Snape/Harry ficlet
Sorry for the spam tonight!
But since I didn't have internet access the past few days, I tried to finish some short fics that had been hanging in WIPdom for a long time.
This is one such ficlet. I can't remember when or why I started it, but I was inspired to finish it yesterday. Hope you like it!
Vigil
Sand rains down in the hourglass, and he watches it sometimes, a slender trickle marking the minutes that stretch tight and thin, threadlike. The hours are taut and brittle; each second is an eternity.
He sits stiff and still beside the bed, fuelled with potion and the cup of strong, hot coffee Minerva had placed into his waxen hands a few moments before. They had melted around it reflexively, and he had drunk, tasting nothing but heat. It creeps now through his veins, sinuous, raising heavy lids and causing his fingers to shake. He tightens them around the cup, half-expecting it to crack beneath his touch.
He mostly keeps his eyes trained on the figure lying on the bed. With his gaze, he traces the curve of a cheek, the elegant sweep of lashes and the arch of a brow. Tries not to see the purple smudges beneath closed eyes, lips too dry and pale, two days' stubble on ashen cheeks. He preferred--prefers--using a Muggle razor to shave.
Severus insists upon using a charm. They have quarrelled over it, predictably. Over shaving. Over everything. Severus could have used a charm on him at any time. Could still.
They mix like oil and water. Exactly the wrong height for one another, elbows bump hips and nose connects to forehead and one of them is always craning their neck uncomfortably. It's difficult to find a good angle, and he always sweats too much, and, truth be told, one of them isn't quite the right size to satisfy the other's needs.
Ever since it began, it has been like this. Jagged edges and bruised hips and sharp words and sweaty sex and callused palms gripping just too hard or long stained fingers pulling slightly too fast. He was young and inexperienced, and he took Severus' sac in his mouth that first time, and the world shattered. He smelled like cheap soap and good beer. Severus scraped his knee on the shower drain, and he tasted like water. The sheets were hot and damp by the time they finished. Those are just some of the shards; they never were quite put back together again.
And now he lies on the bed, too still. He is a restless sleeper; he twists the bedclothes, and somehow the neatly smoothed blankets are more disturbing than anything else. Severus will crack if he dwells on this, and so he focuses instead on the familiar, his thoughts slicing reality into neat, manageable pieces.
His chest rises under those perilous blankets, falls. His eyes, when open, are the colour of basil leaves. That suits him; basil smells fresh and clean. Severus has always enjoyed crushing the herb before dropping it into a cauldron. Beneath his eyes, beneath the skin, is nightshade. Poisonous hue. His flesh is ivory, the translucent cream of crushed fangs.
Severus has never been one for sentiment. He would never dream of saying these things aloud, has never, in fact, declared his feelings. There never seemed to be any need. He has a feeling, however, that if he were to compare his lover to scales and herbs rather than to a summer's day that he would understand.
This is just one of the many reasons why losing him is so unbearable.
His chest rises and falls as he lies on the bed, dying, and there is nothing Severus can do about it.
He has sat here for some time, watching, attempting to resign himself to this fact. It hasn't worked. Severus can almost feel him fading. He has gone too far, and it is only a matter of time.
Severus thinks he should appreciate these moments. He will look back on them tomorrow, wishing he might turn back time. He will look back and wonder why he didn't speak the words that wither on his tongue, why he didn't reach out one more time, why he didn't...
Severus almost wishes tomorrow would come. He cannot grieve yet. He can only wait.
His chest rises. Falls. His skin might be paler than it was a moment ago. Severus has long since ceased to imagine that his eyelids fluttered, that his lips parted to whisper.
His fingers tighten about the cup as he considers reaching out to stroke the hand that rests, too still, upon the blanket. The cup is warmer, stronger, and the worst he could do is crack it.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. There was always heat. Warm shower, his hands cupping firm buttocks, breathing in wet curls, inhaling steam. Tangled limbs in a sweaty bed. Warm firelight, glinting like the sun on leaf-green eyes. Not a cold stone room and cool, crisp sheets and a cup of coffee going lukewarm between his palms. This piece doesn't fit with the rest.
It surprises Severus how many things he can think about while he is waiting. His mind races as he sits, powerless, feeling the thread slip through his fingers.
His chest rises. Falls. Another few seconds, another inch. He will regret this moment tomorrow. Will wish himself back here, tepid coffee and all.
His chest falls. The room is cold and still, and Severus watches him. He wonders if he will always be waiting for a movement that never comes.
He regrets that moment already.
But since I didn't have internet access the past few days, I tried to finish some short fics that had been hanging in WIPdom for a long time.
This is one such ficlet. I can't remember when or why I started it, but I was inspired to finish it yesterday. Hope you like it!
Vigil
Sand rains down in the hourglass, and he watches it sometimes, a slender trickle marking the minutes that stretch tight and thin, threadlike. The hours are taut and brittle; each second is an eternity.
He sits stiff and still beside the bed, fuelled with potion and the cup of strong, hot coffee Minerva had placed into his waxen hands a few moments before. They had melted around it reflexively, and he had drunk, tasting nothing but heat. It creeps now through his veins, sinuous, raising heavy lids and causing his fingers to shake. He tightens them around the cup, half-expecting it to crack beneath his touch.
He mostly keeps his eyes trained on the figure lying on the bed. With his gaze, he traces the curve of a cheek, the elegant sweep of lashes and the arch of a brow. Tries not to see the purple smudges beneath closed eyes, lips too dry and pale, two days' stubble on ashen cheeks. He preferred--prefers--using a Muggle razor to shave.
Severus insists upon using a charm. They have quarrelled over it, predictably. Over shaving. Over everything. Severus could have used a charm on him at any time. Could still.
They mix like oil and water. Exactly the wrong height for one another, elbows bump hips and nose connects to forehead and one of them is always craning their neck uncomfortably. It's difficult to find a good angle, and he always sweats too much, and, truth be told, one of them isn't quite the right size to satisfy the other's needs.
Ever since it began, it has been like this. Jagged edges and bruised hips and sharp words and sweaty sex and callused palms gripping just too hard or long stained fingers pulling slightly too fast. He was young and inexperienced, and he took Severus' sac in his mouth that first time, and the world shattered. He smelled like cheap soap and good beer. Severus scraped his knee on the shower drain, and he tasted like water. The sheets were hot and damp by the time they finished. Those are just some of the shards; they never were quite put back together again.
And now he lies on the bed, too still. He is a restless sleeper; he twists the bedclothes, and somehow the neatly smoothed blankets are more disturbing than anything else. Severus will crack if he dwells on this, and so he focuses instead on the familiar, his thoughts slicing reality into neat, manageable pieces.
His chest rises under those perilous blankets, falls. His eyes, when open, are the colour of basil leaves. That suits him; basil smells fresh and clean. Severus has always enjoyed crushing the herb before dropping it into a cauldron. Beneath his eyes, beneath the skin, is nightshade. Poisonous hue. His flesh is ivory, the translucent cream of crushed fangs.
Severus has never been one for sentiment. He would never dream of saying these things aloud, has never, in fact, declared his feelings. There never seemed to be any need. He has a feeling, however, that if he were to compare his lover to scales and herbs rather than to a summer's day that he would understand.
This is just one of the many reasons why losing him is so unbearable.
His chest rises and falls as he lies on the bed, dying, and there is nothing Severus can do about it.
He has sat here for some time, watching, attempting to resign himself to this fact. It hasn't worked. Severus can almost feel him fading. He has gone too far, and it is only a matter of time.
Severus thinks he should appreciate these moments. He will look back on them tomorrow, wishing he might turn back time. He will look back and wonder why he didn't speak the words that wither on his tongue, why he didn't reach out one more time, why he didn't...
Severus almost wishes tomorrow would come. He cannot grieve yet. He can only wait.
His chest rises. Falls. His skin might be paler than it was a moment ago. Severus has long since ceased to imagine that his eyelids fluttered, that his lips parted to whisper.
His fingers tighten about the cup as he considers reaching out to stroke the hand that rests, too still, upon the blanket. The cup is warmer, stronger, and the worst he could do is crack it.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. There was always heat. Warm shower, his hands cupping firm buttocks, breathing in wet curls, inhaling steam. Tangled limbs in a sweaty bed. Warm firelight, glinting like the sun on leaf-green eyes. Not a cold stone room and cool, crisp sheets and a cup of coffee going lukewarm between his palms. This piece doesn't fit with the rest.
It surprises Severus how many things he can think about while he is waiting. His mind races as he sits, powerless, feeling the thread slip through his fingers.
His chest rises. Falls. Another few seconds, another inch. He will regret this moment tomorrow. Will wish himself back here, tepid coffee and all.
His chest falls. The room is cold and still, and Severus watches him. He wonders if he will always be waiting for a movement that never comes.
He regrets that moment already.