Al had been through so much. Severus had expected all of it, any of it - the stress of the war and his injuries, the resulting isolation from friends and family - to drive Al to blame him, or to drive him away altogether. But instead of turning from him, Al held to him all the more: warm and close, hands and gaze caressing him, more eloquent than many words.
It was more than Severus had expected of life; more than he'd ever dared hope.
So instead he basked in the gift of the present moment, kneading hands slipping up to Al's belt, peeling away the layers of his clothes with silent reverence in every move.