Just Like Heaven

Author: Judy
Pairing: Snape/Sirius, for fic challenge. Also James/Sirius, Snape/Lily.
Notes: AU. Snape has an older brother.
Rating: R. For incest, abuse, non-consensual sex (rape), slash, for a multitude of things that I will probably never write ever again.
Disclaimer: The song Just Like Heaven by the Cure has been changed slightly so that it's about a boy, instead of being about a girl. You'll figure it out. The Italian words are from the opera La Boheme.

Summary: This is Snape. This is Sirius. This is Snape finding out there's no bottom to the prison he's in. This is Sirius attempting to conquer his father's stain - and failing. This is not about love, this is not about hate, and really, it shouldn't have turned out like this.

--

He had no warning when it hit him. One moment Sirius grabbed onto his shoulders and shook him like a rag doll, the next there were lips pressed against his, hard and demanding. There was a body against him, one leg pushing him into the wall, the other alongside his own body, pinning him there. He was suddenly aware of every part of him, of pieces he took for granted, an arm, a leg. It was as if somebody pressed against the length of him validated those limbs into being, the existence of his arm twisted painfully behind him, the other arm flung to his left, fingers clutching the cold stone.

Panic swelled in his throat like butterflies, choked him, the same way he choked on Sirius' lips, afraid to move, years of habit driven into him to associate movement with pain. When the kiss was broken, they regarded each other for a while, wearily. In his mind, they circled each other like predator and prey, or perhaps like two fighting for domination. And then Snape sank down to his knees, the earth soft beneath him.

--

Show me, show me, show me
How you do that trick
"The one that makes me scream," he said
"The one that makes me laugh," he said
And threw his arms around my neck.

Severus loved classical music, loved it with his entire being. He listened to everything, and held firm onto the belief that in the classical masters, a few of them must have been wizards. How else could they have created swells of orchestra, piano progressions that should trip but lifted themselves beyond the slanted roof of his home? He wanted the ability to sprout wings, and fly over a gothic London, the spread of greenery in Ireland, and past the ocean, to the Americas, where then he would live in relative solitude.

Instead he shivered in a corner, waiting, waiting.

Maybe if he made himself small enough, curl into a tiny ball of nothing, the footsteps would die off into the distance tonight.

It was summer and outside the gardens were in bloom.

He craved for a return to Hogwarts, for the taunts and the pranks. Even for the teacher's pity and the Gryffindor's mockery.

The same every summer. The same every year.

One, two, footsteps. His hands found a section of the carpet, and he watched his pale feet creep into the shadows under the bed. He forced himself to move, to crawl down there in the dust. The house elves haven't frequented his room for a while, his father had forbidden them to. Any source of his son's pleasure had to be approved by him. He lived in a dark, rank room, with high walls and an arched ceiling. It could be quite beautiful in light, the elaborate carvings into the wood, the drapes in contrast to the tones if they were repaired once in a while. Except the paintings, in their heavy gilded frames, glared from their seats. They were his ancestors, the sternest ones placed there to set a good example. They watched his every move, reported what he did to his father. They were rumoured to be the heartless ones, for their anger kept them alive, and they had no need of hearts to begin with. Severus had no trouble believing those rumours, and he closed his eyes when he heard the heavy footsteps draw closer.

His father allowed his eldest son to visit the youngest when he wanted, knowing exactly what went on underneath the vaulted ceilings, beyond the shuttered windows. He heard the door being pushed open, and a sneaked glance saw large feet in front of his hiding place. He took in a mouthful of accumulated dust, and wished to suffocate.

Where is he? The feet had travelled from one end of his bed to another. The booming voice was speaking to the portraits of his ancestors. He never speaks directly to his face, only when he wants something from him.

One of the portraits, probably great-grandfather, informed his descendant in a haughty voice. Under the bed.

Under the bed.
Under the bed.

He kept his eyes closed when large hands grabbed a thin arm, and wrenched him out from under the bed. He felt the fragility of his bones, gripped, and knew that they were held by hands with hairy knuckles. He knocked his head against the bed frame on the exit, and flew in the air for a moment after falling ungracefully onto the bed, the shock on his elbows. The palm of the hand connected with his cheek, sent his face towards the bedspread, body crumpling onto its side. If he struggled there would be more bruises and swears that made his head ring. He lied there passively, breath even, as his father reached for him, and turned him onto his back.

Severus heard the strains of one of the greatest operas ever written in his head when it began. The robe was undone, the pants dropped as impatient fingers reached for his hips. He kept sightless eyes on the design of the canopy on his four-poster bed when the pain began.

...o dolce viso
di mite circonfuso
alba lunar
in te, vivo ravviso
il sogno ch'io vorrei
sempre sognar!

Outside it was summer. And surely there were birds singing.

Ah! tu sol comandi, amor!

Birds with wings that could take them over cities and oceans.

Fremon già nell'anima
le dolcezze estreme,
nel bacio freme amor!

The grip on his sides was sure to leave bruises. He was flipped over then, knowing what was about to happen with a sense of acceptance. He heard arias, a woman's voice in bel canto in his mind, memorized acts and lines and scenes and music.

Ah! tu sol comandi, amor!

Oh! come dolci scendono
le sue lusinghe al core...
tu sol comandi, amore!

The glorious strains of music went on and on, repetitive melodies, Puccini's opera made into his hymn. To be a muggle, to live in a normal house on a normal street, with paintings that were still and portraits without accusing gazes.

Che m'ami di'...

His face pressed into the pillow, he wished his life were a love story.

Io t'amo!

He would rather die of a disease, a long wasting cruelty that drew his last breath away. Not with brothers who drove themselves into you at night, not with your tears bitter on your tongue, hand digging at the headboard, your grip on the last solid thing in the world.

--

Sirius loved rock n' roll. Black Sabbath was the most recent addition to his list, music to sit and listen to, eyes glazed, or music to move the body in time to a girl's rhythm. He knew they thought he looked like a rock star himself, with his unkempt hair and flashy grin. He had no need to acquaint his body with his hands, because there were girls who watched him, girls who spread their legs and allowed him to do whatever he wanted for pleasure. He was a hero at Hogwarts, everything came easy and perfect and was attainable. At Hogwarts he was in control, he could forget the taunts at home about being a Gryffindor and not chosen as the noblest house of all, Slytherin, he could forget about Regulus and his cold blue eyes, if only for a minute.

The best son. The only son. Mr. Black had taught him with violence and pain that the pure bloodlines were the only lines, the Black family the only family he could acknowledge. He stated his disappointment in fists and whips and black eyes. He voiced his anger in groans hidden from the mother's hearing when Black Sabbath played loudly in the background.

It was summer.

And although Sirius had no use for flowers or trees or things living while he died inside, it was summer, it was another year until he could flee.

There was a painting on the wall that oversaw this. It was a painting of his favourite relative, the only one that he would allow to regard his every day movements. Oh, no. Sirius heard the sigh from that area of the room as his father prepared himself. Oh dear, oh dear, don't do this. Please don't do this. He knew that his uncle had covered his eyes for the unavoidability of what was about to happen, and the snarl of Shut the fuck up as the curtain fell closed.

It was summer.
There was Hogwarts to look forward to, just a few more weeks.

All Sirius wanted afterwards was someone to hold him, but his father never did. He pulls on his robes when he's done and somehow that is more insulting than the repetition of his parting words. He left Sirius huddled under blankets, naked, ending every session with a tossed sentence designated for insult. That's all you're good for.

He wanted to know if there was something wrong with him. If there was a problem in wishing somebody else would do that to him, a gentler version, be it James or Lupin or even Peter. Why did he love the band so much, loved the killer guitar screeches and the voice of the singer? Why did he love the band if it was associated with memories of this treatment of his body?

And as his father closed to the door to the rages of the band, Sirius wished he was a rock star in truth, and lived half way across the world.

"Show me how you do it
And I promise you, I promise that
I'll run away with you
I'll run away with you"

--

Snape loved Lily because she was the only person who showed him a thread of compassion. He loved her because of the way she stood up for him, even though he attacked to mend his wounded pride. He loved the way her eyes were darker in anger, just how he imagined her eyes darkening in pleasure kindled by his hands, even though that would remain only a dream. He knew she hated him, and only her unbending sense of honour propelled her to act otherwise. James became a better man because of her, and slowly, patiently, she began to like him, the golden boy. It was obvious to everybody, and would one day become obvious to herself. Snape loved her more for that, for being able to change that idiotic Potter, and also filled him with a resigned sadness. It was an ache he couldn't resolve, one of the many things he wanted but could not have. That came as no surprise, for he was Snivellus, and will always remain a Snivellus, the subject of ridicule.

Spinning on that dizzy edge
I kissed his face, I kissed his neck
And dreamed of all the different ways
I had to make him glow

--

Sirius loved James because James was James. He was his partner in crime, the one who was like him but not. He wasn't like Remus, who shuffled his feet and tried to stop what was fun, but could be convinced easily. Sirius loved James because of the way he was able to chase thoughts of his father away. Sirius loved James because of his hands, and the way his green eyes burned greener while working on magic, and the way things came so easily to him. James was Sirius' golden boy more than anybody else in Hogwarts, and he wanted his best friend to be happy, even if it involved inching his hand up Lily Evans' thigh in Potions.

What Sirius liked the most of all about James was how fundamentally different they were. James had loving parents, a natural aptitude for everything. He was so secure in his masculinity that he had no problems with declaring his love for Lily and only Lily. Sirius, on the other hand, tried to prove he was like everybody else by overcompensating, by fucking every gorgeous girl who caught his eye. They weren't James, with the mop of black hair, weren't weren't so he would come at that moment, pretending it was James' back underneath his fingers, his lips on the shoulder he ached to touch. Of course, James was straight and Sirius was gay and nothing could change that. Sirius often wondered what would happen if he blurted out his secret, if he confessed his desire to taste his name on his best friend's tongue. He wondered and he kept quiet, because in wanting he could be as close to James as he dared, but in revealing…that would be an entire new world he was not willing to risk his life for.

"Why are you so far away," he said
"Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you,
That I'm in love with you?"

--

Sixth year, almost at an end. Everyone was restless in Care of Magical Creatures. Too careless in fact, numbed by the thought of leaving Hogwarts that nobody knows how it got out of its cage. For a moment there was chaos, where before there was laughter from the Slytherins when the boys got as close to the cage as they dared. Students were leaping out of its way, the girls screaming, screaming. Snape was there, watching, watching as the Beast leapt for James and he was the closest and Sirius was encumbered by fainting females and Remus was off getting the professor and they were racing across the field and Sirius' cry sounded like it was ripped from his throat and…

Snape thought of Lily, of how her smile would be dulled if she had to witness a death, and as he was thinking this he was diving for James who tried a spell that dissipated from his shaking wand. And then he was down on the ground, gripping the legs of a boy who was his nemesis, and pulling away and walking towards some place while the students whispered and the teacher recaptured the Beast.

You... soft and only
You... lost and lonely
You... strange as angels

--

He saved him

Sirius was bewildered, puzzled, and angry beyond belief. Flinging off the clutching girls, he stalked after Severus, and followed him around the wall of Hogwarts. When he began to yell, Snape turned around.

Why the hell did you do that? We made your life miserable. Why did you have to go off and make me think you're a person?

Then he reached out through the red haze of rage, gripped the man by the shoulders, and shook him to find an answer. He wanted to force a response out of him, for any justification to the disorientation of his world. James had almost died – died. And he wasn't the one who saved him, not the one who played hero. As he shook him, Sirius realized how similar they looked, dark haired and dark eyed, pale. He saw himself mirrored in black, and hated the image. He hated himself. He hated being in love and not being able to do anything about it.

So he kissed him.

Dancing in the deepest oceans
Twisting in the water, you're just like a dream
Just like a dream

Snape's lips tasted salty, and were soft, softer than he would have imagined. Not that he spent much time imagining Snape's lips under his. And when he pulled away they were frozen for a minute, Sirius recalling the feel of it, like kissing a wall, a warm wall that yielded a little under the press of his mouth.

Somehow the man in front of him crumpled, just fell, catching his weight with his hands. Sirius was drawn to that movement, a hunger rising inside of him for someone he was supposed to hate. But he didn't hate him, not really. He didn't know Snape. He doubted if he ever hated him, or if it was typical Gryffindor dislike for the Slytherins, if there was any background to it at all. It was like Snape led the motion, and he followed, hands grabbing at fabric and pulling, pulling, wanting to feel skin on skin. He understood what his father experienced; the surge of power, watching his nails leave marks down a milk white back, and somehow the sight fascinated him.

There was pleasure as he took him beside Hogwarts' walls, the grass under his feet and the feeling of triumph as he came. He melted, became nothing for a flash of a second, wave after wave of heat as he fell to the side, the coolness of the lawn against his body. It was only when he came to that he realized Snape was not moving, and had not moved since he tore off his clothes.

It was only when Sirius reached out a tentative hand, pulled himself up on one elbow when he realized what was happening. Snape was crying, soundlessly, into the grass. Large, perfect tears trailed down a cheek, past a mouth open without words. He did not even pull away from his touch, and the flesh of his shoulder was strangely smooth. Sirius followed the curve of his back, to one clawed hand pressed against the wall, and the other hand pulling out grass in an odd mechanized motion.

Daylight licked me into shape
I must have been asleep for days
And moving lips to breathe his name

It was the movement that was entirely out of place that made Sirius recoil with revulsion. A blade that sliced through his entire body, made bile rise in this throat, burned the back of his mouth. He saw the multiple images of himself reflected through a pair of ink black eyes. He had done something despicable, he had raped someone and the thought of the word made him sit back, pull away from the body sprawled on the ground. It was different from the girls moaning 'no, no' under him while driving up with their hips, it was different because Snape had not protested, but every lack of movement screamed a refusal.

And Sirius deep down inside apologized a thousand ways, but could only come up with a tattered I'm sorry, Severus. It was the first time, and the only time he would ever utter the name. He had sat up then, arms around himself, back against the stones. What did I do? What did I do? It was then Snape turned, to look up at him with eyes luminous with tears and wide in surprise, and all Sirius could do was reach out, to gather him in his arms, because that was what he always wanted after a visit from his father. And it felt so natural to bend down and kiss him again, the boy that was half across his lap, head against his chest. And it was so natural to spread his hand in the hair of the one he used to call a greasy git, and with the awareness that his hair was not greasy at all, but soft, oh so soft against his fingers.

I opened up my eyes
I find myself alone, alone, alone
Above a raging sea
That stole the only boy I loved
And drowned him deep inside of me.

--

And Severus thought, it shouldn't hurt like this, but it was a hurt inside, not physically like when his brother came into his room and took him for the first time. It was a hurt of contemplation, of warring between wanting and resistance. And Severus thought it was nice to be held, nice to have someone's hands stroking down his back, and did it matter who? Did it matter if he was gay or not? What was a word to describe a person, an abstract to the concrete solidity of words? He was Slytherin and Sirius was Gryffindor. He still loved Lily for her laughing mouth, almost as much as he loved her for loving James, for being able to change. And wasn't love enough as long as it made you feel whole? And wasn't it? The way Sirius looked at James, the way he lost his lazy grin, his careful composure over someone he cared about. The way a split second decision enabled him to act the way he did? Wasn't it enough?

--

He thought back to nights with dreams of rockstardom, the afternoons in the common rooms doing impressions of air guitar, he thought back to blurs of girls with smooth curves and thighs and could not recall even their names. He knew that what he had done would be emblazoned on his memory forever, as if somebody had torched its presence into the sky. Summer hovered over them, a summer neither one wanted to return to. So Sirius pulled him a little closer, wrapped their robes about them, because it was suddenly a bit too cold.

You... soft and only
You... lost and lonely

And who would have thought? Severus Snape, and his ways, his arrogance as he spoke his family name, who would have attached one to the other, a scowl to abuse? He knew, as a person who experienced it first hand that somebody somewhere, had inflicted wounds so deep that they would never quite heal. Sirius hated himself for that, for becoming the same monster his father was. But when Snape kissed him back, hard, it took the edge of the wound away. And he held onto his mirror, to cry a little too, for the boys they were, and the men they were about to become.

You... just like heaven.