Beneath the Tryst.
Story notes: This is Severus Snape's POV of the scene described by Sirius Black in the first part of the fic.
A/N: This part was (scarily) my fave part to write :) I had fun being DARK (with caps lock!), with a halfway reasonable excuse. Thanks for the nice reviews :D they're very much appreciated and given a good home.
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Part Two: Severus Snape.
He stepped into the folds of the night, while somewhere a distant, unseen clock chimed the midnight hour. With the first thrill of the castle's circling wind, his thin fingers clutched a heavy cloak, tight around his slim, pale frame; a thicker skin of shadow black. Wind swept hair lazily swung to whip his half closed eyes, but his mind is weighted enough to block the sting. Heavy thoughts clamber, their number and darkness swelling with each circle of progression, before finally being turned away, and left alone, ignored.
With sudden shock, he sees himself now far from the simple, warming glow of the castle's lighted halls. As the ground under foot becomes both wilder and more and more untamed, as the rocks lay undisturbed by other passing feet, as the cover of the forest grows thick, he slows. Once unable to find excuse to move still further, only now does he stop and, with one graceful move, turn to wait again.
With the newfound sense of an uneasy custom, his dark eyes roam and wonder, roam and take in the surrounding, gloomy grounds. In his own, locked mind he tries not to see, tires not to watch. But his eyes, with keenest sight, now mutinously move to take in the figure stumbling before him, stumbling forever closer over the quickly fading gap, closing the distance over the darkened path.
He cannot help but look now; he sees the shining, sweating face approach, feels the air grow to into a thick and suffocating state. He loves this being; he wants it, but somewhere underneath it all, it changes. Pure loathing threatens, anger, hate, waiting to consume the rest, if he were just to let it loose from its dark cage. It wants, it screams, to be let out, to make this pathetic, little thing writhe, and suffer beneath it.
This thing before him, this thing at his feet, it helped make his young years hell. It's friends forever made him the fool, while it stood standing idly by. With everything he had, he would give his pleading eyes; implore this thing to comfort him, to stand with him, to hold him only once. It saw it, he knew that, and yet it never did.
And now it stands, wrapped in tattered robes. Its scarred and gentle, trusting eyes gazing so intently back. Nothing in their warm, brown depths reflects the ice he feels. It knows nothing of the darkness that loathes its very life; it's so close and yet so very far.
It – he – reaches out, touches empty air, stops merely inches short, not wanting to close the distance, not wanting to take responsibility, control. This worn figure knows that this is how it should forever be, control should never fall or lie solely with him. And yet, that hesitating hand has somehow broken the spell of spiralled pain, the hatred flows away. Warmness fills the empty space, and now he reaches back.
With no more thought, his black robed arms surround the brittle other man. His desperate hands explore the body, as it breathed as urgently as him. As they kiss, he pulls them down to kneel upon the ground. Their mouths now met in hungry, bruising embrace, his smooth lips pressed so hard against the rough and scraping, scarred ones.
And as they kiss, an echoed sound flows around and over them; the sound of a distant animal's anguished howl. But nothing now, nothing in the whole, entire world, can break those bonds between them; nothing can break this final spell.