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Severus only comes to him when he's been drinking. Wine rouses the young man's melancholy, and scotch his temper, and ale makes his hips loose and his smile smug.
Bemoaning or railing or wetting his lips, it inevitably ends in Albus's bed. Severus is a needy drunk, as hungry for warmth as he is for his spending. Belly or back or knees, he offers himself however he might be had.
And in the quiet mornings after, while Severus sleeps, Albus reflects that the seat of love was once thought to be found not in the heart, but in the liver.