title: wastelands
summary: "I hate you." "I'm sure you do." Western AU
pairings, rating: Severus/James, T
warnings: None!
word count: 580
challenges: Last Ship Sailing Competition (Round 2)
Nothing good ever came out of this town - not in the dust in the air or the clatter of horses outside. Not in the cheap whiskey the muggles drink when they huddle in the dark corners of the pub like they don't know any better. Not in the glittering charcoal of the schoolteacher's eyes where he sits at the end of the bar, slender fingers curling around his glass.
The barkeep is being watched and he watches back in amusement, a vicious grin parting his lips, and as always, the schoolteacher turns his head, caught in the act. The barkeep refills his glass anyway, even as he barks out over the rest of the tavern -
"Alright gents, that's enough, I was s'posed to close fifteen minutes ago! Christ, some of us have to sleep."
He won't be doing much sleeping tonight. The schoolteacher stays seated even as the rest of the patrons file out, suspicious glares thrown over their shoulders in wake.
"I suppose you're starting to wonder if they've figured it out yet. The reason your wife left you. The reason she never should have tried at all." The quiet murmur of his voice, razor-sharp steel under the softness, makes the barkeep flinch, the nervousness, the agitation, settling in his skin even as the schoolteacher reaches for him, drags him in close over the bar by the collar of his shirt.
"Fuck," the barkeep swears, eloquently, and he wants to punch him, wants to kick him out of the bar like the rest, wants to grab a fistful of his long black hair and kiss him, wants to - "Shut your mouth - I thought you weren't going to mention that again - "
"I lied," the schoolteacher says, matter-of-fact, impetuous, childish, the words whispered torturously against the barkeep's lips. "Let them talk."
"I hate you."
"I'm sure you do." A slender hand, too soft and lily-white and uncalloused for the lives that they lead, cups his jaw, slides up his cheek into his hair, and the barkeep's hat is tumbling to the floor as the schoolteacher threads his fingers through the dark curls and pulls, hard enough to hurt. "There aren't many other conclusions one could draw, the way you've been denouncing me at town hall meetings, telling those sordid stories about me to your son, as if he wasn't already performing abysmally in his lessons. By all means, carry on-"
He doesn't want to hear the rest. The schoolteacher's whiskey-loosened tongue is of more use here, being kissed abruptly, heavy-handed and filthy, because he doesn't know when to fucking shut up, when to leave well, alone, has to keep pushing until the barkeep is trembling with loathing and desire, unable to do anything, say anything, half mad with want.
And as the barkeep pulls him forward, up onto the bar among the empty glasses, the schoolteacher reaches for his wand, banishes the candlelight illuminating the tavern with a whispered nox. It's become a habit, this fumbling, this fucking around behind closed doors at night, in the dark where the barkeep can forget whose shirt he's unbuttoning with trembling fingers.
He pretends he doesn't hear the whisper against his neck, the desperation ("I just want to know one thing, just one thing - "), and for one terrifying moment, James thinks Snape might tell him he loves him.