|wordsconsumeher (wordsconsumeher) wrote in severus_sighs,|
@ 2012-01-05 23:45:00
|Entry tags:||ficlet, member: wordsconsumeher, pairing: severus/draco, rating: nc-17|
The Other Side of the Tracks
Title: The Other Side of the Tracks
Pairing: Severus/Draco, implied SS/DM/BZ
Word Count: 6500
Warnings: Drug use
Summary: Lieutenants Malfoy and Zabini stumble across their former commander on a dirty street corner of London, the needle still buried in his arm. He has difficulty accepting a place in their home, and their lives. (Please note all characters belong to JK Rowling and a bunch of really rich publishers and production companies. I make no profit from writing this fic.)
A/N: Once again, thanks to lovetoseverus for a fantastic beta, and completely understanding exactly how I wanted this to feel.
He draws back the plunger slightly, watching in anticipation as a few drops of his blood back into the syringe and mingle with the liquid there. With a shuddering breath, he presses his thumb against the textured plastic and pushes the warm fluid into his veins.
Then there is peace.
The voices in his head cease their screaming; the terrified, gut-wrenching howls of the bloody and wounded subsist to a quiet murmur in the back of his mind. He doesn't feel euphoria anymore, just comfort. It is the feeling of laying in the sun on a warm summer day, or crawling under a thick duvet with a cup of tea. His whole body relaxes and slumps to the side. The concrete should feel cold against his face, but it doesn't. Instead, its rough texture strokes his skin like a lover.
He cannot open his eyes, which is fine, because for the first time in what seems like eons he can stare at the back of his eyelids and not see the war-ravaged bodies of his comrades strewn about the blood-soaked sand. He doesn't see the remains of raped and mutilated women, or the starving children hopelessly roaming the streets.
Once again, the sweet liquid in his veins has made it all go away.
With a deep sigh, he smiles.
All too soon, a voice penetrates his stupor. It is calling his name. "Snape! Snape! Major, can you hear me?"
He can hear the voice, but right now he doesn't particularly care. This voice threatens to pull him from his stupor, out of the perfect moment that his ten quid has purchased him. It was ten quid well-spent, too, especially since the haze of the heroin allows him to forget exactly how he acquired the money in the first place.
There is the voice again, the voice and those hands, shaking him gently.
Firm hands are gripping his shoulders, bringing awareness back into his numb limbs. He manages enough muscle control to swat at the intruder, moaning slightly.
"Blaise, call 9-9-9, we need an ambulance," the voice says. "He's sicked up all over himself, and look, the needle is jammed so far in his arm, the hub is stuck in him."
He cringes, knowing that he's ruined that vein and is going to have to find another one next time. He carefully opens his eyes, thinking it might be a good time to survey the damage he's done to his flesh.
When his sticky eyelids reluctantly peel back, he looks at the face before him. It is blurry, but familiar, and he cocks his head ever so slightly in an attempt to place it. Light is reflecting off the man's hair, shining ethereally white in the moonlight. He smiles and reaches up to touch the glow with reverence.
"Are you an angel?" he whispers, his voice dull and thumping in his skull. He feels a bit like he is underwater, but right now he doesn't mind. So long as the angel doesn't mind.
"No, Sir, not an angel," the voice says, thick with worry. "It's me, Sir. Malfoy. Lieutenant Malfoy."
His eyes try to focus on the smooth skin of the speaker, and his lips barely move enough to enunciate 'leftenant' before he is sick once more.
He falls into sweet oblivion.
The ambulance ride is the longest fifteen minutes of Draco Malfoy's life. This news might be surprising to those who know the young lieutenant has lived through some of the bloodiest battles of his time and walked away from them relatively unscathed.
There's something about seeing Major Snape in this state that is infinitely more disturbing than seeing the carnage left behind by an IED or roadside bomb. The man's already pale face is now drawn, gaunt and covered with open, weeping sores. Dried vomit crusts the front of his threadbare shirt and the corners of his thin-lipped mouth.
He looks like death warmed over.
The paramedic ensures his airway is clear, and hooks up an intravenous drip to help replenish the lost fluids Snape had splattered onto Draco's worn, leather boots.
The paramedic has removed the needle that was jammed deeply into Snape's arm, and Draco wonders how many times the man in front of him has collapsed in such a way as to shove the dirty, plastic tube so thoroughly into his flesh.
Draco watches as she applies pressure to the wound and carefully tapes it up. His eyes flicker up to hers, and she tells him not to worry, that they have gotten to Snape on time. That everything will be alright.
There is sadness in her soft, blue eyes.
Draco smiles, and thanks her as he reaches for his comrade's clammy hand, stroking his palm until they pull up to the ambulance bay.
Blaise arrives moments after they take Snape into the emergency room. Draco is glad his friend is here for him as well as for Snape. He wishes he could collapse onto the other man's broad shoulder and cry, but too much military training prevents him from displaying his emotions in such an open manner. Instead, they sit stiffly beside each other on worn, blue vinyl chairs, drinking coffee that sputtered unappealingly from the nozzle in an old vending machine.
It tastes slightly better than mud, but neither of them seem inclined to note this aloud. Draco knows they've both had worse, much worse, and to seem ungrateful for these paper cups of murky liquid is beneath them both. They simply wait for news of their friend and mentor.
"Lieutenants Malfoy and Zabini?"
The doctor appears seemingly out of nowhere. Both men had fallen asleep sitting up, the disorienting sounds of the Accident and Emergency waiting room preventing their military-honed hearing from alerting them to this new presence in their space.
"Yes, Ma'am?" Malfoy says alertly, hearing Blaise utter it in unison.
The doctor is probably middle-aged, but years of working a stressful job is etched across her face in deep lines. The steel grey hair at her temples has most likely appeared a decade too early. Still, she is a handsome woman and her eyes are gentle and comforting.
"He's stable," she tells them quietly, taking a seat on a cracked, blue vinyl seat beside them.
Draco releases a slow breath, hearing Blaise do much the same. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it.
"What now?" asks Malfoy, not entirely sure what to say. "The heroin...?"
The doctor purses her lips before speaking. "He overdosed, but he's alright. He's lucky you stumbled across him when you did, or he most likely would have aspirated on his own vomit."
For some reason, Malfoy can't picture such a pitiful death for Snape – not when the man had endured so much already, when he had survived so many things. To be suffocated by one's own sick-up would be a tragically mundane ending for a war hero.
The doctor breaks his thoughts as she continues. "We're going to keep him for a few days and put him on Methodone. His body couldn't possibly handle going through withdrawal right now, it would surely kill him. Do you know if he has any next of kin?"
"Yes," says Zabini quietly. "No. I mean, yes, we know that he has no family–"
"He's alone, Ma'am," Malfoy clarifies.
The doctor smiles kindly and squeezes his pale hand reassuringly. "Not if he has the two of you."
The next three days are a blur. Draco and Blaise take turns at the hospital, only leaving the Major's bedside to procure themselves food or zip home for a quick shower. Somehow, Draco knows that Snape would hate to wake to the smell of two unwashed men in his room. He smelled enough of that overseas and should not have to deal with it again.
The angry, weeping sores on the man's face finally dry and crust over. Eventually, he wakes and stares blearily around his hospital room.
"Malfoy?" he coughs.
"Yes Sir, I'm here Sir."
"Where–?" The man does not finish his thought, but takes in the pastel-striped curtains that run on a track around his bed, and the hospital linens he is currently swaddled in.
"You're in hospital, Sir, you've overdosed on heroin." Malfoy says the words as matter-of-factly as he can muster, but he's not entirely sure he's managed to keep the crack out of his voice.
Snape closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath.
"How did you know I was here?" he asks, his normally silky voice rough with disuse.
"We found you, Sir, Zabini and I." He chooses not to tell Snape that they found him in a puddle of his own sick-up, that the needle he was poisoning himself with was jammed so deeply in his arm it was nearly impossible to retrieve. He refuses to mention that they found him covered in bruises from a recent beating, and that the emergency room doctors had to delicately stitch his torn rectum when he arrived in Accident and Emergency.
Malfoy knows that Snape would die before letting his former platoon members know what he has endured under the influence of the drug, or what lengths he has sold his body to procure it.
Snape rubs his eyes, cautious not to dislodge the intravenous needle that is taped to the back of his hand. "What now?" he asks, though Malfoy is not entirely sure if he is speaking to him, or to some unseen presence in the room.
"That's up to you, Sir," he informs him, his voice soft. "You're on Methodone now to prevent you from going into withdrawal." He looks at his hands for a moment, hoping to find the words he needs there. "There are treatment programs, Sir. You could join one of them if you'd like, get some help–"
Snape's soulless black eyes stare at him briefly, and Malfoy isn't sure what to expect. The soldier in him braces for a verbal stripping-down, but the man in him braces against tears.
But the Major's tongue merely slips from his mouth and runs itself over his dry, cracked lips before his head dips into a curt nod.
Draco smoothes the front of the uniform and hangs it primly in the closet of the guest room. Gently, he fingers the red crowns on the epaulettes, an insignia he once longed for on his own uniform. Not that he isn't proud of the two golden pips that adorn the shoulders of his own jacket, but there's something about the red crown that makes him smile. For Queen and country, and all that, he supposes.
He and Blaise have spent the whole day cleaning their small flat so it's fit for a Major's inspection. After a month as an in-patient in rehab, Snape is ready to leave. He can't go home, as he has no place to call his own except the small cove he had made for himself in the alley, so Blaise and Draco offer to take him in. His reluctance is obvious. He doesn't want the men who were once his subordinates to see him in this state, to see him weakened and in need of assistance.
Draco is rubbing the last corner of the dining table with a lemon-scented cleaner as the door to the flat creaks open.
"Honey, I'm home!" Blaise calls jokingly from the doorway. There's really no need to announce his arrival, as the flat is so small there's no place in it where one cannot hear the front door.
Draco drops his cloth and strides over to the entrance, anticipating the need to help Snape with his bags.
Of course, he has none.
The man stands in the doorway, wearing a worn pair of jeans and threadbare jumper that Draco can only assume were purchased from a second-hand shop. In the month he's been in rehab, Snape has put on a bit of weight, but he still looks terribly emaciated.
His long, black hair is tied neatly at the nape of his neck. The length of Snape's hair still surprises Draco, as he is used to seeing the Major with a buzz-cut no longer than a finger's breadth. How many years has it taken for the man to grow a head of hair that brushes his shoulders?
Well, the answer would obviously be 'five' wouldn't it? For it has been five years since the mission ended and they were all sent home to live life as civilians.
"Welcome home," he greets Snape with a tentative smile.
Snape hesitates before crossing the threshold into the small flat, and returning a small nod of his head.
"Your hospitality is greatly appreciated," he murmurs. He has always spoken formally, even during the war. His comrades-in-arms all cursed like sailors, while he remained composed and rigid. Draco is not surprised to see it is one of the few behaviours the man has kept.
Blaise toes off his shoes quickly, whereas Snape crouches to untie his laces and line his long shoes as primly as possible by the welcome mat. There are holes in his socks, and he calmly tries to rearrange the fabric so that his toes do not poke through.
Draco and Blaise politely pretend not to notice.
They escort the man to his room, where the bed is made neatly and a small stack of books rest on thebedside table. Snape stands stiffly in front of the dresser, carefully avoiding the mirror that hangs above it. Draco eyes the man's reflection from the doorway, noting with satisfaction that his skin has begun to clear, and is returning to the smooth, white pallor that he and Blaise are so familiar with.
"This is your room," Blaise says jovially. "I hope you don't mind the yellow bed linens, but I always like a little cheer." Blaise reaches out and grabs the man's hand to pull him out into the corridor. "Here's the second bedroom," he announces, swinging the door open so Snape can see the double bed that's crammed into the small space. "Down the hall is the loo. The handle sticks a bit on the toilet, so you need to lift it back up when you're done flushing."
Blaise neglects to mention that the tap drips noisily all night, and that the pipes creak and groan first thing in the morning, but Draco knows that Snape will learn this soon enough, and there's no point in putting him off already.
Snape is shown the small, galley kitchen and the dining room with its battered, brass chandelier. The sitting area is comfortable, with two worn couches facing a small hearth. Above the mantle is a wall-mounted flat-screen telly that Blaise won in a raffle. It is the only thing in the flat of any real value.
Draco knows the flat is unimpressive, but it's cozy and it's home. He hesitates before looking at Snape, unsure what reaction he expects the man to have of the accommodations.
Snape's lips are set in a thin line as his fingers trace the worn arm of the chesterfield, and he promptly lowers himself onto it with a grateful sigh. Draco smiles.
At dinner (which Blaise tried his hardest not to bollix up) Snape chews quietly and keeps to himself. Draco and Blaise fill the silence with their usual banter and laughter, though at a slightly lower volume so as to not bother their new flatmate.
Mid-chew, Snape raises his head and regards the two men curiously.
"This is a two-bedroom flat," he notes.
Blaise nods, his mouth too full of cod to answer.
"Well, then," Snape continues, "where do you both sleep?"
Draco and Blaise exchange a quick look. Blaise is smiling, but Draco feels slightly awkward about the whole situation.
Snape gives them a knowing look before saying something quietly to himself. Draco thinks it's 'I see' but can't be totally certain.
The truth is, Blaise and Draco had their own rooms before that day, though they often found themselves in each other's. If not for the occasional round of comfort sex, the love that they have for each other could almost be called familial, or brotherly. The two did not care to pursue romantic endeavours outside the home, as being soldiers came with certain heterosexual expectations. Alone in their flat, however, they were able to find solace and comfort in each other, whether intertwined together on the sofa or pressed up against the kitchen table, sweaty and fucking. Despite enjoying each other's company, they always felt a relationship lacked something.
Draco wishes he could explain this to Snape, because for some reason it seems important that he do so, but the man has turned his face back to his plate of cod and sprouts and is once again focused on spearing a piece of flaky, white fish on the bent tines of his fork.
Draco supposes there will be time to explain everything later.
Later that evening, they watch the football match on the telly, sipping cheap lager from cans in the comfort of the sitting room. Snape's feet, now clad in a hole-free pair of Blaise's socks, are propped up on the battered coffee table.
Draco and Blaise both notice the tremor in the older man's hands as he raises his can of lemonade (he's off lager) to his lips and swallows the cool liquid down. His Adam's apple bobs with each gulp, making Draco feel very aware of the other man's masculinity. Not that he hadn't noticed it before, of course. In the military, one was quickly able to discern the men from the boys, and the women from the girls. He figures it must be a survival mechanism.
The empty can is lowered from Snape's lips, its hollowness resounding as he sets it on the table. He hesitates before excusing himself and retiring for the evening. As an afterthought, he turns to retrieve the empty can, takes it to the kitchen, and quietly drops it into the bin.
After an hour, the screams of the cheering football fans on the telly start to mingle with a new sound coming from within the flat.
Blaise raises his head from Malfoy's lap and peers into his friend's steely-grey eyes.
"Do you suppose he's alright?" he asks, craning his head to discern the nature of the noise coming from his old room.
Draco pauses, his hand hovering above Blaise's head. He'd been about to knead his fingers into the short, tight curls on his head. "I'm not sure, should we check?" he asks. He worries about Snape not having enough privacy, though, and is hesitant to knock on the door.
Blaise purses his lips in concern. "It sounds like he's crying, Draco. He might be suffering withdrawal symptoms."
A shudder runs though Draco's body as he stops to consider it. He and Blaise did not witness the very worst of the man's rehab, but they knew what to expect. His nerves would feel like they were on fire, his bones would ache as if broken, and headaches and nausea would plague him, possibly even for months after he was clean.
Lifting Blaise's head off his lap, Draco goes to kitchen to fill a glass with cool water, and to retrieve a half-empty bottle of Aspirin from the cupboard beside the stove.
He takes a deep breath before knocking gently on Snape's door.
"Sir?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Are you alright, Sir? I've brought you some Aspirin."
A mumbled 'go away' is all he gets in reply, but the sobs, for now, seem to have abated.
Draco struggles with what to do next. "I'll leave it outside your door then, Sir." Gently, he places the glass of water and pill bottle on the floor and walks away, to the room he now shares with Blaise.
The steady drip of water from the leaky faucet is not what wakes Draco this evening. It has been a week since Snape has moved in, and for the first time since the football game, Draco hears quiet sobs coming from Blaise's old room.
Gently peeling his bedmate's naked leg from his waist, Draco creeps from their room and down the hall to stand outside the Major's door.
The sobs are muffled, and Draco imagines the pillow flattened and mashed in Snape's grip. Cautiously, he slides down the wall to sit by the door, keeping vigil over his charge. It seems only fair that he spend a sleepless night watching over Snape, as he knows Snape has done so many times for him.
Clutching his knees to his chest for warmth, Draco rocks himself, silently praying for the sobs to quiet, and for the tortured man in his guest bed to find some semblance of peace, even if only for tonight.
The sobs do slow, eventually, but he can still hear the ragged breathing coming from the other side of the door. Finally the breathing slows and quiets, and both men fall asleep.
It is many a night afterwards that Draco wakes with the imprint of the doorframe on his spine. But if Blaise notices the absence in their newly-shared bed, he says nothing.
This pattern continues for some time, each night the sounds from Snape's room diminishing more and more, until a time, three weeks later, when Draco stops hearing them at all.
The smell of washing-up liquid invades his nostrils as Draco runs a cloth over a plate from last night's dinner, rinses it, and sets it in the draining tray to dry. Quietly, he hums the melody from some pop song that's been playing incessantly on the wireless. It's a guilty pleasure.
He jumps as he looks up and sees Snape watching him from the doorway of the small, galley kitchen.
"Major, you can't go sneaking up on a bloke like that!" he gasps, gripping the edges of the sink fiercely.
"The Lieutenant Malfoy I remember would never have allowed such an approach to escape his notice," Snape observes, crossing his arms over his chest as he shifts his weight to his right hip and leans against the doorframe.
Draco's eyes follow the lean curve of Snape's body. He is clad in new, dark-wash denims that flatter his long, lean legs, and a simple, grey v-neck sweater that exposes the very top of his collarbone. After months of seeing him clad in little more than tattered t-shirts and oversized athletic pants, the sight of a well-dressed Snape makes Draco's pulse quicken. He suddenly becomes keenly aware of the sorry state of the boxer-shorts and t-shirt he is wearing.
His eyes flicker up to the man's face, and Snape meets his gaze almost inquisitively, causing Draco to snap his attention back to the sink full of cooling dishwater.
He tries to convince himself that the warmth rising to his face is not outwardly visible, and that if it were, it could certainly not be considered a blush.
"The Lieutenant Malfoy you knew is gone," Draco admits, struggling to maintain composure. He is surprised that his voice comes out without a trace of sadness; he would have expected the sudden admission to leave him feeling a sense of loss or mourning for the man he once was.
"Probably for the best," Snape agrees, and Malfoy knows that if Major Snape didn't die on the battlefield, he died in an alley with a dirty syringe in his arm. The man standing in the doorway now is completely different from the solider he once knew.
The change is not bad.
Moments pass where the only sound is the soft swish of the dishwater punctuated by the occasional clank of dishes striking each other as they are carefully washed, rinsed and set to dry.
"I've found a flat."
Snape's words cut through the air like a knife, and Draco feels himself deflate. His hands pause over the plate in his hand and his fingernail absently starts picking at a small chip in the rim.
"Ah," Draco says, trying to keep his tone jovial. "On to bigger and better things, I presume?"
Snape snorts and shakes his head in Draco's peripheral vision. "Certainly not."
It is most likely that Snape's found a small, one-room flat in one of the more unsavoury areas of town. Draco cringes at the thought of Snape returning to the very area where he and Blaise found him that fateful day.
"Why leave, then? I mean, I know what we have here isn't much…" His teeth nervously seek his lower lip and gnaw on it for a moment before he works up the nerve to finish his sentence. "I know it's not much, but you're welcome to it. There's no reason to leave."
His eyes dart out from below his blond lashes as he peers nervously at the man in the doorway.
Why am I nervous?
Snape shifts his weight back onto his other foot and purses his lips. "I do not wish to wear out my welcome."
"You haven't. You won't."
Snape cocks an eyebrow, his expression sceptical. "I'm intruding." The statement is simple, but carries with it more feeling and explanation than a paragraph spoken by any other man.
Draco chuckles mirthlessly. "You're really not, I assure you." He rinses the plate and rests it on the rack beside its brothers before plunging his pruning fingers back into the water to retrieve a fork. He smiles as he notes the notched and dented tines; this is the same fork that Snape used his first night here. Draco runs a finger down its length as a quick vision of flaky, white fish being raised to thin lips flashes before his mind.
"Blaise and I aren't what you think, not really," the long overdue explanation begins. "We're best mates, and we're very close–"
Snape's quiet snort interrupts him.
Draco allows himself a smirk. It is a bit of an understatement. "We are close, and we do love each other, but we aren't a couple. We tried that, and it never seemed to work. So we live together and prepare meals and we occasionally fuck, but we aren't–" He struggles for the word.
"Exclusive?" Snape supplies.
"Complete," Draco whispers. "We have what we have, and it's wonderful, but it isn't... complete."
He drops the fork into the sink with a splash as Snape's fingers suddenly and unexpectedly wrap around his slender wrist. He isn't sure what happened, and how he didn't notice the man glide across the kitchen towards him, but suddenly he is there.
Soapy water drips over Snape's fingers and down Draco's arm; at his elbow, it begins its short fall to the yellowed linoleum floor. Draco peers at his wrist in confusion before dragging his gaze into the eyes of the man holding it.
They are burning. They are dark and heated in a way that Draco has never seen before. Entranced, his free hand reaches up to stroke the crow's foot that pinches the skin around Snape's eye. His fingers leave a glistening line of dishwater in their wake.
Draco is not sure, but he feels as if Snape is resisting the urge to turn his face into Draco's hand. He spares the man the indignity and opens his palm to cup the familiar face, and stroke his cheek with a pruny thumb.
Their lips meet in a kiss that is both fierce and tender, and Draco finds himself pushed against the counter so hard that its chipped, melamine edge presses uncomfortably into his spine. He doesn't mind, though, for his front is being pressed firmly into the body of Snape: his Major, his flatmate.
He moans softly into Snape's mouth, and brings one of his hands up to tangle in the long, black hair. Snape's tongue hesitantly sweeps past his lips and seeks to meet with Draco's own. Draco obliges, willingly, and gasps his appreciation as the smooth muscles touch and tease each other.
"Please," he moans. What he's pleading for he does not know, but in that moment it doesn't seem to matter. Draco can tell that neither of them want this touch to end.
Snape grunts, and it's a low, sexual noise that emanates from deep within his throat. He slides his hands under Draco's arse and lifts him easily onto the edge of the counter. When Draco's legs part, Snape pushes between them and the intensity of their kisses increases relative to the proximity of their groins.
Snape pulls off Draco's t-shirt roughly, causing the blond head to bounce against the cupboard in the process. "Sorry," he murmurs against flushed lips, and Draco accepts the apology by reaching for the slide on Snape's belt.
There is a moment of hesitance on Snape's part, and Draco is forced to remind himself that the last person to touch the man here was a john, and a violent one at that. He pushes thoughts of Snape's hospitalized, bruised body from his mind as he fingers the slide cautiously.
"Okay?" he asks, his eyes seeking permission in Snape's face.
"Yes," Snape breathes, and holds still as the thick leather slips from the buckle.
Slowly, Draco pushes the metal button through the hole in the denims before lowering the zip. The sound of each tooth sliding through the shiny brass car causes him to shiver in anticipation. Once it's open, he slides the denims down over Snape's lean hips, and pauses for only a moment to admire the snug fit of boxer-briefs, before liberating the man of his pants as well.
Snape groans softly as his straining erection is released, then quickly divests Draco of his boxers, teasing a finger delicately over his leaking tip.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his appreciation evident.
"Likewise," gasps Draco, reaching forward to wrap his fingers around Snape in a similar manner.
Their mouths meet again, hungrier this time. Their strokes are smooth and even, so well matched that their fingers graze each other's at the top of every upstroke. For some reason, that small moment of intimacy causes Draco's heart to stutter in his chest.
Snape leans forward and buries his face in Draco's neck, his breath hot and wet against the skin. Draco can feel Snape's thigh muscles twitching as they press against his own, and he knows the man is near climax. With three more deft strokes, Draco's brought him off, and Snape is grunting into his neck as his stomach is splashed with ropes of Snape's seed.
Snape's grip falters momentarily, before he regains a smooth rhythm and smirks, his hand soon covered in the lieutenant's come.
Their foreheads press together as they fight to regain their breath, neither party relinquishing their hold on the well-sated cock in each of their hands. Snape grabs the closest towel he can find and uses it to gently wipe the cooling ejaculate from Draco's belly, before cleaning his own hand.
"So–" he begins, hesitantly.
"So." Draco slides down from the counter with a smile and leads the other man down the familiar hallway to the bedroom.
Snape undresses Draco reverently, tracing his fingers across the smooth expanses of flawless, white skin. He kisses the breastbone and smiles to himself as he realizes that his lips are pressed against the very spot where his lieutenant's dog tags once laid against his skin.
Draco moans beneath him, and stumbles backwards towards the bed, pulling the half-naked Snape on top of him.
Snape hesitates as he lays above him. His eyes flicker to the empty pillow beside Draco's face, where the indentation left by Blaise's head is still visible, even this late in the afternoon.
"It's fine," Draco assures him.
Snape reaches over to flip the pillow, to remove the reminder of the man who normally shares this bed, but Draco grabs his wrist before he can complete his objective.
"No, Snape... it's fine."
Is it fine? Snape isn't sure what that means anymore, not really. His sense of morality went out the window after selling his dignity for intravenous love in corners of back alley, London streets. It has been so long since he has fucked for the pleasure of it that he is unsure of the protocol. He can't even remember the last time he allowed anyone to touch him while he was sober, and his hesitant mind is relying on his eager body to remind him exactly how it's done.
But then Draco's hands are sliding under his jumper, gently easing it up his torso and over his head. It's tossed aside casually, and the static-charged wisps of his hair attempt to follow it to where it rests on the floor. Draco smiles up at him and smoothes the errant strands, before lowering his hands to Snape's chest and abdomen.
Snape tries not to twitch as Draco's hands trace the scars that mar his body. Battle scars, all of them, though not all were earned in the hot, Middle Eastern sun. Some of the more ugly ones were earned much closer to home, in places he wishes to forget.
As Draco's lips press against a particularly nasty gash on his shoulder, a souvenir from an angry john who didn't feel he'd gotten his money's worth, it's clear he doesn't mind. Draco's tongue slowly traces the shiny, puckered scar before moving up his shoulder to his neck, and eventually his lips.
They kiss hungrily, like teenagers, and Snape notes that Draco is careful to never back him into a corner or pin him down. This unspoken understanding leaves Snape feeling cared for in a way he has not felt in decades. Despite this, he is still surprised when Draco offers himself, and is sure his reluctance shows.
"It's been quite a while." He isn't sure if he can explain that he doesn't want to hurt Draco, and right now he doesn't trust himself not to.
"It's alright," Draco says, guiding Snape's fingers to the cleft between his cheeks and coaxing them into stroking his entrance, which he has slicked with lubricant.
Cautiously, Snape sinks a long finger into Draco's body and moans as the young man writhes beneath him. With a crook of his finger and a few gentle strokes, Draco is gasping and moaning with need, his prick dripping clear fluid onto his toned belly.
Snape kisses his neck gently as he inserts a second finger, carefully stretching him, preparing him for what is to follow.
"Please!" Draco begs, working himself up and down on the two digits that currently fill him. His hand shoots to the bedside table, where he fumbles for a moment before procuring a rubber. He tears the package with his teeth and shucks it aside before deftly unrolling the latex onto Snape's hard prick.
Withdrawing his fingers from the squirming body beneath him, Snape settles himself between Draco's thighs and lines himself up, nudging the entrance experimentally before sliding in to the hilt.
Draco's scream is of ecstasy, not agony, and Snape is glad he knows the difference or he may have been terrified by the sudden burst of sound that seemed to fill the small bedroom. He crushes his lips against the open mouth beneath his own, and swallows the grunts and moans his lover makes as Snape repeatedly pumps his cock into the tight channel.
He knows he's going to come and grits his teeth to fight it; the only thing Snape wants more than sinking into that oblivion is to make sure that Draco gets there first. He reaches down and fists Draco's cock, firmly and with small twists at the head, noting with satisfaction that it is his throaty whisper that seems to throw Draco over that invisible edge.
"Come for me."
Moments later he himself is lost. His body tenses and his thrusts become irregular. With a groan, he spills himself, falling heavily onto the heaving chest of the man underneath him.
Snape hears the front door open and cracks an eyelid, just wide enough to make out the numbers on the alarm clock. It is 4:00 am. He can hear Blaise stumble down the hall, no doubt inebriated after a night on the town with his mates.
Light from the hallway spills into the room from the gap under the door, its yellow sliver widening as Blaise enters the bedroom. Snape quickly shuts his eye, and tenses slightly from where he is curled around Draco. He has no doubt that the room smells like sweat, sex and unwashed man and he knows that despite the fact that Blaise is most likely drunk, will still not fail to notice. However, Snape does hope that Blaise will fail to notice the tied-off condom dumped unceremoniously on the bedside table.
The sound of fabric brushing against itself can be heard as Blaise undresses. Snape is confused, as he is sure Blaise must know there is an intruder in his bed. Regardless, the boxspring dips, complaining loudly as it is forced to bear the weight of a third man.
A smooth hand comes to rest on Snape's hip, and he soon finds himself sandwiched between two men, enveloped in the warmth that radiates from them both. Blaise's fingers run up and down his arm, lightly tracing the tracks that litter his forearm and the otherwise soft skin in the crook of his elbow.
Draco stirs, scooting back closer into Snape – if that's even possible – and Blaise's wandering fingers leave Snape's arm to explore Draco's.
"How does it feel?"
Snape is not sure who Blaise is asking, even though the words were breathed warmly into his ear.
He opens his mouth to speak, but is saved by Draco, who answers for all of them.