#laylom

Thea Archeron should be the happiest female in Prythian.

She lived on Ischia, a beautiful island off the coast of Adriata, surrounded by turquoise waters and salt air.

Her mother, her best friend, her rock, had given her blessing to marry her fiancé Marcus.

Crown Prince Marcus—that is.

Her fiancé just so happened to be the son of High Lord, Tarquin, and his wife, Amancia, Lady of Summer. In two weeks, she was to wed her love and begin her new life in service of the Summer Court, of the people and land she adored so much.

She had been working as a teacher for the children of Adriata at a small school alongside her best friend, Abigail, and helping her mother run her inn—Flamingo House—on Ischia. Though the idea of leaving either of those roles made her heart ache, she had made peace with leaving one life behind to start another with him.

Abigail, or Abi as she preferred to be known, and her other best friend, Marcus’ sister Princess Shaniece, were even more excited than she was—talking all things bridal at all hours of the day. Putting together the picture-perfect day for Thea and Marcus was their reason for being these days.

Yes, with all that to look forward to, Thea should be the happiest female in Prythian.

But she wasn’t.

She definitely had been. Happy beyond belief from the moment her mating bond with Marcus snapped into place at a Summer Solstice ball three years prior.

Thea had known and had feelings for Marcus for years, thanks to her friendship with Shaniece, and had always harboured a secret desire that he would return her affections.

He was summer personified. Shoulder-length, braided silver hair, ocean-blue eyes she could spend eternity swimming in. Warm brown skin, toned and muscular from his years spent training alongside his father and cousin. He would be hers and she would be his for the rest of her immortal life—the Mother had been extremely generous.

His love declaration was better than any romance novel or ancient tale, as was his subsequent proposal six months ago. For most females, it was the stuff of dreams.

But something in her life was still missing. That phantom whose name she’d never known, whose face she couldn’t even picture. The imaginary male she hoped would walk her down the aisle and give her away on wedding day.

Her father.

She had often wondered who he was, if he was even still alive. Her mother never confirmed either way, and after years of finding increasingly creative ways to broach the subject, Thea stopped asking. But she never stopped wondering.

She couldn’t even guess what he looked like, as Thea was the spitting image of her mother—everyone said so. A child of Spring, just like her mother—tree-bark brown eyes, and hair like ‘burnished gold’, she often remarked—to which Thea usually rolled her eyes.

No, she had no discernible features that could give her a clue as to who her father might be, or at the very least, which court he hailed from. Not the icy blue eyes of Winter, the auburn hair of Autumn or the blue-black locks of Night. Her skin went a little more tan in the sun, compared to her mother who would freckle, but that didn't really confirm anything.

And to add further insult to injury, she didn’t have any power beyond what her mother had gifted her. Earth magic, though rare even for a High Fae from Spring, was all she had to go on. Nothing else. Not the spell-cleaving powers of Day or the healing of Dawn.

Marcus could manipulate water, like his father, but he could also communicate with aquatic life—his mother’s gift. Most powerful High Fae children could wield gifts from both parents, but not Thea. Typical. As if the Cauldron had decided she’d only be half a person for her entire life, doomed to only live as a double for her mother, and know nothing else about the male who helped create her.

It was that spiralling train of thought that brought her to her mother’s dusty old attic.

She had spent many nights in that attic, sneaking up there after her mother had gone to bed, to read with a fae light gifted to her by her Aunt Nesta as a child, or listen to the symphony of the crashing waves, or the cackling of dolphins as they congregated nearby.

However, after a long day of dress fitting with her mother, Abi and Shaniece, her mother’s friends, Gwyn and Vassa, and Marcus’ mother Lady Amancia, Thea found the slow-burn romance novel she’d been reading a little too slow. She closed the book and wandered around the creaky floor, careful not to step on a weak spot and accidentally fall through. She padded to the window, overlooking the ocean and the bright lights of Adriata on the horizon, when a stack of old, dusty boxes appeared in the corner of her eye.

Thea studied the tower, covered decades of dust—undisturbed and unopened in years. Strange. It was unlabelled, but that was no surprise. Her mother was not the most organised, and Thea had been meaning to start categorising their belongings, but never got around to it.

“Now’s a good time as any,” she muttered to herself as she blew off the dust. She opened the top one to find old leather-bound journals. Puzzled, she looked at the covers—not particularly notable, until the musty scent of jasmine and honey drifted to her nostrils. They must be her mother’s.

The first lot looked the oldest, and when she checked the dates engraved on the spine, her mother’s handwriting confirmed it.

Her mother kept a record of everything she did—starting with her childhood in the Spring Court. One diary for every year.

Thea was twenty-seven, making her mother around one hundred and seven when she was born. One hundred and six when she was conceived.

An idea sparked in Thea’s mind. If she was lucky, one of these diaries might give her a few more clues about her father.

It was a risk, and an enormous invasion of her mother’s privacy, but Thea had to know something—anything—to fill in the chasm in her knowledge. A name, a court, hell—she’d take an eye and hair colour at this rate. Any small kernel of information to give her a glimpse of where she came from.

She couldn’t help the buzzing sensation in her chest. She rifled through the journals, back and forth between childhood and adulthood, typically not in chronological order. These would all need to wait for another time.

And then, in the fourth dusty, old box, she found them. Diaries covering the year before Thea’s birth and the first few years of her life. Even a few loose pages were tucked in periodically—letters, perhaps?

This was it.

The possible key to the door that had been locked her entire life. The story of her father, and how her mother had met him. Where Thea had come from.

Just as she tentatively opened the first page of the diary, her mother’s voice from downstairs drenched any excitement, “Thea? Gwyn and Vass are here for dinner, are you coming down?”

Thea hissed in frustration, “Yes, mum—give me five minutes!”

It would have to wait until tonight, after her mother had gone to bed. Thea carefully set the diary down on an old table, and restored the boxes to their original state as best she could. Considering the layer of dust on the boxes, her mother probably hadn’t looked at them in years. It was unlikely she’d come snooping up here anyway.

But as Thea descended the staircase, leaving the diary behind, that buzzing excitement wouldn’t go away.

And for a brief moment, she allowed herself to be the happiest female in Prythian. Or at least, the most hopeful.

“I’m so angry with you.” He towers over her, squashing her between his body and the wall and suddenly she doesn’t care for luxuries like lung function and personal space; she wants him to press against her until she turns to ash – burnt and dusty from the blazing heat of his body. 

“Bite me, Potter.” He's irate, but she’s not sorry. Not one bit.

She doesn’t actually expect him to close the distance between them and sink his teeth into her lower lip as he slams her — his hand cups the back of her head — into the rickety wall, pressing flush against her until she can feel him – hard, throbbing, desperate – between her legs. 

“So fucking furious.” Bruising kisses punctuate his fierce words. She responds by tugging him harshly; nips at his lip until he opens his mouth just enough that she can steal his tongue between her lips and gently suck until she pulls a deep moan from his throat.

His arousal prods her, as unrelenting as his lips that continue their mission to cover every inch of her.

Suddenly he’s inside her — knickers torn and discarded on the old oak floor — driving his hips hard enough there’s sure to be imprints on her back to compliment the bruises that will colour her hips. The low curse that falls from his lips sends Lily spinning, colours whizzing before her eyes before she’s grounded by his smug voice inches from her ear.

“You’re going to come.”

She attempts to glare at him — it’s somewhat ruined when her eyes roll back in her head as his deft fingers find her nipples — and has to wait out the whine that leaves her mouth before she can properly respond with a scoff and “Think you can make me, Potter?”

James groans and presses his forehead against hers, breath warm on her face. Two years is enough time for him to perfect his dance – to know her body as well as he knows his own. She knows it. He knows it. But they wouldn’t be Lily and James if she didn’t push when he pulled – to be contrary, just for fun .

His cock twitches inside her — he’s close too  — and he growls softly into her ear, fingers digging into her breasts as he twists the sensitive buds between his fingers. It’s sharp and almost painful. She gives him a retaliatory squeeze.

But he wins when his fingers skim her clit — trailing the juices of her arousal from where they’re joined — and her thighs begin to tremble and squeeze his hips. James thrusts hard and fast, hands grasping the milky flesh of her arse, grinding into her dripping cunt hard enough Lily briefly wonders if the wall against her back will hold. 

The thought is fleeting; hot white pleasure unfurls low in her belly and moves up to her chest. She arches her back to release the tension and lets out a slow moan. "That's it, baby. Let go." Another wave of pleasure washes over her, leaving her shaking and weak; completely at mercy to the sweet muttering coming from his lips before he skinks completely into her, the hot spurts of his own pleasure filling her as a satisfied groan sounds deep in his throat. 

The first thing you’re aware of when you awake is that you aren’t alone. When you finally manage to pry your groggy eyes open you’re greeted by the sight of your captor in front of you, his face the picture of calmness as he reads a thick book propped up on his lap. You immediately shut your eyes again, hoping he hasn’t realized you’ve woken up.

Your mind begins to race, you know running again is out of the question with how Ardyn had caught you the last time. Your mind flashes back to what he had said before he had knocked you out. If this is the First Secretary’s estate, then that means there are other people somewhere. Even better, there are powerful people somewhere. If you can escape this wing and plead your case, you stand a decent chance of regaining your freedom.

You begin thinking of how you would plead your case, fantasies of running to the First Secretary and throwing yourself at her feet spinning through your head.

Your reverie is stopped short when you remember what the Chancellor had told you in the hallway, that “...you’re in such a delicate state after the tragic death of your friends that you’re unable to speak to anyone other than your noble rescuer,” If that was the lie he had used to get you locked up in this estate in the first place, then you could probably only look forward to being sent back to your prison if you did escape. After all, who was going to believe a hysterical young crownsguard over the Imperial Chancellor?

You force yourself to shake the doubts from your mind. There’s no way you’re staying here and playing whatever sick little game Ardyn has planned for you. After all, how did you know he was telling the truth? He’d lied about sparing your friends, who's to say he isn’t lying about where you are and who you’re with?

A painful sting pierces through your heart at the thought of your friends. The last image you’d seen of them comes to your mind unbidden. Ignis and Prompto’s charred skin as they’d tried to protect Noct, Gladio’s bloody and bruised body sprawled across the battlefield, his greatsword thrown from his mangled hand in the blast. Noct, unconscious and bloody on the ground as the Archean screamed.

You force yourself to stop, feeling tears well in your eyes and devastation grow in your chest. They would have wanted you to continue on. They wouldn’t have stood for you being taken captive by some imperial egomaniac, and you won’t either.

With your resolved steeled and your nerves frayed, you slowly begin testing the waters with the rest of your body. You clench and unclench your fists as life gradually gets restored to your limbs. You move on to your shoulders, slowly flexing your shoulder blades before moving down further to your knees and toes.

Your blood freezes as you realize you can’t wiggle your toes. You begin to panic, ice-cold fear seeping into you as your brain keeps screaming at your feet to move, to do anything, but your limbs stay still under the covers. You try your knees next, your panic only increasing as you realize it isn’t just your feet, but the entirety of your legs that have been paralyzed. Your mind returns to when you’d collapsed in the hallway, how your legs had turned to lead as Ardyn’s magic coursed through your veins. You realize with horror that not only had the man taken your voice from you, but your mobility as well.

Your panic swells even more, sick images of torture and pain flashing through your head as you realize how truly and utterly helpless you are. Your heartbeat roars in your ears, cold fear contrasting with white-hot panic flooding through your veins. You need to do something, anything.

“Alright over there darling?”

Ardyn’s voice makes you freeze. You school your face into what you hope is a charade of sleep, praying he’ll leave you alone.

“I’m afraid that won’t work on me my dear,” He sighs. You hear him shut his book, stiffening even more when you hear him rise from the chair. “As beautiful as you look in slumber, you’re a rubbish actress, my dear.”

You feel the bed dip next to you with his weight and resist the urge to crawl away. Even his presence makes you feel dirty, tainted even. Deciding that the jig is up, you slowly open your eyes. Ardyn sits next to you on the edge of the bed, a small smile on his face. You’re slightly taken aback at how genuine and soft it seems. It’s nothing like the cheshire grin he’d worn on the ship, nor the triumphant smirk you’d seen before he had rendered you unconscious. This smile looks soft, like the expression you’d see on Ignis’s face as Noct stuffed his mouth with food, or the smile Prompto would give you every time you sealed a pinky promise together.

It creeps you out.

You slowly rise, dragging the dead weight of your legs as you pull yourself into a sitting position. Partially to put space between you and Ardyn, and partially because it made you feel safer. Laying down at the mercy of a man is not a position you ever want to be in.

“There she is,” The Chancellor coos, reaching out a hand to caress your face. You flinch away instinctively, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. He just puts his hand back in his lap, turning his body more to face you, his gaze burning holes into your skull. You studiously train your gaze on the blanket spread over you, opting to trace the intricate blue and gold pattern with your eyes instead of looking at the man before you.

“I bet you have a lot of questions right now, and I’ll answer them all in due time,” He says, reaching a hand out to rest on your shin. You desperately wish he had taken the feeling from your legs too as the warmth from his palm seeps through the blankets, the weight of his hand feeling like a shackle. “But now what’s important is your healing. I cannot believe that infernal princeling and his lackeys had you in such a dangerous position.”

You bite back the urge to defend Noct and your friends, raging at the spell that held your voice captive. You’d give every single gil you own to give him a piece of your mind, but something tells you his motives are beyond monetary concession.

“I will be here every step of the way, of course. Though I will have duties within the city to attend to, I will always be here for your meals and more if you need me,” Your heart sinks at his words, you had at least hoped he would leave you to your own devices, but of course, it could never be that simple.

“Now, no need to look so glum,” He chides, and you curse yourself for letting your face betray you so easily. “I will grant you one small concession. When I am with you, I will return the use of your voice,” You instantly perk up at his words, a million plans running through your head. “But if you decide to do something foolish like scream, I will return you to muteness again. Do you understand?”

Your heart sinks at his words. Logically you knew there had to be a catch, he is your captor after all, but a small foolish part of you still held out hope for a quick escape. You nod, your eyes still trained on the pattern of the blanket draped on top of you.

“My darling, I may be eternal but I am not yet a mind reader,” He says, his hand once again extending to your face. You resist the urge to flinch again as he gently places his thumb on your chin, his fingers resting against your jaw as he gently turns your face up to look at him. “I need you to look in my eyes when you’re communicating with me,”

You feel your face turn hot. Rage and humiliation course through your veins at his words. How dare he take you prisoner and treat you like a child? The visceral urge to bite down on his thumb, to feel the flesh give way under your teeth as you crack the bone of his appendage floods you for a moment. This man had killed your friends, had taken your kingdom and home from you, and now he dares to treat you like some sort of doll and expects you to be alright with it? You open your jaw ever so slightly, almost giving in to the urge until you feel Ardyn’s fingers tighten around it, and you’re reminded of just how futile it would be.

You begrudgingly raise your gaze from the blanket to his, fully expecting another smug smile. You’re once again taken aback at the kindness in his eyes, the sincerity and longing that tinges them as he looks at you. It disgusts you, makes you feel like starscourge is crawling across your skin. You nod slowly, and he releases your chin with a smile.

“Well then, it seems we have a deal,” He says, flourishing his hand. You see the change in you more than you can feel it, a red miasma appears and then dissipates around your neck and you feel as if a weight slight weight has been lifted from your entire being.

You think of your next words carefully. While Ardyn had seemed fairly stable the entire time you’d been here, you know that no stable person kills four men and imprisons their young comrade. To escape you need to be alive, not another corpse on the pile.

“Why am I here?” You finally ask, your voice raspy from disuse. While he had told you on the ship, it still made no sense to you. All this talk of reincarnation and previous lovers, it was impossible. Sure, you’d seen some pretty impossible things on your journey, but this? This was too much.

“Ah, that’s the million gil question isn’t it?” Ardyn says, returning his hand to its place on your shin. “You see, long ago, I was a healer of the people. I traveled all over Lucis to heal those in need, I devoted my life to the service of others and expected little in return,” You resisted the urge to snort. The man holding you captive, who had killed your friends in cold blood, a healer? It was laughable.

“But one day on my travels, I met a woman. She was beautiful, effervescent even. We became lovers and then were to be wed. But by a cruel twist of fate, she was stolen from me,” You felt his grip tighten on your shin, wincing slightly as it turned bruising. Noticing this, he relaxes his grip, apologetically rubbing the throbbing area as he continues. “And I was cursed by the gods, left to live out eternity in solitude.”

Your mind reels at this revelation. You’d doubt him if you hadn’t slit his throat yourself, if you hadn’t felt the weight of his dying body on top of yours and the grotesque gurgles that emanated from him as he choked to death on his own blood. The only "immortal" you know is Cor, but even he is just a man.

“But I was given a second chance,” He continues, not giving you a second to process. “Two decades ago I felt something change: I felt her presence return to this mortal coil. I spent years searching for her, only guided by a tugging in my heart. I eventually found her, reborn as a girl in the streets of Insomnia. She bore the mark of light on her hand, the very force that had taken her from me all those centuries before.”

He takes your hand, his thumb gliding over the star that marked itself between your thumb and forefinger. Revulsion fills you like a plague, but you force yourself not to pull away. Keeping in his good graces is presumably the only thing keeping you alive. “And now here you are, a woman in your own right. I was going to wait, properly court you and show you the romance that had been taken from us,” his face turns bitter at this, removing his hand from yours. “But unfortunately, your charge forced my hand. I don’t expect you to understand this all right now, but I hope that in due time, we can reconcile the time lost.” The way he looks at you is filled with longing, melancholy dripping into his amber irises. Under any other circumstance, you'd be flattered to hold someone's gaze like that, but now it makes your skin crawl. How could a murderer flip on a dime like this? Isn't this the same man behind the soulless Magitek troopers? The man who holds an entire nation at his disposal? And now he's sitting with you in some room in Altissa trying to play house with a random crownsguard.

Before you know it, you’re giggling. The situation is all too much for you, too ridiculous for your brain to handle as your synapses fire on all cylinders. A giddy hysteria bubbles up in your chest, deep and all-consuming as your giggles turn to full-blown laughter. Your body shakes as you laugh, incredulity filling your veins. This is impossible, he is impossible. There’s no way this is happening. You must have been hit in the head by a rock during the fight with the Archean, or maybe you’re still in your bed in Insomnia in some sort of hellish nightmare.

“You expect me to believe that?” You say between gasps. “You expect me to believe that just because I have some stupid fucking birthmark– that because you had some sort of weird twisted feeling about me, that I’m some sort of reincarnated girlfriend for you?!” Your voice grows shrill as you continue, high on hysteria and disbelief. “You take me prisoner, kill my only friends, paralyze me, and now suddenly you’re the fucking victim? Just because some random bitch died Six knows how long ago?”

“Don’t-” His voice cuts through your rant, but you’re so electrified with emotion you can’t find it in you to stop.

“No, you don’t get to fucking decide this,” You continue, your eyes wildly flitting around the room. Your finger shakes in the air from where you’ve accusatorily pointed it at him. “You don’t get to make me like your personal doll just because you have some fucked up issues. I have a life, I have parents- friends- a job- I’m not just your little toy to play house with you sick fuck!”

This seems to set him off, his eyes darkening as he lunges forward, trapping your frantic hands against the headboard.

“Enough,” He growls, his face mere inches from yours. Your hysteria is replaced by a primal sense of fear. His features seem sharper, more sinister like this. The gentleness in his eyes has been replaced with frenzied anger, and you swear you see bits of black tinging his sclera.

“You will learn your place, darling, and my methods are none of your concern,” He hisses the endearment like a threat, his grip on your wrists tightening. “If you insist on being difficult, we can do things your way, but trust me when I tell you that I am being merciful in my treatment of you. You will learn your place, and you will take it. Whether you do so willingly is up to you. Do you understand me?”

You’re too paralyzed with fear to move, the pain in your wrists growing with every second. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you worry he’ll break them and leave you even more crippled. He doesn’t take well to your silence, leaning in so close that you can feel his hot breath across your face, his hair shrouding your vision.

“I said: Do you understand?” He repeats with more venom in his voice than before. You frantically nod, a quiet Yes escaping your lips.

“Yes, who?” He growls, and you pray for the bed beneath you to open up and swallow you whole.

“Yes, Ardyn,” You mutter, relief flooding your senses as he withdraws from your space, dropping your wrists and standing up. You watch as he picks up his book from where he’d left it on the chair, tucking it into his jacket before turning back to you.

“Since you had your little… outburst… I’ll leave you to your own devices for the rest of the day,” You see the cheshire smile appear again, and suddenly you’re internally cursing your big mouth. He flourishes with his right hand and you see the red miasma re-materialize around your throat before once again disappearing. “Do take care, darling.”

The unpleasantness he’d swallowed rears its ugly head in his throat, almost coming up all over the maroon carpet as he takes in the sight in front of him.

Lily’s hunched over — knees on plush carpet, forehead against the curved arm of the couch — small and delicate as she shakes, each tremor tearing through James’ heart with far more vigour than sounds ever could. 

It’s rare for James to feel out of depth when someone needs support; he lets his happiness seep out and crawl over Sirius (forced to endure his family), Remus (cursed to withstand the painful effects of an ostracised condition) and Peter (an insecure lad on a good day). 

He’s comforted Lily before; he knows how she’ll fight the hug — stubborn even in despair — before slumping into him. He’s never before wanted to hold her so badly while the crushing force of guilt pushes with equal measure to keep his feet planted where she’s out of reach.

He starts easy. “I’m sorry for Sirius; he was out of line.”

She starts — unaware of his presence — and the spear of guilt strikes deeper into his heart at the sight of her crumbled spirit.

“And most of all, I’m sorry,” James whispers as his voice escapes him, stuck in his throat as he hangs his head. “I am so so so sorry, Lily.”

“You’re sorry?” It’s chocked, but incredulous nonetheless. 

“Yes!” James blurts, moving to kneel before her, hands pausing — outstretched and shaking — before falling to his sides least he breaches the invisible barrier of trust yet again. He’s never been desperate for anything like he is for Lily to believe he’s sorry. 

She’s shaking her head and James has a moment of terrible ache where he thinks she might tell him she doesn’t want to see him ever again — fair of her, but devastating still — before her words escape. “I’m sorry, James. Me.”

As she shakes her head, a terrible ache settles in James’ stomach; she’s going to tell him to leave, she’s going to never want to see him, she’s —”

“ I’m sorry, James.”

He blinks at her; the surprise is paralysing before a fire ignites his fierce words. “You don’t owe me any apology!” He shakes his head so furiously his glasses slide down his nose. He shoves them back onto his face so he can look Lily in the eyes. She doesn’t owe him anything.

“Yes, I do!” Lily finds fight in her indignance, eyes sparking alive at his apparent stupidity. “It’s completely the other way around, James! You don’t owe me one!”

He gapes, astounded. What world was she living in? “Lily, I really, really do.”

“But you haven’t done anything!” Her voice pitches in exasperation before her face falls — quickly covered by her hands — and it’s only because he’s moved closer in their argument that he catches her muffled words. “Not like me.”

“That’s exactly the point… I did nothing !” It escapes quiet and broken — he’s disgusted with himself — as the pool of sorrow that’s been threatening to overflow since Sirius left makes its first escape, dashing down his cheek.

“No, James! How can you think that? I’m the one who…” She wrings her hands as she alternates between staring him fiercely in the eyes and boring a shame-faced hole in the carpet. 

“It’s not your fault!” James pleads. Why can’t she just listen? “Lily, you were —”

“— Smashed! Plastered! Yeah, and I came into your room and assaulted — oh Merlin” 

“You didn’t assault me!” James insists. He might laugh at the idea if he wasn’t in the shadowy depths of guilt. “You were drunk Lily, you had no idea —”

“That doesn’t excuse what I did, James!”

“I was sober, it’s my fault Lily!” “It is not! ” She emerges from her vulnerable cocoon like a butterfly in flames as she pokes him in the chest for good measure. There’s a tiny part of James that’s happy she isn’t curled in on herself anymore even if she’s spouting nonsense. 

“ Well, it sure as hell isn’t yours! ” He does not poke her in the chest, but the urge to shake her until she stops blaming herself is there.

Lily stares at him. A beat of silence passes. “Would you be saying that if the situation was reversed?” She’s quiet again, but her voice stays firm. Stubborn witch.

“That’s different!” His guilt only grows as he wonders if he should ever get truly smashed in her presence.

“It’s not! Which is why this is my fault! James, I got drunk and came and did all sorts of things you never consented to, I —”

“And you’re saying you consented?” James almost laughs — he seems to be doing that a lot; she’s making such ridiculous statements. “Lily, I was sober, I should have stopped —”

“I shouldn’t even have been there!”

James pauses and looks at her. She’s flushed, wide-eyed and tear-stained. “You don’t have to be sorry, Lily,” he murmurs. “And it is different.”

“It’s not!” She raises her chin stubbornly. “Are you saying you’d think it my fault if you turned up drunk in my bed?”

“Of course not!” James protests at once. “But I could have stopped you and I didn’t. That’s why it’s on me.”

She shakes her head and opens her mouth, but James powers on. “I’m not saying it would be the same the other way around because it is different. Lily, I’m bigger and stronger than you; you turned up drunk without your wand,” — in his pause, he realises she’s listening now — “Lily, I could have easily just picked you up, carried you back to your room and fetched you a sobering potion — that’s why it’s on me. I let you keep going, knowing that it wasn’t something you’d want to do sober.” He heaves a dry inhale to control the tremble in his throat. “Do you see now? It’s my fault”

“No, James you don’t understand!” She’s crying again, tears renewed as she reaches for him before drawing her hand back like her fingers touched a flame. “This is me! I’m the one who has all these uncontrolled feelings and I’m the one who has let it spiral out of control! Me, James!” She’s laughing now — unhappy and slightly unhinged as she continuous deliriously — “I thought they might pass, but they haven’t, I mean the sex dreams should have been a hint I had lost complete control, but on I went, determined to —”

“— Feelings and sex dreams?” Can you choke and die on nothing but air? 

“I know, right?” He really doesn’t.

“Arhhgggle —” His world is spinning. He’s dizzy from a realisation dancing just out of reach. He can’t speak. He can’t think.

Lily doesn’t seem to take his momentary brain malfunction into consideration — or perhaps she thinks he’s suffering a stroke; he certainly feels like it. Words float through his ears as he gapes at her. Entirely pathetic — unfair — hurt you — in love with you — fuck it up. 

“Wait what?” His brain slugs into gear as I’m in love with you rings in his head like a choir.

“What?” Lily frowns at him.

“You’re in love with me?” James is in disbelief. 

“Yes, don’t you see James, this is why it’s all my fault, I —”

“You’re in love with me. ” The laugh escapes him this time as the choir reaches a joyous song.

She shrinks under his stare as she folds back into herself. “I know I deserve it, but you can stop making fun.” 

“Making fun? Merlin, Lily.” A second delighted laugh escapes his lips until its touch makes her flinch; he stomps on his excitement so he can fucking speak. 

His calloused fingers brush her soft ones gently. “Lily.”

She looks up. James brushes the fresh tears off her skin, thumb dusting her cheek. “I’m so sorry James.” She closes her eyes as she — unconsciously, James thinks — leans into his palm. 

“I love you too.” Her eyes fly open like his words have reached into the heavens and brought a bolt of lightning through her spine. 

“What?” It’s a trembling whisper, carried to James’ ears only by the silence of the common room.