You're in a war and they make matching t-shirts.
It's ridiculous but they wear them proudly, brilliant and bright with purple and gold and a giant phoenix stamped in the middle of their chests. They're quite pleased with themselves and you think it's funny so you laugh and demand to know why they didn't make you one. It's exclusively a Padfoot and Prongs thing, they tell you; and the prats didn't even make one for Moony or Wormtail. You sigh and tell them that you suppose you can forgive them for the exclusion, but it may take you a few days to fully get over it since the shirts are so nice and all.
But they tickle you and you lose yourself to their wide grins, nimble fingers, and that goddamn boyish charm and forget that you're in a war.
You fall asleep on the couch that night, and wake up in James' arms as he's carrying you up to bed. Sirius has gone back to his flat – and you can tell because the house is quiet – but he'll be back tomorrow. Because that's what you all do these days: no goodbyes – just come back alive and force a smile if you need to.
He doesn't realize that you're awake now, as he ascends the stairs and you do nothing to alert him otherwise. Instead you search his face hungrily in the dim lighting, taking in his slightly rounded cheeks, disheveled hair, and the wire-framed glasses that rest precariously on his straight nose. And it makes you so sad.
James looks too young to be a soldier. And you expect that you don't look much older. You're both so passionate about the cause, about winning the war, about the Order, but then there are moments where you wonder what the hell you're even doing. You've seen things, things that you could gladly forget but are instead plagued by in the early morning when you can't sleep. So much pain and so much death surround you and you want to believe that you're young, and therefore untouchable, but now you're not so sure.
And so now you hold him a little tighter and he kisses you a little harder because there are some things that you can't afford to lose and after you've been orphaned and hopelessly abandoned by a boneless society, all you have is each other.
But you can't help but feel weighed down at times, and you need to remind yourself to breathe. You're so afraid of the day where you won't be able to breathe – either because the life has been beaten out of you or because you're choking on the sobs spent on one of your loved ones. It isn't an option; you can't lose yourself or any of those reckless, wild boys that you've claimed as your own.
You need to be here and you need to win the war.
He lays you down on the bed, but now that you're here, you don't know if you want to sleep. Your eyelids are heavy but your hands reach for his shirt and lift it over his head because you need contact, you need to feel skin and a real heartbeat.
It's all there; you can feel it now through your fingers.
And you thank every higher power that you can think of everyday for that.
A/N: Day 3 of Jily Week on tumblr! The prompt was the Order - hope that you enjoyed it!
Disclaimer: If you don't own Harry Potter and you know it clap your hands *clap clap*