title: smoke sickness
summary: You watch him watch you.
pairings, rating: Severus/James, M
warnings: None!
word count: 797
challenges: Last Ship Sailing Competition
notes: This is actually a companion fic to another fic of mine, to ashes, but I'm not too pleased with how it came out, so I may redo this at some point! (But for now it can live in the drabble collection)
i.
You do not like the way he watches you. It's not quite hungry, the looks he gives you, but something close, something else you don't want to, can't think about. Desperation, perhaps - it reminds you of the way he used to watch Lily all those years ago. It's all wrong. Everything is all wrong, it shouldn't be happening like this, his eyes on your mouth, on the smoke, lingering on the cigarette like it's the key to something, the release from the desperation in his eyes. You should offer him a cigarette. Maybe then he'll stop looking at you like that. You pocket the pack and the lighter instead.
ii.
He asks you, just once, in the aftermath of an Order meeting, everyone still filing out of the room and trying to pretend like they're not listening, why you chose to switch sides. It's the word choice that makes you sneer. I didn't volunteer for this. It was preferable to the other option. He doesn't ask what the other option was. You don't want to tell him, anyway, don't want to have to look him in the eye and say if I didn't, Lily would be dead. If I didn't, you would be dead.
iii.
You had this dream once, seventh year, that it was Lily you were jealous of instead of James. That you wanted to be where she was, holding hands with him in Hogsmeade, stealing kisses between classes. In the dream, you wanted his hands on your body, his teeth on the delicate skin of your neck, you wanted him to kiss you, wanted him to fuck you, and when you woke up you still wanted him. You haven't been able to get the dream off your mind since, no matter how many other dark-skinned dark-haired boys you take to bed.
iv.
You don't know why you let him in. He looks so out of place in the peeling-paint walls and chipped tile kitchen, a cracked white teacup held in strong hands, and you're not looking at his hands, not thinking about how you want them in your hair, up your shirt. You've been staring at the clock, counting down the minutes until it's late enough you can show him out. You watch him watch you out of the corner of your eye, and when he finally moves closer, you close your eyes entirely, you hold your breath. And when he says your name, like a plea, a prayer-well, it's useless to resist him, isn't it?
v.
Your memory is made of light, a flame-like intensity, the feeling of his hands on your body, his teeth on your neck - it almost seems like a dream the next morning, because you haven't stopped having these dreams and it isn't until you're in front of the mirror, staring at the bouquet of violet-and-magenta marks flowering over your pale skin that it seems the tiny bit real. There's disgust at first, until the denial sets in, the panic. You didn't do that. You didn't. Everything is happening all wrong. He leaves a vase of fresh-cut flowers on your doorstep, like some misplaced romantic gesture, but smashing the vase on the cobblestones doesn't ease the sick feeling settling in your stomach, the bone-deep ache.
vi.
Sometimes you think Albus knows. Despite the carefully practiced occlumency, the discretion you've both been using, something must be showing, something must be slipping through the cracks… You wonder if it's you or James. Maybe it's you, maybe this is your problem, maybe it's your fault, just another weight to pile onto your back. You've been breaking, lately, and you want to tell someone anyone, want to tell Albus because maybe he'll tell you what a fool you've been, sleeping with a married man, falling in love with him - but Albus doesn't say anything in the end, just looks at you with sad eyes, knowing eyes.
vii.
You know from the way he's been watching you that he's about to say something. You wish he wouldn't. You don't like the things he's been saying lately, full of that same desperation he still eyes you with when he thinks you aren't looking. You're still smoking the cigarette but things always come full circle, don't they? It's October, edging on November. He tells you he loves you. You don't know how things got to this point. The air is crisp and cold but his mouth is warm and all you can do is breathe into the kiss, I don't understand. You should tell him you love him back but there's always later, always another day. It's getting late, you tell him instead. I ought to go before the trick-or-treaters start coming around, wouldn't want anyone to see something, would we? There's always another day.