supposed to work.
They stand together in front of the mirror, tall and straight, hands loose behind their backs, habit now, the way they've been taught. Godric's tie still isn't perfectly straight, but he looks like a soldier, the effortless soldier. Salazar wonders if the perfect edges, the straight lines of his uniform make him look the same.
"We look like badasses," Godric says, as Salazar straightens his tie, runs the pad of his thumb over the soft curve of Godric's jaw, to make sure he shaved but not really at all.
Salazar glances again and concedes that yes, yes they do.
They stand in formation in front of the podium, seven left where thirty started, the ones too stupid to leave or too stubborn to give up. Godric's in the latter category, but Salazar doesn't know where he is most days.
"You should be proud," Sergeant Major Smythe says, talking the same way he always has, like his mouth is full of something. "You've done it. Not only are you brave enough to fight the Independence-" There's a murmur of noise, of discontent, of 'those fuckers'. "But you're brave enough to do it as a soldier."
He looks over them, eyes scanning each and every face, at their arms held stiffly at their sides, at their feet pressed tight together. Behind them is another crowd, parents and friends, families and lovers, the contrast to the still faces and bodies in front of them.
"I am proud of each and every one of you." He smiles, revealing missing teeth and receding gums. "I remember when you could barely run a mile, when you couldn't assemble your guns and when you had to be punished for failing to make your beds." Salazar doesn't elbow Godric, and Godric doesn't smirk at Salazar, but they want to. "And now look at you. Soldiers. Ready to fight for something you believe in."
There's a cheer from the crowd behind, a round of applause, and still the soldiers do not move.
"I'm so proud of you, I'm going to give you all a weekend off. See your families, make sure your girls aren't getting too lonely." He glances at his watch, then back up. "Fall out, men. And I don't want to see you back here before Monday."
Godric practically runs to his family, to his parents and his sister, each looking the same as they did fourteen months ago, nothing like Godric and the way he's changed. Salazar doesn't even look, doesn't even scan for a shock of dark hair and a woman tall above the others. He knows they're not there.
"Sal!" Godric's shouting for him, waving him over and Salazar doesn't need to have seen the photos to know that the woman next to him is his sister, the way they grin is identical, crooked and wide and bright enough to light up a room. "Sal, this is Ebba, and my mum, and my dad."
"Nice to meet you," his parents say.
"He's cute," Ebba says.
"Sal, you can stay with us, for the weekend." Godric looks at his parents as he talks, his hand brushing at Salazar's shoulder as he pulls him into the group. "His parents are dicks, they haven't even written to him since we've been here. They don't approve, or whatever, he can stay with us, right?"
Salazar hadn't told him about the one letter, the one he hadn't been sorry to watch burn, the one written in his mother's perfect cursive, the one with phrases like "forget this nonsense" and "come back home" and "only if".
"Of course," Godric's mum says, and she looks like she pities him and Salazar hates that, hates that more than anything because he's just put himself through things can't even understand and he doesn't need pity or hurt or understanding or-
"Thank you," he says, and smiles, and laughs a little when Godric almost cheers. "I really appreciate it."
They change out of their uniform before they leave, pull on civvies they've forgotten how to wear. Godric's shirt doesn't fit him right, made for smaller shoulders, worn on smaller shoulders, and Salazar's shoes pinch in ways boots don't.
"Just a fair warning," Godric says, as he slings a bag that used to feel heavier over his shoulder without even a grunt. "Because I know your family is loaded, but our house isn't too great."
"It's okay," Salazar says. It's more than okay, because he has this image of Godric's house, has always had this image of Godric's house, because he doesn't think anywhere else could have shaped Godric, certainly not a house like his, with empty rooms and never ending corridors. He thinks of Godric filling up tiny rooms, warming them and brightening them through winter. "It's better than staying here." He imagines scrappy flowers, fighting for sunlight in the shadow of a wall, and a lawn that never really grows, and mud-stained knees.
"That's not saying much." But Godric's smiling, and he bumps his shoulder into Salazar's, and he almost bounces when they leave their room and his family are waiting for them, milling around awkwardly in the space that's usually filled with guns and men in uniform, like he thought he might have imagined them, like he thought they'd be gone when he came back out.
They don't take the tram. Neither Godric or Salazar have passes, nor the money to buy one. Rebels are paid in food and shelter and pride and glory.
They walk, cutting through streets that lead past the better sections, past white faced houses and dark metal fences, with roses by the doors and stone statues at the corners. Salazar doesn't mention how much they remind him of his home, doesn't say anything at all, stays silent save for laughing at Godric when he nearly trips over a dachshund, nearly splashes dirty street water on a man's perfect cream trousers.
He watches Godric and Ebba, as Godric chases her through alleyways, rucksack banging against his back, as he lifts her over his shoulder and carries her that way, even as she pinches at the backs of his thighs.
He's never seen Godric like this. He's seen Godric swearing through pain, crying from exhaustion, seen Godric practically on top of the world, buzzing with an energy he can't contain, but he's never seen him like this. Godric's parents make small talk, about the weather, about his hobbies, about anything meaningless they can think of, and barely pay attention to Godric and Ebba. For an almost moment, he wonders what his parents would do, if he behaved like that. He can see his mother's spider-fine lashes, his father's mouth, he can see the disappointment and he shakes it away.
Godric doubles back at one point, slings an arm around Salazar's shoulder and says it's nice to have you here, low and quiet in his ear, like nobody else can share the sentiment.
"This is my street," he says, louder. "Our street."
"He broke his nose jumping off that wall," his mother says, and the wall's only about a foot high, but Salazar can imagine it, can imagine Godric's determined face, the one he knows well from training, the one that means he's in pain but he's not going to let it show. "Gave me a bloody heart attack."
The house is the way Salazar imagined. The paint is peeling and the numbers on the door is rusted. The lace curtains in the window are yellowed, and a cat with a smushed-in face sits on the other side. They don't seem ashamed, even when Godric stubs his toe on the uneven path, or when Ebba has to kick the door to get it to open.
"Welcome," Godric says, bowing low as he edges in through the door. "To the ancestral Gryffindor house."
There's marks on the wall, progressively higher, marked with G's and E's.
"You'll have to stay in Godric's room," his dad says, hanging jackets on the stand by the door. The cat is curling around their legs, meowing and pawing for attention. "I hope that won't be a problem."
"Not at all," Salazar says, as Godric moves in close again, hovers by his ear to murmur we'll tell them later, grins at him and smiles and kicks his foot against his ankle.
"Come on," Godric says, heading for the stairs. "I'll show you all my embarrassing things from when I was a thirteen-year-old."
Godric's room is small and dark, and they both have to bend a little to fit through the door. It's a tacked-on extension to the rest of the house, but it feels like part of it. It feels like home, with peeling posters on the wall and photos scattered across the dresser. A younger Godric, with a gap in his teeth, another with acne and his shirt untucked, a girl with plaits. Salazar pauses at this one, glances at it.
"My ex-girlfriend," Godric says. "She lives next door," he says. "She's nice," he says. They've dropped their bags, half way between the tiny bed and the door, and Godric crowds him against the dresser.
"Hi," Godric says, his teeth pressing against Salazar's jaw, a nip against skin on the H. Salazar rests his hands on Godric's hips, keeps them close together in a cage of skin and muscle and bone and something they still haven't put a name to, not really, because there wasn't really time, in between the sudden kiss and the falling together, not when they had other things to put names to, things like SA80 and PRR, not when there wasn't time for heart-to-hearts.
"Hi." Godric kisses him, quick and dirty, rough, just like the kisses caught in dark corners when nobody was looking, in their room when they should have been sleeping.
"What do you want to do?" Godric pulls away with a click of teeth, a crooked grin, and his hips pushing against Salazar still. "I could probably sleep for the next three hundred years," he says. "Probably longer."
"Sleep sounds good." They don't get changed, they fall into bed in their clothes, Godric crammed up against the wall and Salazar hemming him in. They wrap around each other, mostly to keep the other from falling, legs entwined and ankles pressed together, arms locked tight, like when they spar, like when they fight to see who bleeds first.
Godric wakes first, still trapped by Salazar's body. They've both mastered the art of sleeping like they're dead, learned in fits of desperation when all you have is four hours, less, sometimes, to get the best sleep you can get. Salazar doesn't wake, even as Godric twists out of his arms, crawls to the edge of the bed and, for a moment, forgets and slams the door behind him.
His family are in the living room, TV showing a staticky version of the news, a disembodied voice cutting through the buzz. Another murder, a missing girl, propaganda, propaganda, more propaganda.
"Just so you know," he says, in the space of an advert, something about the freshest fruits and veg, something that is complete bullshit. "Salazar and I are together," he stresses the word, warps the sound of the word into something meaningful and bigger than it is.
"You could have chosen worse," Ebba says, without even looking up from the TV. Her foot stretches out to kick at the casing, juddering it into a slightly clearer picture. His father doesn't look away either, just says something like okay, and nods.
That's the way it's supposed to be, he thinks, the way it used to be, and he hopes when he looks to his mother that she'll be fretting. Not, of course, because he wants her to worry, but because he doesn't want things to have changed when he wasn't there to change too.
He turns, and she is. Her teeth worry at her lip, digging against chapped and broken skin, digging against Ebba, probably, not having somebody or a future, Ebba, probably, having too many dreams and not enough to grow, Ebba, probably, a rose caught between weeds, or maybe him, training for violence and death or maybe nothing, maybe just the floor not being clean enough.
"Isn't that a problem?" she says, and her voice is strong. "At work," she says. "With the officers."
"I don't know," Godric says, because he doesn't, and he doesn't care. "It's none of their business, not if we're not fu-" a pause, because this room isn't full of men and women his age, men and women with mouths that should be full of soap by now. "Not fooling around on their time."
"Okay," she says, but she still worries at her lip, even as she smiles. He's seen it bleed before, her lip, the day before he left, a trickle of blood down her chin until she dabbed at it with a tissue kept in her sleeve. "He's a nice young man," she says. "He balances you out."
"He's quiet, you mean," he says, and everyone laughs, because it's true, and it's something to laugh about. There's a creak of the stairs, of the weight of a fully grown man on rickety old wood, and they all look up, in unison.
Ebba speaks first, the first word sneaking past while everyone smiles and tries to think of something to say.
"If you hurt Godric," she says, mouth stern and eyes laughing, "Just remember that he can beat you up himself."
"I'm better than him," Godric says, with a hint of male pride, of always gotta be the best.
"Just because you're reckless," Salazar says, descending the whole way. He hesitates for a moment, between the sofa where Godric sits and the spare armchair, before he slides himself alongside Godric, thighs pressing together through denim. "I'd actually mind if I broke my own nose."
"That was one time!" There's a burst of laughter, a warm noise that drowns out the sound of the President's weekly televised speech, and for a moment, an awkward blip of a second, Godric doesn't want to go back, wants to stay here and let this be his life.
He shakes it away, and joins the laughter.
The weekend passes quickly; a flurry of morning runs, of Salazar forcing Godric out of bed and into the bitter cold because they can't get shabby, even if it's only a couple of days, a flurry of morning runs and richer food than they're used to and dessert and arguing over board games because somehow, Godric and Ebba always win.
It passes too quickly for Godric, but Salazar doesn't know if he wants to linger, or wants to leave. It doesn't matter in the end, because early on Monday morning, they're at the training grounds for the last time, collecting the last of their things, back in starched collars and stiff trousers.
"Ordinarily," Sergeant Major Smythe says, passing back and forth in front of them. There's a crease in his shirt and, more than anything, Salazar wants to point it out. "Ordinarily, you'd all be going to base and getting under everyone's feet for a couple of weeks, until they figure out where you're needed." He pauses again, rubs under his nose and scowls at the small group of soldiers before him. "Unfortunately, there's been some incidents recently, while you were all off sunning yourselves and getting laid, so they know where you're needed already."
He flips open the folder he has in his hands, scowls down at that too, like it's insulted him.
"Gryffindor, Slytherin, you're being posted to Base H." Godric's eyes widen. He doesn't glance at Salazar, but he knows his face hasn't changed. Base H - right on the wall. One of the most dangerous to be posted at. Reserved, he thinks, with a hint of pride, for the soldiers who do best in training. "Lilley, you'll be at A, Perry, Rudd, you'll be at C. The rest of you, you'll be at base, getting under everyone's feet. Transport will be here within the hour, get your shit packed and be ready to leave in ten minutes. Fall out."
There's a bustle of noise as everyone moves, Perry and Rudd nudging each other in the sides because C is good, C isn't so safe you're bored, like A, but you're not out in the sticks, right out in the danger zone like H. Salazar doesn't say anything, but Godric can see it in his eyes that he's excited too, that his stomach is a mass of nerves and excitement and duty.
Their bags are already packed, and transport means they can stay in uniform, means they don't have to change into civvies just to change back into uniforms when they're on base.
"H is good," Godric says, propping his foot up on the edge of Salazar's bed to retie the laces of his boots. They were shined three times that morning, and somehow, the edges are still a little scuffed, still not as shiny as they should be. "We could be at A with Lilley."
"At least we're not with Lilley." A six-month-old grudge tinges Salazar's voice, something ridiculous, something magnified by training and no sleep and frustration, by PT and drills and night watches.
"Yeah." A bright grin, a nudge. "You're with me, can't get rid of me now."
A door slams further up the hallway, a sergeant shouting, and Godric takes one more glance around the room he's spent so long sleeping in. He thinks about the next batch of recruits, tirelessly ironing the corners of the bed sheets, triple checking the curtains to make sure they're fully pulled, fighting with the wardrobe door because you've got three minutes and it won't open and you don't even have your tie on.
It gets easier from here, apparently, or so they said on the very first day.
Another door slams, and Godric hefts his bag over his shoulder, kicks at the back of Salazar's heel and moves the hell out.
Emily/Gryff/130 125 points.
Summary: A story about rebellion, fighting for what is right, and a little bit about love. [Inspired by Achilles & Patroclus].
Characters/Pairings: Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Godric/Salazar, a myriad of OCs.
Genre: AU, romance.
Beta: pointblankdarcy
Rating/Warnings: PG-13.
Medium: Fic.
Word Count: 3892.
Notes: This is just part one. This fic was intended to be 4k at most but it's grown entirely out of control. There was so much to say, so much world building to do, that I didn't feel I could cut anything out and leave it at 4k. Either way, I hope you enjoy it! :)
Prologue
The wall is built before they are born, or even thought of. There is no official reason, no cleverly spun lies falling from the mouths of politicians. It is simply built, questions asked, no questions answered.
Wall security comes next, soldiers and police officers, willing to stand tall against the righteous fury of those with no power. "No papers," repeated, over and over, gates tight shut. No papers, but nobody knows what the papers are for.
Eventually, a statement is released.
"It's for your own safety." The prime minister's tie is askew.
He calls himself the president, he calls the city The City.
It no longer has a name, nor a country, nor a monarchy. It is no longer a democracy. It is the Independence. You are no longer allowed an opinion. You are for the Independence, or you are an enemy, a rebel, a threat.
You are for the Independence, or you are dead.
"We want the best for you." His cheeks are red.
Eventually, people give up. They stop trying to get out. They stand on street corners and sit in dark bars and bitch about the government but they don't do anything.
They make excuses.
I have a family.
I'm just one person.
What can I do?
They have guns.
The rebels don't make excuses.
Chapter One.
On their eighteenth birthdays, Godric and Salazar each make one poignant decision. They both decide to join the Rebels, as soldiers. Godric's parents are proud, Salazar's parents are not.
Their applications are both accepted, though Salazar seems to be overqualified. Godric does better on the fitness test, and Salazar in the interviews. They pass each other in the doorway of an abandoned house they call the careers office, and nod, and smile, and shake their heads because they both know what it's like, and they don't think about each other again.
They both get accepted to training, a lingering remnant of once proud military, led by soldiers and seamen, pilots and Royal marines too old to fight, too tough to work at logistics. Godric packs his bags slowly, over a course of weeks. He's walked to the warehouse that will be their training grounds by his parents and his sister; he hugs them goodbye before disappearing beyond the doors. Salazar packs his bags in the dead of night, leaves a note and arrives alone.
Neither of them know it, as they stand in a freezing cold warehouse with a sparse group of other hopeful future soldiers, but this is the start of something more
Godric wakes up thirteen months after the day he first stepped through the warehouse doors with Salazar's warm breath in his ear, and the long familiar screech of the alarm from the loudspeakers above his bed.
"Rise and shine," he says, and unceremoniously dumps Salazar onto the freezing cold floor. "Last day of basic."
"Fuck you," Salazar replies, already on his feet, arms sharp with whipcord muscle as he knocks his fist against Godric's bicep. "I can't fucking believe it."
"Thirteen months of hell." Godric's left knee screams in protest when he shifts his weight to pull on his trousers. His face doesn't show a hint of pain, not even the scrape of teeth against his lower lip, or a wince around his eyes. "And we're finally real soldiers."
"The day of days." Salazar's shirt is first, and he waits a moment for Godric to tie his tie for him, khaki against camel, dark green jacket over the top of that, brass buttons shining in the barely-there morning light. Their shoes stand at the end of their beds, one that hasn't been slept in a few days, one in desperate need of being made. Salazar will do it, while Godric hurriedly shines his shoes or straightens his tie or shaves the often forgotten edge of his jaw.
Salazar thinks, vaguely, that that's not the way the military is supposed to work.
They stand together in front of the mirror, tall and straight, hands loose behind their backs, habit now, the way they've been taught. Godric's tie still isn't perfectly straight, but he looks like a soldier, the effortless soldier. Salazar wonders if the perfect edges, the straight lines of his uniform make him look the same.
"We look like badasses," Godric says, as Salazar straightens his tie, runs the pad of his thumb over the soft curve of Godric's jaw, to make sure he shaved but not really at all.
Salazar glances again and concedes that yes, yes they do.
They stand in formation in front of the podium, seven left where thirty started, the ones too stupid to leave or too stubborn to give up. Godric's in the latter category, but Salazar doesn't know where he is most days.
"You should be proud," Sergeant Major Smythe says, talking the same way he always has, like his mouth is full of something. "You've done it. Not only are you brave enough to fight the Independence-" There's a murmur of noise, of discontent, of 'those fuckers'. "But you're brave enough to do it as a soldier."
He looks over them, eyes scanning each and every face, at their arms held stiffly at their sides, at their feet pressed tight together. Behind them is another crowd, parents and friends, families and lovers, the contrast to the still faces and bodies in front of them.
"I am proud of each and every one of you." He smiles, revealing missing teeth and receding gums. "I remember when you could barely run a mile, when you couldn't assemble your guns and when you had to be punished for failing to make your beds." Salazar doesn't elbow Godric, and Godric doesn't smirk at Salazar, but they want to. "And now look at you. Soldiers. Ready to fight for something you believe in."
There's a cheer from the crowd behind, a round of applause, and still the soldiers do not move.
"I'm so proud of you, I'm going to give you all a weekend off. See your families, make sure your girls aren't getting too lonely." He glances at his watch, then back up. "Fall out, men. And I don't want to see you back here before Monday."
Godric practically runs to his family, to his parents and his sister, each looking the same as they did fourteen months ago, nothing like Godric and the way he's changed. Salazar doesn't even look, doesn't even scan for a shock of dark hair and a woman tall above the others. He knows they're not there.
"Sal!" Godric's shouting for him, waving him over and Salazar doesn't need to have seen the photos to know that the woman next to him is his sister, the way they grin is identical, crooked and wide and bright enough to light up a room. "Sal, this is Ebba, and my mum, and my dad."
"Nice to meet you," his parents say.
"He's cute," Ebba says.
"Sal, you can stay with us, for the weekend." Godric looks at his parents as he talks, his hand brushing at Salazar's shoulder as he pulls him into the group. "His parents are dicks, they haven't even written to him since we've been here. They don't approve, or whatever, he can stay with us, right?"
Salazar hadn't told him about the one letter, the one he hadn't been sorry to watch burn, the one written in his mother's perfect cursive, the one with phrases like "forget this nonsense" and "come back home" and "only if".
"Of course," Godric's mum says, and she looks like she pities him and Salazar hates that, hates that more than anything because he's just put himself through things can't even understand and he doesn't need pity or hurt or understanding or-
"Thank you," he says, and smiles, and laughs a little when Godric almost cheers. "I really appreciate it."
They change out of their uniform before they leave, pull on civvies they've forgotten how to wear. Godric's shirt doesn't fit him right, made for smaller shoulders, worn on smaller shoulders, and Salazar's shoes pinch in ways boots don't.
"Just a fair warning," Godric says, as he slings a bag that used to feel heavier over his shoulder without even a grunt. "Because I know your family is loaded, but our house isn't too great."
"It's okay," Salazar says. It's more than okay, because he has this image of Godric's house, has always had this image of Godric's house, because he doesn't think anywhere else could have shaped Godric, certainly not a house like his, with empty rooms and never ending corridors. He thinks of Godric filling up tiny rooms, warming them and brightening them through winter. "It's better than staying here." He imagines scrappy flowers, fighting for sunlight in the shadow of a wall, and a lawn that never really grows, and mud-stained knees.
"That's not saying much." But Godric's smiling, and he bumps his shoulder into Salazar's, and he almost bounces when they leave their room and his family are waiting for them, milling around awkwardly in the space that's usually filled with guns and men in uniform, like he thought he might have imagined them, like he thought they'd be gone when he came back out.
They don't take the tram. Neither Godric or Salazar have passes, nor the money to buy one. Rebels are paid in food and shelter and pride and glory.
They walk, cutting through streets that lead past the better sections, past white faced houses and dark metal fences, with roses by the doors and stone statues at the corners. Salazar doesn't mention how much they remind him of his home, doesn't say anything at all, stays silent save for laughing at Godric when he nearly trips over a dachshund, nearly splashes dirty street water on a man's perfect cream trousers.
He watches Godric and Ebba, as Godric chases her through alleyways, rucksack banging against his back, as he lifts her over his shoulder and carries her that way, even as she pinches at the backs of his thighs.
He's never seen Godric like this. He's seen Godric swearing through pain, crying from exhaustion, seen Godric practically on top of the world, buzzing with an energy he can't contain, but he's never seen him like this. Godric's parents make small talk, about the weather, about his hobbies, about anything meaningless they can think of, and barely pay attention to Godric and Ebba. For an almost moment, he wonders what his parents would do, if he behaved like that. He can see his mother's spider-fine lashes, his father's mouth, he can see the disappointment and he shakes it away.
Godric doubles back at one point, slings an arm around Salazar's shoulder and says it's nice to have you here, low and quiet in his ear, like nobody else can share the sentiment.
"This is my street," he says, louder. "Our street."
"He broke his nose jumping off that wall," his mother says, and the wall's only about a foot high, but Salazar can imagine it, can imagine Godric's determined face, the one he knows well from training, the one that means he's in pain but he's not going to let it show. "Gave me a bloody heart attack."
The house is the way Salazar imagined. The paint is peeling and the numbers on the door is rusted. The lace curtains in the window are yellowed, and a cat with a smushed-in face sits on the other side. They don't seem ashamed, even when Godric stubs his toe on the uneven path, or when Ebba has to kick the door to get it to open.
"Welcome," Godric says, bowing low as he edges in through the door. "To the ancestral Gryffindor house."
There's marks on the wall, progressively higher, marked with G's and E's.
"You'll have to stay in Godric's room," his dad says, hanging jackets on the stand by the door. The cat is curling around their legs, meowing and pawing for attention. "I hope that won't be a problem."
"Not at all," Salazar says, as Godric moves in close again, hovers by his ear to murmur we'll tell them later, grins at him and smiles and kicks his foot against his ankle.
"Come on," Godric says, heading for the stairs. "I'll show you all my embarrassing things from when I was a thirteen-year-old."
Godric's room is small and dark, and they both have to bend a little to fit through the door. It's a tacked-on extension to the rest of the house, but it feels like part of it. It feels like home, with peeling posters on the wall and photos scattered across the dresser. A younger Godric, with a gap in his teeth, another with acne and his shirt untucked, a girl with plaits. Salazar pauses at this one, glances at it.
"My ex-girlfriend," Godric says. "She lives next door," he says. "She's nice," he says. They've dropped their bags, half way between the tiny bed and the door, and Godric crowds him against the dresser.
"Hi," Godric says, his teeth pressing against Salazar's jaw, a nip against skin on the H. Salazar rests his hands on Godric's hips, keeps them close together in a cage of skin and muscle and bone and something they still haven't put a name to, not really, because there wasn't really time, in between the sudden kiss and the falling together, not when they had other things to put names to, things like SA80 and PRR, not when there wasn't time for heart-to-hearts.
"Hi." Godric kisses him, quick and dirty, rough, just like the kisses caught in dark corners when nobody was looking, in their room when they should have been sleeping.
"What do you want to do?" Godric pulls away with a click of teeth, a crooked grin, and his hips pushing against Salazar still. "I could probably sleep for the next three hundred years," he says. "Probably longer."
"Sleep sounds good." They don't get changed, they fall into bed in their clothes, Godric crammed up against the wall and Salazar hemming him in. They wrap around each other, mostly to keep the other from falling, legs entwined and ankles pressed together, arms locked tight, like when they spar, like when they fight to see who bleeds first.
Godric wakes first, still trapped by Salazar's body. They've both mastered the art of sleeping like they're dead, learned in fits of desperation when all you have is four hours, less, sometimes, to get the best sleep you can get. Salazar doesn't wake, even as Godric twists out of his arms, crawls to the edge of the bed and, for a moment, forgets and slams the door behind him.
His family are in the living room, TV showing a staticky version of the news, a disembodied voice cutting through the buzz. Another murder, a missing girl, propaganda, propaganda, more propaganda.
"Just so you know," he says, in the space of an advert, something about the freshest fruits and veg, something that is complete bullshit. "Salazar and I are together," he stresses the word, warps the sound of the word into something meaningful and bigger than it is.
"You could have chosen worse," Ebba says, without even looking up from the TV. Her foot stretches out to kick at the casing, juddering it into a slightly clearer picture. His father doesn't look away either, just says something like okay, and nods.
That's the way it's supposed to be, he thinks, the way it used to be, and he hopes when he looks to his mother that she'll be fretting. Not, of course, because he wants her to worry, but because he doesn't want things to have changed when he wasn't there to change too.
He turns, and she is. Her teeth worry at her lip, digging against chapped and broken skin, digging against Ebba, probably, not having somebody or a future, Ebba, probably, having too many dreams and not enough to grow, Ebba, probably, a rose caught between weeds, or maybe him, training for violence and death or maybe nothing, maybe just the floor not being clean enough.
"Isn't that a problem?" she says, and her voice is strong. "At work," she says. "With the officers."
"I don't know," Godric says, because he doesn't, and he doesn't care. "It's none of their business, not if we're not fu-" a pause, because this room isn't full of men and women his age, men and women with mouths that should be full of soap by now. "Not fooling around on their time."
"Okay," she says, but she still worries at her lip, even as she smiles. He's seen it bleed before, her lip, the day before he left, a trickle of blood down her chin until she dabbed at it with a tissue kept in her sleeve. "He's a nice young man," she says. "He balances you out."
"He's quiet, you mean," he says, and everyone laughs, because it's true, and it's something to laugh about. There's a creak of the stairs, of the weight of a fully grown man on rickety old wood, and they all look up, in unison.
Ebba speaks first, the first word sneaking past while everyone smiles and tries to think of something to say.
"If you hurt Godric," she says, mouth stern and eyes laughing, "Just remember that he can beat you up himself."
"I'm better than him," Godric says, with a hint of male pride, of always gotta be the best.
"Just because you're reckless," Salazar says, descending the whole way. He hesitates for a moment, between the sofa where Godric sits and the spare armchair, before he slides himself alongside Godric, thighs pressing together through denim. "I'd actually mind if I broke my own nose."
"That was one time!" There's a burst of laughter, a warm noise that drowns out the sound of the President's weekly televised speech, and for a moment, an awkward blip of a second, Godric doesn't want to go back, wants to stay here and let this be his life.
He shakes it away, and joins the laughter.
The weekend passes quickly; a flurry of morning runs, of Salazar forcing Godric out of bed and into the bitter cold because they can't get shabby, even if it's only a couple of days, a flurry of morning runs and richer food than they're used to and dessert and arguing over board games because somehow, Godric and Ebba always win.
It passes too quickly for Godric, but Salazar doesn't know if he wants to linger, or wants to leave. It doesn't matter in the end, because early on Monday morning, they're at the training grounds for the last time, collecting the last of their things, back in starched collars and stiff trousers.
"Ordinarily," Sergeant Major Smythe says, passing back and forth in front of them. There's a crease in his shirt and, more than anything, Salazar wants to point it out. "Ordinarily, you'd all be going to base and getting under everyone's feet for a couple of weeks, until they figure out where you're needed." He pauses again, rubs under his nose and scowls at the small group of soldiers before him. "Unfortunately, there's been some incidents recently, while you were all off sunning yourselves and getting laid, so they know where you're needed already."
He flips open the folder he has in his hands, scowls down at that too, like it's insulted him.
"Gryffindor, Slytherin, you're being posted to Base H." Godric's eyes widen. He doesn't glance at Salazar, but he knows his face hasn't changed. Base H - right on the wall. One of the most dangerous to be posted at. Reserved, he thinks, with a hint of pride, for the soldiers who do best in training. "Lilley, you'll be at A, Perry, Rudd, you'll be at C. The rest of you, you'll be at base, getting under everyone's feet. Transport will be here within the hour, get your shit packed and be ready to leave in ten minutes. Fall out."
There's a bustle of noise as everyone moves, Perry and Rudd nudging each other in the sides because C is good, C isn't so safe you're bored, like A, but you're not out in the sticks, right out in the danger zone like H. Salazar doesn't say anything, but Godric can see it in his eyes that he's excited too, that his stomach is a mass of nerves and excitement and duty.
Their bags are already packed, and transport means they can stay in uniform, means they don't have to change into civvies just to change back into uniforms when they're on base.
"H is good," Godric says, propping his foot up on the edge of Salazar's bed to retie the laces of his boots. They were shined three times that morning, and somehow, the edges are still a little scuffed, still not as shiny as they should be. "We could be at A with Lilley."
"At least we're not with Lilley." A six-month-old grudge tinges Salazar's voice, something ridiculous, something magnified by training and no sleep and frustration, by PT and drills and night watches.
"Yeah." A bright grin, a nudge. "You're with me, can't get rid of me now."
A door slams further up the hallway, a sergeant shouting, and Godric takes one more glance around the room he's spent so long sleeping in. He thinks about the next batch of recruits, tirelessly ironing the corners of the bed sheets, triple checking the curtains to make sure they're fully pulled, fighting with the wardrobe door because you've got three minutes and it won't open and you don't even have your tie on.
It gets easier from here, apparently, or so they said on the very first day.
Another door slams, and Godric hefts his bag over his shoulder, kicks at the back of Salazar's heel and moves the hell out.
Emily/Gryff/130 125 points.