Over and over many setting suns,
I have run, I have waited for the rain to come.
He doesn't mean to stare.
He honestly doesn't.
It's not like he wants to be looking at her.
He knows it's against everything he's ever been told, and he knows that it's disgusting.
He knows that it's wrong.
He knows that he should be thinking about her as if she's something beneath him, as if she's the dirt lining the ground.
And he knows he can't.
He also knows that he wants to finish this bloody essay and never have to think about her again.
Instead, he chews the end of his quill, parchment still empty and continues to gaze at her.
He doesn't call her beautiful in his mind.
He's long since learnt to keep such traitorous thoughts out of his mind.
He calls her things like nice, and instead of complementing things like her hair or her lips, he complements the usual anatomy that fills a teenage boy's mind.
He knows he's lying to himself, but he pretends he's unaware, it'll make everything so much easier in the long run.
But, maybe it's the shocking red hair that makes him think that the long run isn't exactly worth it.
He watches her move in the library booth opposite him, and he smiles slightly to himself.
Maybe he's a hunter, stalking his prey.
Or maybe he's an observer, looks but never touches.
He doesn't want to know the difference.
He wonders, for a moment, what would happen if she were to open her eyes and look directly at him.
Maybe, she'd shrug it off.
Maybe, she'd roll her eyes and mutter 'pervert' underneath her breath.
Maybe, she'd call him a 'pervert' loud enough for everyone to hear.
Maybe, she'd slap him.
Maybe, they'd snog.
Wait-what?
He sighs, blanking his mind and going to back to just observing.
Not thinking, just seeing.
He can't hear her but her lips part in what he presumes to be a sigh.
Or a snore.
Or she's sleeptalking.
(Maybe she's talking about him).
Everything's full of possibilities.
What could she possibly be dreaming about?
The moon?
The stars?
Her brother?
Shagging?
Him?
Shagging him?
He shakes his head again.
Maybe he's just really self-absorbed or maybe he's just looking for possibilities.
There are possibilities, yes?
Maybe he's just grasping at sand.
The grains of promises falling through his fingers and he's left with the truth.
Nothing.
Maybe there's actually a chance for something.
Anything.
Maybe he's not batshit crazy.
He sighs, leaning back in his chair and closing his book with a soft 'thud'.
It's late, almost midnight, and everyone's either finished studying or given up, a few people littered around the place, but they're too absorbed in memorising the answer to that trick question worth more marks than it really should be to care.
Plus, she looks cold.
He walks over, almost tiptoeing as if not to awake her.
(But then he walks into the table and somehow she sleeps through his exclaim and the librarian shushing him).
Swearing, he sighs and pulls off his cloak, attempting to drape it over her in such a way that it doesn't wake her up, yet doesn't fall off.
Attempting.
His hand (he's not sure if it's accidental or not) brushes against her cheek and her eyes start to flutter open.
He can see two slits of the brightest green fight sleep and peer up at him.
Her eyebrows are furrowed and now he's seriously afraid (yes, afraid) that she's going to hex him.
"Oh – shit – sorry."
He apologizes quickly, backing away quickly.
"Regulus…?"
Maybe it's a hint of familiarity in her voice.
Or maybe she's just really confused.
Her hand, suddenly, reaches out and grabs his wrist softly, pulling him back to face her.
Her eyelids flicker against her skin and it's apparent she's falling back asleep.
"Stay, please?"
It's traitorous.
It's disgusting.
It's wrong.
It would be so very easy just to shake his head and leave right then and never speak to her again.
But she's so beautiful.
He nods, though at the time he has no idea why he agrees.
He sits down slowly and her head soon enough falls on his lap.
Her breath is heavy and he can feel it tickling his leg.
He looks down to see their hands intertwined and he smiles to himself.
Maybe it's nothing.
Maybe it's one of those stolen moments where they're only allowed this and no happily ever after.
Maybe it's something.
He leans down to kiss her cheek, the taste of her skin resting on his lips.
To anyone watching they'll look like something out of a movie, something cliché and horribly corny.
Maybe they're meant to be together.
Maybe they're lovers who just don't know they're in love yet.
Maybe they're soulmates.
I know I'll stay, I know I'll stay right there with you,
And though, it might be too late,
What would you say, what would you say, what would you do?
AN: Just a slightly non-depressing Regulus/Amelia oneshot for you all.
Dedicated to Billie.
Slightly not really based on Sun by Two Door Cinema Club.
I don't anything at all, it all belongs to JK Rowling, or Two Door Cinema Club.
Thank you for reading my pretties.
((Reviews will make me happy.))