Title: bite your tongue, go to the funeral.
Pairing(s): Severus/Sirius.
Rating: Explicit.
Words: 3,600.
Summary: A funeral, a departure, a chance encounter, a war, a funeral (again), a snide remark, and a revival.
Warning(s): Canon character death (Regulus), first war era, minor violence (both between them and between Sirius and his family), not the healthiest of relationships, smoking + referenced recreational drug use/drinking, non-penetrative sex, sex after a funeral, angst, open ending.

01.

When Sirius is six—bright eyed and bubbly, the bane of the Black family—his Great Uncle Atticus dies. Old age, says his father, standing at the head of the breakfast table, a thick piece of parchment held between his fingertips. His face is impassive, expressionless. Unaffected.

His mother sighs from her seat, not the annoyed huff that Sirius is used to, but something else, something new, something long and quiet and tired. She meets his eyes over the table, over the plates filled with French toast, over the sticky sweet goodness of syrup covered strawberries, and there's something new there, too. Something six-year-old Sirius can't place.

It's the first funeral he ever attends.

He doesn't want to go, and he lets it be known. He groans, grumbles, huffs and puffs, asks his mother why should he, why should any of them, what's to gain from pretending to care. It gets him a slap to the cheek, a pinch of the ear; gets him Walburga dressing him in formal, frumpy robes, a string of insults muttered under her breath as she forces his arms through the holes, as she drags a comb through his hair.

It's the first time his mother ever dresses him.

Regulus is brought along, Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa, too. They stick together, send each other long, meaningful looks; distaste at being forced to attend a shared sentiment.

Uncle Cygnus speaks at the funeral, speaks of Atticus—old, old, Great Uncle Atticus, with his penchant for potions and history, his appreciation for music and art, his endless list of achievement. No one speaks of how that appreciation was little more than an excuse to wave his wealth around, or how his kind nature didn't extend very far, or how his strong beliefs were almost as strong as the impact of his backhand, the sting of his words.

His mother stands behind him while they listen, her hand on his shoulder, her nails digging in like a silent warning. Behave, she'd said when they'd arrived, behave or you'll regret it.

As Uncle Cygnus concludes his speech, a murmur of quiet, respectful applause spreads throughout the room, an exclamation or two thrown Cygnus' way, the sentiment the same—how beautiful, how tragic.

Sirius bites his tongue.

02.

There are three more funerals between six and eleven, another two between eleven and sixteen. Sirius goes to all of them, is forced to, again, and each plays out the same way; formal robes and fake condolences, a warning from his mother, a biting of the tongue. Sirius plays the part as well as he can, which isn't very well at all.

He envies his cousins, sometimes. Envies their veils, the way the fabric can hide their emotions, their lack of tears. He himself is left with barely passable displays of grief, with his father snapping at him to show some respect, that it's his family, that he ought to bloody look upset.

Sirius tries, and fails, and then simply stops trying. He hates the lot of them, doesn't care that they're dead, or that people will judge him for not caring. Good riddance, he thinks, more often than not, and wonders just how bad his punishment would be if his mother could read his mind.

Aunt Druella always says that family is nothing if not someone to grieve for you, and Sirius always thinks that that's a load of bullshit, thinks that family is much more than someone to stand at your grave and pretend to care while other people watch, but there's no point in arguing with her, he knows. No point in arguing with any of them.

Uncle Alphard's death is perhaps the only exception, the only time he feels genuine grief. Sirius had never considered him a particularly bad bloke, had even liked him a bit, had liked that he had a hint of a rebellious streak, even if it hadn't compared to his own. He finds it fitting, then, that Alphard's death precedes his own departure.

The decision to leave is more impulsive that it isn't, but it feels right, feels good. He'd had a plan, had had one for a while, now, on what to do if it came to this, if he had to leave, but he ignores it; just packs his bag and goes without saying anything, without telling anyone.

He's almost at the door when he hears Regulus' voice, quiet as it trails through the hall, quiet in the way Regulus has always been.

"You're going?" he says, and his words make Sirius stop, make him turn around.

Regulus stands in the doorway, his shoulder pressed against the frame, and the pain in his eyes is more genuine than Sirius has ever seen, more so than it had been at Great Uncle Atticus' funeral, or that of Grandfather Arcturus, or any other Black they'd both seen die. Sirius feels guilty, almost, as he stares at Regulus, an apology written in the lines of his face, his mouth twitching as he thinks of something to say.

"I can't stay," he says eventually, and he means it, too. He'll go mad, he thinks; is likely already half way there.

So he goes, and Regulus doesn't stop him, and when he's halfway to James' house, his head pressed to a train window, his forehead bouncing with the vibration, Sirius wonders if watching him leave had felt like a funeral, if watching Walburga blow his name off the family tapestry had felt the same as watching a coffin being lowered into its grave, if his name, burnt black, will read like an epitaph.

He's not entirely sure he wants to know the answer.

03.

Living with James is great except for when it isn't, and when it isn't is the Easter break of seventh year, is when he gets invited to Evans' house at the same time Peter pisses off to visit his grandmother and Remus' father requests his presence at home. Lily invites him, too, of course, because he and James are a bit of a package deal anyway, and because neither of them would ever let him stay on his own. And he goes, because Evans is a bloody force to be reckoned with, and because he doesn't really fancy sitting around by himself for a week.

It's fine, mostly. Entertaining. He gets to watch James put his foot in his mouth more than once, gets to watch him scramble for Mr. and Mrs. Evans' approval. Unfortunately, he also has to watch him attempt to get in Lily's pants every five minutes, and at some point, somewhere after Lily's parents tell them they're off to visit an aunt, somewhere just before dusk, somewhere between drink two and three, between his first joint and second cigarette, somewhere where Lily's fond exasperation switches to actual reciprocation, he decides to get up and leave, to let them go at it.

Cokeworth, in Sirius' opinion, is nothing short of a shithole. It's banal, dreary, and maybe Evans' area isn't so bad, but it's only worse from there on out. He walks the streets aimlessly, because there's nothing else to bloody do, and it's quiet, boring, peaceful in a way Wizarding streets no longer are. There's no war here, no imminent danger, no chance of running into a Death Eater.

Or so he'd thought.

Lily had showed them the local shops two days past, and Sirius finds himself there now, booted feet walking the isles, looking for something sweet, and he supposes that Snape's not a Death Eater, not really, but the sight of him is still shocking, is still unexpected even though it shouldn't be, even though Sirius knows he lives here.

He stops walking, hides behind a display of canned soup, and watches as Snape buys bread, cheese, cigarettes. His hair is pulled back, the greasy strands tied in a bun at the nape of his neck, his frame covered in a jacket that's too big, the fabric hanging off his shoulders, revealing a white shirt turned grey, and maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's nothing, or maybe it's the fact that the last time he'd made Snape bleed, he'd been hit with the urge to kiss the blood away, but he looks good in the store's too bright light, looks like an opportunity.

Sirius follows him impulsively, follows him without thinking it through. He exits the store, turns the corner of the building, and finds him with his back to the wall, a paper shopping bag at his feet. Sirius watches as Snape cups his mouth with his hand, as he lights the cigarette, as his eyes shut on the first exhale, his head hitting the wall with a soft thump.

He steps toward him slowly, fascinated, almost, with this new version of him. With this unguarded, relaxed version.

"Got a light?"

Within an instant, dark eyes snap open, Snape's peaceful expression disappearing as if it were never there at all. His features twist to annoyance, hatred, apprehension, a low mutter of one fucking week reaching Sirius' ears, and Sirius puts his arms up in surrender for what might just be the first time in his life.

"Relax," he says, almost amused, a slow smile gracing his features. "I only want your lighter."

"Fuck off."

Sirius rolls his eyes, says, I'm trying to be nice, and the glare he gets in response is expected, predictable. He sighs, shakes his head, wonders why he'd ever thought this would work, that it would be a good idea.

Snape's only response is silence, is to stand there and watch, waiting for him to leave, and so Sirius does, turning on his heel to go back the way he came. He's only taken six steps when something hard and metal collides with the back of his head, the lighter hitting him with a thud before clattering to the ground. Sirius turns back around with an exclamation of oi, his hand reaching to rub at his scalp even as he bends to pick the lighter up.

"Bastard," he mutters, and Snape is smirking at him, is looking at him with what could possibly pass as a smile, and it's odd, Sirius thinks, so bloody odd that it's directed at him, but it's also not terrible, not terrible at all.

He pulls a cigarette from his jacket, places the tip between his lips, and lights it with Snape's lighter, all the while painfully aware that Snape is watching him, is staring at him, is evaluating his every move.

Later, when he wakes on Lily's floor, bleary-eyed and exhausted, his face tucked in his arm and his head pounding with the consequences of last night's drinking, Sirius will reflect on his actions, will rethink his choices, will remember the sight of Snape on his knees in the dark, face lit up by the distant yellow-glow of a streetlight, his lips red and wet and glistening, wrapped around the tip of Sirius' hard cock while a hand sat splayed across a thigh. He will remember his own desperation, will remember every sigh and whimper and whine that Snape had drawn out of him, will remember how it seemed like a competition, of who could do it better, who could make the other moan louder, who would get them caught.

He will think many things, not all of them good, in fact, most of them bad, but the conclusion will be the same; first, that it was an experience he won't be able to forget, and second, that it is an experience he wants to repeat.

04.

And he does.

The last term of seventh year is filled with many things, but secret meet ups are up there as the most frequent. Dungeons, abandoned classrooms, broom closets, anywhere works as long as they're alone, as long as Sirius can lose himself in the sensation, as long as he gets to walk away satisfied. They keep it quiet, because of course they do, and it works, mostly, works as well as Sirius can expect it to.

But school is school and life is life, and a house rivalry is one thing but a war is something else entirely. To collaborate with the enemy, fraternise with the enemy, fuck the enemy—it is something that cannot last.

And it doesn't.

It's the Mark that does it, is Snape's refusal to remove his shirt one day, his long sleeves. Sirius had known it was coming, had been surprised, even, that it had took this long, and maybe he'd hoped, late, late at night, that it wouldn't, that it didn't have to, but it does, and it doesn't matter how hard his cock is, or how much his body wants it, or that a part of his brain still bloody wants it, too.

He leaves, and he tells himself he won't go back.

05.

The House of Black is mentioned all throughout the Daily Prophet in 1979, their names condemned as much as they're praised, but there are only two occurrences that stick out in Sirius' memory, only two things he cares not to forget.

First, the death of his father. He remembers sitting at the table, remembers holding the paper just as Orion had the news of Great Uncle Atticus' death, remembers how one hand had been curled around a cup of coffee as he'd read the obituary, as he'd read his father's name, as he'd read Orion Black written in perfect block letters, remembers the mixed emotions that had stirred inside of him, not a single one discernible.

Second, only mere months later, the death of his brother. This had been different, this had been shocking, painful. This had taken the air right out of his lungs, had had his friends Apparating to his flat, questions and concerns and condolences sitting on the tips of their tongues. This had made his fingers curl around the edge of the table, had had him leaning against the wood for support.

This had made him go to the funeral.

He gets there before most other people do, and he's breaking every promise he's ever made to himself, every assurance that he wouldn't go back, that he'd have nothing to do with any of them ever again, but he doesn't care, not really. He wants to be there, has a right to be. Regulus was his bloody brother, he thinks. Not theirs.

Still, he knows what will happen if someone sees him, so he stands on the sidelines, stands hidden within a sea of trees, and watches, looks at the family that had showed, the friends, watches people mourn, pretend to mourn, watches their grief. No one notices the big black dog that approaches the grave as the eulogy is given, no one pays it any mind as it sits hidden behind another headstone.

The words spoken make Sirius wish he'd never came, make a fiery, fierce anger bubble first in the pit of his stomach and then through every vein. The eulogist speaks of a Death Eater, a proud pureblood, speaks of someone Sirius has no memories of, someone so unlike the picture he has of Regulus; of that fifteen-year-old he'd left in the hallway, of the six-year-old who'd ran to his big brother's room after every bad dream, of the tiny toddler who'd laugh at every one of Sirius' jokes.

He leaves before anyone else does, takes off toward the gate, Padfoot's paws leaving prints in the mud. He's almost gone, almost past the exit when he picks up on a scent, a familiar scent, when he makes the poor choice of stopping to see if he's right.

"Astonishing, Black," comes a voice, a voice Sirius knows all too well, one he hasn't heard this close in a long time, one he doesn't want to hear now. "Of all the available disguises..."

Snape's voice tails off, and it's too much, Sirius thinks, all of it is just too fucking much. The fact that he left in the first place, that he'd let Regulus stay, that he didn't intervene, that his baby brother is dead, that he'd had to read it in the paper, that he'd had to sneak into the funeral, for fucks sake, that an old lover is before him, haughty without reason to be, that even now, here, Sirius has an urge to reach out and take, to devour, to own.

His transformation comes easy, naturally. He is on his feet in an instant, is stepping toward Snape with long strides, his actions fuelled by anger, annoyance, angst. He strikes before Snape can reach for his wand, his hand pushing against a bony shoulder with enough force to send him back, to make him hit the trunk of a tree with an audible thump, to make a flicker of something flash in his eyes—fear, Sirius guesses, but maybe it's just wishful thinking.

His hand curls around the base of Snape's neck, his nails scratching the fabric of a high robe, his palm pressing down with a consistent pressure. On instinct, Snape's hand reaches for Sirius' arm, long fingers circling the wrist, a futile attempt to pull it back.

"Don't," Sirius starts, voice low and strained and dangerous, and he doesn't know where the sentence is going, doesn't know what to say, just keeps repeating the same word over and over until his voice is a whisper, until no sound leaves his mouth. His eyes stay strained on Snape's, the pressure of his hand increasing with every second, and like so much of Sirius' life, this is impulsive, too.

There is a kiss first and then a crack as they Disapparate, and then he's got Snape against his bedroom door, not a tree, and Snape is pushing at him, is asking—

"What the fuck, Black?"

Sirius groans, says please, says I need, says let me, and Snape looks at him like he's grown another head, and Sirius gets it, he does, somewhere in the part of his brain that's not muddled, he understands that it's an odd request, that they've not done this in a long time, that he was the one who ended it, but he wants. Desperately.

He reaches out, and it's another long moment before Snape reaches back, but he does, and now, when Snape kisses him, it has a bite to it, has an explosive quality. Lips cover his, sharp teeth nipping the flesh, and it's careless, is rough; is nothing like James' concerned looks or Remus' quiet words, is everything Sirius has always liked about Snape, is the reason he kept going back, time and again, no matter what the future would hold for them.

He grabs at robes, uses his wand to undo fastenings, buttons, to make it easy to push off, pull away. "Let me—" Sirius starts again, cuts off, doesn't finish the sentence. He just clutches, pushes, kisses.

Snape seems to get it, at least, and he lets him, lets Sirius press him against the wall, lets the rough treatment slide, and Sirius doesn't get that, doesn't get why he would, why he'd allow it, but he also doesn't care, either, not now, not mere minutes after his brother's funeral.

The wall turns to the bed, turns to Sirius naked and kneeling over Snape's body. He has no patience to prep him properly, but he does have enough to murmur a spell, to coat his hand in lubricant, to smear it across his prick, over Snape's arse, to grip a bony hip and part cheeks, to slide his cock between the glorious heat, to rock up into it, to create a much-needed friction.

His anger dissipates, his grief replaced by pleasure, and Sirius lets his head drop forward, his breath coming in loud, gasping pants, his touch likely leaving a mark. Snape arches beneath him, seeks his own pleasure, and Sirius gives it to him, mumbling all the while, an unintelligible string of obscenities passing through his lips.

He splays his hands over Snape's cheeks, fingers digging into the flesh, and he's always loved this, loved how receptive Snape becomes, how he can get him to be loud like this. Sirius continues to rock his cock against Snape's arse, his leaking tip catching on the rim, and he knows he won't last, knows he's too worked up.

When he comes, it's with a grunt, is with streaks of come splattering across Snape's reddened cheeks, is followed almost immediately by Snape's own climax. His breath comes in shaky, shuddering pants, his body slowly easing back onto the other side of the mattress.

He lies on his back, eyes shut as he catches his breath, as his heart rate slows, and he can hear Snape do the same, can hear his once-familiar breathing.

"So much for never again," Snape murmurs, and Sirius turns his head to glare, any real words eluding him.

He stays where he is, doesn't move, doesn't help clean up the mess they've made. He doesn't really care if Snape stays or not, because he knows there's only one way it can end, one way it's always ended. Sirius will watch Snape leave, will see him turn on his heel, will see him disappear with a loud crack and little else, and a part of Sirius will be glad to watch him go, will be thankful that it's easy, but another part will want to make him stay, will have words pressing at his teeth, ready and waiting, but the words have never been said before, and they won't be, now; for Sirius will bite his tongue.