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dwaekkilinos · 4 months

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wind and water (pt. 2) | lee felix

summary: People always had a way of looking at you as if your skin were composed of paper mâché and your heart was made of glass. They just assumed you were kind of like a weak bird . . . but Felix Lee looked at you like you still had some flight left.

pairing: lee felix x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | surfing au, childhood friends to lovers, slice of life, angst, fluff, eventual smut word count: 11.7K chapter summary: you think you're kind of like a weak bird; felix lee believes you still have some flight left. warnings/notes: explicit language, typos probably, more talks of death and not too good coping mechanisms, hurt and comfort, felix rly is a sunshine and i love him, reader is all over the place, it's very obvious they have crushes on each other but duh they can't get together, fleabag references, bird metaphors, a painful mother-daughter relationship, bridgerton easter egg, my mad fat diary easter egg, sexual tension, unresolved sexual tension, dry humping, making out, they're young and dumb and both extremely traumatized, bat metaphors aka felix is afraid of bats, and i think that's it for this part but if i missed anything let me know, ok ok hope you enjoy <3

chapter two: can you see right through me? ( ← previous | next → )

Here was the deal: you did not like to think of yourself as a little bird. Not anymore. It felt too fragile, too innocent, too beautiful, and you now felt like you were anything but.

You’d always been a wimpy-looking kid. You’d been told you had these off-putting eyes, not the kind that’s intimidating or anything like that, but the kind that's a little too hard to look at without getting a chill up your spine or something. Your lips were always chapped too, so you supposed you weren’t winning any beauty pageants any time soon.

And god, did you hate your nose. You had always considered yourself one of the unlucky ones, inheriting your father's nose which, not to mention had its own small legacy within your family. It was a nose that was only found on your father's maternal side of the family tree. And of course, your (fucking perfect) sister got lucky and ended up with your mother's nose (like of course!).

So there you had it—you had always considered yourself unlucky in the looks department. It was something that you’d come to terms with anyway; something that you had to after being picked on throughout elementary, junior high, oh, and then high school, because, well . . . yeah . . .

That was the thing though—you had always viewed yourself as less. You never really felt like your mother's little bird, you always just felt like yourself: unnerving and . . . odd. You never felt pretty enough. You always felt like you were just . . . there. Erin was the one everyone was always looking at.

You supposed that was why you fell for every guy that gave you a sliver of attention, especially your ex-boyfriend. He had been the first to call you pretty—something you never thought you were. You supposed that was why you got so attached to him. He was the first person to make you feel pretty enough . . . until he ruined that too, and left you feeling like some kind of ugly, unfortunate little soul.

That winter after he cheated on you and the relationship fizzled into nothing, you spent alone. You didn’t even tell anyone. It was too bothersome; too personal; it was like if you told someone, then it’d lose all its meaning (not that it meant much to him anyway . . . ).

But it meant everything to you.

Everything meant something to you.

And when that winter turned into spring, then summer, autumn, winter, and spring again, you finally did get over it, silently and alone as you had always done. You told people then. You told your mother then.

You remembered it even now.

You’d told her and it was as if she had lost her little bird. You watched it all happen, too. You watched as she realized.

People looked at you as if your skin was composed of paper mâché and your heart was made of glass. You were always breakable, ever so fragile. When you were young, your mother used to call you her Little Bird. Delicate. That was what you had always been. Never harsh or rough, just delicate, soft. You were your mother's little bird, in desperate need of protection.

And when she had found out her little girl had kept this relationship from her; had kept the fact that she had given herself to him body mind and soul . . . well . . . she was no longer her little bird.

You were no longer her little bird.

I can’t believe you would do this to yourself, your mother had whispered, voice full of shock and . . . and an ugly hint of betrayal.

That was the last time you cried before you found out the news of her illness. That was the last time you let yourself resent her. That was the last time you could without a guilty conscience.

But it never left your mind.

You hadn’t known what she meant then, and you still didn’t. However, you did know that you wished you had never told her, because maybe then she wouldn’t have died disappointed in you.

And now all you had left of her were memories you wished you could erase.

Your mother’s little bird . . .

What a fucking joke.

You were no little bird. You weren’t delicate or gentle. Your mother had made sure you knew that. Your mother had made sure you knew that Little Bird had finally flown too soon from the coop, with broken wings, crashing toward the ground, unable to take flight. And on her way down, she met a boy who made her feel soft, and graceful, beautiful . . . until he didn't anymore. She met another boy soon after, and another, and another who made her feel like the delicate bird her mother always told her she was. But they never lasted. They all eventually poisoned her softness, morphing it into weakness.

Still, she . . . you . . . you never stopped chasing that soft, warm feeling they gave you in the beginning. You looked for it in every boy, hoping you'd meet one and the feeling would stay. And just as you were about to collide with the ground, broken wings and all, you met one who made you feel exactly like that.

But this time, the feeling stayed longer than a few weeks. So, you thought that was it. You thought you had found the one everyone was always going on about, until he, too, used your softness against you and poisoned it, turning it into weakness.

And it broke you quietly, harshly like a hiss, not a whisper, until you were able to glue back the feathers he had ripped from your back when he left.

You supposed that made you foolish. It was silly of you to think someone would stay.

Your mother made sure to tell you that. She made sure you knew giving your heart or . . . giving yourself . . . your body to a man, no, a boy was, indeed, foolish. It was stupid, and you were the idiot for believing otherwise.

I’m just trying to protect you, she’d whispered as she came to tuck you in for the night, stroking your hair like she used to when you were a kid.

But her words still stung, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth for months to come.

And a few months later, she got the news. Stage four. Practically untreatable.

A year later she was gone.

But her words remained, and your anger grew.

It was something you couldn’t admit; something that was almost cruel, but you couldn’t help it. But you were angry. Angry at her. Angry at her for what she’d said. Angry at how she’d favored your sister more. Angry at how you grew up. Angry at her for dying. Just so . . . so angry.

And how could you even admit that?

Your mother was dead and you were alive, haunted by the fact that you were so angry at her and she never knew. What kind of sick person did that?

Maybe she did know. Maybe she’d told you to look for her in the wind, knowing it’d haunt you forevermore. Maybe she wanted you to know what a horrible daughter you were. Maybe she knew . . .

But then . . . why didn’t she haunt you?

You’d seen glimpses. You could’ve sworn she was there, somewhere in the shadows lurking. Sure, could it have been the hallucinations? Yeah, you supposed . . . but you could just feel her.

She was still ever-present, and yet . . . she wouldn’t visit you. Had you displeased her that much?

It didn’t make any sense.

When your mother was just a girl, she’d lost her father. She’d lost him and she’d born it well; she’d told you stories about him when you were growing up; she had old pictures and still celebrated his birthday every year. She knew what loss was. She knew how this felt.

And she also knew she, too, would’ve given anything just to see him one last time.

Yet . . . for you . . . she remained silent.

It didn’t make any fucking sense.

Losing someone felt a lot like losing yourself. Your mother knew this. You’d seen it happen to her. You’d felt it happen to yourself.

At first, it feels like nothing . . . like this perpetual numbness is all you will ever feel because it's all you can fathom. But that's because it hasn't hit yet. You're still holding out for a sliver of hope, convincing yourself that you still have time, that she could be brought back and the treatments would finally work. It's a human thing . . . a sad, utterly human thing everyone made of flesh and bone falls victim to. It's a weakness—a devastating one at that.

Hope is what makes us human. So when you lose all your hope . . . what then? What do you have left?

Nothing.

That's when it hits—when you realize you have nothing left. You realize this isn't some obscure bad dream that you can't wake up from. You realize that this person that you held so close to your heart is really just . . . gone.

They're gone, and you're not.

That's when it happens: your entire being fails on you. Everything stops working, and you lose yourself. You stop working because you realize that this person you depended on so heavily throughout your entire life is no longer there. They no longer exist. They're just gone, but somehow for some reason, you're still here. And all you can think is—what makes me so special? Why her and not me?

Grief had a funny way of feeling a lot like guilt.

And your guilt always manifested as ghosts—the ghosts you'd lost throughout your life.

No one ever truly felt gone to you. It'd always felt like they'd gone away on a trip and you were just patiently waiting for them to return. Sometimes you could hear them. Sometimes even feel them, their essence, the person they used to be.

It'd been that way ever since you were a kid. Oftentimes, out of the corner of your eye, you swore you could see figures pass your vision, figures that had passed on. Hell, even the kids in your grade would joke how you could see dead people, but you never really paid them any mind.

You couldn't see dead people. You didn't have some sixth sense or anything like that. You had guilt and grief and ghosts.

Because really . . . if what people said about you had been true, if you really could see the dead, then why wouldn't your mother haunt you?

Haunt me, you would sob for weeks after her death under your breath in the dead of night. Haunt me, please. I need you. Please, haunt me. Fucking haunt me.

But no ghost ever came, only the perpetual darkness galloped in, consuming you whole.

Your mother was gone, and all your memories of her came with anger and resentment and pain. . . . Guilt was your ghost, not her.

Because the truth was: you knew why she wouldn’t haunt you.

You’d failed her. She died with disappointment in her veins; she’d died in vain.

And then you fucked up your life.

She’d wait for Hell to turn over before she even thought of seeing your face again. That much was clear.

Yet . . .

Haunt me, you carved into a wooden panel of the bed slat you were currently (and begrudgingly) glaring at. Your hand shook as you marked a line under the words with the beer bottle cap you were using to carve. And when that was done, your hand fell to the floorboards, just near your head, and you stared at the two, daunting words.

Now . . . let’s back up. Where are we? How did we get here? What’s going on?

Well, dead mother aside and it’s just another boring, hot day in Southhaven, duh. Day is normal. Grace. A glimpse of Felix. A look from Chris. Blah, blah, blah.

Then, Chris comes barging into the kitchen just when it’s getting dark. He needs the minivan. Why? Well, apparently he and his old friends from high school are getting together for their annual bonfire or . . . whatever. Felix is trailing in behind him, apple in hand as he watches Chris beg like he’s a preteen once again.

And you, well, you’re caught in the crossfire, accidentally stumbling upon the situation just as you’re going into the kitchen to grab popcorn for you and Grace. One thing leads to another and . . . Chris is allowed supervision of the minivan for one night if he drags you along with him (you know why; you know the Bahngs are worried about you; you know they want you to hang out with people your own age, but still).

So you’re forced to tag along. But . . . Felix is there, too, sitting in the front with Chris. And then you’re there. The place reeks of smoke, and you immediately wonder if throwing yourself into the bonfire is too dramatic for a Wednesday night.

Chris is gone in ten seconds, being whisked away by one of their friends. Minho, you think you catch his name, but your mind is elsewhere. Felix leaves next, not by choice, however. He’s quite literally picked up by two other guys and taken . . . somewhere. And then you’re alone again. Of course.

Whatever, anyway, you couldn’t remember how it happened now, but one minute you were outside, then the next you were in their kitchen, taking a shot of whatever. Tequila or vodka, you don’t know. All alcohol just tastes like rubbing alcohol and hot coal sliding down your throat.

And the next thing you know, you suddenly can’t stand to be in your own skin anymore, and you’re wandering up the stairs with a beer bottle in hand and a need to be alone, alone, alone.

You supposed you freaked out again. Just a little, right? You couldn’t remember how or why but somehow, you ended up in a random bedroom, tucked under a bed, staring at the words Haunt me for the past five minutes while you calmed your shaky hands and beating heart.

“Fuck,” you hissed under your breath as you ran your fingers across the horribly carved words.

What were you doing?

Why couldn’t you just drag yourself downstairs and be fucking normal?

You used to be so good at it. You used to be so . . so different. You used to be able to let Hyunjin and Jisung drag you to bars where the three of you would just walk around shitfaced, trying to find the bathroom in each and every bar. It used to be fun. Now . . . now you didn’t even feel like drinking the rest of the beer that sat just on the outside from under the bed.

Dropping your other hand to cover your face, you loudly groaned. Why couldn’t you just be normal?

With a sigh, you dragged your hand down your face. Your eyes were on the carved words once again. Swallowing hard, you allowed yourself to trace the carvings with your fingertip.

Haunt me.

And you were back in that house; back in your house, eyes always on that damned dining table. You didn’t know how long you’d waited for your mother to take her seat every single night. You just remembered watching, waiting, wishing . . . only for nothing to happen.

Haunt me.

Would the next person to knock at your door be her or . . . death? Would she see you then?

Almost as if like clockwork, a knock at the bedroom door came. You whipped your head in that direction, eyes on the sliver of light peeking out from the gap in the door. A shadow of two feet stared back at you, making your heart hammer in your chest.

Waiting in silence, you didn’t dare speak a word, wondering if the person or . . . ghost would be the first to talk. And slowly, they opened the door, stepping inside while your heart climbed to your throat.

But then:

“Can I join you?” the person asked, their voice deep and smooth, and you instantly knew who it was.

Your heart dropped.

It wasn’t her.

You watched, oddly heartbroken, as he awkwardly shifted his weight from foot to foot, but you didn’t dare say a word. “I’m not, like, stalking you or anything if you were wondering . . . um—” a clearing of his throat— “I just . . . I didn’t know where you went. Someone mentioned seeing a girl go upstairs and then, well, I heard you in here. So . . . totally not stalking.”

A beat of heavy silence.

Then:

“There’s room, Felix,” you mumbled out, letting him know in the littlest of words that he could, in fact, join you.

Within seconds, there he was, his face peeking under the bed, eyes finding yours and immediately smiling. You felt yourself trying to fight off a small smile of your own as he crawled under the bed until he was laying comfortably next to you, arm brushing arm.

The funny thing was: you oddly felt more comfortable than you had a second ago. But then again, you quite liked being around him. It seemed everyone did anyway. He was just that type of person.

And yet he kept following after you. (You hated how it made you feel warm, almost . . . special.)

“So . . . “ he chuckled under his breath, eyes on your profile, “what are you doing under here?”

You didn’t turn to meet his gaze. Feeling it on you was one thing but having to make eye contact felt like a whole other path you did not want to cross just yet. So instead, your eyes remained on the bed slat as you whispered, “Dunno . . .”

“Right,” he breathed out, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath. Oddly, it only made you want to scoot closer. “Well . . . hiding from the world doesn’t seem like too shabby of an idea actually.”

“Mmm . . . why?” you forced yourself to ask.

“I mean it sucks, doesn’t it?” he elaborated with a small shrug. “Why not hide under a bed? Makes me feel like a kid again . . . small . . . almost untouchable. No one can tell you what to do; what to feel; who to be.”

Then, you did turn. Your eyes on his, searching. “Hmm, I never thought of it like that,” you whispered. “I mean . . . . well I guess I’d do anything to be little again, too.”

“So you can speak more than two words at a time,” he whispered back, his eyes trailing across your features almost as if he were trying to memorize them. And then . . . then he smiled that warm, kind smile he always sent your way, and it was like you were eight years old again watching the sunset with a hand in yours.

You smiled back.

Felix breathed in sharply, his smile flattening as he tongued his inner cheek. “You know . . . we haven’t talked much,” he murmured as his gaze faltered, landing on your shoulder instead of your eyes.

Feeling anxious under his gaze, you toyed with the end of your old tee. “I know.”

“Well . . . you don’t say much either,” he muttered again, chuckling under his breath.

Something tugged at the corner of your lips—a small, ghost of a smile. “I know.”

“I’d like to change that,” Felix whispered back, not missing a beat. Then, when he’d realized what he said, he cleared his throat and turned his attention to the bed slat. “Not the not talking bit, well, I mean not the you not talking part. I’d like to change the not talking at all thing.” He was waving his hands around now.

You raised your brows.

He dropped his hands.

An incredibly awful awkward beat of silence.

Then: “Yeah . . . “ he went on, puffing up his cheeks and blowing out air. “I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I’d like to talk to you more . . . if that’s alright with you.”

He turned his head then, his eyes searching for yours, but this time, you were already staring at him. His brows were pinched up, almost as if his whole body were asking you this one question.

And you began to wonder . . . did you make him nervous, too?

The thought almost made you laugh. There was nothing intimidating about you. How could you ever make someone like him nervous?

Before you could stop yourself, another smile lifted onto your face, except this time, it morphed into a grin. “I think . . . I think I’d like that, too,” you found yourself mumbling, the grin never leaving your face, because really, you just couldn’t help yourself.

Relief instantly flooded his face. “Good. Good,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head with a small, dopey grin on his face. Then, he nodded once and turned back to face the bed slat. “Great.”

However, your eyes stayed on him a little longer. To be honest, you couldn’t tear yourself away. There was something in you that just wanted to memorize this moment. You weren’t sure why and you weren’t sure what it meant, but you did know you had taken extra care to focus on the freckles adorning his cheeks, especially the one that oddly resembled a small heart. That one you were sure would be ingrained into your brain for weeks to come. That one you were sure you’d draw over and over again in your sketchbook, unable to completely replicate it.

You began to wonder if he had these freckles when you were kids, too. You wondered if you had been so enraptured by them back then, too. And then you began to wonder why you couldn’t remember.

Felix Lee seemed like a hard person to forget.

. . . Why had you?

“You know—” Felix abruptly pulled you from your own mind, making you blink a few times before you tore your attention from him— “when we were kids, I used to think your house was haunted.”

Quickly, you snuck a glance at him through the corner of your eye. His eyes were trained on the bed slat. Well . . . they were trained on where you had carved your thoughts. He’d seen it.

Haunt me, he’d seen and he’d begun to tell you his own ghost stories. You, of course, stayed silent, swallowing hard as you waited for him to continue, because truly . . . you couldn’t remember any of it.

You couldn’t remember your old house or him or anyone from your life here. You just remembered fights and crying yourself to sleep. You remembered hurt, and yet . . . sunsets and Cherry Cherry saltwater taffy.

But everything was bleak, almost blurry, almost like they weren’t your own memories. Or maybe you hadn’t wanted them to be your own. Maybe you’d wanted them to belong to someone else.

Maybe that was why you stayed silent, and let Felix tell you his memories.

And, so, he did, and you listened.

“This was when I had trouble sleeping yeah? So when Chris and I would stay the night . . . I’d always be the last one awake and I swear I could hear people, like, talking in the middle of the night. But, like, it was crazy. They were always angry, always kind of, like, yelling but in a whisper, you know?” he went on, trying to paint the picture with his hand motions, but your eyes were locked on his face, watching each and every expression he made. “I was convinced your house itself was possessed and angry that me and Chris were there.”

It was unusual, because he’d said these things and you instantly had this dumb grin on your face that you were desperately trying to bite back. You just couldn’t imagine the man beside you cowering in a sleeping bag as he convinced himself ghosts were haunting him.

Then . . . it slowly began to dawn on you.

His ghosts . . . they were fighting, he’d said.

And it hit you.

His ghosts weren’t ghosts. They weren’t even just a child’s mind playing tricks. Because they were real, yes, but . . . Felix’s ghosts had been your parents.

Your smile slowly fell, your heart sinking as the corners of your lips crumbled into a thin line. And you began to wish your house had been haunted.

Felix, of course, caught onto your expression, but he hadn’t known. No, instead, he went on, “It’s stupid, I know, but back then I would always go home and beg my mom never to let me go back, but then . . . you’d ask and I’d end up back there, absolutely shaking in my sleeping bag. I swear I nearly pissed my pants every time.”

“I don’t remember that,” you muttered back, but you did know.

“The sleepovers or the ghosts? Because the ghosts were one hundred percent my imagination,” Felix said, laughing under his breath.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to offer even a smile back, because although you didn’t remember, you did know. You knew how it felt to be twelve, hiding in the bathroom with your older sister while your parents fought in the kitchen. You knew how it felt for her to tell you that your parents wouldn’t be together much longer and you should just accept it. You knew how it felt to be a hopeless romantic, watching Disney princess movie after movie, dreaming of your true love’s kiss, and then have it all crushed the moment your eyes set on your parents. You knew how it felt to ask your father if he still loved your mother, only to be met with an I don’t know anymore.

You knew how it felt to be a child and have your heart broken again and again, even if you couldn’t remember . . . this.

“All of it,” you ended up hoarsely whispering out. And then you felt it: a tear spilled down your cheek. Embarrassment flooded in quickly, and you harshly wiped it away. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I do this. I don’t mean to be such a fucking downer. It’s just . . . I think your ghosts were just my stupid parents.”

His eyes were on you again or maybe they had never left, but now . . . now you felt him staring. He didn’t speak, although, that told you what you needed to know.

He wanted to know . . .

He was waiting for you to continue on your own time, and you . . . you just couldn’t help but indulge yourself.

“My dad’s not the best guy,” you all but hissed out a second later, rage piling up inside you as years and years of anger and hurt spilled down your cheeks in the form of tears. “After my grandma died . . . he went away. Business trip. When he came back, I found out that he had been cheating on my mom the whole time. Apparently, he’d been cheating on her with multiple different women throughout the entire relationship, and the only reason why we moved was because he was fucking one of his goddamn students.”

You didn’t know why you were telling him this, you just . . .

You just . . .

“I wish I could tell you the house was haunted. I wish it had been one of your ghosts, but . . . “ you muttered, bitterness on your tongue as the words tumbled from your lips, unable to stop it.

A deafening beat of silence.

And then you realized what you had done.

Felix had never asked you what happened. He had never given any indication that he wanted to hear anything about your bullshit. No one ever really did, so why did you ever expect him to?

Quickly covering your face with your hands, you wished the ground would swallow you whole. “God, I’m sorry. You can leave. I’m fine, just tired, really,” you huffed out, your words muffled by your hands. “Go, it’s OK.”

But Felix just . . . laughed under his breath once again and simply hummed, “No.”

That was when you peeked at him through your hands, finally meeting his gaze. “No?” you questioned, searching his eyes for the punchline of the joke.

Felix only shrugged. “You’re a person of few words. Why can’t I be one, too?”

But you couldn’t take him seriously. “I’m serious. Don’t be dumb, you don’t have to listen to me whine about my dead mom and deadbeat dad,” you went on, watching him carefully. “Seriously, go, have fun.”

Nodding once, you thought Felix understood. You thought he was going to finally crawl out from underneath the bed, and leave you be. You thought he was going to finally leave your side like all those before him. But instead . . . he just pointed to the bottle cap resting beside you and asked, “Can I see that?”

And you were left shocked again. “I guess,” you tried to whisper out as you picked up the cap and hesitantly handed it to him, wondering what he was up to.

Felix muttered a quiet thank you before he took the cap from you and began to carve something into the bed slat. Only when he pulled his hand away did you realize he’d carved out the word ‘No’.

Your brows lifted.

“Sorry, I thought maybe you needed a visual,” he mused, finally turning back to you with a small grin playing on his lips.

Scrunching your brows, you glanced between him and the carving. Until: “Dick,” you scoffed out, but . . . but you were laughing. It was quiet laughter, sure, but laughter nonetheless as you shook your head at him.

His grin only grew.

Beat.

He still wasn’t leaving.

One more beat, and you breathed a hesitant sigh of relief. Maybe you could do this. Maybe you could let yourself trust him little by little.

You turned to meet his gaze, maintaining eye contact. His brown eyes were warm . . . welcoming . . . trusting. (It was no wonder he was such a brilliant muse.)

Maybe you really could trust him . . .

Beat.

B—

“Fine . . . “ you heard yourself choke out before you knew you were speaking, “where do I begin?”

His grin had begun to morph into a warm smile that matched his eyes. “Wherever you want,” he whispered, his voice deep, yet . . . gentle. “No one can tell you what to do under here, remember?”

Beat.

He smiled wider, his eyes crinkling now.

You finally smiled back, weakly.

And then . . . you started from the beginning.

You told him about how you realized everything when you turned seventeen. You told him about the fights during your childhood and how you always thought that was what love was like. You told him about when your grandmother died and your mother cried every day. You told him about when your father finally came back and the cups and plates that were broken in the following days. You told him about how your sister moved away shortly after that, and how you were stuck.

You told him about senior year of high school. The fights every night until four in the morning as you laid in bed, listening. You told him about having to clean up the broken plates after your father would leave in the middle of the night to get away from your mother, and how one time a shard of glass managed to embed itself into your skin. You told him how much it hurt feeling the glass press deeper and deeper into your skin day by day. And how it took two weeks for your body to finally push it out.

And when the floodgates had finally opened, your cheeks quickly staining with tears, you finally mentioned the night you begged your father to stay only for him to give you a look with pain that matched your own. You told him how your father heard you cry for him, and how he simply told you he never wanted to see you or your mother again.

You told him how your father returned home the very next day, and the cycle restarted. (It would continue, end, then restart for the following four years, as well, but that was a horror for another time.)

The days you would leave class early to cry in the bathroom because you just couldn’t take it, weren’t forgotten either. And how even the simplest of comments would set you off.

You told him how you went from this A student, never missing a day of school since the start of junior high, to someone who would ask her mother to pick her up early or beg to stay home from school just this one day. You told him how suddenly it went from being December to July in the blink of an eye so fast that you couldn’t even properly remember your graduation.

And just when you were about to tell him how in those years, this sadness had turned into rage toward both of them, you stopped. Nearly holding your tongue, you glanced at him in shock. You couldn’t say that, could you? What if he judged you? What if he called you ungrateful? What if he told you you were sick, just like you had hypothesized? What if—

But then you did look at him. You really looked at him, your eyes meeting his, searching on a deeper level than before, and you knew the answer.

Felix’s eyes were warm and gentle and kind. They were unlike anything you had ever seen; unlike anyone you had ever known. And under that bed, you swore they had whispered to you, assured you that there was no judgment there.

And you believed them. You believed him.

“I’ve been too scared to tell people this but . . . “ you slowly mumbled out, continuing to search his eyes. (Any sign of disgust and you’d shut everything down.) “I don’t know how much my mother loved me. God, that sounds stupid, but I know she loved my sister more.” Wetting your lips, you nearly laughed. “You know . . . parents always say they don’t pick favorites but, like, Erin . . . Erin is perfect, and I couldn’t even keep my GPA above a 3.4. I had nothing else. It was just school and sleep and nothing for me, but Erin was out there doing . . . doing everything.”

Felix nodded, listening, eyes attentive. And you felt this weight lift from your shoulders, breathing a sigh of relief as you continued, “And, you know, Erin doesn’t actually know shit about anything. She wasn’t there when it happened. I had to hold mom down every fucking night. I had to cling onto her fucking leg so she wouldn’t go after him. While Erin . . . Erin was building her new life, and yeah, I’m happy for her or whatever, but she has no idea how hard that was, and mom always acted as if she was this—this saint that drove her to the hospital one time, but I was there. I was fucking there.”

The rage had set in. It trickled through your veins, poisoning your heart.

“I brought mom breakfast every morning when she couldn’t get out of bed. I stayed with her every time she cried. In—In college, I came home on the weekends instead of being with my friends because I didn’t want to leave her alone with him. I was fucking there and I got nothing for it,” you all but sobbed as you shook your head. “She never even asked if I was OK, and I was begging for her to see that I wasn’t. I wanted her to hold me. I wanted her to apologize for taking my innocence away for—for stealing my fucking childhood. I wanted her to be my mom.”

I wanted her to be my mom, your words rang throughout your ears.

That was perhaps what hurt the most—the fact that she was supposed to be your mother, and the fact that you couldn’t say she hadn’t been. Because she had. She’d cared every day; she’d loved you every day, but some days you wondered how deep that love ran. Some days you wondered if she would’ve rather not been your mother. Some days you wondered if she resented you because you also came from your father and wore his face, practically taunting her.

I wanted her to be my mom. But perhaps she had wanted you to be her daughter, too. Only, maybe she had wanted you to just be her daughter and not his.

I wanted her to be my mom. But she never asked to have a daughter who resembled the man who’d torn their family apart.

Clutching the locket around your neck, you breathed in a shaky breath, your bottom lip trembling. “And then she got sick,” you barely managed to croak out. “It was like my world ended, because as much as I hated what she did to me . . . I think . . . I think she was the one person I loved the most in this world, and the thought of someday being without her . . . “

Your words trailed off but you knew you were nowhere near done. The floodgates were open now, and you’d be a fool to think you could stop them.

“I know she loved me,” you went on, trying to ignore the trembling in your voice. “I know that. I know. She would tuck me into bed every night even when I’d come home from college. She would give me forehead kisses and hug me and tell me she wouldn’t know what to do without me, but . . . she also used to call me her little shadow, like I was just her daughter and not a person.”

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Your heart or his? Or . . . hers?

“And I knew what that meant. I knew she saw me as an extension of herself, and so . . . we would fight. We fought all the time, and every time we did, she’d bring up the fact that I was just like my father,” you bit out. “She’d say I knew how to make people feel horrible. I knew how to ruin everything, like I couldn’t possibly be her child, I had to be just his and only his solely because I wasn’t complying to her every fucking whim. And, you know . . . every time I’d wonder if she truly did love me as much as she said . . . or if she loved me the same way she loved my father: in moderation with grudges and resentment. I wondered if she hated me as much as she loved me.”

There it was. I wondered if she hated me as much as she loved me. Would you be condemned now?

But for once, you didn’t care. You just . . . you wanted these words, these feelings out. And so, you went on . . .

“Then . . . she fucking died and when she did, she told me to look for her in the wind as if that makes any fucking sense at all,” you nearly scoffed, shaking your head as your tears continued to fall. “But . . . she missed home. I knew that. Dad had taken her away and she’d blindly followed him and I knew she regretted it every day. She always wanted to go back home; back here. I mean she always wanted me to come back with her, too . . . so I guess I knew what she meant. If I ever found myself back here, she’d want me to see her in everything. In the long roads, in the sand between my toes, in the trees . . . in the ocean, but now that I’m here; now that I hear her voice everywhere . . . I can’t help but wonder if she meant for it to be this cruel.”

As those words left your lips, you could have sworn you could feel her ghost. And maybe she was there, listening as her resentment for you grew. You’d understand if it did, too. You were angry and hurt and Erin was grieving.

There was no competition to determine who the better daughter was. The answer was clear. It was in the wind, the ocean, the sand between your toes, the sunburn on your back . . . hidden in the lines on your face.

Dropping your hand to the floorboards, you choked out a gruesome sob, nearly coughing all over the man beside you. “Like . . . did she mean she’d always be with me? Or did she want me to know that I’d never forget her dying; that I should be haunted by her death throughout my life?”

Felix didn’t reply, and you didn’t expect him to. This was no question for him. It was for her, and she was no longer there to answer. You’d forever be wondering . . .

And when the silence had gone on for too long, you angrily wiped your cheeks and nose, before you sighed out a shaky breath. “I haven’t had much time to think about what I want in life or what I want here,” you began, your voice quieter now. “All that I’ve done is for my mother; for her to be proud of me. That is my life. But . . . I think . . . what I want is to be loved as much as I am hated. I think my mother’s love would have been much easier to swallow then. Maybe then I’d get it down without choking. Or . . . maybe it’d kill me.”

Fuck.

“Fuck,” you spoke aloud. “And you wanna know the worst part? . . . I still . . . I don’t get it . . . because now I just . . . now I have all this love and . . . and hatred for her and I have nowhere to put it. I don’t have a mother. She’s gone and I’m here, and I’m stuck with everything she left behind. I just—How . . . how do you love someone who’s gone? Who do you give it to?”

Your words rang throughout your ears. If you knew the truth, would it kill you? If she was still alive, would it have been you instead of her?

You couldn’t help but think that that was how it should have been. It should’ve been you instead of her. It should’ve—

The warmth of a hand sliding into your own caught you off guard, pulling you from your mind. Slowly, you glanced down at your hand, finding Felix’s intertwined.

Had you spoken too much? Was he telling you to shut up? Did he—

“Sorry,” you immediately blurted out, trying to pull your hand from his, “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

But Felix gently secured his grip around your hand. Hesitantly and cautiously, as if asking for your permission, he laced your fingers together, holding your hand firmly in his.

And it was as if you finally understood what he had been saying the other day.

“Felix?” you questioned, unsure.

He only squeezed your hand as if telling you it was OK. “She’s always going to be your mom, you know?” he began a second later, his words quiet, cautious. “Death doesn’t take that away from you. I don’t think it has to take your love for her, either. That you should keep, and don’t . . . don’t let it go.”

Slowly, you turned your head to look at him once again, only now . . . now he was staring at the bed slat and not at you. And you watched as the thoughts raged on inside his head.

His brows scrunched in thought. “I didn’t know her well. I mean I can remember bits and pieces, but it’s not her I remember from back then. I didn’t know her. I know that, but . . . “ he trailed off, wetting his lips. “I remember you guys being here, and I know what my mom told me in the years after you left. Your mother loved you, too, and that kind of love . . . it’s not cruel. Know that.”

“But . . . “ you swallowed hard, “what if as I grew up . . . her love for me outgrew, too? What if she only loved me because I was a kid? Because I was small and needed her?”

“I’d like to think once you love something . . . someone, that feeling . . . stays, and if it doesn’t then . . . “ he turned to you, his eyes glassy now, too, but he wouldn’t let the tears fall, “then it was never love in the first place.”

You offered a weak smile. “Well, I don’t think there was much love in my family to begin with. I don’t even know if I know how to . . . how to do it.”

He offered you a weak smile back. “I’ve found that it’s those people who know how to love better than anyone,” he nearly whispered as he squeezed your hand once again, now rubbing your skin with his thumb.

And for once . . . for once, you squeezed his hand back. It was comforting. It was innocent. It felt . . . safe. He . . . he felt safe.

“Grief feels a lot like guilt and . . . fear,” Felix went on, searching your eyes now. “And when you lose someone, it’s like learning how to be a person again. You question everything. You wonder if you have actually lived at all. You begin to ask yourself if you could have done more when they were alive. You blame yourself. Hate yourself.” He took a deep breath, and in that time, he reached out to curl your hair behind your ear in a comforting manner. “It takes a long time to forgive yourself for just . . . being a person and . . . being . . . alive, but it starts with knowing that your mother would not want you to live the rest of your life thinking about how hers ended.”

Beat.

You swallowed hard.

Beat.

He stroked your hair.

Beat.

“Love doesn’t work like that,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “It’s forgiving.”

Your brows twitched. “And if I can’t?”

The corners of his lips tugged into a small smile. “That’s the thing, sad eyes . . . you will,” he mumbled before his thumb was touching your cheek, wiping the tears that had fallen.

Beat.

Your heart or his?

Yours.

Definitely yours.

Once again, you swallowed hard.

His hand remained.

“How about we go . . . “

But his words muted in your ears as you zoned out, getting trapped inside your mind again. You felt the urge to do something to thank him. No one had ever listened to you like that and told you that everything wasn’t ruined and you weren’t this horrible, no-good person. No one had ever let you know you weren’t alone like that, and if there was one thing your mother had told you growing up, it was to thank those who helped you.

But you never knew how to do things right. You always did them just a bit wrong. So when he’d told you everything would be OK, when he’d brushed your hair back, when he’d wiped your tears, when he’d cared for you like no one else had proudly done, you felt the urge to tell him that you liked him . . . that you had been drawing him and he’d become something of a muse to you.

Now, you were your mother’s little bird who’d flown from the nest too soon and met boy after boy. You were an adult whose younger self had dreamt of finding her prince charming. You were someone who found love in many things and longed for that love back. You had always loved people with a hug or laughter or a kiss. You’d loved every boy who’d made you feel special, and you’d always shown them through your body.

So, yes, you had a tiny crush on this someone you knew from the past, and now he was so close and you just wanted to let him know that you were grateful. So why couldn’t you just tell him that?

You tried, but you couldn't get the words to tumble from your tongue. You were thinking too much again. So you just stared at him, with your mind spinning and your heart pounding in your chest. Beat. Beat. Beat. For a split second, you thought you might tell him that because he cared for you, you just had to care for him (because that was just how you were raised, right?).

But you didn't.

Those words never left your lips. Instead, you did something that shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you. You glanced at his lips, then crashed into him, slamming your lips onto his and nearly knocking out all the air in your lungs.

The warmth of his lips obliterated every thought in your head, melting your mind as you melded into him. Felix, however, remained stunned, his hand frozen still on your face while you pressed your chapped lips against his soft, plush ones.

But when your fingers gently grazed his cheek, traveling up to curl his hair behind his ear, he gave in. He reacted quickly after that, and gripped onto your hips, locking your leg over his hip the best he could under the bed to shift closer to you. And then he was wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer to him until there was no space left between. His other hand found its way to the back of your neck and he deepened the kiss. It was sloppy and needy . . . like the two of you were trying to drink each other up; like you were thanking him and he was thanking you right back.

And his touch. His touch lit a fire inside you as he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, asking you for permission first. And you willingly gave it to him, parting your lips just enough to allow him access, and relishing in the way he nearly groaned at your neediness.

Every squeeze of your hips, every hurried touch he left along your sides, your legs, your arms, face, lips . . . you felt yourself sinking further and further into him. You just wanted more and more and more. No one had ever felt this good. No one had ever tasted this sweet. No one had ever made you want to kiss them until the sun rose, but him . . . He was nearly otherworldly.

“You’re so pretty,” you heard yourself say against his lips before you began to kiss his cheek, then his jaw, until you reached his neck.

Felix chuckled under his breath, tilting his head to the side to allow you more access and you eagerly took it. “I’m pretty?” he questioned, his voice deeper now as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when your tongue lazily licked the lobe of his ear.

“So pretty,” you mused, continuing to kiss his beautiful, beautiful neck as you drew yourself closer to him, your core now directly resting on top of his lower half.

That was when you felt it—his hardness poking you where you needed it most. You couldn't tell if he was fully hard due to the material of his jeans, but you didn't care. The feeling alone was enough to set you off—your skin grew hot and your breath hitched in your throat as your core ached for even the simplest of touches.

“You’re—” he began, but his words quickly died on his tongue as you worked your way back up to his lips. Slotting your tongue against his, you swallowed every thought he could’ve spun.

Grinning against his lips, you mumbled, taunting him, “I’m?”

(See . . . the thing was, being intimate with someone . . . it gave you confidence, so being intimate with him . . . well . . . you felt . . . otherworldly, too.)

But he only groaned, his deep voice doing unspeakable things to you as his grip on you tightened. His touch only spurred you on further. “You’re—” he cut himself off as dived back in, his mouth skillfully working against yours— “everything.” His words shocked you to the core, but not for long as one of his hands tightened around the hair at the back of your head, pulling you into him while his other hand tugged your body against his, the movements simultaneously brushing your clit ever so slightly against the tent in his jeans.

If he knew how he was affecting you, he didn’t show it. It just seemed he wanted more and more of you, and that was it. Yet, still, his simple touches were making your underwear stick to your core, and you were becoming more and more lost in him as the seconds passed.

When your core began to ache all too much, you listened to your body, subconsciously grinding against his hardness. And instantly, he curled into you, a deep moan sounding from the back of his throat as he buried his head into the crook of your neck.

But he didn’t dare touch you like . . . that . . . back. No . . . instead . . . his hands stilled, his touch light against you as he halted you from grinding against him again.

And you were left out of breath, dazed, and confused, with an odd ache in your chest.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kissed your neck once, but it was gentle, almost innocent, and then he was pulling away.

And you realized what had happened.

He hadn’t wanted this. Holy shit, you’d just. You’d kissed him and he didn’t want you. Fuck, fuck, you’d fucked everything up again. Fuck.

Shaking your head, that sudden realization was the only thing you needed to know before you practically jumped away from him. “No, I’m sorry, I—fuck—” you stammered out as you detached your body from his and leaned back, facing the bed slat in utter shock. “I should’ve asked you. That’s so creepy. Oh, my God.”

“Shit, no! I didn’t—” Felix quickly ushered out as he reached for you, his hand caressing your cheek in an instant. “I just . . . “ His eyes met yours, searching and you searched right back, practically begging him to tell you the truth. You knew you’d never been someone people . . . liked. You could take this. He just . . . he just had to tell you. But instead: “I just . . . I can’t be . . . intimate with you.”

Your brows furrowed, your face hot. “Um . . . OK . . . I’m sorry. I’m just confused . . . why’d you kiss me back?” you questioned. Your eyes widened once you realized what you’d said. “I mean, not that you like have to. You don’t have to want to kiss me. I just, I guess what I mean is, well—”

“Because I wanted to,” Felix quickly cut you off, his deep voice like silk. “I want to kiss you. Fuck, I want that so fucking bad.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “A lot . . . but I can’t want that . . . not right now.”

You blinked once. Then twice. Then once more as you stared at him while confusion and something else twisted through your brain. He wanted to kiss you. He had, and yet . . .

Why was he holding himself back?

Beat.

And then:

Felix sighed, his hand dropping from your cheek. “Can I walk you . . . us home?” he asked.

You nodded in response, but your mind was elsewhere.

He’d wanted to kiss you, but he couldn’t. Somehow . . . you understood. And oddly enough, it made relief revisit you once again that night.

As you walked through the empty streets of Southhaven, you couldn't help but wonder how you ended up here. Because the thing was: you had just spent a few hours with a boy you had known when you were small but couldn’t place his face to your memories, and now . . . now you were . . . kind of friends.

Not only that, but you had never felt more seen, more understood in those few hours than you ever had in your entire life. No one your age had ever actually cared enough to try and get to know you. The only ones who had were Hyunjin and Jisung, but they weren’t here, and you’d been missing them for some time now. You thought maybe you’d missed them before you even left. You thought maybe you’d missed them once your mother was gone.

(Perhaps you’d missed the person you had been with them when your mother was alive.)

But the others . . . Those who you’d grown up with all just labeled you as one thing and steered clear of you their entire lives.

But it wasn't like that with Felix.

Now . . . before you admitted this, you would just like to defend yourself by saying that yes, you knew it was a problem, and yes, it was probably a character flaw or whatever. But . . . ever since you were a kid and the boys in your grade would stick notes in your locker, asking you out as a joke, you’d had this innate urge to prove yourself to men . . . or rather . . . to be liked by them.

It was sick, and you knew it, too, but it was something that’d haunted you for years. It was something you desperately clung onto throughout your life.

It was something you’d hoped no one else saw in you. It was also something you knew men or at least the men you’d known liked to take advantage of. Because you were you—a weak bird hoping someone would take her wings and help her fly.

And when you’d kissed Felix, you’d kissed him because you wanted that approval from him. You knew that. You knew it was wrong, but he’d looked at you, listened, told you everything would be alright, and you just wanted to show him you were grateful in the only way you’d known how.

So when he’d stopped you, it’d stung as it always did, but that was better than the disgust you felt with yourself after. So, did it feel like shit? Yes, but there was relief there, too. Because, now, now you hadn’t ruined this. You hadn’t ruined the comfort you’d found in him.

For once, nothing was ruined. It just was.

And the best part—he was still walking right beside you. He hadn’t left (and oddly, you wanted to fight against the urge that told you to push him away), and it seemed he didn’t plan on doing so for a long while.

That, to you, was the hardest part of that night for you to wrap your head around. Everyone left sooner or later, but when he’d told you he wasn’t going anywhere . . . a part of you believed him.

And you . . . you had never felt this way with anyone. Everything and everyone had always felt like an expiration date. The girls in school would talk to you there, sure, but never outside of those walls. They had never asked you anything about yourself. It had always been about them, so much so that you forgot you actually had a personality of your own.

You weren’t exactly sure how you ended up in that position, but you were you and had a small bit of an inkling.

Because here was the thing: when you're sixteen, you'll do anything to fit in. You yearn to be prettier, to be girlier, to be more, but not more in the too much sense, rather more in a just right kind of way. So you befriend people who aren't considered weird by the masses, and it works for a while, because you are able to mask your true self for a while. But sometimes she slips out. Sometimes you say something a little too . . . odd . . . and they look at each other, laugh, and call you weird, trying to pass it off as if they're not ridiculing you.

Then after a while, you realize, they're not just laughing as a joke . . . they're making fun of you.

And you come to the conclusion that you have to accept the fact that some birds are high-flying birds. Those birds, like your perfect sister, fly with their heads held high. They fly with elegance and beauty and class. They fly like they own the world. And you . . . you're a part of the other birds—the birds who don't fly high; the ones who can't no matter how hard they try. You're constantly trying to fly with these high-flying birds, only to be met with failure. Your wings aren't strong enough. You're not strong enough.

So you accept that some birds are high-flying birds, and others are not, but you still hope that you can fly together. You hope for this every time, and every time you're met with that same old familiar feeling of failure.

Some birds are high-flying birds, and others are not. They were never meant to fly together.

It was one of the reasons why you wondered Hyunjin and Jisung were still your friends after all these years. They flew high. They knew who they were. They were something to be admired, and you were just . . . there.

Come to think of it, you’d never met another low-flying bird before. And then . . . as you kicked a stone in your path, your head hanging low, you snuck a glance at Felix out of the corner of your eye.

You began to wonder what type of bird Felix Lee was . . .

“Vulnerability is a tricky thing,” Felix sighed out a second later, almost as if he had felt your eyes on him. “I’ve struggled with it a lot this past year, and I know what it makes you want to do. I know how easy it is to mistake it for something else, and I know how crushing it feels when . . . when reality comes crashing back in.”

Swallowing hard, you took in his words. You knew what he meant. You knew he was talking about what had happened between the two of you back at the bonfire. And you knew what he was saying.

It wouldn’t happen again.

His lips on yours couldn’t be, and that . . . that you were beginning to think was OK. Did you find yourself staring at him a little too long sometimes? Yes. Did you maybe think you felt something for him? Yes, but . . . you’d always had a hard time distinguishing your emotions.

Everything would be ruined if you did find yourself drawing his lips one too many times. So you’d stick to walking side by side, knowing nothing would ever happen between the two of you. You’d stick to being his friend, because that . . . that oddly felt right.

And for some reason that was what you wanted . . . and you hadn’t wanted something in a long time.

So, your heart didn’t sink when he said, “I know you think you know what you want from me, but . . . it won’t help. It won’t help and then . . . then you’ll hate me.”

And with a small smile playing on your lips, you understood. “I don’t know if it’s possible to hate someone like you,” you hummed back, unable to wipe that smile from your face for once in the past several months.

Felix stiffened ever so slightly beside you, but he didn’t cease walking. He didn’t think you were hitting on him, did he? (You nearly laughed. As if you could ever do that.)

But nevertheless, you stopped in your tracks and tugged on the edge of his shirt, pulling him toward you. Where this sudden confidence came from, you had no idea, but for some reason, the anxiousness you’d once felt around him had lifted.

Felix, too, seemed shocked by your display, but you ignored this, keeping your hand clutched around the fabric of his shirt. “Listen, I won’t try to kiss you again if that’s what you’re worried about,” you sighed, lowering your eyes to your feet. “I told you sometimes I say things I don’t mean . . . but sometimes . . . sometimes I do things that I don’t mean to do and then . . . “

“Yeah, me too,” Felix hummed back after a second. “However—” his words paused, causing you to meet his gaze— “I was hoping we could be friends.”

And whatever was left of your anxiety toward him was gone, relief replacing. “I’d like that,” you found yourself breathing out with a small grin on your face.

I was hoping we could be friends.

When you were a kid, you had a hard time making any friends. You were awkward and kept your mouth shut at all times. The messages in your yearbooks would always be directed toward how nice you were, but they didn’t know you. You didn’t have a kind soul. It took a while to realize that. It took even longer to accept it—that you were a miserable child who grew into an even more miserable adult.

And yet . . . I was hoping we could be friends.

When you were a kid, you had a hard time making any friends, except . . . it seemed . . . for him. And although you couldn’t remember him, you remembered how he’d made you feel.

Sunsets. Laughter. A hand in yours.

The two of you had been friends long ago, and now . . . I was hoping we could be friends.

Had it always been that easy? Had—

“Where’d you go?” Felix whispered in that deep voice of his, dragging you from your mind.

“Hmm?” you hummed, looking up at him in a daze. Only then did you realize you’d zoned out, a smile on your face as your mind raced. This happened a lot, yes, but no one had ever noticed before. (It seemed Felix had a funny way of shocking you again and again.) “Nowhere, just . . . just here.”

Felix nodded once. “OK . . . ” his words trailed off, and then he was leaning toward you, his face so close you could feel his breath on your cheek. Tilting his head to the side, his eyes flicked across your features before a small, half-grin touched his lips. “Maybe one day you’ll take me with you, yeah?”

Your brows twitched, eyes searching.

“I—” he began again, but he was quickly cut off by the sound of distant clicking. His face fell instantly. “Shit.”

Thinking nothing of it, you cluelessly looked around. “What?”

Felix grabbed your shoulders, his eyes searching the trees. “I hear them.”

“Hear . . . who?”

“The bats.”

“The bats?” you deadpanned, nearly laughing. “Really?”

Felix clicked his tongue in fake annoyance. “Yes, the bats,” he scoffed as he dropped his hands, pouting slightly (you found this . . . endearing to say the least).

But you only shook your head in response, not knowing what to say. And then . . . the two of you began to walk again. Felix walked a little faster. . . . You found this also amusing.

“God, you know I fucking hate those little fuckers,” Felix huffed after a minute (still going on about his . . . bat problem). “I swear it’s like they haunt me.”

You snorted, “You’re crazy.”

“No, no, I’m telling the truth,” he quickly defended, now walking backward so that he could face you without stopping. “There was this one time Chris and I went camping, right? I wake up in the middle of the night, have to piss, so I go outside, I’m wringing it out and then I hear this clicking noise.”

And for now, you humored him similar to how you always humored Jisung and his outlandish stories. “No way,” you hummed, only half-listening as you watched his face light up in excitement while he spoke.

“Yes! Yes!” Felix clapped, practically jumping in front of you as he went on. “I’m standing with my fucking dick out, looking over my shoulder like the fucking sky is falling and then I step on a branch and this fucking thing comes flying at me, almost took my head off, I swear.”

A loud clap of laughter that you couldn’t stop escaped you, causing you to slap a hand over your mouth. “Oh, I’m sure!” you couldn’t help but say, words muffled by your hand.

He vigorously nodded his head. “Swear on my life!” he exclaimed, slapping his chest to embellish his point. “I’m so serious, the little asshole chased me all the way back to the tent.”

You laughed again. Louder this time. “No, you’re kidding,” you nearly giggled out, finding it hard to see his excited face as you laughed so hard, your eyes just about squeezed shut.

“I’m so fucking serious,” Felix continued, laughing along with you now. “Ever since then, it’s like they’re out to get me. Like, like that goddamn pervert told all his friends I was an easy target, and now! Now, every time I’m alone, they come out of the fuckin’ shadows.”

And then you were laughing so hard, your sides had begun to hurt. You just couldn’t help it. You just kept imagine this actually happening to him, and that was it.

It was odd, too, yes, because you’d yet to realize this was the first time you’d laughed like this since your mother died. Hell, you weren’t even thinking of it or her or the wind or heartbreak or anything. You were just there . . . and he was there too and that was . . . it.

(And true to word, you wouldn’t think of these such things until morning came. The rest of the night would be filled with laughter . . . just like a childhood you barely remembered.)

“Shut up!” you exclaimed as you caught up with him, slapping him on the arm like you would normally do to Hyunjin. “You’re ridiculous.”

Felix began to slow down, still walking backward but not as fast as his eyes stayed trained on you, watching as you continued laughing at him. “Oh, yeah?” he hummed as you shook your head, covering your mouth with your hand while you continued laughing under your breath.

“Yes, Lixie,” you mused, teasing a stupid nickname and dropping your hand as your laughter fizzled out into just a smile on your face.

He smiled back, warmer this time as his eyes flicked to your eyes. “I like that,” he nearly whispered, now walking in sync with you.

“What?” you questioned, tilting your had to the side in thought (but your smile remained).

His lips parted. “Y—”

A loud clicking sound echoed throughout the streets. And that time, you did hear it.

“Fuck!” Felix exclaimed, immediately jogging two paces in front of you. “See! See! That cunt’s calling my name, I’m telling you.”

But all you could do was laugh (because maybe he had a point, and that was so fucking funny to you).

“Quick. We have to run,” he went on, clearly having a little more fun with this than he’d expected. “Run or they’ll catch you and suck your blood! Quick! Quick!” And then he was moving, quickly jogging down the street/

“Felix!” you called out to him, groaning in annoyance as he grew further and further away from you.

His eyes, however, had never left you. “Oi! Quick, I say! Quick!” he yelled into the night.

Then you saw it:

He was holding out his hand . . . toward you.

And you couldn’t help yourself.

With a wide grin on your face, you broke out into a jog, reaching him in no time, seconds before you clasped his hand in yours. And as the two of you ran, your laughter filtering throughout the night, you began to wonder if you had been here before.

You could remember a boy around the age of eight, and he was laughing. A soft giggle with eyes that smiled too. Then . . . colors. Sunsets. The feeling of floating. The taste of Cherry Cherry saltwater taffy. And . . . (you remembered) . . . the warmth of a hand in yours . . .

The warmth of his hand in yours.

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theawkwardterrier · 3 years

Text

An Alliance with an Earl

Here’s one for @lavellenchanted. It’s no Steggy AU of A Song for Summer (although what is?) but maybe Regency Jily will suffice, Sarah...

Read on AO3 here

I am going to have to buy Frank Longbottom a very nice bottle of brandy, Sirius thought to himself as he looked down at the letter in his hand, but what he said casually aloud was, “It seems we’ve been invited to a house party.”

James finished whatever he was scribbling, taking care to sign his name with the full flourish before he looked up. Light from the wonderfully sunny day, the kind they would never have been inside for a mere year ago, caught his spectacles as he did. James had worn a pair from the time he and Sirius first met as boys at Eton, but when light used to flash across them, it paired with the grin he once wore nearly constantly and his foolishly infectious laugh. Now Sirius half expected James to take his glasses off and massage his eyes, the way their old headmaster used to do.

Instead he set down his quill and gestured to the letter in Sirius’s hand. “If it’s any of your cousins, I shall have to respond in the negative. Well, perhaps we should have Lupin draft the letter - he is less likely to phrase it as rudely as either of us might.”

Sirius tossed the letter opener he had been using on the day's post back onto the very edge of James’s stupidly massive mahogany desk and barked out a laugh. “As if any of my cousins would allow me to darken their doorway. No, it’s the Longbottoms - it seems that old Augusta has allowed Frank and Alice use of the country place and they’ve invited us to come for the week after next.”

He tipped his head to the side, slouching further into his chair. He had once only done such things in the parlor of Grimmauld Place, his parents’ London residence, because in their view posture, like wealth and good breeding, was one of those things which mattered and he made a point of not allowing such things to matter to him. But the habit was so ingrained in him now that every time he sat, he tended to perch himself with a leg slung over the chair arm or his back placed on the seat and his head allowed to hang. “Not having access to that all-important family tree of my mother’s, however,” he said, “I really couldn’t promise you that I’m not cousins with either of them somewhere along the way.”

“Aren’t we all? I think between the two of us, we must be related by blood or marriage to half the ton.” James stretched his arms back and above his head, rotating his wrists and making a slight groaning sound. “Not, however, closely related enough to stop plenty of mothers from shoving their most eligible daughters into my path at every turn.”

Sirius nearly responded as he once would have, with a jibe about that sort of thing being unavoidable for such a catch as the future Earl of Gryffindor. Two years ago, however, after the deaths of first his mother and then, weeks later, his father, James actually became the Earl of Gryffindor, and seemed to think nothing in that line of humor at all funny anymore.

Quite a lot had become unfunny to James, actually. Some days, Sirius worried that his friend’s shoulders would simply break from the responsibilities settling there. Oh, James still came out with them in the evenings, still made them laugh and could manage to charm nearly any woman in a given room. But his old self, the one who loved racing on the fastest horse or placing the highest bet, the one who thought duels were daring instead of a measure to be undertaken only under direst circumstance, who snickered with Sirius around the corner after they had placed a tripwire across the school corridor...Sirius suspected that boy to be gone for good. In his place was a nobleman who inherited too early, whose indulgent father had thought to have more time to teach him how to grow into the man he needed to be, and who was now struggling to meet the expected role under the weight of who he had suddenly become.

Which was why, Sirius thought, eyes scanning the invitation from the Longbottoms again, this would be perfect. Balls and parties around London brought with them some degree of diversion if not enjoyment, but also held a reminder of responsibility. A playful lack of interest in marriage had once been the subject of jokes between James and his mother, but finding a wife, having a child, had now become a grim and acute duty. Sirius hoped that this more simple gathering, merely a few friends out in the country air, would allow James some desperately needed socialization with much more limited pressure - not to mention that it would tear him away from the deadly dull work which seemed to pile endlessly upon his desk at Gryffindor House in London and at his estate of Godric’s Hollow.

“Anyway, Longbottom’s always done us a good turn,” Sirius said, forcing a bit of a yawn to keep his manner as informal as possible. James went tense at the littlest things these days, at the merest suggestion that he might lay his duties to the side for just a moment or any hint that Sirius thought he might need to relax. “And Alice is a fine girl from what I remember. It’s only polite for us to join them, since they asked.”

James looked over toward the window, the drapes drawn back to reveal the bright, busy Mayfair street outside. The sunlight caught the lenses of his glasses again so Sirius couldn’t see his eyes; still, something seemed to grab at his mouth for a moment and twist it in pain. But the next second, he was turning back to Sirius looking like himself again, or at least like this new self. He picked up his quill once more and said, “You know that I am only ever polite.”

It was a lie, or at least Sirius hoped that it was. Either way, however, it was an affirmative response, which was exactly what he had hoped for.

“I’ll inform the Longbottoms, then,” he said, still maintaining his nonchalance. “My handwriting has always been better.”

This was true, but he mostly said it because being bested at something always made James a bit disgruntled and this time was no different. Without looking up from whatever document he was currently taking careful notes upon, he crushed a piece of paper with his other hand and tossed it toward Sirius’s head.

So there is something of you left after all, Sirius thought with relief as he caught the crumpled ball. Let us hope that some time in the country is enough to bring you out again.

Having known Alice since her own first season four years previous, Lily was quite familiar with her friend’s sweet, detail-oriented, and slightly nervous personality. She had received numerous letters in the weeks leading up to the house party filled with particulars of the menu, questions regarding the ideal number of guests, or worries that there would not be sufficient entertainment, and had tried to send back her reassurances that Alice’s first instance of hosting such an affair would surely be a resounding success.

Yet, as her carriage came to a halt on the wide drive in front of the house, she was unsurprised to see Alice wriggling a bit and twisting her hands as she stood with her husband’s arm over her shoulder.

She alighted from the carriage and went over to greet them, trying to infuse a bit of levity into the way she said “my lady” to Alice, though it didn’t seem to work. Alice linked her arm with Lily’s under the premise of leading her into the house and whispered, high and trembling, “Frank’s mother insisted on joining us and bringing friends of hers, which has my numbers entirely off, and you know what Lady Longbottom is like besides.”

“You are Lady Longbottom as well,” Lily reminded her, but before she could say something else bracing, she saw, striding across the grounds with Sirius Black at his heels, another person who would apparently - and unfortunately - be joining them.

She successfully avoided him over the next several days, making certain to keep at least five people between them even when they were in company. The odd thing was, however, that he didn’t seem to notice her very much at all. No, that wasn’t right. He clearly noticed her, his chin dipping in recognition if their eyes happened to meet across a room, but he did not pursue her in the way he once had.

He did not, in fact, act similarly to the way she remembered in general: his remarks, when he made them, were astute and his sense of humor not at all mean-spirited, he tended to spend most of his time at the edges of the room rather than the center of it, and every time there was dancing he took at least one turn with Hestia Jones, who everyone know was very nearly on the shelf. The whole thing was the slightest bit confusing, though, Lily reminded herself, it was a perfect relief not to be approached. Their paths had crossed less in the past two years or so, but she remembered sharply their prior interactions.

On the day before they were to return to London, the gentlemen were called to a hunt while the ladies attended to their correspondence. Lily had just finished and sealed a letter to some distant cousins in Sussex when the footman brought the morning's post. It did feel a bit Sisyphean, finishing the last of your responses only to have more required, but Lily was certain that none of it would be for her; Alice had invited most of their close friends, after all, and Lily's family was not large.

However: "Oh, here is one for you, Lily," Mary said, picking it up from the tray and passing it over. "From your sister."

Lily swallowed. "How lucky." She stood, tucking the letter in her pocket with fingers that fumbled despite her best efforts. "Do you know, it looks as if it might begin to rain this afternoon. I would like an opportunity to spend some time out of doors before the weather turns. Would anyone like to join me for a walk through the gardens?"

Though Alice looked as if only her duties as hostess kept her inside, the mention of a potential storm made the rest of the group demur, as Lily knew that it would. Within five minutes, she had her cloak on and was making her way alone into Lady Longbottom's lush and splendid garden. She walked until she found a small seat to perch upon and, after taking in a few deep gulps of the air (it seemed that she had not been wrong: there was a tinge of moist heaviness to it that spoke of an oncoming storm) forced herself to open the letter.

She read it through once, then a second time to see if she had misunderstood. She had not. She wanted to cry.

In person or in writing, Petunia never said anything that Lily wanted to hear. They had been friends of a sort when they were small, but Lily had long since given up on her sister understanding her or even loving her despite not doing so, and she no longer sought her approval. If they could have stuck to basic pleasantries or the dutiful exchange of sentiments, that would be one thing, but in the last year, Petunia had turned nasty, and this latest letter...

"Da-Deuce it," Lily said aloud, leaning over to scoop a handful of pebbles from the ground. She pitched one toward the bushes, then threw the next one harder when it seemed not to alleviate any of her upset. Even that did nothing; she flung the full handful. "Damn it!" she shouted, disregarding all propriety, then placed her palms over her eyes, pressing down as if surrounding herself with darkness might help.

"Lily? Er-My apologies. Miss Evans, are you quite well?"

Her hands flew from her eyes. Standing before her, uncomfortable but certainly there, was the Earl of Gryffindor.

The first time he saw Lily Evans, James Potter was standing on the balcony of Lady McGonagall's home with Sirius and Peter. They had left Remus below distracting their hostess; she had been widowed several times longer than she had been married, but it seemed to suit her well and she ruled every occasion hosted at her home, and in the ton generally, with an iron fist.

"She's quite fine," Peter had said, jabbing a finger toward a lady in a pink gown who was being helped from a recently arrived carriage.

"Too fine for the likes of you, Pettigrew," Sirius said carelessly, though James did not get the sense that he was joking. Peter forced a laugh anyway.

"There's plenty of girls here tonight for all of us," James responded, scanning over the street. Most people seemed to have already arrived. "With the season just starting, no one's begged off for the evening or tired of each other's company yet."

Sirius snorted. "That's your opinion. I believe I tired of the company of most everyone here before I was past my dear father's knee."

"Well, there's always—" James started, but did not even complete his thought, much less his sentence. Instead he said blankly, "Her," leaning forward a bit over the rail as if this would help him take in each detail of the new girl who had just stepped from her carriage. She was followed by a slightly older girl wearing a most unattractive expression and a woman he would guess was her mother, but James did not pay them even a moment's mind. His mouth had slackened as he studied her hair - it looked dark from this height and in the barely lit street, though not dark enough to be brown - as he imagined her eyes, and took in each nuance of her expression, excited and just a bit forward, her shoulders thrown back as she stepped toward the party.

By the time James got downstairs and escaped a lecture about etiquette from Lady McGonagall, her dance card was full, but he at least found out her name. The next day, armed with the largest bouquet from the most expensive florist in the city, he stopped at the house that she, her mother, and her sister were renting for the season. There were several other gentlemen in the room already as he was announced, but he paid them no mind as he walked over to her, knelt, and said, "Miss Evans, I would like nothing more than if you would agree to become my wife."

Later, his father would berate him for this, for going about it without asking permission, for being too hasty, introducing himself and proposing marriage in the same breath. But he knew that this would not have made the difference. Because there was a look in her eye, as if she had been expecting this and had prepared her answer, when Lily Evans said, quite coolly, "No, thank you, my lord."

And now here she was, sitting in the garden before him, looking far less collected than she had that day. She had lost the aspect of the ingenue - she was near his age, making her at least two and twenty - though she was no less lovely for it. The deep red of her hair, the arresting green of her clear eyes, were familiar to him by now, though he did not typically see those eyes looking so startled.

“My apologies, Lord Gryffindor. I had thought you had joined the other gentlemen.” She hastily made as if to stand and curtsy, but he gestured at her to keep her seat.

“I had some business which necessitated my return to the house,” he said, trying to hold himself straight, the way his father would have done, but it did not work. He shrugged his shoulders, sagging a bit back to himself. “Well, that is not the truth of it. It is what I said when I begged off, but to be frank with you, I wanted a moment with my thoughts. And they were planning on shooting deer besides, something I have never quite been able to stomach. The Potter crest features both a doe and a stag, you know, and the deer are truly beautiful when they run - it always seems such a terrible thing to do, killing them.”

Fool, he thought despairingly, refusing to allow himself to collapse with his face in his hands. The first time you have spoken with her in years and you come off as a blibbering fool who is unmanned by the thought of a hunt. Not to mention using her given name - even if it is how you address her in your head.

But, strangely, instead of regarding him with even her usual disdain, she was watching him with a slight smile: the first, he thought, she had ever directed toward him.

“Do you refrain from eating venison then, my lord, in honor of your family crest, and the sight of the deer running?”

The lightly teasing sound of it, as if they were any sort of friends at all, made him grin far wider than the comment meritted. “I’m afraid that by the time I find myself at table, my stomach does not have such high minded ideals.”

She actually laughed now, and it made him comfortable enough to gesture to the place beside her. “May I sit?”

“Oh, of course.” She glanced over and saw her letter still there, crushed at the edge, and snatched it up. All traces of laughter left her face as suddenly as they had come.

“Have you received bad news from home?” he asked as carefully as he could, seating himself a decent distance from her, even on the small bench. “I know that you have a sister - is something amiss with her?”

Her mouth pinched inward, though not, he thought, as if his question had angered her. She swallowed and then said, “I would not say that something is amiss with her, no, though she certainly seems to think something is amiss with me. Or, I suppose, she thinks that I am still too much a miss.”

“I’m sorry?”

“As am I.” Her laugh now held no lightness nor humor, and he valued the true one she had given him all the more for it. She glanced over at him, seeming to examine his face closely; he did not have time to shift his expression, but whatever she found there was apparently correct, for she began, slowly, to speak.

“My mother passed this last autumn and since then I have been living with my sister and her husband, an arrangement which suits none of us. In their view, I should have been long since married and of no concern to them. My sister has hinted before, but she writes now that her husband has determined that I should be married before the end of the season, and if I have not found a match myself by that point, he has selected one for me.”

He watched her sit up straighter, the wind catching a strand of her hair and whipping it from her coiffeur so it lay in beautifully vivid contrast to her pale throat. She stared out into the gray bluster of the day as she said, “It is well known that Lord Snape has expressed his interest in the past. My brother-in-law did not initially view the match as advantageous enough, but it seems that given the lack of other prospects, that avenue has become sufficiently promising.”

James felt his fist clench atop his thigh before he truly thought to clench it himself. Severus Snape had been heir to his nearly insolvent barony through merest coincidence - all closer cousins were female, a fact which had led Sirius to remark that Edward Christian might have had the right of it in Blackstone’s ten years past and perhaps women should be allowed some latitude in inheriting. And yet, those with whom Snape chose to consort closely were the most disagreeable sorts of snobs, people who believed anyone without generations of nobility behind them to be worthless.

He seemed to think it a great compliment that he would single out Lily as someone meriting his particular attention despite her own father having been only Mr. Evans. One of James’s few consolations after Lily had rejected his proposal had been that she had apparently rejected Snape’s as well. He, however, had not taken it with good grace or even James’s own dazed acquiescence; instead, he had stated publicly that it was merely a sign of her low breeding, that someone of a more elevated bloodline would have been happy even to have been approached by him. (James had run into Snape one evening shortly after hearing of this, and would have called him out on Lily’s behalf had Remus not intervened - and had James not already been so foxed he could barely string the words together discernibly.) Still, in the years since, Snape had made it plain that he would be willing to consider her were she to humble herself enough.

“Surely there must be other options,” James said, a bit awkwardly. For the rest of the season following his initial proposal and even into the next, he had arrived at her residence with regularity, though he had not approached her so directly again - too humiliating, and impolite besides to press when he had been so clearly declined. But although it had been some time since then, he knew, even when he did not want to, that she was often called upon by others.

She hesitated, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I was, perhaps, not as wise as I might have been. Not as wise as I thought myself to be.” Her gaze drifted to her lap, where her hands were folded carefully over the letter. “I was not waiting for a love match, I truly was not. I simply hoped to find someone who was not on the hunt merely for looks or for a biddable wife, with whom I might find conversation and companionship, someone who truly saw me. I allowed myself to believe I had time to be selective, and while my mother lived she indulged me, perhaps even enjoyed being able to keep me close for some time longer. But now she is gone, leaving my keeping in the hands of another who is not so lenient, and it seems that I have waited too long. Those who were once interested have moved on to women who are prettier or younger or lighter-hearted, women with larger dowries or who do not seem as fussy as I, and I cannot blame them.”

I have not moved on. It came to his throat readily, nearly voiced before he stopped himself. He did not want a wife right now, he reminded himself, and he especially did not want a wife who was cornered into the marriage, and it did not matter if that wife would be the one woman to whom his eyes turned without his control anytime they were in the same room.

But if he could at least help her, just a bit, even if it would mean tormenting himself, well, it was not as if he were not in torment already.

“I wonder—” He cleared his throat. “That is, I wonder if you would consider...It is rather unconventional, of course, but if you were amenable…”

“Have you something to say, my lord?” she asked, turning to him with just the barest hint of amusement touching her mouth.

“I could, perhaps, affect as if I were courting you,” he finally spat out.

His breath held for a moment in his lungs, and he was certain that she would gasp or dash off or even strike him, but instead, though the humor had gone from her lips, she tipped her head to the side and asked, “And what would be the object of such a ruse?”

“Well,” he said, voice a bit too eager now that she had not reacted with outright negativity. “The season settles into such dull rhythms after a while that any new story always gathers interest. Considering our...history, I suspect that a courtship between us would have tongues wagging, which would certainly remind people of your charms. And of course, not to generalize regarding my sex, but men are always particularly roused by the idea of rivalry. Were I to pose as a serious suitor, it would surely spur others to emerge as alternative contenders for your affections.”

Her eyes narrowed a bit at this last piece, but she only said slowly, “And what would you gain from this arrangement?”

James forced himself not to cross his arms. “My own parents passed not long ago…”

“I had heard,” she said. “My sympathies,” and from her it did not sound at all rote. He nodded.

“Thank you. And mine to you, on your mother. But in any event, it has left me with quite a lot to learn regarding my position, and I have found the continued attention of certain mothers and their unwed daughters to be an extremely inconvenient distraction. Were I to be seen as having my affections already directed toward another young lady, I believe they would leave off, and I would have some reprieve to attend to the management of other things.”

She looked away from him once again, squinting out absently into Lady Longbottom’s hedges. One foot tapped a bit, and her finger ran around the edge of her letter, though he suspected that she did not remember exactly what paper it was. They were the sort of gestures that he would have taken for granted in another male of his acquaintance or in his mother, but young women were always on such perfect behavior around him that simply being allowed to see these common mannerisms made Lily seem filled with an extra bit of color, of brightness. He swallowed, unsure once more that making this offer had been in his best interest; then again, he had never been known to be hesitant or particularly calculating. Diving headfirst was always more his style, and he had rarely looked out for his own interests with any real care.

Finally Lily said, “I would, of course, not want to take you from your other responsibilities, but if this were to work, I would require a certain amount of attention to ensure that others truly believed that you found me of interest. Would three evening occasions and three daytime meetings per week be reasonable to you?”

“Perfectly agreeable,” he said, even as his heart began to pound in a manner so uncontrolled, he might as well have been running. “Let us say two dances together when we are in attendance at the same ball. I believe that expresses the right amount of interest while still indicating that there is a chance for others.” Traitorously, his mind began to slip into wondering about holding Lily’s body against his own in a close dance, how he might feel her laugh rippling over his skin during a more energetic reel, her face alight as she returned her hand to his.

She nodded slowly. “Thank you. That should do quite nicely. And, of course, if I at some point become affianced, I could spread word on your behalf regarding your broken heart if you would like - that should grant you a bit of extra time before the interest begins again in earnest.”

At her mention of becoming engaged to someone else, the wind, which had been pleasantly brisk a moment ago, seemed to cut through his riding coat, his skin, right to his heart. “I would certainly appreciate it,” he managed, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

“Well, I am very appreciative of this,” she returned. “I had not expected...It is most kind of you, my lord, even to offer such a thing.”

“Think nothing of it,” James replied, knowing all the while that he would be able to think of nothing else.

When they returned to London, the talk was all of what a success Alice Longbottom’s house party had been. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mary Macdonald would certainly be announcing a wedding soon; Hestia Jones, several years older even than Lily and practical, was allowing Peter Pettigrew’s attentions; and - pigs might fly - James Potter seemed to have caught Lily Evans at last.

They had agreed to walk together in Hyde Park as a first outing, and for all her thought that a secret might bind them together and smooth over any lingering awkwardness, Lily was hard pressed to think of a more uncomfortable stroll she had taken in her life, and she had certainly been on her share of contenders.

Part of the problem was that she could hardly believe she had even agreed to such a scheme in the first place. It was ridiculous, unheard of, completely foolish of her regardless of the situation Vernon and Petunia might have placed her in. Even more difficult to conceive: she had agreed to it with James Potter of all people. The same James Potter she had rejected without remorse, who she had sniffed at when hearing of his later reckless exploits, counting herself blessed she was not attached to him in any way. Well, there were few people she was attached to more closely now.

“Have you told anyone?” she asked abruptly, the first either of them had spoken in some minutes, after the pleasantries regarding the return journey to London, how they had each fared so far that day, and the state of the weather had been exhausted. “Have you told anyone about our…?”

He cleared his throat, though whether from discomfort or disuse she could not tell; either seemed entirely feasible. “Our arrangement? I’ve told Sirius. Remus and Peter as well.”

“Ah.” She attempted to transform the critical press of her lips into a smile as she nodded to the passing Bertha Jorkins, though she could practically already hear Bertha dashing off to tell whoever was closest that Lily Evans had been walking alongside Lord Gryffindor with a most unattractive expression. “I suppose I might have expected, considering your closeness. I had heard that his lordship, at least, has rooms in your home.”

“Yes, Sirius has had a strained relationship with his family for several years now.” Lily, though no gossip, was aware that this was an understatement. It was well known that, had it not been for the scandalous reflection on the family, the marquess and marchioness would have disowned their elder son years ago for what they considered his lewd behavior and unseemly friendships; as it was, they rarely mentioned each other in public, and pretended the other did not exist when they were present at the same function. “Even when my parents were alive he had free run of Gryffindor House, and the place has only become emptier since so there is plenty of room for even one as untidy as he.”

Lily glanced at him, unable to help hearing the sadness in his voice although he tried to give the words some degree of levity. She did not comment on it, however, saying instead, “It is rather unconventional, though of course utterly reasonable.”

He shrugged. “Were Sirius my brother by blood, he would always have a place in my home. As he is my brother in all but that, I see no reason that he should lack such a place merely because of an accident of parentage. I have offered Remus and Peter as well - there are probably a dozen bedrooms going unused, and perhaps even more which I have not discovered - but they have both declined.”

“The decor is not to their taste?” Lily asked, winning her a laugh.

“No, Peter’s mother still has a residence in London and prefers he stay with her, and Remus…” He sighed, his mouth shifting a bit to the side, as if this were a problem he was well used to mulling over. “He has his pride, and a part of that is insisting on keeping his own lodgings. But he does join us for supper several times a week, and as Mrs. Pomfrey, my housekeeper, nursed him through many a childhood illness and injury, he cannot well refuse when she tells him we have food going spare and he must take some home.”

It was this comment which forced her to fall silent. Somehow it was even more shocking than the way he had seemed to her transformed in the Longbottom’s garden, smaller and more human instead of filled with that overconfident persistence she had remembered and hated, more shocking than when he had suggested this ruse in the first place. She could not help but think that when Lord Gryffindor sat in his office or attended a session of Parliament, some part of his mind was distracted by wondering how he could best take care of those closest to him, even if it made others about the ton think him odd for it. There was not even anything to be gained from his solicitousness: Lupin’s father, if she recalled correctly, was a missionary only distantly related to some minor viscount, and Pettigrew’s hope of becoming a baron rested on two uncles and seven purportedly hale and hearty cousins meeting untimely demises.

“It is most kind of you,” she finally said, but he merely shrugged.

“As I said, Gryffindor House is altogether too large. My father actually decided that two sitting rooms was quite enough and turned the third into a space for experimentation - he was a bit of an amateur natural philosopher.”

“Truly?” The grin taking over her face felt a bit silly, but she found the idea of it a bit silly, and entirely delightful.

“Truly. In fact, he enjoyed having such a room so much that he had one of the bedrooms turned over at our country home as well so he could continue with his discoveries there. He actually was fairly successful at it. His tonics and ointments might remain family recipes, but there is a pomade of his invention which is only growing in popularity.” His smile tinged a bit sad at the edges. “I think he would have been quite tickled to hear that.”

“I’m certain he would have been.” Familiar with the propensity for jollying people away from their remembrances, as if the sorrow of it was too much for polite conversation to bear when perhaps a moment of dwelling would be welcomed by the one grieving, Lily remained silent for several paces and kept her tone neutral when she said, “These experimental rooms of your father’s sound most entertaining. I wish I could see them myself sometime in the future.”

“Of course, why don’t I—” But he was too smart a man, to finely bred, to allow his tongue to run away with him and simply invite her over. They wanted to build a gentle interest in her from suitable parties, not ruin her reputation entirely. Instead he said, “I’m certain I shall entertain at some point during the season. My mother was well known for her gatherings, and I could never let down her reputation. I shall, of course, have an invitation sent for you, and we will make sure that there is a tour.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Her arm had been resting on his as they walked, but she allowed her hand to press a bit more heavily against him in gratitude. She had meant it to be a momentary gesture, but he turned to her then, his dark brown eyes catching hers from behind his spectacles, and she found that she could not look away. They were still walking, she was nearly certain, but how many people they were passing, what everyone might be observing, she had no idea.

It was he who cleared his throat and took his gaze from hers. “I suspect that was sufficiently convincing to anyone watching,” he said, and cleared his throat again.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.” Although, if she were truly forced to consider, she thought she might find that it had been somewhat convincing to her as well.

If the training on proper behavior that James’s mother had tried to instill in him had one benefit, it was the ability to keep a brilliant smile on his face even as he asked quietly, “Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?”

The cotillion offered little chance to speak privately - one was constantly being forced to circle or line up beside other dancers - so it was not until their next brief whirl as partners that she was able to reply. “I am perfectly comfortable.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but you do not seem entirely to be enjoying yourself,” he said hurriedly at the next opportunity. “You have barely smiled.”

Many women of his acquaintance and most of the gentlemen would have lost track of the conversation as they stepped and wove and traded partners before rejoining, but she merely said, “Perhaps you are more accustomed to dancing with those with silly looks on their faces. Here, I shall make you more comfortable.”

The expression she pasted on was of such exaggerated adoration that he nearly burst into laughter straight into the face of his new partner. As it was, he returned to Lily grinning and found her doing the same.

A whisper seemed to start at the edge of the ballroom (they were quite definitely not displaying the usual polite smiles reserved for these events) but James barely noticed that their plan was coming to some success.

“Well played, Miss Evans. Clearly I should have left it all to your capable hands.”

“See that you do next time,” she responded with a regal nod, and the thought of next time filled his mind with such sudden brightness that his grin stretched anew and did not stop when the music did.

“Unacceptable!”

At her sister’s hiss, Lily looked up from the embroidery in her lap, but did not need to ask what was causing Petunia’s upset. She was altogether too familiar with the expression that came with minor household imperfections, and by the glare being leveled at one of the teacups, she suspected that some nigh invisible spot had been detected.

“All our visitors have gone,” Lily hastened to say. “I’m sure there is no need to disturb—”

But it was too late. Petunia had taken the cup and stalked from the room, undoubtedly to berate the poor housekeeper or whichever maid came across her path.

Shaking her head in sympathy, Lily nevertheless allowed her gaze to wander over to the place behind the curtain where she had hidden the novel she had been reading before the callers had started arriving. Petunia barely allowed such pursuits in privacy; reading in front of gentlemen would certainly have earned a reprimand.

There had been a goodly number of callers, enough that Lily found herself hopeful for the first time in a while, but she would be glad to have a chance to relax, a few moments to just be in her own mind. She was standing on soft feet to go retrieve the book when the butler arrived and announced, “Lord Snape.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she was not at home. Over this one thing she had control, and it would be so easy to exert it; she could nearly feel the relief of avoiding him. But something, a wisp of remaining affection for a childhood friend or a desire to see whether she would be able to bear him should the worst case scenario come to pass, made her nod and say, “Show him in, and please inform my sister that he has come.”

The butler stayed after bringing Severus in, standing guard beside the doorway for the sake of propriety in a way which made Lily feel protected rather than surveilled.

“Won’t you take a seat?” she asked as she did the same, but he did not seem even to take heed of her words.

“You danced with Lord Gryffindor last night,” he said. His riding gloves, held as a pair in one hand, smacked lightly against his thigh, and Lily held herself back from flinching.

“Yes, we recently discovered that we have much in common with each other, despite past differences. I found him a most amiable partner,” she responded, her tone not as cold as his but not particularly warm either. She reclaimed her embroidery and began to work on it as she added, “I had not realized that you were in attendance at the ball.”

He gave a short, sharp laugh, and she could not help but notice the difference between it and the one Gryffindor had given the night before. “It was not the sort of affair that I would take interest in. I was in attendance at the Selwyns. The company was a bit less...mixed.”

And there it was once again, this idea that could not seem to be purged from him, this idea her old friend seemed to have no interest in overcoming. “I find that with such an attitude, I cannot regret not having received an invitation,” she said, making three flawless and focused stitches in quick succession.

“But—” He began to surge forward, until the butler let out a loud and pointed cough. Jaw tight, he stepped back once again and said, “As my wife, you would have received such an invitation and would have no fear as to the attitudes shown you. There would be only deference. You would be under my protection.”

Her hands fell still in her lap. She looked up at him directly and spoke with precision. “I have no interest in engaging with people who would only tolerate me were I under your protection, and I have equally little interest in marrying a man who believes that it is deference and a shield from petty remarks which I seek in a marriage.”

There was a twitch of anger in his face which he covered over quickly. Severus had always masked things so easily; it had once seemed natural to her, a part of him, but now she found it slightly frightening, not being able to tell his true thoughts or feelings.

“Very well,” he said. “That is your opinion. Only remember when Gryffindor has thrown you over for the next pretty thing which comes his way, that I will still be here.”

Lily swallowed. Steadfastness was an admirable trait, but being the sole focus of someone like this felt more like being a hunted animal, a butterfly trapped behind glass, only meant to flutter prettily at the one who had caught it and locked it away, stolen from nature.

“Ah, Lord Snape,” Petunia said from behind him. Her voice was not pleasant - she and Severus had never liked each other - but it was polite, and Lily realized how much her sister and brother-in-law were depending on Snape to take her if no one else did. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

“I shan’t be staying, Mrs. Dursley,” he said, with equally cold politeness. “I merely wanted to ensure that Miss Evans is well. Good day to you both.” He gave a short, sharp bow, and walked past the butler out the door.

Lily rested her hands on her lap for a moment, then forced herself to pick up her embroidery. Even if Snape were no longer in the room to see, she did not want to give him the power of her anxiety.

She cast her mind once again to the plan. It had seemed a longshot at the time, slightly foolish, but she needed it to work. Unbelievable as it seemed, she had placed her trust in the Earl of Gryffindor, and she needed him to have been worthy of it.

“I must say, Miss Evans,” James said, “that you are quite the most stubborn woman of my acquaintance, possibly the most stubborn in the whole of England.” He kept his tone fairly low in deference to the fact that they were surrounded by dozens of other pairs of dancers, but he knew that his amusement came through regardless. She was arguing her point with the focus and diligence of an experienced barrister, which was entirely annoying while also being entirely too much fun.

“Well, England is not particularly large, so I shan’t worry overmuch,” she responded pertly.

“I rescind the comment. You are surely the most stubborn woman in all the world.”

“Merely disagreeing with you regarding the best type of pie does not make me the most stubborn woman in the world, my lord. It only makes me someone who knows her own mind, and I should hope you would be aware of that.” He thought that she might break away from him to place her hands on her hips and wag her finger in the scolding so familiar to him from his time in the nursery, and he held on just a bit tighter, not out of any ridiculous concern for propriety, but simply because these moments when he was allowed to touch her were outlined with such care and detail that he did not want to miss a single second.

She did not even attempt to move from him, however, a smile breaking its way across her face instead. “And regardless, I have complete certainty in the superiority of the apple pie, as any right-thinking person would.”

“Lemon pie,” James responded staunchly, nearly gritting his teeth even as he grinned back. “On the day that you try the lemon pie we eat at home, you shall eat your words along with it and beg my forgiveness.”

“I shall certainly sample it when offered, if only in the spirit of open inquiry and because I am absolutely secure in my own opinion, although I’m doubtful that I would ever beg anything from you.”

“Expect one at your home tomorrow afternoon, then. I do not retreat from a challenge any more than you.”

They were standing close enough that he could see the precise way her eyes flashed as she said, “I take your challenge gladly.”

“I say, is there to be a duel?” Benjy Fenwick, a longtime friend of James’s, seemed taken aback as he came alongside them. James felt similarly taken aback, shocked that the outside world had managed to intrude, shocked that it even still existed; without their having realized it, they had completed the steps of the dance and the next set was starting.

“Of course not.” Lily blinked, then adjusted her tone. It was not precisely fawning, James decided, nor coy, but there was a polite feeling to it, as if she had tucked away some of her warmth or her particular character. He wanted to bring it back, to make certain that the world did not lose that sparking magic of hers, but at the same time he found himself oddly relieved that Fenwick, who she had been so excited to add to her dance card, was not worthy of her true self. “A simple debate between myself and Lord Gryffindor. My apologies, my lord. It is terribly good to see you. Shall we rejoin the floor?”

Fenwick offered his arm and they took their places for the quadrille, while James retreated to the corner where Sirius was observing everything.

“Fenwick’s a nice fellow,” said the man who had only a moment ago been James’s best friend.

“Hmm.”

Sirius sipped at his cup, which James doubted contained only lemonade. “I’m certain Miss Evans would be delighted if he were to further his attentions toward her.”

“He isn’t—Fenwick is fine. He never excelled in a single class to my knowledge nor has he grasped sarcasm, he seems entirely content to be an unassuming third son without particular purpose, and I have beaten him handily every time we have fenced, but he is fine. However, Lily—Miss Evans needs more than fine. She needs more than nice,” James said, exasperated. “We’ll simply have to keep this up until she finds someone else. Someone better.”

“Indeed.” Sirius sipped again, a damnably amused shimmer in his eye. “I suppose keeping up your arrangement would be the only way of achieving that.”

“Of course it is,” James said.

“Of course it is,” Sirius echoed, but he was smiling, almost as if in relief. James turned away, even though he was fairly certain that he did not want to watch Lily dancing with someone else, smiling at someone else.

No, not fairly certain, absolutely certain. But if she was the most stubborn woman in the world, he was the most stubborn man, and he forced himself to keep on. The whole point of this was to find Lily a husband, and she had made it perfectly clear that she did not consider him to be a contender. He would have to become accustomed to seeing her with someone else. He would simply have to.

“Not only pie but ice cream as well?” James asked, licking chocolate from his spoon. “How does one manage to have so many wrong opinions?”

“Unbelievable as it might seem to you, an opinion is not wrong simply because it is not yours,” she responded, taking a dainty bite from her own dish. “Although, to tell you the truth…” She looked this way and that before leaning across the table just slightly. He mirrored her at once; apparently it was lucky that he was a part of the plan because he seemed more eager for gossip than any ten ladies of Lily’s acquaintance. “I actually only order the maple because it seems the least popular. It’s terribly sad to think of it simply melting away for lack of interested customers.”

He gaped at her for a moment. “But then you miss out on the chocolate,” he said, with a sort of implacably simple logic that belonged in childhood. She laughed.

“The maple isn’t actually bad. It simply isn’t as popular because it is overshadowed by the other flavors. Even the lavender gains an audience simply because it sounds sophisticated. But…” Her voice lowered even further. “Sometimes I finish my serving and then ask for a dish of chocolate as well.”

“Gluttony, Miss Evans?” he said, eyes glinting. But where she might have once reminded him sharply that he certainly had more experience in deadly sinning than she, now she merely raised an amused eyebrow and said, “Enjoyment, my lord,” before sitting back and picking her spoon up once more.

He seemed to watch her more closely than the simple movement deserved. “Enjoyment indeed,” he said, and his low voice was not as one telling a secret, but one who had forgotten he was speaking aloud. She glanced up at him sharply, but before she could say anything more, he too had started on his ice cream again.

“One thing I do miss from my travels is getting to try the local delicacies,” he remarked. “There is quite a bit more to the world than the traditional menu would lead you to believe - although I will confess that I was glad to come home to lemon pie and chocolate ice cream.”

“Oh, yes, you mentioned that you had traveled. Where did you go?”

He waved his spoon. “All sorts of places.”

“Please, you must give me something more particular than that. I have never been even to Scotland and might never, and so I may only read about other places in books and listen jealously to stories such as yours.”

“Well, most people start off in Paris, but we - Sirius and I - went to the Netherlands first, then throughout Prussia, then down to Italy and Greece, and across the water to the Ottoman Empire. We even got a chance to see Egypt and some of North Africa before…” His mouth had clearly been coming up with the words before his mind was ready for them. When he realized what he would have to say next, he seemed to take a steadying breath, sliding the ice cream away from himself as if it no longer held appeal. “Word reached me that my mother had taken ill. We cut things short.” He swallowed. “Unfortunately, it made no difference.”

The urge to reach across the table and touch his hand came to her quite suddenly; she was nearly surprised into giving into the impulse. Instead she folded her hands on the table and said softly, "That must have been quite difficult, moving so quickly from a time meant for freedom and adventure and frivolity to one of urgency and then of mourning.”

“I wonder if mourning should always feel sudden, even if one were expecting it,” he said. Once she would have thought it shocking if not impossible for this man to take such a serious tone or speak such a profound thought aloud, but she was finding that there was quite a lot about him which was unexpected for her but no less true.

He cleared his throat. “Regardless, you needn’t be jealous: our travels were not as full of frivolity as all that even before we received the news from home.”

Perhaps if she had not spent the last several weeks so often in his company, with such an awareness of his every expression and how it would be perceived, she would have mistaken the charming smile he gave for a true one. As it was, she said simply, “Oh?” and waited with patiently folded hands for him to continue.

His eyes observed her keenly for a moment before dropping to his lap. Slowly, he said, “I thought that merely reading in the newspapers about the ruin Bonaparte made of things on the continent was enough. I thought I understood. But it was nothing to actually seeing everything that people needed to rebuild, hearing from the locals all that they had lost.” His expression turned self-deprecating. “I had once thought that had I not been the eldest and only of my family, I might have been a soldier, but I could barely stomach even the aftermath years later.”

“I think you could have been a soldier had you the opportunity,” she said. “I believe it can only be for the good to have soldiers who fight not because they enjoy the battle or out of a desire for glory, but to bring peace, to protect the innocent. And of course we have determined that you can come up with an innovative strategy with haste, a quality I’m certain would have served you well.”

That actually made him smile truly, and she could nearly see him trying to brush away his unfortunate mood. “I thank you for your compliments,” he said. “And of course, all of that was no more painful than what you had to bear. You have lost your mother more recently than I did my parents. If anything, I should be comforting you.”

“There needn’t be a competition between us regarding our suffering,” she pointed out. “And taking a turn at being comforted simply because I am next in the queue is not how I like to remember my mother.”

“How do you like to remember her? I confess, we—” He gave an uncomfortable cough. “We had little opportunity to speak.”

She wondered if he remembered that, although they had indeed spoken little on the occasion, it had been her mother who had guided him gently from the room after his ill-fated proposal. She suspected not - he had seemed quite dazed in the moment.

“I have rarely enjoyed simply being in company with someone as I did her,” Lily said instead. “Our minds seemed to work quite similarly. I miss so many things about her - her quiet humor, her independence although even as a girl I could tell that she wished my father had not passed so young, and how she always seemed to know exactly the solution to any problem in the household, any social faux pas - but more than anything, I don’t know that I will ever find someone who seemed so often to echo my same thoughts. I’m afraid it left my sister a bit isolated at times. She engages with the world so differently. It was Mama who always encouraged me to continue reaching out to her, trying to allow some understanding between us.”

Now it was her turn to glance down at her lap, although she forced her eyes back up toward him mere seconds later. “I imagine these last months would have been easier if Petunia and I did have some sort of understanding, even an imperfect one. I am not speaking of my...situation, although I am certain that would have been different had we been closer. But there are so many memories which only we two now share, and I wish we had closeness enough to recall them together.”

He nodded. “I was lucky to be able to spend a few weeks remembering my mother beside my father before his passing. Perhaps that time would have been better spent in discussion of our holdings or my responsibilities, and had he known what was to come he might have insisted upon it, but I find that I cannot make myself regret those times. And now I have been lucky to have Sirius nearby to share with me his memories. He spent so much time in our home, with my parents, that he can easily recall to my mind things I did not even realize I had forgotten: the way my mother ordered a new perfume for each season, or how my father would sit alone with a cup of hot milk when he was particularly pensive.”

His throat seemed nearly to catch as he swallowed. “I suspect it is always easiest to bear these sorts of things when you are with people who will listen, even if they cannot share experiences with you. I am sorry that you do not have the same.”

“Well,” she said, “I wonder if perhaps I do.”

She had not known she would say the words until she did, but she had felt them all the same. She had her own friends, it was true, and yet no one seemed to want to discuss her mother’s passing the way he did, no one even seemed willing to try beyond platitudes or small embraces. And he seemed overwhelmed by the comment, his lips falling open just a touch, eyes large and bright behind his spectacles as they caught hers.

“Miss Evans.”

She very nearly fell from her chair, and her only consolation was that he nearly did as well, although he recovered more quickly, his from-the-cradle training pushing him to rise and bow smartly. She had forgotten, somehow, that they were in the middle of Gunter’s, that their object for the day was to be seen in public laughing together and enjoying each other’s company in order to rouse the notice of others, that being with him - pretending to be with him - was only meant as a waystation on the path to the man with whom she would actually spend the rest of her life.

Somehow, as she sat at their small corner table, she had only been seeing him.

“Miss Lily Evans,” Lady McGonagall said again, and Lily remembered to stand and curtsy. The countess looked her over closely, then turned and said, "You could hardly do better, my boy."

In their limited interactions, Lily had rather liked Lady McGonagall and she suspected that she was liked in return, but she was still surprised at her warm and roundly approving tone.

The countess continued: "And James Potter. Earl of Gryffindor, Viscount Peverell, cousin to the king, heir to the Potter fortune..:” She glanced him over and tilted her head to speak directly to Lily. “I suppose you could have done worse." She turned back. "See that you're worthy of her," she said, in that way of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.

And while Lily could feel her eyebrows practically springing into her hair, he merely smiled and said, "I am trying my best.”

He really was remarkably good at pretending - for a moment, even Lily nearly believed him.

Having already attended the agreed upon number of occasions for the week, James could easily have begged off of the Weasley’s supper party and spent the evening at home or at his club or out with his friends (up to less savory pursuits, if Sirius was allowed to be in charge). He told himself that his reason for accepting the invitation was simply because he liked Molly and Arthur - regardless of their financial status, they were actually enjoyable company, unlike many in the ton - but that did not explain why he had not cited another engagement following the meal instead of sitting through the gentlemen’s retreat and then their return for cards and socializing. Overall, as he watched Lily set her face fiercely across from him at the whist table, he found any excuse less and less convincing by the moment.

Sirius elbowed him. “It seems as if you have a tiger for a partner,” he remarked in a low tone, somehow managing to lounge in his chair while holding his cards properly before him.

“If you are referring to my demeanor, you should well address me directly so that I may tell you just as directly that I have rarely lost and do not intend to do so tonight,” Lily interrupted, running a fingernail casually across the top of one of her cards. She faced Sirius directly, and James suspected that he was the only one who would be able to detect the hints of humor in her face. “And if you were referring to my hair, my lord, well, perhaps you should retire once again in order to refresh your arsenal with more creative comparisons.”

Grinning, James watched Sirius and Remus staring at her in astonishment. They had exchanged pleasantries before, but this was the first time his friends were spending time with Lily, and she was certainly leaving an impression.

“Goodness, Sirius,” Lupin finally said, a chuckle building in his throat. “If you do need to retire after such a carefully aimed attack, I can certainly replace you as a partner.”

“No need.” Sirius sat up straighter, staring Lily down with good-natured ruthlessness. “I have talent enough to come up with my riposte as we play.”

Lily said, “One might say that if there has not been a response within the first moment, there is not one forthcoming,” then bowed her head politely to Sirius, adding, “Not, of course, that I am referring to anyone in particular.” She faced across the table once more and said, “Now then, shall we play, my lord?”

“James,” he blurted before he could think better of it. "You should call me James."

It meant something, giving her leave to call him by his given name, and he wondered if he had been holding himself back from this particular development, one which now felt inevitable, as some sort of protection. The thought of it felt quite tangled about in his mind, but regardless, he needn't have said it in front of his friends.

He could tell that they were gaping at him - well, Remus had his eyebrows raised so high that they were practically on the moon and Sirius's expression had defaulted to arch surprise - and he even thought that Molly Weasley might have looked over instinctively from her own whist table to ensure that nothing was amiss, but his eyes were for Lily alone.

"James, then," she murmured comfortably, though he seemed to see a touch of something like nervousness, even fear, in her eyes as she said, "And you may call me Lily, of course." But it was gone the next second as she said to the group at large, "Shall we play, then?"

"I like her," Sirius declared as they sat in James's study later that night having a brandy together. "I like her quite a lot."

"As do I." James tapped a fingernail absently against his glass. Lily was indeed a champion whist player - he was willing to lay the lion’s share of their team’s victory at her feet - and her dress tonight had been a most fetching shade of blue which offset her hair quite startlingly. Obviously she wore green beautifully, and he had once seen her in a gown of deep purple which redefined the shade for him, but the blue in the candlelight as she laughed and schemed over her cards…

"I can tell," Sirius said, and his voice was sober enough to break James from his thoughts and look over at him. "I can tell that you like her. It has been some time since I saw you smile with such frequency." His own smile returned and he said, "Although I would wonder if she would consider you worthwhile after tonight. You should call me James, indeed." He repeated it, voice lower and more pompous than James believed his to be, then in an oily, seductive way, then with a shy blink through his lashes, until his impressions were apparently so hilarious that he fell into laughter and could not continue.

Dear Miss Evans,

Dear Lily,

Madam,

I hope this note finds you well, and my apologies for leaving without a proper goodbye - or truly any goodbye. I had an early letter regarding a fire near one of my estates which necessitated a speedy departure. Luckily the damage appears to be less serious than feared: there are no severe injuries, it seems that only minimal repairs will be required, and the harvest will not be affected.

I spent the morning helping to clear some of the wreckage, and then was deemed competent enough to swing a hammer and so was able to help with some repairs. In the afternoon, I assisted with a foaling, although to be frank, I'm not certain that I was truly any help at all. If I recall, I mostly spent the time asking the farmer whether it would truly work and flinching away as I wondered whether that amount of fluid was normal - which it apparently is. (If any of this should happen to make its way to Sirius, I'd like it to be impressed upon him that he would certainly have done no better in the circumstances, and if he doubts it, he may come try next spring.)

I shall likely be staying another two weeks at least - now that I am here, there is some business it would be wise to take care of - but I hope that my absence gives opportunity to those perhaps not bold enough to come forward while I am about. Only recall, of course, that you do not have to give in to such gentlemens’ attentions if you do not want to...unless you desire a husband over whom you can take charge. It would, after all, be only natural for you to desire someone whose stubbornness will not outmatch your own. But if you are waiting for something else in a man, please recall that you are a most excellent catch and quite eligible on your own, and someone with the highest qualities to recommend him will see that in due course.

In the meantime I remain,

Yrs &c

James Potter

Dear Gryffindor,

It is quite a relief to hear that things were less dire than initially believed - although I suspect that they might be a bit dire still if they are allowing you near hammers or any other tools. I shall, however, refrain from sharing my opinion on that with any of your friends or acquaintances, as it would likely spoil the illusion of our deep affection for one another (to my knowledge, most ladies do not express their ardor by pointing out the flaws of their supposed beloved). Nor will I mention the incident with the foal - unless I am severely provoked to it.

Since you bring up potential suitors who might be suffering from attacks of nerves at the thought of crossing the formidable Lord Gryffindor, I did dance twice with Mr. Davey Gudgeon at the Abbott ball evening last. In the first dance he was anxious but quite sweet, but in the second he mistimed his cross-step during the Duchess of Devonshire's Reel, knocked into Miss Vance (or as he put it “nearly had his eye taken out by her!”), and seemed to desire me to spend the rest of the evening fetching him cool cloths and telling him that the redness was not visible. It depressed things quite considerably, I must say.

I shall be waiting with bated breath for these gentlemen of highest quality who you allege to be on the horizon. My criteria remain, I believe, modest: kindness, someone who will be a friend to me, and who will be open to conversation. (Degree of stubbornness matters not at all, regardless of your inferences to the contrary...) Hope with me that they come soon: if my need for air becomes too pressing, I shall be left gasping at the feet of Lord Snape, and there is more than one reason I have worked for many years to avoid such a fate.

With best and most sincere wishes,

Lily

Dear Lily,

I shall keep in mind not to provoke you, although I should ask that you grant me some amount of latitude in what is meant by provoking lest I blunder into it and you are forced to cast aspersions on my reputation as an iron stomached lord of the domain.

Although by your description, Mr. Gudgeon has set the standards quite low in this regard. If these are the men of the ton, I believe my reputation would remain intact even should my inability to assist in live animal births be revealed. (My reputation with Sirius in specific would, of course, never recover.)

I hope that whoever you partner with at the next occasion is more suitable, and that it is certainly not Snape. Forgive me for asking, but I wonder if I misunderstand your comment regarding him. Has he caused you insult or injury further than is commonly known? I give you my assurance that I shall refrain from rash behavior, regardless of your answer - although you must know that I might countenance a considered, planful vengeance upon my return.

James

Dear James,

Your reputation remains intact here in town, although Lady Bones did frown most ominously upon your absence at her party two nights past, even with your other friends present. (Mr. Pettigrew seemed a bit downcast, despite my efforts to cheer him; it seems that Miss Jones has been engaged to another.) Apparently you have a habit of slipping from your promises of attendance. It is a lucky thing for you that it was I with whom you entrusted your secrets, or she might be casting aspersions in revenge even now without you here to defend yourself. (I suspect, however, that she would not, regardless of her pique - she is quite dignified.)

Regarding your own revenge, there is no need. Lord Snape and I were acquainted as children, prior to his inheritance, and he believed that our past friendship and certain areas of mutual interest were enough to assure his suit. However, in the intervening years, I found his choice of friends to be quite reprehensible and his values not to match with my own. I care little regarding his insults toward me, but he was similarly disparaging to those for whom I care, or stood by and listened while others acted similarly. For those reasons I refused him, and while I have the choice, I will refuse him still. You are already doing quite enough in allowing me to continue to have such choices, and for that I must thank you once again.

Yours,

Lily

Dear Lily,

I avoid Lady Bones because she is so intimidating that I perpetually fear that simply being near her will result in unintentional confessions. Even Lady McGonagall, who is quite shrewd and can devastate with her tongue lashing, has a sense of humor beneath it all; Lady Bones seems all mind and sharp eyes.

Perhaps this observation is another which can remain between us? Although if I encounter her again, I might find myself revealing it regardless.

As for Lord Snape, I still find that I would rather confront than avoid him, but as this is your battle, I shall defer to you. (If his path and mine were to cross, however, I wonder at my own control.)

I am to journey home in two days’ time, and while I do not find myself anticipating my arrival back in the social whirl, I hope that you will have some time free to walk with me at least. We must remind everyone of our affections most publicly, after all, as the attention of the ton is short - and besides, it has been quite too long since last I saw you.

Yours,

James

Her drawing room did not lack for suitors these days, her dance card rarely had an empty place, and surely someone would offer for her soon, but as they walked through the park together, even given the gloomy weather, Lily found herself overwhelmingly glad that James had returned.

He was speaking of a visit he had taken to the school in the village, his manner proud as he described the recitation that the students had performed for him - although he turned sheepish as he described how, when one boy had asked him to show them his own skill, he had needed to make up an excuse and flee in order to avoid embarrassment.

“Truly, you could not have been such a terrible student that you cannot remember a single thing,” she admonished, laughing slightly. He really was quite intelligent, as determined as he sometimes seemed to act otherwise; they conversed often on literature and current events, and his friend Lupin had once let slip that James had received a first at university.

James tapped his head. “I’m certain there is some passage or poem lurking around up here, but what if I had erred in front of them? I could never have endured the shame. And, being frank with you, I was never a particularly engaged student. That crop I saw was all much better and they deserve the credit for it.”

“I had not realized that you would be so involved in the education of your tenants,” Lily commented, lifting her skirt a bit to avoid a puddle which had collected in a dip in the path.

“Many are not, but my family has seen it as a responsibility of ours for some time. Not everyone will find themselves at university, but there is no reason that we cannot help to ensure that there is instruction beyond the most basic of reading and sums.” He said this all very staunchly, brow furrowed, but he relaxed a bit as he added, “My father would often send books down for the schooling of the boys.”

“And what of the girls?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Her sister would have hissed at her in shock and shame, both for the impertinent tone and for even bothering to ask the question, but James just grinned. “That was my mother’s pet project, actually, a schoolhouse educating the village girls. Whenever she had heard that my father had provided more materials or hired on a new schoolmaster, she would do the same for them. She was quite an admirer of Wollstonecraft.”

“Really? I had not heard,” Lily said. It was not altogether surprising, as she had never interacted with James’s mother in life, but gossip did travel far and fast. And Lily was sure that if she had known this about the late Lady Gryffindor, she would not have forgotten; although she had hidden it from not only Petunia but their mother as well for fear they would be scandalized, Lily had read both Thoughts on the Education of Daughters and Vindication of the Rights of Woman and considered the ideas within them often.

“It’s likely fairly common knowledge in that corner of the country but she kept it a bit quiet in London. She always said that it was easier to change people’s minds when they did not know your opinions well enough to start bracing themselves and preparing their counterattacks without having even heard your points.” Strangely, it was not the smile on his face which spoke more to Lily of his love for his mother, but the gruff clearing of his throat as he said, “She could likely have worked for the War Office, my mother. Napoleon would have been dispatched much sooner.”

“I wish I could have met her,” Lily said honestly. “I wish I could have met both of them. They both sound quite lovely, quite special.” She had one arm resting in his, but she drew up her other hand and covered his fingers lightly, trying to communicate the truth of her sentiment.

James nodded. “They were, to me and to each other. I was terribly lucky to be able to watch their partnership for as long as I did.” He squeezed her fingers back.

His hand, Lily realized, was warm beneath hers, warm and very strong and somehow comfortable. She did not know how it had happened or when, but she had grown to adore walking alongside him, hearing his thoughts and having him listen to hers, watching the way his face crumpled a bit with concern over his friends or his tenants or news from the continent or some issue in Parliament, seeing his concern turn into determination, registering the degree of his every smile and laugh, especially when they were for her.

She thought of the things she had told him she wished for in a husband, comfort and companionship, someone who truly saw her, and she knew that she had that in James, and that she had more too. He had told her that he had arrived back in London near twilight the previous evening, and that after so long in the carriage he had wanted to stretch his legs so he had walked part of the way to Gryffindor House. She had not mentioned that she had been at her window as he passed, that she had involuntarily drawn in a breath at the sight of his undone cravat, of the leanly muscled forearms beneath his rolled up sleeves, of the hair that she once thought foolishly messy but which now seemed dashing as he brushed it carelessly from his eyes.

Neither had she told him that she had run down to receive the post each morning that he had been away, and not only because she had feared Petunia withholding his letters from her if she got to them first. She did not mention that she had read them over more than once, conjuring up his awkward little gestures and his seriousness and his enthusiasm, imagining him swinging a hammer beside his tenants, rubbing a finger against his lips as he read her own correspondence the way he did when he was particularly engrossed in something. She did not speak of the way, when she lay in bed, she thought of his eyes lighting up behind his glasses as he returned to see her, nor of the way she would fall asleep smiling just from the thought of being with him once again.

Oh, she thought with polite surprise, even as it felt as if a rock were sinking into her belly. Oh, God. I’ve fallen in love with him.

She had never questioned her refusal of his proposal all those years ago. There was no doubt that he would not have suited her at the time, that after a short time he would have realized that she did not suit him. Only, if they had turned into who they were now and they had already been married…

She allowed herself a moment to imagine it, being married to James, being a friend to him over the years not only at a distance or because of some scheme but in true partnership as his parents had been. To have all that they did now, but also to be able to touch each other, to be alone together.

But she could allow herself only that moment. He had made it more than clear at the outset that he was uninterested in marriage at present, that he now found the idea a bothersome distraction. She had missed her chance, and she would simply have to live with it. Fenwick had danced with her thrice two nights past, tantamount to a proposal. She would live a fine life with him, and James would be happy, one day, with someone else.

Swallowing against the tears in her throat, she squeezed his hand once more and let him go.

When Remus came running into the room two days later, James thought he must be falling ill once more. His friend kept his condition quiet, but he had developed malaria as a child after time spent abroad due to his father’s work; attacks of the illness came on periodically, bringing with them terrible fevers and pain which James hated to watch and could do little to stop.

“Shall I call for the doctor?” he asked desperately, forcing his thoughts straight as he rose from the table where he had been having a late breakfast and shoved out a chair for Remus to collapse into. “You’re meant to have that quinine remedy, aren’t you? Have you run out?”

But Remus only shook his head frantically, finally rasping out, “A drink, please.”

James hastily poured him tea, remembering only after he had handed it over that it would likely be cold by now. He had come down to breakfast late already, and then had lingered quite a long time absently eating through progressively more tepid eggs and fish as he read over reports from his solicitors. But Remus took it down in a gulp, making a face only after he had finished and returned the cup to the table.

“You’ve been found out,” was the first thing he said.

James slowly regained his seat. He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I was at the stationers,” Remus continued as his breathing calmed slightly and his color began returning to normal. “And I was approached by Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange - those bounders married to Sirius’s dreadful cousins, you remember.”

“Of course.” If James had not already known and disliked the men in question, he would have pitied them, Lestrange especially. “But I don’t see—”

“They said that they knew that Lily had been having one over on everyone,” said Remus grimly. “And they know of your part in it too. It’s apparently already being spread all over town. According to them, as soon as Snape found out, he went to go see Lily’s brother-in-law: he seems to think that Dursley will simply give Lily over now that there are even rumors about her being duplicitous or what have you, and having only met the man once I’m inclined to think he’s right.”

James stood from the table so quickly that he didn’t unbend his legs in time, hitting both knees on the tabletop and needing a moment to straighten himself. Fingers fumbling with his cravat, he called for his coat and hat, only pausing after he had done so to ask, “Did they say how they found out in the first place? I don’t expect that Lily was spreading it around, and I only told you three.” There was an unpleasant turn in his stomach at the thought of Sirius’s unbound tongue when he was in his cups. But surely even then, he would not have revealed the information? If Lily’s life was ruined because of this…

“It was Peter,” Remus said.

“What?” James said, his thoughts still on how Sirius would have to grovel, but then the words made it through. “What?” he said again, so shocked that he sank back into his chair. “Peter?”

Remus said, with the air of a doctor giving a fatal diagnosis, “He was trying to ingratiate himself to them, I think, but they kept needling him about Hestia Jones throwing him over. So he struck back by letting them in on the most sensational secret that he had.”

“I’ll have to—” James began weakly, but then his anger took over. “I’ll speak with him later,” he said, rage bristling through him, pushing his shoulders back. He found himself wishing that the morning had never started, but it was too late for that. He took a fortifying breath as the butler returned and set his jaw. He would need to handle things regarding Peter, but for now he had somewhere else to be.

Fifteen minutes later, he was nipping at the heels of another butler as he walked through the hall to the drawing room of the Dursley house.

“No callers all morning?” came the voice of Lily’s entirely unpleasant sister. “It seems that the bloom has quite come off the rose. I caught Vernon in my second season, you know. It seems that once again you will not be so lucky.”

“The bloom coming off the lily would have been the more apt reference, Tuney,” Lily replied. “And I am quite grateful that you were the one to catch Vernon. But regardless, perhaps everyone somehow divined that I would prefer some quiet time with my thoughts this morning.”

“And what thoughts are—”

“The Earl of Gryffindor, madam,” the butler announced, mere seconds before James entered the room.

Petunia Dursley rose and curtsied. “My lord,” she said, although with a turn of her lip as if she would prefer to call him something else, or even to comment on his lack of manners in barging into their home. If James had not been so distracted, he might have even appreciated her lack of ingratiation: too many people began positively groveling as soon as they heard the title. As it was, he was distracted by the sudden realization of the flaw in his plan. For all that the ton relied on rules and propriety, Mrs. Dursley clung to the concepts with a martial gleam that put most others to shame. She would never leave them alone and unchaperoned, not for a moment. Perhaps he could trip her, and in the chaos, whisper something to Lily…?

“Would you like to sit down?” That was Lily now; he focused enough to watch her gesture to a chair across from the sofa which she and Petunia shared, and even to follow her direction, although he was still distracted by the necessity now of coming up with a plan.

“Would you like something to eat or drink, my lord?” Lily again. She had set her embroidery aside and was eyeing him oddly. He had the feeling that this was not the first time he had been offered a refreshment.

“Tea would be lovely,” he managed. Maybe her sister would go to arrange it…

But no, Petunia Dursley simply rang for a maid, then picked up her own embroidery and began conversing about the weather as if she were being forced into niceties with a pistol at her back. He was able to manage answers for several minutes, sipping tea occasionally, even as Lily looked at him in a way which clearly showed she thought him mad.

“The weather is indeed lovely,” he finally interrupted a bit desperately, although he knew that firstly, it was not, and secondly, Mrs. Dursley had been asking whether he believed that there would be more rain this month than the same time last year. “Perhaps I might take Miss Evans on a walk?”

“Fresh air would certainly be wonderful,” Lily said swiftly.

Petunia glanced between both of them suspiciously. “You walked only yesterday, Lily, with Mr. Fenwick. I’m afraid you will become too dark and hearty-looking if you step out so often.”

James Potter had never even considered being rattled by an exam, a fight with a fellow gentleman, or an upbraiding by his mother. The slightest sweat broke out on the back of his neck now.

And then, several things happened, if not at once, then in very close succession: the front door burst open followed by a stream of unintelligible invective; Petunia rose, calling, “Vernon, is there some trouble, darling?” and began to cross the room; and James, spotting an opportunity, upended his teacup onto her skirt with a barely believable, “Oh, my apologies!”

Instead of causing her to leave the room at once to put herself to rights, this clearly non-accidental dousing simply made Petunia eye him stonily, mouth agape. James ignored her, turning and starting, “Lily—” before being cut off.

“Thought you could pull one over on us, eh?” Vernon Dursley had arrived in the room, impressively red in the face. The color became even more impressive as he spotted James, and he barked out a “You!”

“We’ve been found out,” James said rapidly, returning to face Lily alone. “It was my error. I should not have—In any case, I have heard that Lord Snape has already tried to finalize things, but if you were to marry me, I believe that you would be…”

She was looking at him with the same vaguely curious expression that she had all the way back in the garden at the Longbottom house party. The arguments he was about to make - that the power of his title and standing would offer protection to her reputation, that it was only honorable that he make amends in this way considering it was his lack of discretion which had allowed their secret to be known, that he would trouble her as little as she liked within their marriage - died on his tongue.

All he could remember was Lily making conciliatory faces to Alice Longbottom behind the back of the redoubtable Lady Longbottom, Lily’s small and capable hand against his arm as they walked, the feeling of her assured steps, of her warmth against him when they danced. Lily’s look of concentration as he explained something dull regarding crop rotations, her careful gestures as she offered some solution. The gleam in her eye when she won at cards, the way she gave Sirius as good as she got and spoke with Remus about literature and was kind to Peter even when he stepped on her toes. Lily, choosing the maple ice cream because it was the least liked, looking fascinated at the idea of his father’s old work rooms, conceding a point only after he had presented his best arguments, teasing him that he allowed his hair to stay in such disarray because he did not want to seem shorter than Sirius, speaking so lovingly of her mother and tilting her head in welcome as he spoke of his own parents. Lily’s smile, her laugh, her mind, the way he felt such joy whenever they spent time together…

He had thought himself in love with her years earlier, but that had been mere infatuation, an enjoyment of her appearance, her outward manner. He had been drawn to this one woman who had not been charmed by him, who had offered novelty through her rejection, but that was not love. This, knowing her and wanting to be known by her, always, this was love.

The teacup was empty, but he placed it politely on the side table before he slid from his chair and knelt before Lily. He took both of her hands in his and held them near his mouth. Surely this was allowed? Hands were allowed, he had kissed many of them, although not ungloved like this and not with this precise level of intimacy. The Dursleys certainly seemed to take offense: Petunia gasped in nearly all the air in the room, although she left enough for Vernon to bellow out an “I say!” James ignored them both, watching those spectacularly green eyes of Lily’s instead.

“I have no flowers,” he said softly, “and I have no ring, although I can obtain both very soon, but if you would have me, I should like to marry you. Not because you must, and not because of what my name can offer, but because you are my friend, because I adore you, because I want you to be my partner in every dance, today and for the rest of my life, because my favorite times are when I am with you, because I want to spend each one of my days with you beside me.” He swallowed. “Will you have me?”

And just as he had known the first time he had asked what her answer would be before she said it, he knew now too.

Two years later…

Sirius was not certain whether it was his sighing or his constant checking out the carriage window, but a few miles from Godric’s Hollow, Remus had apparently had enough.

“Please,” he said, faintly begging. “Borrow a horse and ride ahead.”

“It would not be polite to leave you alone,” Sirius pointed out dutifully, glad that his mother was not there to see him acting in such a manner.

Remus countered, “It would, in fact, be more polite than what you are doing now.” He gestured to the manuscript atop the travel desk on his lap. “I have much to keep me occupied, and you are merely a distraction from it. Now go.”

And so, less than an hour later, Sirius directed his commandeered horse up the neatly maintained path to the house. A servant was already hurrying out as he swerved to a stop by the front door (Lily had been welcomed easily as countess, and her staff always rose to exceed her expectations), and Sirius tossed over the reins and bounded up the steps two at a time.

He was recognized immediately by the butler and footmen and maids, but he only nodded in acknowledgment of their bows and curtsies as he strode through the entrance hall and made his way to the main staircase.

Barely had he reached the upstairs landing when he heard a door thrown open and saw James barrelling toward him.

“Sirius,” his best friend shouted, nearly knocking him over when he couldn’t manage to come to a stop quickly enough. Without apology, he grabbed Sirius’s hand and hauled him further down the hall. “The baby’s here.”

“I know,” Sirius said, laughing. “You wrote to us, that’s why we came.”

But James didn’t seem to hear him. “Come see the baby,” he said, words nearly toppling over each other in his excitement. “Come see Lily. Come meet my son!”

His spectacles were falling down his nose and he looked as though he hadn’t slept in the days since the baby was born and there was a large, unpleasant looking stain on his waistcoat over his ribcage, but Sirius had never seen him so happy.

And as he allowed himself to be dragged for his first glimpse of the future Earl of Gryffindor, Sirius realized that the best friend of his childhood was well and truly gone. Or perhaps not gone, he decided, but transformed. James had left behind old habits and made way for new. He had laid aside the roles of rake and man about town and had taken on others, earl and husband and now father. They would no longer challenge each other dangerously or act below their age and rank, and that was no pity. James had happiness here, a different kind than Sirius had once expected, but no less true for it.

“Let’s go see your son,” Sirius said, and James laughed a wholly exhilarated sort of laugh, running his hand through his hair and beginning to describe the baby as though Sirius wouldn’t see himself in only a moment.

Two weeks later, Frank Longbottom received two bottles of extremely fine brandy alongside a note from Sirius Black.

Congratulations on the birth of your son, and my belated thanks for the invitation.

“What invitation?” Alice said, rocking their new baby Neville as he read the card aloud to her. “I should hope that you have no intention of inviting people around for months yet.”

“Not even—”

“Especially not your mother,” Alice said with exhausted vehemence.

“Well, I have no idea what he’s talking about, regardless,” Frank said, hefting one bottle to eye level. “But it’s a jolly nice gift anyway.”

“I would have preferred some chocolates, and Neville might have liked another blanket, but I suppose we shall make do.”

“Oh, Nev will like this perfectly well one day.”

“One day quite a long time from now,” Alice remarked, but she smiled as she did.

#Jily #Jily AU #James Potter #Lily Evans #long post #too much Bridgerton can't cope

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