His breath catches when Snape returns with a vial, the liquid that shimmering almost clear in the carved glass. It says a lot; that Snape knew he'd be coming, was aware of what he was medicating with. His eyes widen a little, dart down to the vial that he holds in his open palm. It makes his heart twist, his pulse flutter a beat, and he knows that he's already hit that edge of unhealthy; it doesn't last him as long as it used to, and he's not unaware it's a downward spiral. It makes that offer that much more breath-taking, the idea that he could stay, hold onto Snape instead of that vial. His lashes flutter as he looks back up at him, a slight tilt of his head as he looks into his dark eyes.

"I could have made it myself," he says a little petulantly, trying to hide that he is touched by the gesture, the idea that Snape cared enough to do this for him. He reaches out, catching the vial in Snape's hand, but he pauses, trying to work through what he really wants. In truth, it's the man that made it for him, not the potion.

"I can stay?" It's a hopeful question as he pulls the vial away, slips it into the pocket of his expensive trousers. He's dressed as he usually is, even though his first impulse was to just toss on a shirt and trousers and come running to the man's door. All in black, except for the emerald green of his tie, and the carved silver Slytherin snakes of his cufflinks, the button-down front onyx. It gave him time to catch his breath, not look quite so breathlessly desperate. But it doesn't change the fact that he is; slightly glassy eyes are still on Snape, hopeful, wanting, needy.