Fashion Disaster

Chapter 5

Day 5 AKA 'A True Disney Ponce'

For the second day in a row, James feels more miserable than he ever remembers feeling in his life.

Except, this time, he thinks he deserves the heaviness chaining down his heart.

Sirius agrees, of course; any traces of pity he'd felt for James's plight or despondent mood all but vanished now. "I told you," he says, merciless, for about the thousandth time that night. "I told you it was nothing and you were being a prat!"

"How was I supposed to know?" James moans, tossing back some lemonade down his throat like it's scotch. Unfortunately, it's the only drink his mother has allowed them to consume, out of very understandable fear that they'd run out of alcohol right before Christmas otherwise. It's also possible that she didn't trust him near the drinks while he was in such a mood. Again, very understandable; historical evidence has proven that he's bawled over less when drunk. "Why would she lie to me?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. You've known her less than a week, mate. She's hardly going to be spewing out her deepest secrets to you." Sirius goes to take a sip of his own drink, but rolls his eyes at the last moment and puts the glass down on the table. "Can't believe I'm stuck drinking lemonade because of you."

James ignores this. "Well, how was I to know that she was apparently interested in me? Has she seen herself?"

"Agreed. She's quite fit. But—" he wags a finger, "again, I told you. She couldn't have been more obvious if she'd ripped your shirt open, sent the buttons flying, and wiggled her fingers over your chest in wanton lust."

That image, it's too much. "Stop."

"I'm just saying." Sirius shrugs, all composed face and mature tone as if he's not narrating a scene out of some cheap porno. "It was all laid down for you perfectly. You just had to not fuck up, Prongs. Seems like that was too much to expect though. I'm thoroughly ashamed of you."

If he wasn't his best mate, James would've wagered that Sirius actually hated him and gained some perverse satisfaction from the woes of a heartbroken man. As it was, he knew he couldn't blame the arsehole; Sirius had, in moments of pained honesty, tried to guide him towards seeing sense. In his own, prattish way, he'd always looked out for James.

And even now, as Sirius sits wrinkling his nose at the glass of lemonade, choice words spurting out under his breath, James know he'll continue being the lovably annoying brother despite James's inevitable missteps.

The thought barely crosses his mind before he reels back, blinking down at his empty glass. Perhaps there really was alcohol in the drink.

"What're you making that stupid face for?"

James looks up, eternally glad that he hasn't blurted the sappy words—despite their true nature—to Sirius. "Can you get drunk on lemon fizz?"

"I can't, though I wouldn't put it past you," he says, looking unsurprised by the strange question. "So, what's your plan?"

"Plan?"

"You know, for tomorrow," Sirius explains, rotating his wrist. James blinks, mouth parted dumbly. "You better have a fucking plan."

"I do, I just—didn't think you were going to accompany me."

"Why the hell wouldn't I?"

"Um, because, and I quote, "you're thoroughly ashamed of me"?"

"Well, yeah, but that's nothing new; you're embarrassing." He jumps off from the couch. "And without me around, you'll probably make an even bigger fool of yourself."

"That's completely untrue. I wouldn't be walking around looking like a clown, for starters."

"But still behaving like one, which is exactly the point I'm trying to make. And I'm too invested now, besides. You've got to clean up this mess. I haven't been lugging you to the store all these days to simply watch you flirt pitifully with Evans and then muck things up."

James smirks. "Why don't you just admit that you care?"

"Of course, I care," he smiles sweetly, "about my peace of mind. I can't have you groaning at your own idiocy and then wanking ten times a day out of sexual frustration."

The smirk drops, and James lifts both his hands to give him the fingers. "Goodnight, Padfoot. I hope you fall down the stairs and break your neck."

Sirius barks out a laugh. "That would be funnier if I didn't live right across the hall."

"Okay, now, remember: we cannot waste time on the clothes today," James says, rubbing his hands together as they walk up to Take a Bow the next day. "I have to talk to Lily, apologize to her, and then hopefully snog her into oblivion."

"Can you say all that again without quaking in your boots?"

"Sirius, I swear—"

"Alright, alright," he holds up his hands. "I promise I'll pick the first disgusting—oops, charming—outfit that I can find."

James sighs, deep and long-suffering, before he pushes open the doors to the shop for the fifth time that week. Instantly, he's hit with the smell of fresh pine, wood, and holiday cheer, a certain festivity in the air that hadn't been present yesterday. In barely half a second, his eyes spot the large Christmas tree that sits happily in the middle of the store, adorned in all manner of colourful baubles, lights, and trinkets. From the speakers, pleasant tunes of Deck the Halls filter out into the large space, completing the merry ambience.

It hasn't struck him until this moment that there had been a glaring lack of seasonal decorations in the store given that Christmas was only two days away.

Lily, with her red hair and green eyes, had brought him all the cheer he'd needed.

"Oh, it's you two," sighs a voice from their left, and James twists around to find Petunia at the register, a grotesque grimace on her face. "Are you really so short on clothes?"

He figures Lily hasn't told her about the bet, then. Sensible. "Hi, Petunia. Wonderful to see you again. Love what you've done with the store."

Irritation flits over her face at his enthusiasm.

James doesn't mind; he'd been faking it anyway.

"Better late than never, I suppose," Sirius intones, picking up a cookie from the glass-covered plate on the counter. He takes a bite. "Mm, choco-chip. Try one, Prongs."

But before James can even reach for it, Petunia drags the entire thing away. "These are only for paying customers."

"And, as you will find if you check your transactions for the week," James says slowly, "we are one of those."

"Not for today, you aren't."

He seriously can't believe this harpy is related to Lily.

"Go terrorize someone else, Petunia." Mary walks briskly towards them, a Santa hat sitting over her dark strands, hair out of its usual braid. "Or better yet, just go. I can manage by myself."

"You can't tell me what to do," Petunia snaps. "I'm your boss."

"No, you aren't; Lily is. And in her absence, I take care of things around here. She's just too kind to ask you to fuck off. But guess what?" She glares. "I'm not. So, fuck off."

James and Sirius exchange a surreptitious look, one that brims with elevated admiration for Mary as well as their own mounting awkwardness at having to witness such an uncomfortable argument.

Petunia looks like she wouldn't mind scratching her nails down Mary's face, accompanied with some well-timed banshee scream, but seems to realize that violence won't get her anywhere. James is inclined to agree—Mary is downright scary. "Fuck you," she hisses eventually, haughtily walking around the counter. "I'm leaving. No wonder Lily's turned out like this; surrounding herself with people like you."

"Don't let the door hit you on your way out!" Mary calls dryly. "Or, on second thought, let it."

They watch silently for a few moments as Petunia angrily stomps out of the store, high heels clopping until she steps out onto the pavement, door shutting behind her.

"Good riddance," Mary scoffs.

"Evans isn't in today?" Sirius quirks a brow, mercifully voicing the question sitting on James's tongue.

Mary stays silent for a beat, before her brown eyes travel to James in a pointedly slow movement. "No," she says, glaring, "turns out she's had enough crap thrown at her this week. Wasn't feeling up to smiling at strangers all day on top of that."

His insides twist painfully. "Er…"

"Don't bother, Potter," she waves off irately. "I've been instructed not to give you shit about it, because apparently, you're not the only one at fault here, but I truly cannot hold myself back if you try to talk to me about it. So, save your breath."

James doesn't want any breath saved. "Not the only one at fault?"

She frowns, deep and annoyed, but seems to understand that he won't relent. "Well, if you had a hag of a sister who tried to dictate everything you did in life and wouldn't let you put up decorations in your own goddamned store because, and I quote, "it looks too try-hard", you'd be fucking brassed off, too!"

James blinks, sharing an identical look of unease with Sirius.

But before he can so much as open his mouth, Mary barrels on. "And if your creepy childhood friend showed up after years and revealed his bigoted, prejudiced, racist plans to you over a cup of coffee and then invited you to join an equally fucked up group to support that shite, you'd be rightfully upset, too!" She sucks in a breath, glaring at James again with an intensity that is terrifying. "But when you're trying to move past all of that and the person you fancy accuses you of acting like some callous slag, and basically admits that they were gonna ghost you—well, that's when you don't show up for work."

Okay, he deserved that.

But ouch.

"I didn't mean to—"

"Like I said: don't bother."

"But—"

She looks away. "Sirius?"

"Come on, Prongs." James feels a hand on his shoulder, steering him away. He fleetingly wonders how socially acceptable it would be for a grown man to plop down on the floor in the middle of a clothing store and demand answers. "Wipe that look from your face. I'll talk to her when you're not around."

Sirius, he realizes, is useful to keep around sometimes.

"What the hell? Are these—"

"They are, indeed."

"Padfoot, I'm not wearing bloody suspenders!"

"Why not?" he smirks, knowing very well why not. "I hardly think this is the worst thing, considering all that you've already worn this week."

"Well, obviously," James grumbles, inwardly shuddering as he recalled the nightmares he'd lived through. "But these don't go with anything at all."

"Nonsense," Sirius mutters, impatient fingers pushing and parting cloth hangers noisily. His eyes remain dedicated to the task, sincere in a manner they really ought not to be. "We just have to find you the right shirt to go—AHA!"

James has never hated the two-syllabic exclamation of euphoria more.

Sirius turns around to face him, holding up a sheet of shimmery red. James blanches at the shine for a second, before his eyes adjust and he realizes that it is, in fact, a shirt. A very red, very velvet shirt, full with puffed sleeves and some sort of strange, ethereal glow. A petrifying image of him in that very abomination flashes through his mind.

"I can't believe people actually buy this stuff," he whines.

Sirius's eyes light up in utter glee, a reaction that is only brought on by the true joy of mischief. James only wishes it wasn't so often directly correlated with his suffering. "This is fantastic!" he cries. "You'll look like a true Disney prince."

James worries he might be right.

He'll look like a true Disney ponce.

Morosely cradling the shirt against his stomach, he follows Sirius around on his hunt for the sexiest bottom wear to go with it. James, however, feels rather distracted by the bulging sleeves and the tiniest bits of glitter he spots on the fabric—all but convinced that some theatre actor exchanged their Gaston LeGume outfit with the inventory—and duly jumps in surprise when a pair of actually sexy black trousers flops over the shirt in his arms.

He looks up, jaw unhinged. "If you tell me you're shopping for yourself again, I promise I will have a meltdown."

"Hold back the waterworks. These are for you."

James keeps staring, trying to find the catch. "Why are you being so benevolent? Is there some humongous stain on the backside that I haven't noticed?"

Sirius's annoyed clucking prevents him from turning over the garment and checking for himself. "You're such a fucking tosser. Here I am, trying to make you look good—"

"Tell me the truth."

"I'm a wonderful mate."

"Sirius."

"Fine." His mask cracks, lips pulling inside to hide a smirk. "Any worse, and I'd be too embarrassed to walk beside you."

And even though he'd guessed as much, James groans, tortured. After all that Sirius has foisted upon his person this week, hearing such an admission from the culprit's mouth feels like a true testament to the legitimacy behind James's fear: the shirt on its own is damaging enough. With the help of the suspenders, however, the final effect would be magnificently horrifying.

"Let's get this billed," he sighs, turning around with a defeated slouch. "And you'd better talk to Mary before I decide none of this is worth it, and commit some heinous crime."

"I could take you," Sirius scoffs.

James lets his delusion go unargued.

He thinks, with no small amount of surprise, that he pulls off the nonsensical combination of clothes rather nicely.

Well, it could be construed as rather nicely if he were living in some castle, ordering servants around in his most pompous voice, posing imperiously for paintings with his chest thrown out like a great frigatebird. He'd fit perfectly amongst the pages of some ridiculous fairy tale book; all that's missing are some extravagant ruffles and coiffed hair.

James twists to the side, staring at the mirror as his shoulders fill the velvet shirt fully, the gleam from the material almost blinding him. The suspenders stretch over his chest and back on either side, completely warping any era-specific portrayal of fashion he could have gone for. At least, the saving grace in all of this disaster seems to be the black trousers, which, in James's humble opinion, makes his arse pop quite attractively.

Hm.

It's so good, in fact, that the trousers have the potential to end up in his wardrobe permanently rather than become fodder for the Christmas Eve bonfire.

"Okay, I'm done," James announces unnecessarily as he leaves the room. However, the only person he finds in the waiting area is a kid—no older than twelve—tapping away at some loud video game on his phone.

The boy's eyes flick up for only half a second at his greeting, returning to the game quickly thereafter. James almost sighs in relief, because this blasé reaction must surely mean that he doesn't look too awful, but the assumption is promptly thwarted, proved naive and wrong, when the boy does a double-take, mouth falling open.

An obnoxious tune floats through the space as the video game character dies, punctuated by an enviously deep voice blaring GAME OVER. But the boy doesn't pay it any mind, continuing to gape at James.

"You look really stupid," he says eventually.

Brilliant.

"It's for a dare," James tries feebly, shame-faced under the judgemental gaze. "I have to wear whatever my mate selects for me."

In an instant, the kid's demeanour shifts. "Wicked," he grins. "Thanks for the idea. I would've never thought of something so embarrassing."

For some reason, James finds himself tempted to tell the boy that the dare had been of his making, so of course, it was ingenious, but decides that's probably not the best light to shine on himself given the current situation.

"Goodbye," he says instead, leaving the room with whatever tiny bit of dignity he's got left.

He locates Sirius quickly enough. Predictably, he's stood invading Mary's personal space, a strand of her dark hair caught between his fingers. James clears his throat, hoping they'll spring apart with his approach, but obviously, he's not that lucky.

"Wow," Mary says, all jolly mood and amused eyes again. "Too much happening here. I don't know what to comment on."

"Please, don't," James groans, "I've already been bullied by a child. For the second time this week."

"Nonsense, honey," Sirius coos, using his fingers to pluck at the puffed sleeves. "They're just jealous of you."

James swats at him, glaring when he laughs. "Fuck off."

"Don't be mad, Prongs," he chuckles. "You're going to be kissing my feet soon."

"What?"

Mary jumps in. "Lily's at a café four blocks over. It's called the Coffee Cauldron."

"Hey!" Sirius rounds on her. "I was going to tell him that."

"It's not as if you didn't get the information from me to begin with." She rolls her eyes, turning back to James. "You better not fuck this up again, Potter. I've been assured that your heart is in the right place."

"I am—I mean, it is!" He blinks, floundering. "But, uh, is this okay? I mean, isn't Lily going to be mad if I just show up when she's actively avoiding me?"

"She might. You'll have to handle it."

James nods, feeling strangely like he's being fed to the wolves. "Alright. Let's go, Sirius."

"Nah."

"What?" He sputters. "What do you mean by 'nah'?"

"I'm not coming. I'll meet you back at the house."

James swallows, gaze darting between Sirius and Mary, both of whom look delightfully pleased. It takes no genius to figure out what their lecherous expressions signify. "Right. So, that means…"

"You get to talk to Evans all by yourself. Just like you wanted."

A huge ball of nerves spools inside his stomach. "Perfect."

"Oh, don't worry, Potter," Mary smirks, "maybe your outfit will distract her enough that she'll forget to murder you."

"For fuck's sake."

A gust of comforting heat rushes out of the little café when a man in a navy peacoat steps outside. James stares at the door forlornly as it shuts behind him, aching to barrel into the warmth and be rid of the biting cold, but unable to force momentum to his feet. The ten-minute walk to Coffee Cauldron did not prove to be a nearly long enough interlude for him to gather his thoughts. And the cosy size of the shop leaves no doubt in his mind that stepping inside would promptly require him to face Lily.

James sighs, trying to summon courage and composure alike. It won't do to fall apart or ruin this entirely. He knows—as unbelievable and shocking as it is—that he cares too much about her; much more than he ought to for someone he's known for less than a week.

"Oh, hello!" a cheerful voice says, and he looks up to see that the man in the peacoat has stopped next to him. "Are you here to advertise for some show?"

James opens his mouth, closes it. "Uh, what?"

"A theatre production?" the man clarifies, eyes pointedly staring at his outfit. "My little girl loves to attend them, especially the Christmas ones. What are you playing this year?"

Bloody hell.

James feels grateful for Sirius's absence in a way that he truly never has.

"I'm...um, I'm not in any theatre group."

"Oh." His smile slips a little, confusion stitching his brows together. When James's flushed face and discomfit register in his mind, realization dawns, and with it, visible horror. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry, mate! It wasn't like—I was just—you look great—"

The muscles in James's face twitch from the effort of having to hold back a grimace. "Thanks."

"Uh, I'll just—go. Sorry to keep you."

It becomes unclear as to who's the fastest to rush from the scene: the stranger, clearly ruffled at having birthed such an awkward interaction, or James, unwilling to stay on the pavement and invite more mortifying assumptions about his occupation.

The smell of freshly ground coffee and warm bread assaults his nose when James manages to push inside the café. While he's almost prepared for a tense hush to fall over the room at his appearance, followed by a bout of raucous jeering laughter, mercifully, nothing quite as dramatic transpires. That's not to say, however, that he doesn't receive a fair share of alarmed looks from the other occupants.

His eyes are quick to find Lily in the small space. She sits at the far end of the room with her head buried in some novel, a tiny crease between her eyes as she absent-mindedly twirls the stirrer in her cup of coffee. As if sensing his gaze on her, the frown deepens, before she looks up, green eyes widening in surprise as they land on him.

James takes that as his cue and moves to her table.

"What are you doing here?" Lily asks once he's close enough, voice soft and not nearly as furious as he'd been expecting. She manages to keep her composure for a second before a reluctant smile slips over her face. "And what the hell are you wearing?"

"As if you don't know," James chuckles, relieved that she's at least acknowledging him. "You should really stop keeping this stuff in your store."

"Then where would the idiots like you go?"

"The idiots like Sirius, you mean."

"Right. Remind me again who came up with this harebrained idea?"

James frowns, grumbling nonsensically, even though giddiness blooms in his chest when he notices Lily grinning, clearly pleased with herself. He sucks in a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair, and braves the words. "Can we talk, Lily?"

Some brightness in her eyes dims at the question. James feels dread settle into his stomach, certain she's going to refuse, but then she sighs, almost resigned. "Yeah, alright. Sit down."

He almost trips over in his eagerness to do just that. With Lily sitting around a solo circular table, he turns around to steal the nearest empty chair available. When he turns around again, it's to find her eyes quickly jumping back to his face from where they'd been lingering somewhere south. If he hadn't practically caught her in the act, the redness spreading across her cheeks would have been a dead giveaway.

James's heart soars, and with it, his pride. "Were you checking out my arse just now?"

"No." Her response is sharp, quick.

He smirks, lowering himself onto the chair across from her. "Are you sure? Because I'm certain I saw—"

"I was just—observing the trousers. They're nice. Might have to order in more stock."

"Sure. Of course, that's what you were doing."

Lily's eyes squint. "You're already on thin ice, Potter. Don't push it."

James clears his throat, sobers. "You're right." His fingers grip the edge of the table as he leans forward, knees almost knocking into hers, and tries to convey the sincerity of his emotions. "Lily. I'm so, so, so sorry about yesterday. I behaved like such a git because I was insecure. And even though I never meant to question your—your morals, ever, I can see how it came across like that. But trust me, it was just...I had no idea that you—that you—"

"That I fancied you?" He instantly hates the past tense, but nods miserably anyway. Lily sighs. "I suppose I was a little on edge yesterday as well. There was just a lot on my mind, and your insinuations did not help."

"I didn't mean—"

She holds up a hand. "I know. I still wish you'd asked me directly though."

"Well, if it makes a difference, I'm asking now," James says softly, heart pounding somewhere near his mouth. "If you don't mind telling me, that is. Mary mentioned something about a friend, but it was too fast and angry for me to follow."

Lily takes a sip of her coffee, rubs her lips together, and gives absolutely no indication of surprise or affront at finding out that he's spoken to Mary about her. With his sudden intrusion of her safe haven, James supposes she'd already guessed as much.

"Severus is an old friend. Was an old friend," she starts, shaking her head at the fumble. "We, uh, grew up together, went to the same school, and somewhere in between, he started hanging around the wrong sort of people. Suddenly, he had all these cruel, racist views in his mind that I'd never known about, and he was relentless in trying to make me agree with him. Obviously, I was horrified, and I tried to make him see sense. But it never worked." James nods, doesn't interrupt, and waits for her to continue. "Mary didn't approve of my friendship with him. Actually, no one ever did. But he'd always been this huge part of my life, and I didn't know how to just let go, you know?"

James doesn't, not really. He's been remarkably lucky about the friendships in his life, having had the same three close mates since he was eleven. But he understands enough about toxic relationships to identify the one Lily describes.

"Anyway, so we fell apart. It was impossible not to, with the way our ideals differed and the people we hung out with. Until two days ago, that is. He suddenly reached out to me on my number, and I hadn't heard from him in years, so nothing about it struck me as strange, because I was idiotically happy, and I'd missed him." She sucks in a deep breath, rubs her temples. "I lied to Mary because I knew she wouldn't understand if I said I was going to meet Sev. In hindsight, it could have saved me a lot of headache if I had told her."

"What happened?" James asks, voice carefully quiet.

"Nothing. Nothing new, at least. He hadn't changed. It was the same, only worse. He was still propagating those bullshit opinions, trying to make me join his side. I was ready to leave immediately, but then—" her eyes fly up, suddenly furious. James almost reels back in his chair. "He brought you up."

"What? Me?!"

Lily laughs, hollow and humourless. "That was my reaction, too. I was shocked, because he couldn't possibly know you when I barely knew you. And yet, he was throwing these completely unrelated accusations at me all the same. He kept going on about how I couldn't see the bigger picture because I was preoccupied with flirting and whatnot. Of course, then I cornered him about it, and he confessed that he'd been looking out for me for months."

James's mouth drops open, icy anger coursing through veins. "Lily—"

"I know," she sighs, looking pained. He realizes he doesn't need to voice it for her. "He'd been stalking me. And he'd somehow convinced himself that it was for my benefit. It was so fucked up, James. I left after that, and I told him if he ever came near me again, I'd get a restraining order."

"Fuck that," he seethes, reaching forward to squeeze her hand atop the table. James takes it as a good sign that she doesn't pull away or squawk in outrage. "Get the restraining order now. It's not safe to—"

But she shakes her head. "He won't follow me again. I just—I know he won't. I saw it on his face."

It's not even a close enough argument to pacify him, but some part of James recognizes that Lily is capable enough of making her own decisions. "I don't like it," he can't help but grumble.

"Neither do I."

He purses his lips, brows pulled together in contrition. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve all my nonsense after putting up with that shite. I made it worse."

"You didn't know," she says, though her voice sounds more exhausted than understanding. "But I knew. I knew, and I still went."

"Lily." He brushes his thumb over her palm, and it's as if she realizes that he holds her hand only then. James's pulse bleats as she stares, unblinking, at his fingers. "It's not your fault. You're wonderful and kind and a brilliant mate."

"I'm stupid." Her cheeks colour.

"You cannot possibly say that with me sitting across from you looking like a red disco ball."

Lily snorts, loud and surprised, before she rushes to cover her mouth with both hands. James misses the warmth of her skin immediately, but the absence is more than compensated by the brightness of her gaze when she looks at him again. "You're ridiculous," she chuckles, shaking her head fondly.

Hope glitters stunningly before his eyes. "Are we okay?"

Lily's smile softens as she considers him for a beat. "Yeah, we're okay."

"Are we…" James licks his lips. "More than okay?"

She leans forward slightly, resting her chin atop interlaced fingers. "If you play your cards right."

Jesus, he wants to kiss her so bad.

"Just you wait, Evans," he grins. "I'm an ace at playing cards."

A/N - This chapter had more of a plot than usual, didn't it? Surprised me, too.