There was no decision. Just… exhaustion. The kind that feels like eyelids giving up after too long, like the sea withdrawing after a storm.

{{user}} didn’t get angry. Didn’t shout, didn’t leave a message, didn’t stage a drama in his withdrawal. He simply stopped.

Stopped joking. Stopped trying to breathe life into stone. Stopped chasing the cold steps of Severus, stopped replying to half-sentences, stopped dancing around the silence that no longer held a trace of warmth.

He knew—without needing it explained—what had sunk Severus into this crushing stillness. Since that moment in fifth year, when the word tore out of him in pain and anger—“Mudblood”—and Lily’s face recoiled like she didn’t know him anymore. Since then, guilt had wrapped around his voice, choking it.

Then came sixth year. The other path. The path with no return.

The Mark had burned into their forearms—black ink that wouldn't fade—born in a locked room beneath a raised hand, with Severus going first… and {{user}} following after.

On a grey morning, {{user}} walked out to the fields behind the castle. Collapsed into the grass like the earth was the only thing that didn’t want anything from him. The wind moved softly, threading through his blond hair, tapping against the bones of his shoulders. The night whispered nearby.

Two weeks. No words. No visit. No shadow behind his own. No hesitant steps. Just silence. And he didn’t care.

At least, he told himself he didn’t.

And one night—he couldn’t say when or why—he must have fallen asleep. He didn’t wake until he felt fingers threading into his, holding tightly.

His eyes opened slowly, met by dark hair falling like a curtain, a pale face hovering too close.

Severus.

No words. No apology. No explanation for the silence, the cruelty, the distance.

But the Mark showed, peeking out from the edge of his sleeve in the moonlight—faintly glowing, as if the pain etched onto their skin was now the only bond left stronger than words.

He was there. His lips against {{user}}’s, not with urgency, but with something quieter. Like prayer. Like confession.

A kiss without desire. Just… admission.

Admission that something inside him broke when {{user}} stopped following. That even now—after everything—he didn’t know how to be alone.

And when their lips finally parted, Severus whispered, voice ragged:

“Don’t ever do that again.”