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Sometimes, James Potter looks more like a God than he does a human.
She should be ashamed, troubled, for letting these types of thoughts into her mind. Only a year ago, Lily was openly arguing that James Potter was the Devil incarnate, a demon that had climbed out of the lowest pits of hell with the sole purpose of making her miserable. She isn’t meant to compare him to any deities, she isn’t meant to think of him this way: adoringly, devotedly, religiously. She’s meant to loathe him, with every last bit of her heart.
But she doesn’t. She can’t.
She blames him. She blames him for looking like that when the summer sun gracefully paints over him, golden and glorious, an immortalized work of art under its light — a godly boy with a jaw made out of chiselled stone and the brightest, most celestial smile she has ever seen. She blames him for taking his shirt off at any given chance, whenever they’re with their friends sitting by the pool and she’s trying to relax, but she can’t, because his bare chest glistens with water drops and sweat and how could she ever relax at the sight of that? She blames his hands, for the most part. What business does James Potter have with hands like that, other than aggravating her? Other than wrapping those long, calloused fingers around a cold bottle of beer and making her reevaluate the point of her whole existence?
Lily thinks that she’s either going to die at James Potter’s hands or not at all. Especially since he hasn’t kept them off of her all summer.
It’s affectionate — never sensual, never hinting towards anything more than a friendship, a brotherly act — but it kills her every time. Whenever they’re sitting close, alone, drinking firewhiskey and laughing about nothing in particular, whenever she’s close enough to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his body, his hands find her skin. His fingers land on her arm, innocently, absentmindedly, and draw careful, slow patterns, connecting the freckles on her skin into a bright, heavenly constellation. A God and his creation.
And she knows it doesn’t mean anything to him, because he’s James Potter. Physical touch, affection, proximity are a second language to him, familiar and comforting. He touches her the same way he touches Mary and Alice, soothing and warm and friendly.
But it kills her. It has been killing her all summer.
She meets him at Diagon Alley, one of the hottest days of the month. The late July weather has the world on its knees, boiling and sticky, sweat floating in the air. Visiting Diagon Alley with this heat is a terrible idea — masses of teenagers and kids walk through the streets, their shoulders rubbing against each other, the sun heavy and towering against their shoulders. But James invited her and, of course, she agreed. So Lily pushes her way through the crowd, auburn strands of hair sticking to her forehead, trying to make sense of her surroundings through rumbling chatter and unknown faces.
She spots him near Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour and she can’t believe herself. She thinks he must be some sort of apparition, an illusion created by the heat. James Potter stands bright and lovely as always, shining in a blur of people, everyone parting like the Red Sea at the sight of him. He looks good, breathtakingly so, wearing a pair of flared brown jeans and a patterned short-sleeved shirt, not a hint of sweltering in the curve of his smile.
His friends, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, stand around him and Lily feels incredibly embarrassed for how long it takes her to notice them.
For fuck’s sake, get it together Evans.
She walks up to them, trying her best to tame every dirty thought that plagues her mind. “Hello, boys.”
James flashes her a grin. Lily tries not to die. “Alright, Evans?”
“Er — alright,” she lies, because she definitely isn’t. Not when he smiles like that.
The other boys greet her, charming and friendly as usual, but they’re quick to announce their departure. Sirius claps a hand against James’ back and with his usual smirk, he says, “Well, it was lovely to see you, Evans, but we’re off to the Leaky Cauldron.” Then, with one final knowing look to James and a wink, “Stay chaste.”
Lily frowns. James glares.
“Scram, Padfoot.”
Remus grabs Sirius’ arms and begins dragging him away. “Excuse him, Lily, he has been a tad delirious lately. We think it's rabies.”
“And chronic wankerness, both very serious diseases,” adds Peter, following them. In a matter of seconds, they disappear behind a crowd of people.
Lily laughs at them, not entirely sure of what they’re talking about. When her eyes meet James’ again, her laughter dies down, catching as his eyes trail up and down her body in a quick motion. If her cheeks weren’t already boiling to begin with, they would be warming up. Self-consciousness has never been her style, so she tries her best to not think about how she looks: wearing simple jeans shorts and a green t-shirt, sweating through every part of her body, flushed with the summer heat.
Self-consciousness might not be her style, but at that moment, Lily is infinitesimally aware of her body.
“You look pretty,” he says finally.
She stops breathing. “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
He beams, a bright, heavenly smile lighting up his whole face. “Come on, then, let’s go. We’re on a schedule.”
“Er,” Lily looks around, confused, realizing she has no idea what his plans are for the day. When he wrote to her yesterday asking to meet up, she thought they would be having a butterbeer with the boys and hanging around the Joke Shop. She didn’t think there would be a schedule of any kind. She knows better than getting her hopes up. “Aren’t we going to drink something with the guys?”
“Up your standards a little bit, Evans. The Leaky Cauldron hardly fits the occasion, doesn’t it?”
What occasion? she wants to ask, but she doesn’t. She follows him as he cheerfully leads her into the ice cream parlour, unaware of Lily’s confusion.
“We’re going to Florean’s?” she asks, trying to put the pieces together. “We’re never going to find a free table, James.”
Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour is one of Lily’s favourite shops in the whole world. It’s a bright, colourful place, set to look like an old 50s diner, with the most unimaginable and delicious ice cream flavours. It’s also packed with clients, starving for cold ice cream, escaping the summer heat.
“That’s why I have a reservation, silly.”
“A reservation?” she repeats stupidly. “James, this place doesn’t have reservations.”
To her surprise, a waitress leads them to one of the booths — a round scarlet leather sofa with a white table in the middle, apart and shielded from the loud masses of people. “What can I say, Evans?” He sits down with a prideful grin. “I’m full of surprises.”
She knits her eyebrows together, trying to wrap her mind around it. What’s going on with him today? He looks exceptionally good, sporting those brown jeans even in the middle of summer; he must’ve put on some sort of anti-sweating charm with his skin so dry and perfect; he found a reservation at the most resorted shop in all of Diagon Alley; he has been in a weirdly chipper mood since they met… She thinks about Sirius’ wink ( “stay chaste” ) and about James’ comment ( “it hardly fits the occasion, doesn’t it?” ).
Then, it dawns on her. Is this…? No, it can’t be. She tries to think about James’ phrasing in his letter, but she only remembers him saying something about meeting up and grabbing food. Everything about that is platonic. Everything between them is platonic. He made that explicitly clear all through sixth year.
And yet…
“James…” she begins, unsure of how to approach the question, “can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t know how to ask this but I… I want to know if this is a date.”
His reaction is immediate: his smile drops, the light on his face dimming. All of the parlour dims along with him: loud chatter turning into whispers, everything growing grey and blurry and still. It’s one of his divine powers: to impact his surroundings effortlessly, to command the world around him.
“What?”
Lily shifts in her seat. “Well… I wanted to know if this is a date… because it sure looks like a date.”
He stops for a second, gathering his thoughts. Then, with the same casualness as before, his smile returns. It’s still bright, but not the same. Not as genuine, not as true. “Of course not, Lily. Why would this be a date?”
And she knows, right there and then, that it is.
“James, I’m not saying I would mind —”
“But it’s not,” he cuts her off with a forced chuckle. “It’s funny that you think that.”
“Merlin, Potter, why are you being so stubborn about this — ?”
“Because it’s not a date. Why would this be a date?”
She flinches at the harshness of his tone. She hates how the idea of them going out sounds on his lips — like an inconceivable thought that hasn’t ever crossed his mind, like something out of a parallel reality. “Right,” she says bitterly. “I’m sorry, that was stupid of me… because if this was a date, which is not , then you would’ve said something about it on your letter, but you didn’t.”
“Exactly,” he says, teeth gritting in his smile. “Don’t worry about it, though. Honest mistake.”
Lily arrived that day at Diagon Alley thinking James might kill her. Now, she thinks she might kill him. His lovely hands and the way they trace patterns on his skin have made her forget the one thing she knows to be true: James Potter is a prat. A prat that is turning the situation around to make her look like a fool.
She remembers how it feels to hate him.
The waiter materializes beside the booth, notebook in hand, sporting a red-and-white striped half apron. Lily turns to him, afraid that if she continues looking at James, she might throw herself over the table and strangle him. Her first thought is that the waiter is incredibly fit — blonde, golden curls falling over his forehead, baby blue eyes staring at her intently. Her second thought is that she knows who he is.
“Tommy?” she asks, face splitting into a wide grin. “Tommy Fortescue? It’s been ages!”
He matches her expression of glee, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Lily Evans? Fancy meeting you here.”
Tommy Fortescue, Florean’s grandson, was the Head Boy back in Lily’s first year as a prefect. She used to have a massive crush on him, and now, she can’t help but think that fifteen-year-old Lily had good taste. (Better than this Lily, at least, who fawns over boys that can’t even properly ask her out).
Lily nods towards her companion, whose eyes are fixated on Tommy’s hand. “And this is James Potter, I don’t know if you remember him.”
Tommy turns to James, finally acknowledging him. “Of course I remember, you used to be a pain in Filch’s arse.”
“Still is,” chips Lily. “Being a pain in the arse is a bit of a hobby for James.”
Ignoring Lily’s comment, he nods stiffly. “How’s it going, mate?”
Tommy, seemingly unbothered by James’ dryness, takes this as an invitation to talk. “It’s going great, honestly. I’m working here during the summer to make a few galleons, but I’m actually studying in Amsterdam’s Potioneer Academy, graduating this year.”
“You’re kidding!” Lily almost jumps on her seat. “Going to A.P.A. is my dream.”
He chuckles. “You’ll fit right in, I’m sure of it. You’ve always had a talent for potions.”
She feels her cheeks warming up and James, noticing, looks thoroughly annoyed. Just to spite him, she decides to push the conversation: “And how would you know that?”
“Are you joking? Slughorn would gush about you in all of our classes!”
She waves her hand dismissively. “That’s just because I sucked up to him.”
“Give yourself some credit,” he says and she feels butterflies erupting in her stomach. “You’re brilliant.”
Fifth Year Lily definitely had good taste. Tommy Fortescue is perfect.
` James interrupts the silence, with a voice so cold it might end with the summer. “I think we’re ready to order now.”
If Tommy catches James’ tone, he says nothing about it, beaming at the two. “Of course, what can I get for the lovely couple?”
They both freeze. James looks at her, but Lily avoids his eyes, suddenly very interested in the bracelet on her wrist.
“Er —” James starts awkwardly. “Couple… of friends?”
“Oh,” Tommy looks genuinely surprised. “I’ve always thought you two… Oh, well.”
“This isn’t a date, Tom,” she says and James’ eyes snap at her when she uses the nickname. “It’s the opposite of a date. All the way on the other side of the spectrum. Just ask James, here.”
“Exactly,” James agrees resentfully, angrily, stubbornly. “It’s an anti-date, if you will.”
“It’s funny that you think we have the slightest of chemistry — there is absolutely no romance or sexual attraction between us.”
“Precisely, because if this were a date,” continues James, meeting Lily’s eyes, “which is not.”
“Right.”
“I’d be saying something cheesy and corny about how beautiful she looks in that green top—,” the hint of a smile lights up her face, “—when, in fact, she just looks like an asparagus.”
Her eyebrows quirk upwards. “Asparagus, Potter, really? I would’ve gone with elongated spinach.”
“Have you seen yourself? There’s nothing elongated about you…”
Despite herself, despite the absolute fury she’s feeling towards him, she laughs. “Piss off, James.” Which is her own special way of saying: go fuck yourself for making me laugh when I’m mad at you.
“Not a date, then, got it,” Tommy intervenes. “Your order?”
“Right. Sorry.” Lily looks back up at him, realizing that she almost forgot he’s there. “Since this isn’t a date and there’s no need to keep it classy, we’ll have the Fortescue Special.”
The Fortescue Special is a massive bowl of ice cream with a scoop of each unique flavour the parlour has to offer.
“I love the way you think—” James stops dead in his tracks. “Not love love in, like, a proper way — I meant like . I like the way you think, I don’t love it. I like it… Not the fancy kind of like, but the purely platonic kind of like. You have some very likeable thoughts. Platonically.”
“Okay,” says Tommy uneasily, his eyes darting between the two. “Coming right up — oh, and Lily, it was nice to see you.”
Lily follows him as he disappears behind the counter, glowing and radiant. She can feel James’ eyes on her and she makes a show out of looking especially cheerful. Her smitten, delighted grin is a huge Fuck you, Potter.
“He fancies you.”
“Oh,” she says, as if she hasn’t considered the fact. “Does he?”
“It’s obvious, Evans.”
She shrugs. “I didn’t notice.”
Pause.
“So?” he continues.
“So, what?”
“Are you going to do something about it?”
“Hmm,” she furrows her eyebrows, pretending to evaluate her options. “I don’t know. I might.”
“What’s stopping you, then?” he asks defiantly, dryly. She tries not to focus on the clench of his jaw, on the fire of his eyes. “This isn’t a date, Evans, you can do whatever you want.”
Lily thinks she might combust . What’s his fucking problem? “I know this isn’t a date, James, you made that clear. I’m just not sure if I want to go out with him, that’s all.”
“Of course you do, he’s Tommy Fortescue.” I don’t want Tommy Fortescue, you bloody idiot, she wants to scream, I want you. “All the girls in our year had a crush on him. I mean, if you don’t ask him out then I might.”
Furious. “So take him yourself, then!”
“Don’t be stupid,” he says, just as irritated as her. “You’ve been practically throwing yourself at him since he came up to our booth.”
The judgment on his voice drives her insane. What right does James Potter have to judge her, to have an opinion on her love life? What right does he have to care about what she does with Tommy Fortescue? What right does he have to look this angry and irritated at her? James and his judgments have no place in this conversation, he made sure of that.
“And what business is it of yours, if I fancy Tommy Fortescue?”
It’s a dangerous question. A challenge. She’s daring him to admit it, coaxing him to do something about it — come on, Potter, if you don’t like it, stop it. She knows that one word of his will be enough to make her forget all about the fight, enough to make her start over. It’s not your business, she wants to say, but you can change that .
James holds her gaze. Curtly, “None at all.”
It dawns on her, then, that James would rather let her go out with another man than admit his feelings.
Maybe, she thinks, it’s for the best. Maybe she deserves better than that. Maybe Lily isn’t meant to be with godly boys and their godly problems.
She nods, lips pursed. “Alright, then. I’ll ask him out.”
Moments later, Tommy brings out their ice cream and, to no one's surprise, he accepts.
Sometimes, Lily Evans looks more like a Goddess than she does a human.
Lily Evans is something out of a dream, something unreal, unattainable. There’s a place in the heavens, a place saintly and ethereal, where angels and God’s most beautiful creations reside — there, he thinks, is where Lily must’ve been forged: her smile shaped from pearls, her hair from rubies and her eyes from emeralds.
He’s pathetic, he’s well aware of the fact, but he has already relinquished to the seraphic allure of Lily Evans. There’s no point in fighting it anymore, no use in denying it. Lily Evans is a Goddess walking among humans and James is the stupid mortal who idolizes the ground she steps on.
James is even more convinced of Lily’s godliness during the summer. It’s a different summer than all the others, a better summer, because Lily and he are friends now and he gets to spend almost every day by her side. Summer Lily, he decides, is his favourite type of Lily. All Lilys are marvellous of course, they’re all subject to his worship, but Summer Lily has a special quality to her. Her skin, usually pale, erupts with freckles, trailing everywhere from the bridge of her nose to the curve of her ankle.
James fully believes that she holds the universe in her skin — that every star has somehow appeared on her body, that her freckles map out every constellation in the night sky. He thinks, instantly, that he wants to touch every single one of them, to connect them with his fingers, to hold the cosmos in his hands.
But he can’t, so he limits himself to the patch of skin Lily will allow him to trace. It’s a routine, a tradition they establish during the summer. Whenever they’re close enough to touch, James’ hands find her arm, delicately going over each freckle, holding his breath, afraid that if he moves too brusquely she might realize what he’s doing. Afraid that she might walk away.
But Lily never complains and, slow and hesitant, he starts to believe that she might like his touch, too. That Lily, the glorious Goddess, has somehow fallen for a mortal boy like himself.
So he asks her out. He believes the exact phrasing was somewhere along the lines of: Evans!! Hi, I know that we saw each other at Alice’s, like, four hours ago, but I’m going with the lads to Diagon Alley tomorrow and I thought that maybe you’d like to meet me there?? We could grab something to eat and I’ll give you half an hour to nerd out at Flourish and Blotts. What do you say? Her response was quick: Relax, Potter, I’ll be there at 3. Food sounds good, but expect resistance if you want to leave Flourish and Blotts before the hour.
James thought he was dreaming… and he sort of was. Because, despite his beliefs, Lily hadn’t agreed to go on a date with him.
James spends most of his afternoon wondering how the best day of his life turned into this. He watches Lily eat ice cream — a cruel, vicious show, considering that she’s going out with another man in a couple of hours. He’s convinced that she’s making a spectacle out of it on purpose, just to spite him, licking and sucking in a way that should be illegal. He should be embarrassed by how easily she turns him on… She’s eating ice cream, for the love of Merlin, not stripping down in front of him.
Yet, his urges are easily controlled, because she won’t stop mentioning fucking Tommy Fortescue and her fucking date and they keep fucking looking at each other at all times. He wonders if Tommy has taken notice of how she’s eating her ice cream. Of course he has. The whole fucking parlour must’ve noticed. It’s impossible not to.
When the afternoon finally ends, so does the torture. Lily leaves, claiming that she has to get ready for her date — by this point, James has already assimilated that she’s making a hostile, loud display of it to make him suffer, and he thinks that he might deserve it. He contemplates his options for the evening. He could, for once, use the Killing Curse on himself and end his misery; or, as another, less glamorous alternative, he could drown his sorrows in alcohol.
He opts for the latter.
Hours later, he meets his friends at the Leaky Cauldron, hoping to forget all about Lily with a few shots of tequila. The pub is plagued with other drunks such as himself and James wonders which girls are making their lives impossible. Sirius, Peter and Remus eye him warily as he takes his third shot of the night.
“Prongs, I don’t mean make things worse,” says Sirius, about to make things worse, “but I think you might be cursed, mate.”
“I don’t know, I think that what happened today was really special,” muses Remus, a cold butterbeer in his hands. “A man fails to ask his long-time crush out and, instead, ends up convincing her to go out with someone else… This has to be a first. We should record it somewhere.”
James downs his fourth shot of the night. “Sod off, Moony.”
Sirius ruffles his hair. “Aw, aren’t you a chipper ray of sunshine?”
Fifth shot. “Sod off, Padfoot.”
“Er, Prongs,” says Peter, the only one of them who has a direct view of the door, “if your plan tonight is forgetting about Lily… then you’ll have to drink a lot more than that.”
James lifts his gaze to find Lily, standing by the door, looking as angelic as ever. She wears a flower-patterned dress with a plunging halter neckline, exposing acres of freckled skin James hasn’t explored and never will, stars spreading across her shoulders, her chest, her legs, calling and teasing him. In a parallel universe, he would stand up and greet her with a passionate, lustful kiss. In a parallel universe, he could tell her just how beautiful she is and how much he loves that dress and how much he wants to take it off.
In this universe, however, Sirius takes the job.
He whistles at her, calling her attention and she beams, cheerfully walking up to them. “Would you look at that! You look like sex on legs, Evans.”
“Thank you, thank you,” she says, giggling and doing that little turn girls do when they want to show off their outfit. He notices the dress lands just below her arse and wants to die. “This dress is lovely, isn’t it?”
“It is,” agrees Sirius, “isn’t it, Prongs?”
James glowers. Lily ignores him.
“We hear you have a date tonight,” says Remus. James makes a move to kick him under the table, but he expertly dodges his attack.
“I do, I’m meeting Tommy Fortescue here after his shift.” Then, with a hint of maliciousness in her eyes. “Isn’t it fantastic to go on dates when all parties involved are explicitly aware of the situation?”
“Er… I guess?” says Remus, furrowing his eyebrows. “I mean, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that’s how dates work.”
“Exactly! I knew you’d understand, Remus — oh, look at that, Tommy arrived. Well, we’ll catch up later tonight… or tomorrow morning, who knows how the night will end?”
Peter raises his glass of firewhiskey at her, nodding. “Have fun, Lils.”
And just like that, she turns around and meets Tommy, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. James’ eyes follow them, almost acting independently from his brain, as she chooses a table that’s very clearly on his field of vision. Her intentions, at this point, are pretty clear, and James wonders if it’s possible to hate and love a person at the same time.
“Was that torturous for you?” asks Sirius.
“You lot are rubbish mates,” he grumbles, taking Peter’s firewhiskey and downing it in one gulp. “I need more.”
The night goes on and James is fairly drunk by the time he notices: Lily’s hands are stretched out over the table and Tommy Fortescue is stroking them, his fingers following a trail of freckles up to her elbow. She continues chatting casually, pretending she isn’t breaking the one thing that Lily and James share, the one thing he has of hers, the one thing that belongs to him.
He stands up before his friends can stop him.
Drunk and hurt and blinded by unreasonable rage, he approaches them. Lily doesn’t notice him until he’s standing right by the table, eyes boring on her, pretending that Tommy Fortescue isn’t human enough to deserve any type of acknowledgement.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Um,” Lily looks up at him, “we’re kind of in the middle of something.”
“I want to talk to you,” he repeats.
“And I want a house in Hawaii, James, so what? We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“It’ll just be a second.”
“You’re drunk, Potter.”
“Not that drunk.”
Tommy interjects, “Mate, she just said —”
“I’m not your mate ,” James says, still not turning to face him. He tries a softer approach, “Please, Lily.”
Softness wins her over.
With a sigh, Lily sends an apologetic smile to Tommy. “Sorry, Tom. I’ll be back in a minute. Believe me, he’ll get worse if I don’t go.” She stands up and, with a death glare, adds, “This better be quick, Potter.”
He grabs her arm and takes her to the corridor that leads to the bathrooms, where they can speak privately. A terrible mistake, he realizes, because the corridor isn’t very wide and they’re standing dangerously close. Everything about Lily in that dress is dangerous.
She breathes in deeply, noticing the proximity as well, her chest almost touching his. He’s reminded of her show earlier during the day, scandalously eating ice cream and, for a second, he loses himself in all of his lustful thoughts. Standing so close to her, smelling her perfume, feeling her body barely apart from his… It’s intoxicating.
“Potter,” she hears and he is brought back to reality. Lily looks up at him, expectant.
“Tell him to stop.” His voice is low and demanding, his breath flickering over her forehead.
Rather defiantly, she asks, “Stop what?”
She’s playing stupid. She knows what he’s talking about.
“Doing that. I don’t like it.”
“Doing what?”
He lowers himself to make sure that she hears him, his lips near her ear. “Touching you like that.”
He thinks he feels her shiver against him, but her voice remains steady. “James, we’re talking in circles. Touching me, how?”
“Like I do, Evans. You know what I’m talking about.” He brings a hand to her arm and starts drawing a pattern Lily’s already familiar with. She doesn’t stop him. “This is my thing, Lily,” he says seriously. “Our thing. You can do whatever you want with him, it’s none of my business, but I don’t want him touching you like I do.”
His fingers rise into unknown territory, softly stroking up her arm, delicately landing on her shoulders, her clavicle. “Then why do you let him?” she asks, her voice deflated of any defiance, soft and genuine.
“What do you mean?”
“If it bothers you that much, then why do you let him, James? Why didn’t you stop me from asking him out? You can’t just… do stuff like this, James. It’s confusing.”
He furrows, his fingers now trailing up the side of her neck, intoxicated by the light feel of her. “What is?”
“This!” And with that, she slaps his hand away. James blinks, awoken from a slumber, from a daydream. “Can’t you see that you kill me each time you touch me like that? Are you honestly that blind? It’s driving me insane, James, so I need you to either act on it or stop it.”
“But… but Tommy…” he mumbles, sobering up.
“I didn’t want to go out with Tommy in the first place! Can’t you see it, James? I haven’t stopped thinking about you and your stupid hands and those stupid patterns you draw on my skin all summer! And… and… about you touching me—”
James looks very pale. “You think about me… touching you?”
Pause. A blush creeps from the base of her neck to her cheeks. “I don’t… Oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that —”
“Like… touch you… how—?”
“I’m such an idiot. That was such a stupid thing to say—”
“No, no, it wasn’t. I’m… flattered?”
“You’re flattered?”
“Yeah… er, thanks.”
“Did you just thank me?”
“I did… and now I really wish I hadn’t.”
“Honestly, I’d thought you’d be a lot more arrogant about it… you’re just being awkward, which is somehow even worse—”
“I’m not being awkward!”
“Yes, you are! Shit. Shit. Shit . I really don’t want to be here right now. I hate myself.”
“Don’t… don’t hate yourself…”
She steps away from him, flushed, anxious, almost tripping over her own feet as he does. She brushes her hair out of her face, swearing at herself, catching a breath. Without looking at him, “I’m going to the toilet. When I come out, I’ll go back to my date, you’ll go back to your friends and we’ll pretend this never happened, alright?”
“I— er— alright.”
She disappears behind the bathroom door and James can’t believe he’s letting her go once more.
What the fuck, Lily?
James is out of sight, but her cheeks are still burning, her face matching her hair. Shit. What is she supposed to do now? She can’t go out there and face him… she refuses to. Not after saying what she said. God, what was she thinking?
For a split second, she considers escaping through the bathroom window, buying a one-way ticket to Argentina and changing her name to Liliana Martinez, living far from James and Tommy and anyone in some isolated Patagonian mountain. Instead, she lowers her face to the sink, hoping to wash away her shame with water and soap.
The bathroom door bursts open.
She looks up and finds him shining in her reflection: James Potter, standing behind her, leaning against the doorframe. With his black hair dishevelled, his white shirt rolled above his forearms and that mischievous grin he always sports, he looks as godly as ever. He is so, so, so very much golden — and here she is, making a total fool out of herself.
She turns to meet his eyes, hoping to say something that will end with the suffocating silence between them. “James, I —”
Her apology dies on her lips. Or his lips. She isn’t sure. The only thing she knows is that, in a matter of seconds, James cuts through the space between them, dragging her lips roughly against his, wrapping a hand against the small of her back and tangling another one in her hair. Lily’s heart crashes against her chest as she kisses him back, forcefully, hungrily, shamelessly, hooking her arms behind his neck, pulling herself closer, but not close enough, oh, God, not close enough. Is this really happening? Is she really kissing him like this? Butterflies erupt in her stomach and the only thought that crosses her mind is fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m snogging James Potter.
He pulls away slightly and Lily holds back a whimper in fear of sounding pathetic. For the first time, she meets his eyes and she feels the air being knocked out of her lungs — something dark and foreign burns behind his spectacles, something lustful and sinful that she has never seen before.
As they catch their breaths, their foreheads meet. A self-satisfied smirk creeps on his face as he utters in a raspy voice, “Is this arrogant enough for you, Evans?”
“Shut up,” she manages to breathe out.
He obliges. Their lips met again and soon, Lily can’t tell where her body ended and his began. He snakes an arm around her waist, lifting her against the sink, legs wrapped around him, fingers tugging at his hair, hips pressed against each other, lips trailing down her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, hands roaming everywhere, her feet rising miles above the ground — both literally and figuratively. It still isn’t enough . Something growls inside of her, sharp and questioning, and she longs to find the answer in every inch of James’ skin.
A sound that tastes foreign in her tongue leaves her lips, soft and harsh, as his hand grips her thigh beneath her dress and his lips land hotly behind her ear. She had speculated about James’ hands countless times and yet, she never imagined they would feel like this . She never thought she’d melt between them. He laughs throatily, arrogantly against her and she arches her back, pressing her body against his, finally taking action and reaching for the hem of his t-shirt.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
A hand wraps around her wrist, stopping her, while the other still steadies her, firmly placed in the small of her back. He pulls away, their eyes meeting once again.
“Lily…” and she likes the way he said her name, but she also likes the way he kisses her and he can’t do both things at the same time.
“What?” she asks, impatient.
“Think things through,” he says or orders or begs.
Think things through , he seems to say, because I’m not sure I can think straight right now, because if you keep making those sounds and pressing against me like that there’s no way I could ever step away, because if you regret this tomorrow I don’t know how the hell I’m going to live with myself.
Instead of answering, she connects her lips to his jaw, tightening the way her legs wrap around him, hungry for proximity, hand roaming underneath his shirt, over his stomach, his back, nearing the waistline of his pants. Her nails rake along his spine and — oh, fuck , clearly no one was thinking things through.
“Evans,” he rasps, voice equal parts warning and pleading.
“James,” she replies, with the same tone. “I don’t need to think anything through, I’ve been thinking about this all bloody summer.”
“Yeah?” he grins, as cocky and arrogant as ever, but Lily finds she likes it. His hands find a place on the insides of her thighs again, trailing those damn patterns that drive her completely mental. “And what did you think about?”
“About you. Us. Your hands. Pretty self-explanatory.” She rushes through her answer, not understanding why James’ lips aren’t on hers.
“My hands?” he asks, voice low, his fingers trailing dangerously high. “Where?”
“Everywhere.”
His eyes glint at this and his lips are back on her neck, his hands still on her thighs, still drawing those patterns. “I’ve been thinking about this all summer, too.”
She breathes heavily. “Have you?” She can’t say she’s surprised that James likes to talk during… whatever this is. She can’t say that she minds, either. “What prompted it?”
“Your freckles,” he breathes, close to her ear. “I want to touch every single one of them.”
“With your hands? Tongue? You’ll have to be more specific here, Potter.”
Moved by something roaring and dark, he whispers, “With everything.”
She brings his lips back to hers and she’s tempted to tell him to go for it, to explore every part of his body with every part of his. She doesn’t understand how she managed to know James for so long without kissing him, without tasting him, without feeling him. She doesn’t know how she held back. His fingers play with the waistband of her knickers and thinks she might explode because this is happening, this is finally happening.
“Hey, Evans?” he asks, pulling away slightly, breathless, his forehead landing against hers. Everything slows around them.
“Yeah?”
He grins. “Wanna go on a date?”
And despite everything, Lily laughs. “Potter.”
“Yeah?”
She kisses his cheek: sweet and innocent and tender. “I’d love to.”
The rest of the night stretches in front of them, equal parts soft and ardent, loving and passionate. Their bodies fit against each other like they were destined to meet like this, their hands trailing over skin like an artform. For he might not be a God and she might not be a Goddess — for they might just be two stupid mortals with godly hands and godly freckles — but tonight, between skin and sins, they are divine, and they make of this dirty bathroom their heaven.