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rarepair_shorts2017-08-14 06:41 pm
snax0.livejournal.com) wrote in rarepair_shorts2017-08-14 06:41 pm
Entry tags:
WISHLISTS: Lie to Me (Severus/Draco)
Author: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
snax0
Recipient:lokifan
Title: lie to me
Pairing: Severus/Draco
Request/Prompt Used: lies
Rating: PG/NC-17.
Word Count: 2,200.
Summary: Severus is dead. Draco is fine. Love is enough to keep a relationship together. (And other lies.)
Warnings: Non-linear narrative, angst, not the happiest of endings, mentions of smoking and alcohol.
Notes: I'm sorry this got so angsty (and fully understand if that's not your thing!!). Lately it's all that wants to be written with these two.
Read on AO3.
The room is engulfed by a cloud of smoke, the substance surrounding Draco like fog on a cold and dreary day. The cigarette burns in the ashtray, a soft glow streaming in from the open balcony and casting him in shadows. Draco stares into the distance, mesmerised by the way the smoke curls, by the way it shimmers when hit with the light. By the way it eventually fades to nothing.
He’s not even smoking the cigarettes anymore. He just lets them sit in the ashtray, lets them burn to dust. Lets the smell invade his nostrils and lets the smoke sting his eyes.
It reminds him of Severus, the smell. Reminds him of how he’d looked, standing on the very balcony Draco sits in front of. Of how he’d watched Draco, back pressed to the railing, a cigarette held between his lips. Of how his mouth had tasted of tobacco afterwards. Of how it’d been both bitter and addicting.
Draco shifts on the couch, his fingers curling around the cushion as his mind is invaded by memories. By the familiar touch and taste of skin. By flashes of him laid out in this very room, of another body’s weight on top of his own, of the autumn chill and how it’d felt against his bare flesh.
He shakes his head violently, pushing the memories away. Lighting the cigarettes was a stupid thing to do, he reflects, because he doesn’t actually want to think about it. Because he would rather not be reminded of it.
It’s been eight months since the end of the war. Or, more specifically, two hundred and fifty-three days. Draco isn’t counting, he’s not, but today would’ve been Severus’ thirty-ninth birthday, and after half a bottle of firewhiskey, a quarter of a pack of cigarettes, and Merlin knows how many hours spent staring off into space, it’d seemed like a good idea.
And so here he is, eight months later: sprawled across the lounge in the room that had once been considered Severus’, well past pissed, with two lit cigarettes burning in front of him.
It’s been two hundred and fifty-three days since the end of the war, and Draco isn’t doing so well.
***
Their little rundown house shakes with the summer storm, the old home creaking as it’s pelted with rain. Severus remains unbothered, but Draco is not as calm.
It’s ridiculous, Draco thinks, because he’s never been scared of storms before. He thinks it must be pent up emotions, thinks that maybe the stress of being on the run and hiding in the middle of nowhere is finally catching up to him.
He watches Severus from the stairway, watches as he sits in his armchair, one of the books he’d brought open in his lap. Draco’s been contemplating walking forward and sitting next to him, the act a silent request for comfort, and as a particularly loud bout of thunder sounds, he makes up his mind and steps forward.
He expects a smart remark, but all Severus says is: “Took your time.”
***
“He was lying. The whole time.”
Draco’s voice is tinged with disbelief, his face lined with confusion. It feels as if someone has hit him with a freezing charm, as if some unknown force is working to take the very breath from his lungs. He hadn’t expected Severus to tell him the whole truth, but this… this is a bigger betrayal than he’d been anticipating.
He holds a copy of the Daily Prophet in his hand, the parchment crumpled where his nails have dug in, evidence of a grip that’s too tight. There are more splayed out across the table in front of him, the stone covered with every issue he’d missed while waiting for his trial.
Narcissa sits across from him, her expression sympathetic. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says quietly, her voice gentle. Carefully, she replaces the issue in Draco’s hand with the one containing information on Severus’ funeral, and when Draco asks to leave the room, she doesn’t stop him.
***
It’s no surprise that something happens.
Living like they are, with only each other for company… Draco had predicted something would occur. He just hadn’t expected it to be something this good.
He’d thought they’d fight, had thought their emotions would come to a head in an explosive episode and that the rest of their time together would be spent in an awkward silence; the two of them skirting around each other.
Instead, he gets this. Gets the weight of Severus’ body, gets the hard press of a doorknob in his back as he’s held against it, Severus’ mouth warm and wet and welcome as it devours him. Gets a tear in his shirt as it’s torn open, gets pale bruises where Severus’ hands hold onto him.
It’s explosive, yes, but far from a fight.
Draco is more than happy.
***
Severus’ gravestone blends with each that surrounds it. There is nothing special about it, nothing extravagant. With the fuss Potter had seemed to make, Draco is surprised.
Surprised, but pleased. He thinks Severus would have preferred it like this. Efficient. Pragmatic. To the point. It reflects everything he’d used to say about death.
Draco sits on the earth in front of it, uncaring of the dampness that sweeps into the fabric of his trousers. They’ve only just crossed over to autumn, and yet it already feels like winter.
For a long while, the only sound comes from the nature surrounding him. He hears birds fly above, hears the whoosh of trees as they sway in the wind, hears a quiet splash as something drops into a puddle of rainwater.
And then, “I miss you.”
Broken and quiet, the voice is almost lost in the wind.
Draco feels stupid for even trying.
***
“I thought I told you no.”
“You did.”
“Then why come?”
“Because I think you want it just as badly as I do.”
Severus’ brow arches as Draco takes the empty seat in front of the Headmaster’s desk. “Is that so?”
“Mmhm. You said sleeping with a student while in the castle was too inappropriate, but so was killing the Headmaster. Quite frankly, sir, I think this is the lesser of two evils.”
Draco catches the tilt of Severus’ mouth, the fleeting look of fond exasperation. It gives him hope.
“A compelling argument,” Severus responds dryly, “but the answer is still no.”
Draco groans.
***
“What?”
Potter is standing in the Manor’s foyer, Granger at his side. His mother stands to the left of them, her face lined with apprehension. The pit of Draco’s stomach churns with nerves.
“We thought you’d want this.”
Granger hands him the file that’s in her hand, and all it takes is one quick glance at the contents for Draco to stop dead in his tracks. Anything he’d planned on saying dies on his tongue, his body seemingly incapable of moving for any other reason than to stare.
Looking up at him is Severus.
Alive.
***
“You think you’re going to die.”
It’s not a question, but he expects an answer. Draco is staring at Severus from the bed, his body sore from the last round under the Dark Lord’s wand. Severus is untying the laces of his boots, the act meant to assure Draco that when he’d promised to stay, he’d meant it.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Strands of dark hair have fallen across Severus’ face, and Severus looks at him from underneath them. “Everyone dies, Draco.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Severus sighs, the mattress dipping as he sits properly. “It’s just how these things go.”
It’s not enough of an answer, but it’s all Severus offers, and so Draco has to accept it.
***
Finding the location is easy enough, but getting there is another story.
Draco has to trudge through a long track, the route taking him through thick bush. Snow crunches beneath his feet every now and then, the scant ice a remnant of their ending winter. It is still freezing, though, and so Draco pulls his travelling cloak tight around his body.
By the time he reaches the little, neglected cottage, he’s out of breath and aching for rest. He walks towards the front of the home, grimacing as he passes through the distinct magic of wards.
If he had had any doubts before, he doesn’t now.
Reaching the door, he exhales slowly. He isn’t ready, but he doesn’t think he ever will be, so instead of waiting, Draco lifts his hand to knock.
***
“What are you doing here?”
Severus stands on the edge of a tower, the wind ruffling through his robes as he stares out at the horizon, as if he’s looking for something. Draco moves to stand next to him, his gaze following the older man’s. The Hogwarts’ grounds are beautiful even now, even when darkness is threatening to tear them apart.
“They’re coming.”
“I know.”
“This is it, then?”
“Yes.”
Draco sighs, his hand reaching to grab Severus’ arm. He tugs him closer, going in for a kiss, and Severus indulges him. He cups Draco’s cheek, his touch gentler than it has ever been before.
It’s not a comfort.
“I— I wanted to say—”
“I know.” Severus’ voice is a mere murmur, his mouth warm when he kisses Draco one last time.
The ‘me too’ is implicit.
***
Of everything Draco had anticipated, he had not expected Severus to be unhappy to see him. It’s a shock to his system, and everything he’d planned on saying no longer seems applicable.
“Why did you come here?” Severus is saying, watching carefully as Draco paces, his boots dragging dirt through the carpet. They sit in front of a fire, now, the flames crackling in the background.
“What do you mean why did I—” he cuts himself off mid-sentence, staring at Severus with a look of bewilderment. “How are you alive?”
He can’t stop staring at Severus, at the scar that curls across his throat, at the cane he seems to depend on. It feels almost like a dream, like the whole thing is a fragment of his imagination.
Severus had answered the door with a look of indifference, his expression hardly changing as Draco had demanded to be let in, and now he looks at him the same. Draco can’t help the jet of anger; the frustration that Severus seems to be feeling nothing while Draco thinks he might shatter from feeling too much.
“When aware of your impending death, it seems fitting to plan ahead.”
“That’s not a good enough answer.”
Severus sighs quietly. “Why are you here, Draco?”
He must be trying to be daft, Draco thinks, because it’s fairly fucking obvious, isn’t it? “You didn’t say anything,” he says, words pushed through clenched teeth. “You lied to me the whole time and you didn’t even—”
“I did what needed to be done.” Severus’ words are softly spoken, but his tone is commanding enough to effectively cut Draco off. “You were better off not knowing.”
The response only increases his anger, and before Draco knows it, every supressed emotion, everything he’s wanted to say over the past year, everything he’d almost confessed to an empty grave— it comes to a head. Words spill from Draco’s mouth at a rapid rate, too quick for Severus to interrupt, and then—
“Did any of it mean anything to you?” Draco stops his pacing to meet Severus’ gaze. When Severus doesn’t answer, Draco feels the urge to scream. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” says Severus eventually. “More than you know, but you should not have come here.”
Draco looks at him in disbelief, thinks why do you always have to ruin a good thing.
“You let me grieve,” he says. There’s a laugh bubbling in his chest, bitter and breathy. “You let me think you were dead, and when I find out you’re not you turn me away? Why? Why not just tell me and save me the trouble of mourning?”
“Because I did not intend to be found.”
The implications in that answer hit Draco like a bucket of icy water. He deflates, the anger fading until all he’s left with is an ache in his chest, is the inexplicable sensation which accompanies the realisation that everything he had thought he knew, everything he’d wanted to believe, amounts to nothing.
“Fine,” he says, and he sounds resigned, now. Sad. “Fine. You win.”
He turns on his heel, making for the door, but is stopped before he can leave. Severus’ hand has tightened around his elbow, and Draco tugs his arm away. He doesn’t turn to look, is scared the sting in his eyes will escalate to tears if he does.
“I was going to come back,” Severus tells him. His breath ghosts across the back of Draco’s neck, his body close enough for Draco to feel its heat. “Just not now.”
Draco’s hand is already on the doorknob, ready to pull it open, and as he considers a response, he realises it’s easier to do just that. That yes, he could continue to argue with Severus, but it would be futile. That yes, he could probably get Severus to admit he still loves him, but it wouldn’t be worth it, not when he’d still have to leave, alone.
So instead he walks forward, not bothering to look back.
snax0Recipient:
lokifanTitle: lie to me
Pairing: Severus/Draco
Request/Prompt Used: lies
Rating: PG/NC-17.
Word Count: 2,200.
Summary: Severus is dead. Draco is fine. Love is enough to keep a relationship together. (And other lies.)
Warnings: Non-linear narrative, angst, not the happiest of endings, mentions of smoking and alcohol.
Notes: I'm sorry this got so angsty (and fully understand if that's not your thing!!). Lately it's all that wants to be written with these two.
Read on AO3.
The room is engulfed by a cloud of smoke, the substance surrounding Draco like fog on a cold and dreary day. The cigarette burns in the ashtray, a soft glow streaming in from the open balcony and casting him in shadows. Draco stares into the distance, mesmerised by the way the smoke curls, by the way it shimmers when hit with the light. By the way it eventually fades to nothing.
He’s not even smoking the cigarettes anymore. He just lets them sit in the ashtray, lets them burn to dust. Lets the smell invade his nostrils and lets the smoke sting his eyes.
It reminds him of Severus, the smell. Reminds him of how he’d looked, standing on the very balcony Draco sits in front of. Of how he’d watched Draco, back pressed to the railing, a cigarette held between his lips. Of how his mouth had tasted of tobacco afterwards. Of how it’d been both bitter and addicting.
Draco shifts on the couch, his fingers curling around the cushion as his mind is invaded by memories. By the familiar touch and taste of skin. By flashes of him laid out in this very room, of another body’s weight on top of his own, of the autumn chill and how it’d felt against his bare flesh.
He shakes his head violently, pushing the memories away. Lighting the cigarettes was a stupid thing to do, he reflects, because he doesn’t actually want to think about it. Because he would rather not be reminded of it.
It’s been eight months since the end of the war. Or, more specifically, two hundred and fifty-three days. Draco isn’t counting, he’s not, but today would’ve been Severus’ thirty-ninth birthday, and after half a bottle of firewhiskey, a quarter of a pack of cigarettes, and Merlin knows how many hours spent staring off into space, it’d seemed like a good idea.
And so here he is, eight months later: sprawled across the lounge in the room that had once been considered Severus’, well past pissed, with two lit cigarettes burning in front of him.
It’s been two hundred and fifty-three days since the end of the war, and Draco isn’t doing so well.
***
Their little rundown house shakes with the summer storm, the old home creaking as it’s pelted with rain. Severus remains unbothered, but Draco is not as calm.
It’s ridiculous, Draco thinks, because he’s never been scared of storms before. He thinks it must be pent up emotions, thinks that maybe the stress of being on the run and hiding in the middle of nowhere is finally catching up to him.
He watches Severus from the stairway, watches as he sits in his armchair, one of the books he’d brought open in his lap. Draco’s been contemplating walking forward and sitting next to him, the act a silent request for comfort, and as a particularly loud bout of thunder sounds, he makes up his mind and steps forward.
He expects a smart remark, but all Severus says is: “Took your time.”
***
“He was lying. The whole time.”
Draco’s voice is tinged with disbelief, his face lined with confusion. It feels as if someone has hit him with a freezing charm, as if some unknown force is working to take the very breath from his lungs. He hadn’t expected Severus to tell him the whole truth, but this… this is a bigger betrayal than he’d been anticipating.
He holds a copy of the Daily Prophet in his hand, the parchment crumpled where his nails have dug in, evidence of a grip that’s too tight. There are more splayed out across the table in front of him, the stone covered with every issue he’d missed while waiting for his trial.
Narcissa sits across from him, her expression sympathetic. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says quietly, her voice gentle. Carefully, she replaces the issue in Draco’s hand with the one containing information on Severus’ funeral, and when Draco asks to leave the room, she doesn’t stop him.
***
It’s no surprise that something happens.
Living like they are, with only each other for company… Draco had predicted something would occur. He just hadn’t expected it to be something this good.
He’d thought they’d fight, had thought their emotions would come to a head in an explosive episode and that the rest of their time together would be spent in an awkward silence; the two of them skirting around each other.
Instead, he gets this. Gets the weight of Severus’ body, gets the hard press of a doorknob in his back as he’s held against it, Severus’ mouth warm and wet and welcome as it devours him. Gets a tear in his shirt as it’s torn open, gets pale bruises where Severus’ hands hold onto him.
It’s explosive, yes, but far from a fight.
Draco is more than happy.
***
Severus’ gravestone blends with each that surrounds it. There is nothing special about it, nothing extravagant. With the fuss Potter had seemed to make, Draco is surprised.
Surprised, but pleased. He thinks Severus would have preferred it like this. Efficient. Pragmatic. To the point. It reflects everything he’d used to say about death.
Draco sits on the earth in front of it, uncaring of the dampness that sweeps into the fabric of his trousers. They’ve only just crossed over to autumn, and yet it already feels like winter.
For a long while, the only sound comes from the nature surrounding him. He hears birds fly above, hears the whoosh of trees as they sway in the wind, hears a quiet splash as something drops into a puddle of rainwater.
And then, “I miss you.”
Broken and quiet, the voice is almost lost in the wind.
Draco feels stupid for even trying.
***
“I thought I told you no.”
“You did.”
“Then why come?”
“Because I think you want it just as badly as I do.”
Severus’ brow arches as Draco takes the empty seat in front of the Headmaster’s desk. “Is that so?”
“Mmhm. You said sleeping with a student while in the castle was too inappropriate, but so was killing the Headmaster. Quite frankly, sir, I think this is the lesser of two evils.”
Draco catches the tilt of Severus’ mouth, the fleeting look of fond exasperation. It gives him hope.
“A compelling argument,” Severus responds dryly, “but the answer is still no.”
Draco groans.
***
“What?”
Potter is standing in the Manor’s foyer, Granger at his side. His mother stands to the left of them, her face lined with apprehension. The pit of Draco’s stomach churns with nerves.
“We thought you’d want this.”
Granger hands him the file that’s in her hand, and all it takes is one quick glance at the contents for Draco to stop dead in his tracks. Anything he’d planned on saying dies on his tongue, his body seemingly incapable of moving for any other reason than to stare.
Looking up at him is Severus.
Alive.
***
“You think you’re going to die.”
It’s not a question, but he expects an answer. Draco is staring at Severus from the bed, his body sore from the last round under the Dark Lord’s wand. Severus is untying the laces of his boots, the act meant to assure Draco that when he’d promised to stay, he’d meant it.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Strands of dark hair have fallen across Severus’ face, and Severus looks at him from underneath them. “Everyone dies, Draco.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Severus sighs, the mattress dipping as he sits properly. “It’s just how these things go.”
It’s not enough of an answer, but it’s all Severus offers, and so Draco has to accept it.
***
Finding the location is easy enough, but getting there is another story.
Draco has to trudge through a long track, the route taking him through thick bush. Snow crunches beneath his feet every now and then, the scant ice a remnant of their ending winter. It is still freezing, though, and so Draco pulls his travelling cloak tight around his body.
By the time he reaches the little, neglected cottage, he’s out of breath and aching for rest. He walks towards the front of the home, grimacing as he passes through the distinct magic of wards.
If he had had any doubts before, he doesn’t now.
Reaching the door, he exhales slowly. He isn’t ready, but he doesn’t think he ever will be, so instead of waiting, Draco lifts his hand to knock.
***
“What are you doing here?”
Severus stands on the edge of a tower, the wind ruffling through his robes as he stares out at the horizon, as if he’s looking for something. Draco moves to stand next to him, his gaze following the older man’s. The Hogwarts’ grounds are beautiful even now, even when darkness is threatening to tear them apart.
“They’re coming.”
“I know.”
“This is it, then?”
“Yes.”
Draco sighs, his hand reaching to grab Severus’ arm. He tugs him closer, going in for a kiss, and Severus indulges him. He cups Draco’s cheek, his touch gentler than it has ever been before.
It’s not a comfort.
“I— I wanted to say—”
“I know.” Severus’ voice is a mere murmur, his mouth warm when he kisses Draco one last time.
The ‘me too’ is implicit.
***
Of everything Draco had anticipated, he had not expected Severus to be unhappy to see him. It’s a shock to his system, and everything he’d planned on saying no longer seems applicable.
“Why did you come here?” Severus is saying, watching carefully as Draco paces, his boots dragging dirt through the carpet. They sit in front of a fire, now, the flames crackling in the background.
“What do you mean why did I—” he cuts himself off mid-sentence, staring at Severus with a look of bewilderment. “How are you alive?”
He can’t stop staring at Severus, at the scar that curls across his throat, at the cane he seems to depend on. It feels almost like a dream, like the whole thing is a fragment of his imagination.
Severus had answered the door with a look of indifference, his expression hardly changing as Draco had demanded to be let in, and now he looks at him the same. Draco can’t help the jet of anger; the frustration that Severus seems to be feeling nothing while Draco thinks he might shatter from feeling too much.
“When aware of your impending death, it seems fitting to plan ahead.”
“That’s not a good enough answer.”
Severus sighs quietly. “Why are you here, Draco?”
He must be trying to be daft, Draco thinks, because it’s fairly fucking obvious, isn’t it? “You didn’t say anything,” he says, words pushed through clenched teeth. “You lied to me the whole time and you didn’t even—”
“I did what needed to be done.” Severus’ words are softly spoken, but his tone is commanding enough to effectively cut Draco off. “You were better off not knowing.”
The response only increases his anger, and before Draco knows it, every supressed emotion, everything he’s wanted to say over the past year, everything he’d almost confessed to an empty grave— it comes to a head. Words spill from Draco’s mouth at a rapid rate, too quick for Severus to interrupt, and then—
“Did any of it mean anything to you?” Draco stops his pacing to meet Severus’ gaze. When Severus doesn’t answer, Draco feels the urge to scream. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” says Severus eventually. “More than you know, but you should not have come here.”
Draco looks at him in disbelief, thinks why do you always have to ruin a good thing.
“You let me grieve,” he says. There’s a laugh bubbling in his chest, bitter and breathy. “You let me think you were dead, and when I find out you’re not you turn me away? Why? Why not just tell me and save me the trouble of mourning?”
“Because I did not intend to be found.”
The implications in that answer hit Draco like a bucket of icy water. He deflates, the anger fading until all he’s left with is an ache in his chest, is the inexplicable sensation which accompanies the realisation that everything he had thought he knew, everything he’d wanted to believe, amounts to nothing.
“Fine,” he says, and he sounds resigned, now. Sad. “Fine. You win.”
He turns on his heel, making for the door, but is stopped before he can leave. Severus’ hand has tightened around his elbow, and Draco tugs his arm away. He doesn’t turn to look, is scared the sting in his eyes will escalate to tears if he does.
“I was going to come back,” Severus tells him. His breath ghosts across the back of Draco’s neck, his body close enough for Draco to feel its heat. “Just not now.”
Draco’s hand is already on the doorknob, ready to pull it open, and as he considers a response, he realises it’s easier to do just that. That yes, he could continue to argue with Severus, but it would be futile. That yes, he could probably get Severus to admit he still loves him, but it wouldn’t be worth it, not when he’d still have to leave, alone.
So instead he walks forward, not bothering to look back.
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