A/N: I'm supposed to be working on my other story, and yet, I couldn't help but write this angsty little one-shot. My friend wrote a very dark and deep poem the other day, and it is what inspired this. It's my first time writing in second person, as well as my first shot at angst. I hope it's sufficient(:
Whoosh! Youwatch him as he flies past you yet again. At least, you assume it was him. They are all moving at dangerously fast paces, and when you do get a chance to see them clearly, it's only for a split second.
You've been watching him for the past three hours. The game has been well played, the scores evenly matched or close to it the whole time, as the final match of the season usually is. You enjoy being able to watch him freely, without questioning or confused looks, but you wish the snitch would be caught already.
When the game does finally end, it comes as a shock to you, for your eyes had been locked on him the whole time. People around you stand and begin to scream, and suddenly all you see is a red and gold barrier. You stand quickly and when you still can't find him, you go as far as to stand on tip-toe. Your eyes scan the pitch, and with a sigh of relief, they fall on him once again.
He's headed for the ground, where the rest of his team are bouncing and cheering. When he touches down, he grabs tiny Chris Bitsol, who has the snitch in one hand and the cup in the other, and throws him onto his shoulders. You can't think of a time when he was happier, and it makes you smile.
After several minutes of gloating, the team rushes into the locker room and the students in the stands begin to clear out. But just before he goes in, he takes one last look at the crowd, and smiles wide. Until he sees you. Then the smile falls from his face, and he turns and runs for the exit, leaving you with a frown on your face and a tear in the corner of your heart.
About an hour later, you're sitting in a chair off to the side in the Gryffindor common room. Your eyes are glazed over, and you're staring straight ahead, at nothing in particular. There's a liquor bottle in your hand, and it's not the first of the evening. There's someone sitting next you trying to have a conversation – Mary, you believe – but after several minutes of you not paying attention, she leaves. And you're glad. Lately you've found solitude to be rewarding. A voice somewhere in the back of your mind tells you that you should feel bad for being so rude, but you tune it out.
Now that Mary is gone, you can focus on what really matters – him. It's easy to find him in here, because of course he's right in the middle of the room, the center of attention. He's talking with his friends, leaning back casually and laughing occasionally. But you can see that there's something wrong. When he smiles, it doesn't reach his eyes and his posture is slightly more rigid than normal. The little things about him you have come to notice lately, things you never thought you would care about. But now, every time you look at him you search for that sparkle and the relaxed shoulders.
Sirius catches your eye, and with a wave of his hand he gestures over to where you are sitting. Realizing he would be looking soon, you drop your eyes to the bottle in your hand and take a hearty swig. You fan your hair down to cover your flaming cheeks, and make sure to wait a few moments before returning your gaze to him.
As you go to take another sip of your beverage, you realize that it will be your last – for that bottle, at least. You're slightly repulsed by yourself for drinking so heavily, yet you feel no shame. You stand and walk over to the refreshment table, not really paying attention to your surroundings. You throw the empty bottle in the trash can, but you're so tipsy that you miss. Your cheeks flush, a deeper and brighter red than they were before, and with a silent wave of your wand the shards of glass disappear.
You begin to wonder if another drink is really what you need right now. But then you think of him, and the way his face fell when he looked at you, and you realize there is nothing you need more than another dose of anything that would take you farther away from that reality. Already you're beginning to forget the minor details of that event; you no longer remember where it occurred or if anyone else was around to see it. You think that maybe, just maybe, if enough alcohol is rushing through your system and tampering with your mind, the entire thing will float away forever, never to be thought of again.
So, you reach for another bottle. And apparently, you're not the only one that needs it. Just as your delicate fingers are about to close around the neck, another larger, rougher hand reaches for it as well. For a moment, your flesh brushes against his before he jerks it away, as though he'd been scalded. You sigh, and look up to tell him that he can have it, that you don't really need it, until you see who it is – him. The words die on your tongue, and your body practically freezes up from shock. His face is impassive as he nudges your hand out of the way and takes the drink for himself. Then, he frowns and walks away leaving you with the tear in the corner of your heart just a little deeper.
Shortly after that, you return to your own common room, feeling much more sober than you wish to be. You flop down on the couch in front of the fire and wonder what it is you could have done to make him act so cold. Subconsciously, you already know the answer, you just don't want to admit it. You've gone and given him what he's wanted for the past six years – you've fallen passionately, desperately, helplessly in love with him. But it took you just a little longer than he was willing to wait.
You feel like crying, but you won't. You're stronger than that. But the numbness from your excessive drinking is starting to fade, and soon you'll be able to feel the tear in your heart. Until then, you settle for summoning a blanket from your bedroom and staring into the flames in front of you. You watch until you can see pictures dancing across the fire, and then until the heaviness behind your eyelids overpowers them, and you drift into a light slumber.
You dream of him, and only him. You dream of the way his glasses frame his face in a way that compliments his high, edgy cheekbones and strong jaw, yet somehow softens his eyes as well. You dream of his strong arms, wide shoulders, perfect legs. Lastly, you can see your favorite feature perfectly, the part of him you spend the most time analyzing – his lips. They're a shade of pink you've never seen before and always appear soft to the touch. His bottom lip is fuller than the top, forming an everlasting pout that you can't help but adore. You try to picture him smiling, that crooked, half-smirk of his, but you find it rather difficult. When you picture him looking as he has lately – a frown on his face, eyes stone cold, and muscles rigid – the dream easily becomes a nightmare.
He begins to whisper your name, and it feels like acid falling from those flawless lips. Lily, Lily, Lily, he whispers, and it's agony to your ears. His tone is filled with accusations and anger, and you wish for nothing more than to wake.
I'm sorry, you say back to him, hoping, wishing and praying for consciousness. His brow furrows, and a confused expression crosses his features, but the frown stays in place.
What are you sorry for? he asks, and suddenly you realize that the only way out is to answer his question, and admit that you are wrong. It takes you several moments to compose yourself, but when you can't stand to be trapped in the nightmare any longer, you whisper, so softly that it's almost inaudible,
For waiting so long. Just before he disappears, a blank expression crosses over his face. When you wake, tears are flowing freely down your cheeks, and the sight you open your eyes to makes you have to choke back a sob. For there, staring back at you is the same blank expression as the nightmare.
"James?" You whisper softly, to ensure that you are awake. However, he says nothing, and you are not reassured in the slightest.
And then he does something to convince you that you are indeed still asleep, although not in the same nightmare as before. He leans forward and ever so softly, presses his gentle and warm lips against your own. The kiss is chaste and innocent, yet at the same time indulgent and complicated. Your eyes fall closed again, and you feel yourself start to lose your breath in the pure ecstasy of it.
When, after many glorious and blissful moments, he pulls away, he smiles ever so weakly and walks away, leaving you with the tear in the corner of your heart a little deeper than before.
A/N: Review if you liked it. Or hated it. Or anywhere in between. (:
Oh, and if you were wondering, the last part is a reality. But Lily is so deep in disbelief that she convinces herself she's still dreaming. Does that help you, Oldmanmah?