Head for the Coast

Pop up from behind the back seat and say "Ah-ha!"

[brumousventers]

“That was a hard hit,” David says softly. “Of course I’m going to worry about it.” He breaks off, suddenly, and presses a hand over his eyes.“Jesus, I thought they weren’t going to let me see you. I thought they weren’t going to let me see my boy.”

His hand is shaking. Ilya is shaking too, on a level that he barely understands. My boy. He can’t remember if his father ever referred to him as such. Surely not—it was always the youngest with Grigori, or that one, or you. His father wanted to keep him at as much a distance as possible. 

And here is David Hollander, closing the gap like it’s—easy. Like calling Ilya his boy is nothing shameful or difficult or something upon which rests a thousand different conditions. Ilya experiences a pang of jealousy so visceral it feels like he’s going to throw up. No, not jealousy—envy. This nameless, gnawing want.  

Something of what he’s feeling must show on his face, because David takes a step closer to him. “Is it a concussion?”

“No,” Ilya croaks out. “Not as bad as that.”

 “Still.” David takes yet another step closer, now so near that Ilya could reach out and grasp his hand like a child. If he wanted. “Let me see.”

[brumousventers]

“And if he asks you to share the job?” Harry asked, eyes narrowing in a way that made Severus vaguely proud.

“Then I share it,” Severus said, without relish but with a pragmatic acceptance. “For a month. Sharing is a polite word for watching. A month is long enough for the castle to remember my voice and short enough for pride to survive resigning.”

Harry nodded, satisfied. “And if he, by some miracle, says ‘No thank you’?”

“Then the Wizengamot will enjoy seeing Lord Regius rise the next morning to inquire publicly why the nation’s children are being denied competent instruction in volatile sciences during an era when explosions are likely to become fashionable,” Severus said, and the quiet, dangerous pleasure in his voice turned the afternoon air a degree cooler.

Harry blinked, thrilled. “Remind me never to be your enemy.”

“Impossible,” Severus said, so matter-of-fact that Harry had to look down to hide the way his ribcage tried to become an instrument.

[brumousventers]

‘I don’t think the vision’s real. I mean, it looked real enough, and I was in his body, but my Wall was still there, so I kind of knew at the same time that he wasn’t me. The weird thing is that, according to the vision, Padfoot was just meant to march into the Ministry, for whatever reason, and... no one recognised him? Of course, I don’t want him to be killed, but...’

Severus stares at him. His face remains impassive, but an incredulous laugh twitches inside him. Fueled by the flash of unexpected clarity from Potter that even that irritating ramble can’t entirely erase, and strengthened by that utterly inappropriate, but fascinating, ‘but’.

It’s entirely plausible that Black would throw all precautions to the wind—the ones meant to ensure his mangy head stays on his shoulders—to prove just how closely heroism and stupidity are linked... but the boy is right. That repellent face has marred the walls of Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, and the Ministry for so long that it’s nearly impossible he could have wandered about unnoticed.

[brumousventers]

Paul ran his hands along her bare shoulders, as if to assure himself of his words, that if he could feel the smoothness of her skin beneath his palms than he would be there with her in the blue lagoon, and not wading up to his ankles in emerald algae in the inky black pools of Feyd-Rautha’s eyes.

[brumousventers]

His knuckles met the door in a single sharp rap—just enough. Just loud enough to break the silence, to give Bellini a moment to put himself together. He did not wait. He did not hesitate. The time for either had long passed. Instead, he moved with the kind of certainty that left no room for refusal. His hand pressed against the heavy wooden door, the weight of it yielding beneath his touch—not a push, not a polite request for entry, but a strong, measured shove. A forced intrusion, as if the very act of opening it could erase the barrier that had ever existed between them.

[brumousventers]

It’s a fresh reminder of how rough, crude Eric can get. New York vulgar. Lemon peel soaked in whiskey, the faint echoes in a black box theatre, something to touch but not to keep. Assad begins to stroke himself faster, whining as the shifts against the sheets, undoubtedly audible.

[brumousventers]

Rolling nausea crests again, but Daniel leans into the memory. He knows that voice. A velvet ooze just like the honey in the song that trudges along in his ears. It stirs impossible warmth in his gut, the tips of his fingers and toes, and nostalgia overtakes his queasiness. He wishes, suddenly, to disappear into the memory. 

[brumousventers]

He hits the ground before he feels the sting of the fangs, Armand crouched over him, just like Louis on the night that apparently really happened. It hurts the whole time, but it only matters for the first moment, quick like the sting of a needle. Then everything else is washed away by how good it is to be so pierced and held. He shoves at Armand’s shoulders, panicked, and then drags him closer. Daniel is dizzy, and high, and filled with the best pulsing light of all: I was right, I was right, I was right.

[brumousventers]

“You wanted the blood. I wanted — if we were to come together like that, I wanted us without the question of your immortality hanging over us. You were too like me, in that regard. Asking, asking, no sense of when to stop, pushing at my history and power like it was something you could eat, consume along with —” Armand stops short. Composes himself. Turns on the lights with a gesture too fast for Daniel to follow. There he is. His praying mantis love, one hand still creeping up Daniel’s thigh, like he thinks Daniel’s too dense to notice.

[brumousventers]

Daniel swallows a long gulp of dry air and exhales theatrically. The vampire shrugs, a practiced softness in his features, only Daniel can see behind as if he’d read his mind, too, the near-invisible uncanniness of a smile that is self-congratulatory. 

[brumousventers]

"Can't you look at me?" Hadrian murmured, thumb stroking over his cheekbone, gently prodding, "Won't you forgive me? " 

Severus finally gave into his nudging, an ache bubbling in his chest at the mere sight of him just a breath away. His skin, like buttery silk, softened and sharpened by the firelight. The usually tamed curls on his head ruffled, displaced by his excitement. 

His eyes. Still damp at the eyelashes, clumped together and shiny. And so - so very expressive.

"You bring out the very worst in me."

Hadrian's fingers stilled at his cheek, plump lip pulled between pearly teeth. "Do I?"

Do I? What sort of question was that? The boy had pushed him into a state of utter depravity. Had him assuming a role of aggressor, enacting a litany of sins that would have the devil balking. He had shoved him from his coveted tightrope of righteousness with ruthless hands and a laugh in his ear. 

"I think that I bring out the honesty in you, Severus." Hadrian said softly, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes, "and I think that you are most magnificent when you are honest with yourself."

Magnificent - had the word ever been used to describe him before? Menacing, of course. Frightful. But magnificent? Such a descriptor was intended for the likes of great sorcerers and their impressive displays of magic. Or the unattainable beauty of Veelas on the covers of French magazines. The sort of epitaph that left you in awe. 

Severus Snape; declared magnificent for a terminal case of unruly rage.

It was charming really, the boy's perspective - even if it was due to the fact that he was entirely off his rocker. 

[brumousventers]

He tossed a packet out of the way, and Kingsley caught it before it could slide to the floor. He’d never seen Severus’ arrest record, having just taken Albus’ word for it, and he flipped the cover open with interest, only to find himself immediately and inappropriately delighted by the very first page.

It was Severus’ mugshot, and there the man was, barely out of his teens, radiating malice like a scornful sun and sneering back at the camera with two fingers held up. His nails were varnished black, and his face was bruised and bloody, and he looked like a damn hooligan. Knowing the adult Severus as well as he did, the sheer riff-raffishness of the picture was shocking, and for a moment Kingsley seriously considered nicking it to give to Harry. Now that Harry knew about that arrest, it was like a keepsake. 

Look at your feared and distinguished partner, Severus Snape, he thought. Giving the V to a clot of Aurors with a number on his chest. Looks rather like he got slammed into the floor, doesn’t he? What a legacy.  

Harry would love it. 

And his birthday was coming up, too. Eighteen. Maybe once Gregory was slapped back down - which was imminent - Kingsley could find the original and have it framed. If it was in color, that would be even better. Blood spatter was so much less striking in black and white. Yes, he could frame it, and send it with a nice bottle of something so Severus didn’t explode. 

What did they drink? Red?

[brumousventers]

The man wore black like a security blanket. Wrapping himself in mystery and intrigue, hoarding his secrets close with a clear warning that anyone who wanted to unravel him would need to stare and study until their pupils dilated and readjusted. He was careful with the details of his life – two years of stalking the man more obsessively than he stalked Malfoy and Harry still knew little about him. Snape continued to flicker, blending with the shadows and skimming along the edges of the light until he appeared to be a seamless inclusion into both, seemed to always just be there, and Harry was half-mad and feverish with wanting… something. Something that dangled over his head like a snitch, flying away before he could identify this feeling churning in his belly, leaving him with the desperate impression that he needed to catch it before the opposing Seeker did or he would lose more than one-hundred and fifty points.

[brumousventers]

“That’s what the courting ritual is for,” Hermione said. “He can’t refuse you entirely, at least not yet, but he can reject your suit in the spring and then at least you’ll have gotten through most of your final year at Hogwarts relatively drama-free.” “Snape?” Ron asked incredulously. “The man bleeds drama. I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing, mate.” “So do I,” Harry replied. “So do I. Because eventually people are going to notice, and then the Prophet will go crazy, and I’m generally not looking forward to that part.”

[brumousventers]

“I’m not,” Harry says and his hand grabs Severus’ wrist. “I swear, I’m not.” He tries shaking his head, and alcohol makes the room around his head spin and spin and spin. He takes Severus’ palm between his hands instead. “You’re beautiful like modern art is beautiful: you’re cryptic and hard to understand and not to everyone’s taste,” he explains, the words falling from his mouths like pearls. He’s not entirely certain he’s making sense but he’s too drunk to care, and there is a truth to be found somewhere in his words, he’s sure. “People may not like you. People may scoff and laugh and walk away, but that doesn’t mean you’re ugly.” (It’s shiny and cold like a gold coin, that truth. It’s a thing to be found and treasured.)

[brumousventers]

“She knows. For sure. I bet they all at least suspect something. I can’t be that clever. And - and I don’t mean to offend - him staying over at your house is not exactly subtle. Kingsley himself didn’t quite believe it when he told us.” “Well, you could’ve thought that we’re comrades. Or friends.” Harry said evasively. “Severus doesn’t have friends. Everyone knows that.” “You’re mean.” Harry huffed. “No I’m not. The man doesn’t have friends. Not because he couldn’t, but because he doesn’t want to.” “I can’t believe no one ever told me he used to be friends with my mum!” Harry suddenly remembered. “He would’ve killed me if I had told you. And I quite like being alive.”

[brumousventers]

“You bring out the very worst in me.” Hadrian’s fingers stilled at his cheek, plump lip pulled between pearly teeth. “Do I?” Do I? What sort of question was that? The boy had pushed him into a state of utter depravity. Had him assuming a role of aggressor, enacting a litany of sins that would have the devil balking. He had shoved him from his coveted tightrope of righteousness with ruthless hands and a laugh in his ear. “I think that I bring out the honesty in you, Severus.” Hadrian said softly, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes, “and I think that you are most magnificent when you are honest with yourself.” Magnificent - had the word ever been used to describe him before? Menacing, of course. Frightful. But magnificent? Such a descriptor was intended for the likes of great sorcerers and their impressive displays of magic. Or the unattainable beauty of Veelas on the covers of French magazines. The sort of epitaph that left you in awe. Severus Snape; declared magnificent for a terminal case of unruly rage. It was charming really, the boy’s perspective - even if it was due to the fact that he was entirely off his rocker.