Chapter Twenty-Three: Whoever Says Love Is Beautiful Must Be a Masochist

Harry walks in Snape's room with nothing but his shorts on. He has cleaned up a bit, but his skin is still slightly damp with sweat.

The pressure in his chest hasn't decreased, if anything it has become tighter, hotter. It's tense, his whole body, in fact, is wound up. He feels like a large ball constrained into a tiny box, every side squeezing down on him with unbearable force. The promise of being freed gets all the atoms inside him bouncing and the tight space around his body is suddenly even more unbearable.

Such a strange feeling, being inside Snape's room again. Alone, unaccompanied by the man himself. Such a long way they have come, built trust, and friendship, and something, Harry hopes, much more meaningful than that – even if just for a short time.

As he stands there in the middle of the room he notices that other than a few discarded clothes there's really not much to speak of, no personal items at all and Harry wonders what Snape's own house, own space would look like.

Are his own chambers in the depth of the dungeons of Hogwarts, for example, decorated at all, bare the evidence of his personality in any way? Harry dies to know, to see for himself the place Snape calls his home, not just where he falls asleep.

One day perhaps, he thinks then remembers that that one day will never come. This relationship has an expiration date stamped on it. From the very beginning it was written across it with bold red letters, which flashed brighter every time they touched, with every kiss and stroke of a gentle finger. Their minutes together are measured and while they do not know when the count comes to the end, the moment is set, etched into the fabric of time and fast approaching, even Harry can feel it.

For too long has this been allowed. For too long has Harry been happy here in Sirius' old home with Snape as his only company. Life is unfair, he knows it, and soon he – they will get the reminder that this won't last forever.

The depressing thought however is gone from his mind the next moment when arms circle around his waist and Snape presses against his back. Harry feels clothed leg press against the back of his thigh. The man must have put his pants back on after his shower because the faint scent of potions lingers around them but the chest pressing against him is bare.

Heavier is the smell of soap, though, the scent of moss and forest trees.

"Don't think about it," Snape whispers against Harry's ears.

Before Harry could accuse Snape of Legilimency, the man adds, "Your concerns sit heavy in the air. It makes it hard to breathe."

His voice is low, hushed, as if he merely wanted to remind Harry of the rules of this game. They can't think of the future because it will taint the present, turn it bitter, unbearable. There is no other time for them than the now, just this here, the fleeting moments of the present, an existence where they must live from second to second. Otherwise, their world will crumble, fall apart to broken pieces, shattered and dead.

Harry doesn't turn around, but folds his hands over Snape's on his abdomen and drops his head on the man's shoulder. Hot breath ghosts on his neck, and Snape's kissing his skin gently, but strangely, the touches feel more affectionate than sexual.

They stand there in the middle of the dark room, embraced, swaying to the quiet lull of the moment. The silence is not uncomfortable but reassuring. The naked chest pressed against Harry's back is warm, drying quickly in the cool air, the soft hair that has fallen onto his shoulder is tickling his skin and makes it prickle at the base of his neck.

"Better," Snape says, inhaling deeply when he feels Harry completely relax against him. He makes a move to pull away, but Harry doesn't let him go yet.

"Would you believe me if I told you the sky is blue?"

"What a strange question…" Snape murmurs against his skin. "The sky doesn't actually have a colour, Potter. What you perceive –"

Harry cuts him off. "Would you believe me?" he insists.

Snape is silent for a moment, then Harry feels him nod. "I would."

Harry acknowledges that with nothing but a small hum. "Would you believe me if I told you, you are amazing at brewing?"

"Previous evidence may say otherwise," Snape murmurs, indicating the golden speckles and stripes he had to wash off just now. It seems, even though he doesn't understand what Harry wants with this yet, he still decides to play along. "But yes, I would believe you."

Harry takes the man's slim wrists and pulls his arms off himself. He turns them left and right, examining the pale hands once more.

The Dark Mark should be nothing but an ugly blotch, yet it draws Harry's gaze. It's darkness, such high contrast to Snape's alabaster skin, seems to suck in the light, swallow it all. Blue veins under white skin, like streaks of marble slither. Thin black hair, soft under his palm tickles him as he caresses the man. Fingers long and slim, ghostly pale, almost radiant in the darkness take hold of his own wandering limbs.

"If I told you I liked your hands, would you believe me?"

There's a huff next to his ear, sounds almost like laughter really.

They both watch their joined hands, fingers entangled. He's trapped now forever, here in this strange world with its marks and bruises, with protruding tendons that shift with ever move, with gnarly bones wanting to break the surface of fragile, thin skin.

"I would." Snape consents in the end.

Harry draws their hands to his lips and kisses Snape's knuckles. "Good." He tells the man, then, "How about your scent?" He turns their hands just enough that he can press his nose to Snape's wrist and inhale. He lets his tongue drift out too, licks across the sensitive skin. He feels the ridges, dips and hills of arteries and sinews, shifting muscles underneath his lips. "Your taste? Would you believe me if I told you I liked those?"

This time the answer comes a little breathless. "Yes."

"And your touch?" Harry says as he draws those hands down onto his chest. He arches against Snape's palm on his skin, his own fingers keeping them there. "Would you believe me if I told you I like it?" He asks and hands start roaming his body unprompted. He merely guides them, stirs them to skim over his hard nipples, and ribs, to explore lower still."

"I think I would, yes…"

"And if I told you, it excites me?" Harry asks, pushing the hands down over his half-hard cock. The contact sends a shiver across his whole body and his throat closes up momentarily, but he still presses out with a tight voice, "If I told you, you excite me, would you believe me?"

Snape pushes closer, his whole body is welded to Harry's back suddenly. "Yes…" He grunts, mouth against Harry's neck, hot, scorching. "I would, Harry."

Harry turns his head, seeking lips find their victim and they kiss. It's not vicious nor hungry, but still Harry feels devoured almost instantly. Something is set lose, it shakes off its shackles and demands more.

Like nectar, desire pools in his stomach, yet he pulls back. "And if I said –"

But Snape interrupts almost right away. "Yes," he murmurs, then kisses Harry again. "I would believe you."

"If I said you're hot?"

There's a moment of hesitance, then. "Yes. Everything."

"That you're clever?"

Lips twist against his. Snape smirks. "Obviously."

Harry twirls around then fully, faces Snape. He cups the man's chin in the palm of his hand, leans close enough to almost kiss him, to inhale his breathless gasps, then says, "And if I told you I love you, would you believe that, too?"

Snape shudders. Harry can feel the tremors shake his whole body. Muscles tense, fingers dig into the flesh of his waist.

"Harry…" he whispers, voice choked.

Harry pulls back slightly, waits for black eyes to open. It's a short eternity until Snape looks up at last, and Harry knows the answer before it's said.

There's something in Snape's gaze, endlessly sad, nearly heartbroken already. Harry's own heart crawls in his chest. He has doomed this man. No matter the good moments, the sweet memories, the exciting touches, no matter the friendship, the trust and the love, Snape's pain in the end will be greater than all of this.

"Not now." Snape swallows. "Not today."

Thumbs shift on his hipbones and he's tugged closer.

"Why?" Harry breathes, mouth against Snape's.

"If you love me, you won't die."

They both want to scream, but their hushed voices drift in the silence, soft like black feathers in the night sky, barely there, barely making even a whisper of a sound.

"I'll have to," Harry reminds them both.

Softly but with conviction, Snape says, "You will come back to me. I will believe you then."

It's a dream, a fantasy. They have nothing else left after all but to pretend, otherwise they would both go mad. The limited days they have left would turn bitter if they allowed reality to taint it.

Harry is happy to play along, to act as if this made-up future is possible. Yes, to come back from the dead, how hard could that be?

"Only then?"

"Yes." Snape grunts, then pulls Harry to himself, arms winding around his lithe form, slithering up on his back, twining around his waist. He buries his face in the crook of Harry's neck, mouth on his pulse point, feeling with his lips the rhythm of Harry's dancing heart.

Harry's stricken with sorrow. Utter grief slashes across his body, painful as if he just got rejected. He knows it's not the case, far from it in fact, and yet the bitter misery that ravages his heart feels more real than anything in the past weeks.

How can he do this to someone he loves? Why does he not care? Why doesn't he stop? Why does he still hold Severus Snape in an embrace when he knows this will kill the man one day. A week from now, a month from now, who knows how much time they have, but it cannot end any other way but with anguish and despair.

It's the least of what Snape deserves.

Yet Harry cannot step away. He will hold this man and he will love him until his last breath, and nothing will change that. Nothing. Not the end of world, not magic, not Albus Dumbledore, not even a half-blood wizard called Tom Riddle.

He pulls away just to look into black eyes. "I love you," he tells Snape. "Whether you believe me or not, I still love you, Severus."

Snape's exhale is shuddering and Harry wonders if he's ever heard those words said to him, shouted at him happily, or whispered secretively like now.

Harry has heard it only from Hermione and Ron, but never from a lover. He doesn't hold high hopes for ever hearing it and it's fine, he tells himself. Snape isn't the kind of man after all to declare his affection, and Harry doesn't really need to hear it to know, either.

But it would be nice, he thinks and for a moment, he imagines those thin lips forming the words, wild black eyes softening with emotion.

He will have regrets when he has to die, many and more things he never got to do, to experience, but at least this won't be among them.

As he watches Snape's face, glimmering gaze stuck on his lips, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted, he comes to the conclusion that love isn't really that bad.

"No matter the end, this is still worth it, right?" he thinks, but the words find a way out of his mouth.

Snape seems surprised by his voice as if he forgot Harry was there, alive not just a statue. Or perhaps he was too deep in his own thoughts, lost there in his dreams, seeing a future that will never form.

"Harry…" Snape says and swallows hard as if to oil rusty gears. "I have many regrets in my life, one harder to live with than the other, but this, you, will never be one of them. A minute with you is worth a decade of pain, one kiss a millennium of suffering." He kisses Harry's cheek, the corner of his eyes, his temple. "No matter the end, you will always be worth it."

Harry's arms tighten around the man. He holds him firmly, trying to squeeze every emotion into the strength of his hold.

"If our roles would be reversed, I don't think I could do this," he admits quietly.

"You could," Snape says and Harry can feel the rumble of his voice against his chest.

"You're stronger than I am."

Severus pulls away, looks at him tenderly. "No, not stronger."

"Braver then," Harry says, heart suddenly pounding.

Snape shakes his head lightly, leans closer. "This isn't a question of bravery and you know it, too." He says, then kisses Harry.

No, it's a question of love. Neither of them would put the other through this if it wasn't for love. It might be painful and beautiful, cruel and uplifting, but no matter what comes, when it comes, it will still be worth it in the end.