Chapter Text
“No you fucking didn’t!” Harry hollers across the table, waving the beer bottle clutched in his hand vehemently, as if he can dispel this sure-to-be falsehood with it if he protests enough. “I don’t believe you for a second.”
Ron grins at him smugly and leans back casually in his chair. With the hand that isn’t clutching his pint he reaches up to pull the neck of his black t-shirt aside slightly, revealing an abnormally large, dark purple bruise, which Harry absolutely refuses to believe came from the incredibly quiet and meek bassist of Ginny’s band. “The proof is in the hickey,” Ron retorts, smirk still firmly affixed to his face. “And not to toot my own horn or anything, but I rocked her world.”
Harry makes his most disgusted face for a moment, but then his memory sparks a connection, and soon his face rivals the smugness of Ron’. “Oh, did you? Then why, good sir, did she blatantly ignore you the entire time we were backstage with them?”
Ron’ smile quickly morphs into a scowl, and he glowers at Harry. “She wasn’t blatantly ignoring me, she was just busy. Their drum tech left for uni last week and she’s been helping out with setting up the kit.”
Harry snorts. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, mate,” He replies pleasantly, before turning slightly to get a view of the stage and completely ignoring the balled up and slightly damp napkin that Ron chucks at him.
Up on the stage Ginny and the supposed creator of the famed hickey are hauling equipment off the stage, along with two other girls whose names Harry can never quite remember. He thinks one of them is Luna, but the other one completely escapes him. It’s something that Ginny would chide him for, if she was aware, but what she doesn’t know won’t get him in trouble. He’s always been terrible with names, but she doesn’t know this because he wouldn't be able to forget her name in a thousand years. He does consistently forget her band’s name, but in all fairness they change it about once every other week.
“What are they going by this week?” Ron asks from his left, proving as usual that their brains are synced up on a frightening level. “The Chocolate Frogs?”
“That sounds about right,” Harry agrees absently, his attention much more focussed on how the stage lights shine off Ginny’s silken red hair. “I know it was something dessert related.”
“Must’ve been Hermione’s pick this round. She’s kind of obsessed with chocolate, you know,” Ron comments, and Harry can still practically feel the smugness radiating off him.
“If you’re about to start talking about the weird, kinky shit you get up to in bed, I’d really rather not hear it,” Harry retorts, turning sideways to shoot a glare at him.
“What the fuck?” Comes a voice to his right, and they both turn to find Hermione standing there with a confused and slightly pissed off look on her face, which is clear even through the dark shaggy fringe that falls in her eyes. “Really, Weasley?” She continues, eyes narrowing in a glare at the man in question. “You’re going around telling people already? This is exactly why I knew better than to sleep with you; Hannah told me you couldn’t keep something private to save your life, and I should have believed her.” With that, she turns and stomps away, the heels of her oversized Docs clomping slightly against the ground.
When Harry glances over at Ron, eyebrows raised sceptically, he’s amazed to see that the other man still has heart eyes going full force. “God, she’s so hot when she’s annoyed with me,” Ron practically breathes, before he jumps out of his seat and darts after Hermione. Harry rolls his eyes but can’t bring himself to judge; he definitely feels some type of way any time Ginny is pissed at him. Even though they’ve been on better terms in the last month or so, every once in awhile he can’t help himself from doing or saying something just to rile her up a little. It’s a blessing and a curse.
When Harry finally turns back to the stage he realises that the next band in the line up is almost finished setting up and will most likely be starting within the next few minutes. He eyes the small group of men with interest; he’d never heard of the band before tonight, and he’s been in the scene long enough that it’s uncommon for him not to know another local band. According to Ginny they’re a relatively young band, but it still surprises him that he’s never heard of them, considering the rather impressive following they seem to have gathered online. He can’t remember what they’re called, but if they don’t announce their name during the set (and an annoying amount of bands these days don’t) he can always ask Ginny.
Harry’ eyes get stuck on one man in particular after a minute, whose long black hair almost entirely shields his pale face from view. There’s something about him that seems distantly familiar, but Harry can’t for the life of him figure out why. He makes a mental note to ask Ron when (and if) he returns, because they’ve been joined at the hip for over ten years and generally anyone he knows, Ron knows as well. Despite resolving to figure it out later, he can’t help but watch the man as he shuffles across the stage toward the backstage area.
The house lights finally dim a few minutes after the men onstage clear out. There are a few cheers amongst the crowd, but nothing too rowdy. None of them have reached the point of thousands of shrieking fans (yet, Harry’ mind can’t help but insist), which is why they’re all stuck playing small, slightly dingy venues around town on random weeknights. A few of the men who were onstage a minute ago walk back out onto the stage, with the man that had caught Harry’ attention bringing up the rear. His shoulders are hunched slightly, and his hair still hangs annoyingly over his face. He doesn’t even move to brush it back as he walks up to the microphone positioned at center stage, and Harry can’t help but be surprised that, given the man’s general air of anxiety, he seems to be the lead singer.
“We’re Stage 4; thanks for coming out,” He mumbles into the microphone, so quickly and quietly that Harry can hardly make the words out. A split second later the guitars kick in, and suddenly the man is thrashing around the stage like he’s been possessed, screaming something into the microphone that sounds an awful lot like, “We need a doctor, a fucking doctor.” Harry’ eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead at the abrupt change in demeanor. A second ago the man was practically cowering behind his hair, and now he’s shrieking things like “Get a gun, just fucking run” and “I don’t care what you think, I just care how you shoot” at the crowd with such a confidence about him that it’s almost like he isn’t singing a song that seems to be about being in some sort of zombie apocalypse. It’s fucking weird, to say the least, but Harry is intrigued.
When the song comes to a close after less than three minutes of the most energy Harry has ever seen any one man exude, the man drops to a seat on the floor, chest heaving with exertion. The guitarist reaches out to ruffle his hair, and Harry cranes his neck for a glimpse of the man’s face, but to no avail. The man shifts his hair back into place in front of his face almost immediately, and Harry has to bite back an unexpected sigh of disappointment. He can’t quite pinpoint why he’s so interested in the man, but he decides not to question it for the time being and just let it ride.
“That song was about getting attacked by monsters,” The man pants slightly into the microphone after a moment, earning a few chuckles from the small crowd of people gathered in front of the stage. “This next one’s about revenge.”
The song may be about revenge, but in Harry’ eyes the only thing that matters is that the man spends the next two minutes writhing around the stage, kicking and screaming violently into the mic. Harry can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the curve of the man’s neck, and when his sweat-soaked black shirt rides up around his hips and reveals a small slice of pale skin, Harry feels his mouth go instantly dry. “What the fuck,” He whispers to himself, but he still can’t seem bring himself to be bothered. Ron returns halfway through the song, hair a mess and looking even more smug than before, but Harry doesn’t even notice his presence until the song is over and the dark haired man is back on his feet, thanking the crowd for their support.
“Can you fucking believe them?” Ron hollers in his ear while the next song starts up. “Never thought I’d see the day.” Harry isn’t entirely sure what he’s talking about, so he just nods along and keeps his eyes onstage. He can’t figure out what it is about this man that’s intrigued him so quickly, but he’s not that worried. He’s a big believer of going wherever the wind takes you, and if the wind wants to take him here, so be it.
--
It’s not until after the show that it finally hits Harry like a ton of bricks. Actually, more like two tons. He doesn’t even work it out on his own, is the kicker. He feels like he’s half in love with the man already (although his heart and his dick may be colluding; he can never tell), so it doesn’t even dawn on him to consider some of the more obvious potential identities. Which is why he still doesn’t make the connection even when Ron says, “Since fucking when does Snape have enough friends to start a band?”
He just retorts with a slightly confused, “Snape doesn’t even have enough friends to start a one man band,” and leaves it at that. They’re wandering around backstage, trying to figure out what everyone’s move will be after they leave the bar, so he’s not that interested in trying to have a conversation about Snape right now anyway. It all comes back to him, however, when he rounds a corner a few minutes later while looking for Ginny, and is brought face to face with the man himself.
Harry flinches back instinctively, causing Ron to bump into him from behind. He gives a squawk of protest, but Harry ignores him in favour of shooting a disdainful sneer at the man in front of him. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Harry questions rudely, crossing his arms over his chest. “Didn’t anyone tell you they don’t allow people like you around decent people?”
Snape grits his teeth and crosses his arms as well. The effect is slightly ruined by the lack of muscle, Harry muses to himself. “Say what you want, Potter,” The smaller man intones, black eyes glinting with loathing, “But at least my band won’t be playing at this tiny little venue for the rest of my life, unlike some.”
Harry very nearly asks out loud, what band? But then his eyes catch on Snape’s sweat dampened curtain of black hair and the same slightly ripped shirt that the man onstage that he couldn’t keep his gaze off of was wearing, and it feels like a sucker punch right to the face. “Fuck you and your shitty ass band,” He snaps back, but even he knows it wasn’t a very good retort. Before Snape has time to counter with anything Harry has snatched up Ron’ wrist and is dragging him insistently through the building until they’re pushing through the rusty metal door at the back of the venue, and he has Ron’ pack of Marlboros in his hand before the door has even swung shut behind them.
“What the fuck, dude?” Ron asks lightly, leaning his back against the brick wall and crossing his arms as Harry digs around in the other man’s pocket for a lighter. Harry doesn’t answer for a moment, choosing instead to light the cigarette now dangling from his lips with a long inhale. He presses his forehead against the wall beside Ron and scrubs his free hand through his hair as he takes another deep puff.
“Hey.” Ron has moved away from the wall when Harry looks up again, and he steps closer to Harry to pat him on the shoulder. “You good, Harry?”
Harry shoots him a rueful smile before standing upright and tousling his hair back into it’s usual disheveled state. “You know my stupid ass just spent that entire set trying to figure out why he looked so familiar? I feel so fucking dumb right now. Did you know that was him?”
Ron quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, dude. We talked about it, didn’t we? What did you think I was talking about?”
Harry snorts. “To be honest I was a bit confused as to why you were suddenly talking about Snape being in a band.” He takes one last heavy drag of his cigarette before tossing the still lit butt in a somewhat suspicious looking puddle by the dumpster. “I shouldn’t be smoking. Ginny doesn’t like it.”
Ron rolls his eyes and pulls out a cigarette of his own. “So fucking what? She won’t even agree to go on a date with you, why the fuck should you care?”
“Well, what would you do if you knew it grossed Hermione out?” Harry counters, kicking out half-heartedly at Ron’s leg and missing entirely. “You’d quit in a second.”
Harry knows he’s made a mistake when Ron’s face morphs instantly back to his smug smirk, and he can’t help but start rolling his eyes before Ron has even begun to say, “Well as it is, Hermione just so happens to think I look hot when I smoke. So I’m afraid I don’t have to face this particular moral quandary with you at this time.”
Harry rolls his eyes again, making sure Ron can see. “Go away and suck her dick for forgiveness or something, why don’t you.”
“Maybe I will,” Ron retorts, stubbing his cigarette out on the wall and tossing it in the general direction of the pot by the door that’s already overflowing with cigarette butts. “Not that I need her forgiveness, since I took care of that earlier, if you know what I mean.”
Harry makes a face of disgust. “For fuck’s sake,” He whines, but Ron is already halfway through the door, laughing at Harry’s suffering as he dances away.
“Jerk,” Harry mutters, pouting slightly to himself. He feels like he deserves to pout for a minute, after the evening he’s had. Drooling over Snape, for god’s sake. He doesn’t know what to make of all that. He doesn’t really even want to think about it right now, and he resolves not to until he’s been able to drink about it first.
--
And drink about it, he did. After the bar everyone in the various bands that played that night move to a pub nearby, and the night gets loud and long. Harry drinks so much his head is spinning by the end of it, and Ron is laughing and making fun of him nonstop, on the rare occasion that his tongue isn’t down Hermione’ throat. They’re incorrigible. Harry would never have expected it from Hermione. Not that he knows the woman well, but from what he does know she always seemed quiet and reserved. Now she’s doing tequila shots off of Ron’s stomach and sucking limes out from between Ron’s teeth, and laughing all the while. Like this is just a normal night for her. Who knows, maybe it is.
After watching Ron drag Hermione away to the bathroom hours into the night, maybe around 2 am, Harry gets annoyed and decides to meander outside to see if there’s anyone around to bum a cigarette from. He greets a few people on his way out the door, but no one who he knows would have a cigarette, so he makes it all the way out to the smoking deck empty-handed. And as soon as he pushes the door open and feels the fresh air wash over his face, he knows he’s made a mistake.
Snape is out there. No one else is around, and he’s standing there with his back to the door puffing hard on a cigarette of his own. He turns at the sound of the door, and when he sees it’s Harry he makes a face but other than that, doesn’t react. He turns back around.
“Hey Snape,” Harry starts genially, making his way over. He’s too drunk to be anything other than pleasant. “Bum me a smoke?”
Snape turns again at that and raises an eyebrow. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
Harry whines. “Because I need one and you’re the only person out here. Please?” He drags the e at the end out for several seconds, and by the time he finishes, Snape is holding a cigarette gingerly out toward him.
“Only to shut you up,” Snape mumbles as Harry takes it from him. “Now will you leave me alone?”
Harry leans forward and lights his cigarette on the tip of Snape’s, bringing their faces close together. It’s when he’s in the other man’s space that he remembers how hot he was during his band’s performance. “I have a confession,” Harry whispers loudly.
Severus snorts. “You’re piss drunk, Potter, I don’t know that you have anything worthwhile to say.”
Harry frowns. “Hey, fuck you. I just wanted to tell you how fucking hot you looked onstage tonight.”
Snape sputters and drops his cigarette. “I don’t know what game you’re playing,” He snaps as he bends over to pick his cigarette back up, “but it’s not going to work.”
“I’m not playing games,” Harry replies, stealing Snape’s cigarette from his hands and putting it in his own mouth next to the cigarette he’s already smoking. He takes a puff and chokes; two smokes are not better than one. He coughs it out for a minute before he chucks Snape’s spent cigarette butt at the bin and follows quickly with his own half-smoked butt. “I just thought-” he stops here as a hiccup overwhelms him. “I just thought you were hot. That was before I knew it was you though. When I found out it was you I had to have a stern discussion with my dick.”
Snape laughs, seemingly despite himself. “You really are pissed.”
“Pissed that we’re not boning right now,” Harry snipes back, plastering on his most charming grin.
Snape chuckles again. “I don’t know that you’ve ever made me laugh before, Potter,” He comments, reaching out unconsciously to steady the other man as he wobbles slightly. “I’d better get you to your friends before you pass out back here.” He starts to lead the other man toward the door, but Harry stops him.
“Wait,” Harry breathes, leaning in so that his face is up close to Snape’s again. Snape doesn’t move; it feels like he’s frozen in place. Confident that the other man isn’t going anywhere, Harry closes the distance and presses his mouth to Snape’s.
Snape jerks back slightly in surprise, but Harry closes a fist on his hair and keeps him in place. “Mmm,” Harry intones, pulling back only to move in and kiss him again, this time with his mouth open. He’s kind of amazed in a fuzzy, far-off part of his brain that Snape lets Harry’ tongue slide into his mouth. He’s kind of amazed that Snape hasn’t punched him in the face yet.
Harry lets one of his hands wander over Snape’s waist, but once that hand starts sliding down his thigh Snape pulls back, tugging Harry’ hand out of his hair on the way. It’s kind of sharp, and Harry is willing to bet there are a few greasy strands of hair tangled in his fingers. “What the fuck, Potter.” Snape says, and it’s not really a question. He’s staring at Harry with big black eyes, and Harry feels like he could drown in them for a moment. Then he realizes something.
“You kissed me back,” Harry tells him with a wide grin.
“No I didn’t,” Snape replies with a look of alarm and horror mixing on his face. “You just assaulted me.”
Harry scoffs. “You let me kiss you and you kissed me back. I better remember this when I’m sober. Wanna go somewhere and fuck?”
Snape sputters for a minute. “Are you fucking high? We hate each other. Why would you want to fuck me?”
With a smirk Harry answers, “I think you’ll be the one doing the fucking. I can just bend over and take it.”
“Oh my fucking god,” Snape mutters. With one last fleeting glance at Harry he turns and quickly walks back to the door before slamming through it and bursting inside.
“God,” Harry mumbles to himself. “I better remember this in the morning.”