Interlude
It felt like a sin, thinking about Sirius the way he did. The way thoughts would slip in, desire infiltrating his mind. He’d grown adept at ignoring them, at hating Sirius more than he loved him.
Slowly, as Severus began to heal and more of his hours were spent awake, the thoughts grew in intensity. He felt like a schoolboy again, dreaming of things he’d never have. He’d catch Sirius staring at him and something - hope or foolishness, perhaps both - would jump in his chest, and he’d clench his teeth and ask what Sirius thought he was doing, nearly flinching at how disgusted he sounded.
The moment Severus began to comprend how deeply his heart had betrayed him - he would have been fifteen, sixteen - he learned to play every hurt feeling off. Easier to act repulsed when touched. Easier to snarl in hatred, to curse back, to spit insults and lies than to plead to be listened to, to be understood.
He wasn’t sure how it happened, really. He’d long ago accepted that these feelings were not something to be figured out, yet still he wondered. Perhaps it was Sirius’s vague resemblance to his father, the familiarity twisted into something attractive, perhaps the attention Sirius bestowed upon him, no matter how horrid he’d feel after every encounter. Perhaps simply the way Sirius looked at James, at Peter, at Remus, his smile so full of love and gratitude that Severus thought he might crumble from how enormously he wished anyone would look at him that way.
Even in the early days of his healing, Severus was careful. He always was. The denial and the repression of his feelings were so etched into his very core that death that itself could not shake them loose. When Sirius had changed his bandages the fourth day, the tips of his fingers trailing sweetly along his scars, Severus made sure not to tremble, not to sigh or relax in any way that would cause any suspicion. When Sirius looked back at Severus, lazily crumpled into one of his magnificent chairs, through the arch as he cooked, Severus’s mind would spin with the novelty of having someone check up on him, someone making sure he was well fed and comfortable. When Sirius brought him a blanket that night, his head tilting to the side in curious consideration, Severus had to stop himself from sobbing, from curling into a ball and never looking up again.
When he’d slept, he’d slept with Sirius’s soft exhales next to him, lulling him into a world between this one and the next. He’d done his best to pretend he didn’t enjoy sleeping so close, that he hated it, that it was only a necessity for his protection. But as he laid beside him in the dark, his body thrummed with fear and yearning. He prayed Sirius would never find out, that he hadn’t found out already, though something hidden deep within him almost hoped he would.
And what would happen if Sirius did pry that secret from him? He’d back away in repulsion, in anger, in fear. He’d surely look at him shocked, nauseated; Severus’s entirety would contract into itself before shattering and seeping into the earth. Sirius would tell James, or he wouldn’t; it wouldn’t matter who knew once Sirius did.
Severus thought he’d almost rather Sirius die than find out he cared for him. He’d craft any number of dangerous, mind altering potions just to ensure that Sirius forgot him. He couldn’t bear the mockery of such a raw thing.
Severus shivered at the thought. The chilly air wrapped around him, kissing his skin like a lover. He sat beneath against a tree, the rough bark scratching at his back. He couldn’t be bothered to move, not after sitting here, pondering, for so long. Never had he felt so lost.
Bile rose in his throat at the thought of returning to the Dark Lord, and guilt strangled his insides when Albus or Lily slipped into mind. Changing sides this late in the war was impossible. The Dark Lord would surely hunt him down personally.
And so, there was little else to do other than sit beneath the hawthorn, his knees to his chest, contemplating a life where he and Sirius had not grown up as enemies.
He looked up to the stars, bright orbs dotting fathomless sky. His eyes glinted with their reflections as he pulled his wand from his robe, refreshing the warming spell he’d been casting every hour since he’d fled there. The warmth blanketed him, spreading into hardly-there muscles, wrapping around bones. He inhaled, sweet damp air replenishing his lungs.
Sirius would be shaking his head, asking himself what in him had caused him to bring Severus back to his place. The moment at the door hadn’t been anything of importance, Severus assured himself. If anything, Sirius wanted to fuck him, to claim him, to have something new to lord over him. He’d wanted control, wanted sex. That was what Severus told himself, over and over. Yet his core remained uncertain - it kept returning to the way Sirius looked at him, genuinely dejected that Severus was leaving, and the way he’d grabbed his wrist, his thumb brushing over a pulsing vein.
Sirius knew, or he suspected at least, Severus thought. His worst nightmare had come to life.
Of course this is what he’d dreamed of all along. Of confiding in Sirius, of Sirius listening, apologizing, perhaps even caressing his cheek. So when the opportunity came, and Sirius seemed to want answers, to want conversation, even if he would surely have preferred such things from someone, anyone, else, Severus couldn’t stop himself. Out the words flew, desperate to be shared.
Severus played with fate, staying in Sirius’s company so long. It was only natural that he’d been punished for it.