The man who enters the room doesn't speak, his steps faltering only for a moment before he strides forward, the sound of his scabbard clanking against his hip. Without hesitation, or waiting for permission—he's never been very good at waiting for anything—he slips one arm around Salazar's waist and the other across his chest, pulling them together until there exists no space between them, until his warmth bleeds through their clothes and starts to make Salazar flush.
"Godric," he says softly, as the other man starts to nuzzle at his neck, placing gentle kisses along his jaw. "Godric," he says again, trying and failing to sound more authoritative. "We need to talk."
"Not yet," Godric says into his skin, causing tremors to shoot through him. "I've done nothing but yell at you across a table all day. I just want this for a moment longer. I just want to have you. Remember what it's like when you're mine."
Salazar tilts his head back, resting it on Godric's shoulder and giving the other man more access. "I'm always yours." Which is embarrassingly and pathetically true.
Eventually Salazar turns around, because he has to, because he can't take it anymore, and then they're kissing properly. They love and fight and kiss all the same way. Godric pushes him back against the wall, Salazar runs a hand through his hair and pulls viciously. The fear and anger and betrayal they both feel sits just below the surface. Fighting with the rest of them. It's never been this bad before. This painful.
They break apart, foreheads pressed together, Godric's hands—big and rough as they are—hold Salazar's face like it's something precious. Salazar's fingers knotted in the back of his shirt. For a long time neither of them speak, frozen like that, heavy breathing.
Here,
Salazar thinks.
I want to always be here.
"Sal," Godric's voice is gruff, his thumbs brushing his cheeks, "you have to let it go."
Salazar blinks, trying to come back to himself, to clear his head of lips and tongues and gentle hands. He feels his body go rigid.
"Just so we're clear," he says coldly, "by "it" you're referring to the murder of my entire family?"
Godric sighs, like he's the one being attacked.
"Good," Salazar clumsily pulls away, walking to the fireplace and grabbing hold of the mantle for support, he needs to have something in his hands or there's a good chance he'll punch Godric. "Just checking."
"These children are not responsible for what has happened to you."
"No, they'll just be responsible for it happening to someone else."
There's the sound of aborted steps, as though Godric was going to come to him and then thought better of it. Smart man.
"They have every right to be here," Godric says eventually.
"They outnumber us," Salazar hisses, hands gripping the mantle so tightly his knuckles threaten to split through his skin. "They outnumber us everywhere and now you want to let them in here too? To this space that is just for us? Where we are free of their prejudice and hatred? You want to tell them all our secrets so they can scurry off and expose us to their parents who will no doubt start showing up at every Wizard township with fucking pitchforks."
"Sal," he sounds sad more than anything else. "Everyone is not like that—you cannot go through life thinking all people are cruel."
"All people ARE cruel," except you, he doesn't say. Because he still has some self-respect.
Godric makes a frustrated noise before he finally moves all the way across the room. He wraps Salazar in his arms again, burying his face in his neck. Sal wants to resist, wants to push back, but he's always been weak where Godric is concerned. Weak and hungry.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Start from the beginning
