Al's recent taste in attire, all soft shades of grey, was like a muted version of Severus' own habitual black. As if he was observing his own private mourning.
And yet, hidden away under all those subdued hues, was those cheerfully absurd owl boxers. Severus grinned, remembering when he'd seen them first, interleaved in the pages of one of his books.
But he smiled just as much when the boxers were gone - though of course it was for an entirely different reason.
Al's eyes were so vivid in the curtained midnight of their bed, shining like will-o-the-wisps. Willingly, Severus let them lead him astray, draw him down into slow, tender kisses, soft caresses of hands and lips and tongue, joining together to say, in a language older and clearer than words, And you are mine.