"Look...at...me..." he whispered. The green eyes found the black, but after a second, something in the depths of the dark pair seemed to vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The hand holding Harry thudded to the floor, and Snape moved no more."
"All right?" Harry asks and there are a dozen emotions that Snape detects in his green gaze, in the nuance of his expressions. There's the need, the uncertainty, the ultimate dilemma of whether to act on a feeling, whether to take that plunge. He is so responsive to Snape's touch. So openly vulnerable. Snape knows all the words that can break Harry right this moment and forever shatter his very soul, and he'd never bring himself to utter even one. He'd shield Harry against them, always, if he could.
Instead, stunned from the sudden intimacy of their positions and hiding every bit of his discomfort, Snape arches his brow in an open challenge. Are you man enough, Harry?
He knows the truth by now. He hangs all his hopes on that truth. Please let it be so.
Harry's lips part slightly, and he steps up, as cautious as a young stag taking a first step past the forest line. He tilts up his chin and keeps seeking something in Snape's stare. Perhaps he's found it because at last he lunges forward and presses his warm lips to Snape's.
The gentleness brings out a sense of vulnerability in Snape that he thought he was no longer capable of. Once again, he is the heartbroken young man pressing a hand to his lips while whispering Reg's name and mourning, stunned with hollow grief, for what might have been between them. Once again, he's numb and kneeling on the floor, reeling from the anguish of losing Lily. Once again, he's standing over his mum's grave at the Cokeworth cemetery. Only this genuine, all-encompassing pang of emotion is not pain right now, but the opposite of pain, with Harry's arms around him. With Harry's mouth against his. It's warmth. It's safety. It's trust.
Oh but this is a bad idea. Somehow, somewhere, Harry has gotten it into his head that he is an equal to Snape, that they are both equally broken, castaway soldiers at the bottom of life's toybox, but the truth is, Harry can still heal, can shine and climb out victorious. Snape... well, he's happy to let the world go on and leave him behind forgotten. It's so tempting to allow himself to grow still and silent, to gather dust in the endless peace of his solitude.
And yet... am I man enough?
It's what Harry asked him once, back when he was still a Potter to Severus.
Well, am I? Still.
Severus lifts his arms around Harry and tightens his hold on the daring young man, in an answering embrace. Yes. It appears I am enough.
I want this. I need this to last.
"Look at me," Harry whispers. "Look." And his voice is low and insistent and patient, just like his hold on Severus. Severus is somewhat aware of his own arms shaking. Harry's breath is warm against Severus' cheek. He has a peculiar scent on him, all-male, accented by the familiar ratio of bergamot to sage - a hint of the potion of Severus' own making in his feathery strands, over the soft stubble at his jaw. "It's alright. It's going to be alright."
Severus pulls back then and they face each other. Harry. Severus. An impossible encounter. An impossible story but a lived one. As true as the tale of two men finding themselves and each other in an old dusty house by the icy river has ever been.
When I asked Harry to look at me that day in the Shrieking Shack, Severus thinks, I couldn't bear to die alone.
He has been known to be a coward, once or twice.
Is he brave enough to admit the truth then? He would never forgive himself if he doesn't take the chance to let Harry into his life. He doesn't know.
He doesn't want to let that once-in-a-lifetime chance slip away.
He mustn't. He's lost so many loved ones already. Harry though, is here and now, and all life.
Severus inhales sharply, his nostrils widening, his eyes find Harry's green ones, and then, with the precision of a striking cobra, with the desperation of a man reborn, he claims Harry's lips in an answering, possessive surrender.
His fingers curl over Harry's shoulders. He feels Harry's body press into his embrace, he needs Harry's arms around him, and it's such an unimaginable, brilliant experience, being alive after all that's happened. Enjoying life again. Looking forward to it. More of it. As long as Harry's there to share these intimate moments with him. The best of life in peacetime, witnessed and enjoyed by these two survivors.
It's only as the flames in the fireplace die down, a long time from now, that Severus glances at the clock, untangles himself from a tempting hold, and sends a panting, eager young man away from his presence, through the Floo, home.
One of them has to be rational in this ill-advised encounter, lest it escalates further.
Alone once more, he runs his hand through his recently messed up hair, leans against the shelf that holds a collection of his hand-annotated childhood books, and lets out a deep, longing sigh. This is madness. Utter madness! What has he gotten himself into?
His hand still smells of bergamot and sage, from the time he brushed it over Harry's fringe, lingered over his cheek.
Despite the chill outside, he's thoroughly, completely warm.
His sleep that night is sound.