Imprisoned

I am attracted to men with black hair. This is the truth, it is fact. Regulus had hair as dark as raven's feathers, and the first time I dared to touch him, it wasn't to innocently brush of my arm against his as we made potions together in Slughorn's class. No; the very first time I touched him, I traced my fingers reverently through his mane of sable hair, and made it utterly clear how un-platonic my feelings for him were. He gave me a lock of his hair before he left on his mission to destroy Voldemort's locket.

"This is for you to remember me by while I'm gone," he said. "I'll have it back when I return." His eyes grew serious, then. "If I die, you won't need it anymore." He gripped my hand in his until it bruised. "Burn it, then, Severus. I don't want you to keep a dead man in your heart." I had never admitted to keeping him anywhere near my heart before, but it didn't matter, because some things did not need to be said.

Others, however, did. "I don't need a lock of hair to remember you by, Black." Then, "I'll burn it for you." He nodded, and left. For weeks afterward, I held that silky lock to my cheek each night as I fell into fitful sleep. A year later, I watched as the strands of hair, one by one, burned to a crisp.

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Sirius is nothing like his brother. I should call him Black, even in my head, but I can't bring myself to care anymore. His name is Sirius, and even if it weren't, even if it were Ignatius or Mildred, what would it really matter? It is just us here -- who else could I be addressing, after all? I could call him Regulus. They look so much alike...

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, and it is not a whisper, as it would have been if Regulus had asked. No, it is jarringly loud. It is very Sirius.

"If you're a top or a bottom," I say. I kissed him back. He kissed me, and I didn't ask him why he made the decision--ignorance is preferable to any answer that he might have given. I'm only thankful that he doesn't ask me why I chose to kiss back. I have no answer to that question, only more questions. Why do you have to look like him? Why don't you remind me more of him? Why do you make me feel alive when I should have died already? Why do you look at me with those haunting gray eyes? Regulus's eyes were brown.

He doesn't scowl or curse at me in reply. He chuckles, and his voice is different, too. Deeper, older. Yes, Regulus was younger, wasn't he? "I can be persuaded to try both," he says, and leans in for another kiss. His mouth hovers above mine, and I can already taste him as he whispers against my lips. "Why do you ask." It isn't a question, and I don't answer with words.

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The Dementors don't come for us when we are huddled close together, fingers entwined, heads touching. They leave us alone, as if repulsed by the thing that passes as contentment between us. I can almost believe I don't mind living in this life. Even the light is not as horrible an ordeal; we simply focus on each other, on the way the light changes our appearances each time it shifts.

"Severus."

"Black." His eyes flicker. He doesn't like it that I call him by his surname now that we have touched, but he doesn't ask me to call him by his given name, either.

"Is this normal? I mean, the way we are?" He seems to be truly curious.

"No, Black. It is not normal."

"It feels good," he murmurs, and I don't expect it. I feel the corners of my mouth curve upward into a half-smile, and hope he doesn't see it. His face breaks out into a huge grin. No such luck. "For a man who has supposedly known "the way that he is" for some time, you certainly have a lot of questions to ask about the nature of...the way we are."

"I just wanted to hear you talk, Severus," he says in all seriousness. "You haven't said anything in a while." He surprises me again. How like him. I try to remember if Regulus surprised me, and decide that part of the reason why I liked him so much--aside from the black hair--was that he was steady and predictable; he inspired confidence.

"I was just considering how you would look as a blond," I tell him.

His dark brows arch, and he chuckles again. "You're one weird sonuvabitch, Snape." He cocks his head and looks at me inquiringly. "So?"

Just as beautiful. "Not anymore ghastly than you look now, I suppose." He throws a bunch of dirt at me, and I brush it off.
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"Severus."

"Yes, Sirius?"

"Prat," he says, but there's no venom; he sounds pleased, rather. "D'you think we're lovers now?"

"I don't know, Black. Do you fancy a shag?"

He chuckles. I feel something warm and sweet tug inside me when he chuckles. "Yeah," he rasps, close to my ear. "And I liked 'Sirius' better."

"Really."

"Really," he insists.

I kiss the side of his face softly, and I know my eyes are glittering. "Okay, Sirius."