A/N: In the Middle Ages, lunch was called dinner and dinner was called supper, so when they eat dinner, it actually takes place in the middle of the day.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to its rightful owners.
i.
The first time Godric introduces him to the Gryffindors, Salazar is eighteen and seems strangely silent as his gaze travels over the stony façade of the estate. It is odd to see him keep his usually sharp tongue in check and give just the right compliments to Godric's mother and sisters. Stranger still that he tries not to laugh when the women decide it is time to share the most embarrassing stories from Godric's childhood.
Godric takes him riding in the afternoon because he wants to show the lands to his friend. He watches, with some joke or the other already half-formed on the tip of his tongue, as Salazar pulls himself into the saddle and his long ponytail falls over his shoulder, and suddenly Godric is so very aware this is no longer the boy he met up north four years ago, but rather a man, nearly as tall as Godric himself, with muscles that ripple under his skin when he nudges the mare with his heels and presses his legs into her flanks.
It must have escaped his notice, Godric thinks, because he saw Salazar practically every day since they'd met , and it somehow never registered he'd grown.
"Is something the matter?"
Godric looks up to find a frown on Salazar's face. He shakes his head.
"The lake is beautiful in late spring. I'll take you there first."
ii.
The pain in his shoulder keeps him awake.
Only hours ago, they were fighting a group of three trolls. The hit was aimed at Godric's head, but he dodged just enough for his shoulder to bear the brunt (it is preferable to a smashed head any day). Salazar cursed in more than one language when he had to set the bone.
The trolls are dead now, but Godric's shoulder is swollen, and bruised, and it aches. Moonlight is spilling through the small window, and for the twentieth time, Godric closes his eyes. He can hear Salazar's breathing, then suddenly the rustling of sheets, the whimpers, the moans.
He's on his feet in a moment. It's not often he sees Salazar suffer a nightmare (but then his friend has always claimed Godric slept like a log); waking him up feels like the only right thing to do, so he shakes Salazar's shoulder and calls his name.
A blast of white light explodes towards him. He jumps to the side not a moment too early and looks up. For a moment, they stare at each other. Then Salazar's gaze falls to his hands; they're shaking and smeared with something dark, as if the curse had gauged cuts into his skin.
Some dark magic requires a blood price, that much Godric knows, and he finds himself unable to ask what the curse should have done.
"I'm sorry," Salazar says. His voice trembles a bit.
Godric tells him it's fine and offers to listen, but Salazar ignores him in favour of staring out through the window, so Godric returns to bed and tries to finally fall asleep.
Later, he hears a sniff, then another one. He turns just enough to see Salazar curled up in the far corner of the room, and he wants nothing more than to go there and hold him, to hide the man in his arms.
He doesn't. It would not be appreciated; Salazar isn't one of his sisters to be embraced.
It's better this way.
He closes his eyes, and the ache from his shoulder spreads to his ribs.
iii.
He blames the fact Salazar cut his hair. It only falls to his clavicles now, still almost straight, and that must be why it took Godric till now to notice the dip of his collar bones, and the sweat that runs down Salazar's neck after their practice, and specks of faded green in his dark grey eyes.
He's not sure how the haircut pulls his gaze to Salazar's eyes, but it's the only thing that is different, so that must be it.
iv.
A long summer evening finds them drinking ale outside a tavern, watching people hurry home for supper or enter the tavern to have a good time. Godric looks for the ladies; a few catch his eye, but none can manage to hold it. He turns to Salazar and finds him studying one of his blades.
"You don't care for the women?"
Salazar shrugs. "Marriage doesn't seem so appealing to me."
It has to be true. They're in their twenties now, Salazar barely and Godric three years deep. Six years of travels, and not once has he heard Salazar daydream of marriage or children (he's quite good with kids, though, that much Godric knows).
"I didn't mean that. Just some company for the night."
"You haven't done that in a while." Salazar wipes his knife into his trousers (although it is perfectly clean) and puts it back into its sheath.
"True," Godric admits. All those women have merely made him crave comfort of a different kind. Perhaps he should visit Mother, and Nerienda, and Ceolwyn again. "And you? Been sneaking out without telling me?"
God knows he's too good at that.
Salazar tilts his face up and looks at the clock tower across the square. "No," he says. "And I am not starting tonight."
Good. Godric won't have to be lonely, and for a while his fears of losing his best friend to a woman are put to rest. They are irrational: even if Salazar married, let alone had a woman for but one night, they would stay friends.
Nevertheless, the ale tastes just a bit sweeter that night.
v.
Inviting Salazar for a swim in the lake is a mistake. They're alone in the dark. Moonlight turns Salazar's body paler and droplets on his skin into pearls. He's lithe and tall, all lean muscle and a scar here and there.
Nobles should be lining up their daughters.
Godric's body warms up with what feels like rage. They can't have him, the nobles, the daughters, because Salazar prefers adventures with him to bowing and balls (Godric wonders how his friend would look if he were to dance).
He jumps into the lake, but his insides stay hot.
Salazar misses breakfast the next day and avoids Godric's eyes at dinner. Ceolwyn tells Godric he doesn't feel well. He goes to check on him, but Salazar sends him away before he can even open the door.
A day later, Salazar leaves to visit his brother. Godric dreams about him and wakes up terrified and painfully hard.
vi.
He goes out to hunt but returns because the spot at his side that Salazar normally fills remains empty.
Salazar.
SalazarSalazarSalazar.
He tries to banish the thought. His body he can deal with, ignore if need be; but the pressure inside his chest, the far more common ache…
Perhaps it is some internal bruise he'd acquired during the hunt. Or some disease… But it can't be, except perhaps one of the mind…
To crave Salazar's presence so badly, to ache for his voice and dream of his touch…
No.
No, he cannot think this way.
It is merely some strange affliction, and it will pass.
vii.
Perhaps he shouldn't see Salazar anymore, shouldn't let him come back so they can depart for the Continent. But he misses the company, and it will be no different than before. They will travel, hunt magical creatures that kill, stop dark wizards, and seek knowledge wherever it is to be found. Godric doesn't need anything else and would never be foolish enough to seek it, to even give voice to the strange sensations that grip his body and soul.
Nothing will be different, so it can't hurt.
It does.
viii.
The curse comes flying at Godric, who sees it too late. Then Salazar's there, and in the next moment he's on the ground in a puddle of blood.
Godric hears himself scream. He can barely remember what he does to the wizards or how he carries Salazar to their small room in the tavern, how he works the best healing magic he knows or how he dresses the wounds. But he does remember the dread, the coldness squeezing chest, and the tears that he can't quite force to a halt.
Salazar wakes a day later without sudden movement or sound. His eyes flutter open, and Godric could cry with relief, nearly does. He hopes Salazar won't notice the puffiness of his eyes.
"Why did you do that, you fool?" he asks when he helps the other man sit.
Salazar shrugs. "Same old reasons."
It's what they do—have each other's back, so an occasional screw up doesn't mean death. Friendship, Godric thinks, and his chest constricts.
"I don't like seeing you hurt," Salazar adds.
Godric frowns. "That goes both ways."
Salazar looks at him. He doesn't say anything and he doesn't avert his gaze. It's Godric who does.
ix.
Can't. He shouldn't, he can't. It's all wrong. It's strange, and so wrong, and he can't… He can't, won't, just can't, he must not—
He watches Salazar lie in the grass with his face turned to the sun and a smile on his lips, and he can't find an ounce of denial anymore.
x.
It's a mistake, but he's tired to the bone; he is bruised and covered in dragon blood. In the post-battle exhaustion, a part of him rejoices in being alive and in the share of happiness he's had so far. He's on the ground, mere feet from the dragon, because he's coming down from a high and moving is not a priority. Salazar is beside him, tying a handkerchief around his left palm. His face is dirty with soil and blood, and his hair is a mess, but Godric doesn't mind in the least.
It's a mistake, but he opens his mouth anyway.
"I like you," he says. His throat seizes up.
Salazar pulls on one end of the handkerchief with his teeth; the knot tightens and he lets go of the cloth.
"Friends tend to do that."
"No," he forces past the lump in his throat. "I like you."
This time Salazar looks at him, eyebrows arched.
"You do?" he asks quietly.
It's not the response Godric imagined, this soft question that is almost unnecessary; repetition never could turn the words into something acceptable.
It's a mistake, but he nods anyway. "I do," he says. Blood heats up his cheeks.
Salazar blinks. A smile appears on his lips as he closes his eyes and lies back onto the ground. Godric searches for pity and mockery but finds traces of neither on Salazar's face. It's genuine, the smile, strange and yet genuine, and something in Godric's chest swells.
"Zar?" he says at last, but Salazar shakes his head and holds out his hand, and when Godric takes it, he thinks perhaps it's not a mistake after all.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this.
Please drop a review ^^
~shades