Seven Things

6/7. Lily is not a sunset person. Mary is, Mary strongly is; she thinks it's romantic. Lily, on the other hand, has associated sunsets with mill workers hobbling for home in the streets back in Cokeworth, their silhouettes not unlike the line of trees on the distant horizon; masses of black against factory smoke and blazing orange sky. Those workers were all small smiles and lopsided hats and shoulders slumped from exhaustion by the end of the day. The 'silhouettes against multi-colored skies' thing doesn't particularly appeal to Lily—too warm, she would say, too warm and grey. She means the feeling too, not just the colours. And it's beautiful, sure, but it's a... wet kind of beauty, if you will. At this point Mary would gape and ask, "What does that even mean?" to which Lily would only shrug, because she doesn't know what it means exactly herself, but she can't think of any other way to phrase it.

You can say she's a sunrise person. Lily. A sunrise, morning, breakfast, all things early person. The idea of it anyway, the aesthetic of it; not like she wakes up that early all the time. She sleeps in as much as she can too, given that her brain seems to work better under pressure, artificial light, and the hush of town after midnight. But when she's around for idle, alarm clock-less mornings, it makes her happy. She likes the sunlight sifting through the blinds, striped blankets dancing on her dawn-cold legs. She likes mountains outlined in thin strips of bright light, the kind that doesn't blind; like tamed, unblinking lightning. Dew on gossamer. Flowers that weren't around the day before. People stretching on their doorsteps, smiling/scowling/yawning at her over picket fences. It's green, and blue, and gold, and a muted version of Mary's dramatic sunset palette, perhaps, but Mary's sunsets... They sigh. And maybe that's romantic. Maybe it's a sigh of pining, of relief, of content—whatever. Lily's mornings smile. She prefers that.

She can pretend the sun is rising now, instead of the other way around. It's all purple and pink and everything Mary loves about sunsets beyond the passenger window of the Potters' pickup. It is beautiful too, she supposes. Her head thuds on the glass. She closes her eyes. It's a sigh, she thinks. This moment feels like a sigh.

"All right, Evans?" asks her driver, and she smiles.

"Mhmm."

"Are you cold?"

"You're already hot," croaks Lily. No, really. She sounds like a frog.

"I mean, I already know that, and thank you, but that doesn't really answer the question."

He just never stops, doesn't he? "If you turn the heat up any more you'd have to take your shirt off."

"See, I can't tell if that's a threat or a request or what," says James. "You have to be more direct with stuff."

"I'm fine, Potter, shut it," says Lily. She'd have rolled her eyes, but she's done it a while ago and it felt like her skull would spin off her head. "Focus on the road, please."

Smirks at the road is what he does.

Lily's on her second eight-hour drive of the week, this one on the way back to town from Beauxbatons. The academy hosted this year's Interschool Performing Arts Convention, this thing held every two years and lasts four days tops, the two-way trip included. Ten Hogwarts students are customarily sent as delegates to the host school for this event, half or more than this number being seniors. When Lily was in second year she was one of the only two students in her year chosen to go, the other being Dorcas Meadowes. This year, Hogwarts chose the following to participate: Lily Evans, James Potter, Remus Lupin, Dorcas Meadowes, Benjy Fenwick, Alice Wells, and four others from outside the graduating class. They had to compete in contests of different fields, individual and group; attend seminars, participate in team and leadership building, trainings, symposiums—all that jazz. In last night's closing slash awarding ceremony, Hogwarts brought home seven medals and eight other recognition awards of some sort. They only placed second in the overall standing (next to Beauxbatons), but Flitwick, who went with them as coach, is pleased with them nonetheless. They know because he let them stay in the city for half the day to shop for souvenirs and tour and everything, and then he gathered them all at Four Marshes (this restaurant by the plaza; nothing on Chuckskate's, but decent enough) and paid for everyone's lunch. Two years ago, in the convention Lily and Dorcas were a part of, the delegates weren't granted the same favour. They set for the road straight after breakfast at the host school. But then again that batch only bagged fifth place, and it was Teresa Lockhart who went with them. Can you even imagine?

The younger delegates are required to travel in the official school transport with their coach (this year: a van, driven by Filch, accompanied by Flitwick), while the seniors are given the choice to ride with them, given there's still room, or be in their own private cars. This year's six participating seniors opted for the latter. The arrangement, on the way to Beauxbatons, was Alice and Lily in Fenwick's car; James and Remus in the Potters' pickup (James's parents apparently felt loath to lend their son the family car, as James dented it bad with Sirius not two weeks before the convention), and Dorcas (naturally) went by herself. Of course, this was also going to be the set-up for the trip home, no question—except, well, Lily is sick. She wasn't all throughout. She only started feeling under the weather yesterday—a little head ache, muscle ache, but all fairly manageable—but when she found it difficult to swallow last night at the feast, she knew she was definitely coming down with something. Sore throats are Lily's warnings for impending doom. Sure enough, when she woke up in her quarters this morning, she was burning, she was freezing, and a certain amphibian has traded voices with hers.

Alice and Remus both have delicate health, so to say, and can't afford to travel with a horribly sick redhead for eight hours, especially with exams coming up. So Lily and Remus switched places. Fenwick was secretly relieved; Alice was immensely thankful; Remus was reluctant at first, but in the end reason won. Dorcas (naturally) didn't have time for all of that, so she had neither idea about nor input whatsoever in the matter. James, slinging an arm around Lily, declared himself "immune", quite happily, and tucked her in the pickup's passenger seat with her jacket and his jacket and whoever else's gloves and pillow and neck pillow these are.

And now the sun is rising.

Wait, no—setting. Sorry. The sun is setting. And James and Lily are both smiling quietly at the road, and she's still sick and she's not a sunset person but it's okay. She feels at ease.

"I have a question," she says.

"I have one, too," returns James.

With effort, she drags her head back up from the window to stare at him. But he can't really return that right now, driving and all. "No, seriously," says Lily. (Croaks, but never mind that.) "I have a question."

"I seriously do, too," he insists. "And I have to ask it first, because your answer to my question will determine if you get to ask yours."

"What—"

"I said I'm going first and here it is," he says, rushing the words out to beat her to it. "Are you sick-drunk?"

Lily blinks at him. "Am I what?"

James laughs. "Okay, you are. Never mind. This question of yours—it's going to make me uncomfortable, isn't it? You always do that when you're drunk, and I figured this counts."

Lily doesn't think it's fair that he's asked two questions in a row now, so she ignores his babbling and says, "Are you in love with me?"

The pickup surges and sort of swerves to the left. He brakes a little too hard, releases a little too fast, swears under his breath—and then finally gets his wits back.

"Oi," says Lily.

"Sorry," says James, and now he sounds like a frog himself. "What—what sort of barmy question was that, Evans?" he sputters. What Lily can see of his face is flushed red.

"Alright, that's a no then," she says.

"No, I—I don't know," he rectifies. "How am I supposed to know? That was like—that was a gazillion bottles of Ogden's drunk level question, how was I—what's wrong with you?"

Lily chuckles at his fluster. And then, when they've both calmed down—she from her amusement and he from... his nerves, perhaps—she says, "I just thought... I mean, what are we, James?" He doesn't answer. Even his neck is crimson. "You—you're sweet sometimes, but you're sweet to Mary too, and we're alone only ever to do stupid sets or rehearse or do homework, and you never... I don't know, we're not anything, but you make me feel like we should be something else, and I'm confused. And the question was probably extreme, but Mary told me, you know, she told me, 'either he doesn't actually like you and you're being delusional or he's bloody in love with you and he's scared to jump in' and all that, which, okay, is all very movie-ish to even be real, but... You're getting this, right? What I'm saying?"

He still doesn't say anything, and Lily's worried that he doesn't, in fact, get what she's saying, but then, quietly, he answers, "Yeah."

"Okay," she says, when he doesn't add any more. "Good. So—what are we then?"

He takes another moment. "I really fancy you. Like—a lot."

"And I do you."

He bites his lip. "Ahuh. Should I pull over?"

"James, I need you to shut up and act your age right now, you hear?"

"I hear," he says, nodding vigorously, struggling to keep his expression straight. "And I know you do."

"I know you know I do," groans Lily. "That's what frustrates me. I know, you know, I know you know and you know I know and yet..."

"I'm sorry," he mutters. He doesn't look like he's going to laugh anymore.

"What do we do about it? Why haven't we done anything about it?"

"That would be me," he admits. Lily can tell, by the way he's suddenly especially focused on the empty road, that should his hands and eyes have been free he'd still have averted his gaze. Before she can remark on this, he speaks again: "Remember that day we... That rainy day at the town plaza?"

'Course she does. "I remember swearing not to have anything to do with you ever, yes."

He flinches. "Yeah, I never really told you why, did I? I just tried to make it up to you best I could, and you knew Jeanne and I broke up that day, but that—I know that doesn't excuse it. I was absolute shite to you, Lily. I'm surprised, honestly, that you forgave me still, and that you... you didn't dismiss me for good. Sirius said you told him you fancied me, and I didn't believe him at first—"

"He told you?" snaps Lily, distracted despite herself.

James frowns. "I thought you knew I knew."

"I did, but that's because the last few weeks have been the most blatant with anyone about anything I have ever been in my entire life!"

"Oh. That was just... confirmation? I knew because Sirius told me."

"Oh my god. I'm going to dangle him by the feet with barbed wire and feed him to rats."

James lets out a hearty chuckle. "Come on. You didn't really think he wouldn't tell me?"

"I did, actually," she sulks.

James spares her a glance, barely a second, and balks at her expression. "That's not going to be a problem, is it? That he told me?"

"Depends on whether you count the wire and rats thing as a problem."

"That's all? You're not going to... er, unfancy me? Because of it?"

"Would if I could," she teases. And then she sees his face falling, and she says, "No, James; that's bonkers. And do continue with your interrupted appeal for my forgiveness, if you please. We seem to have gone off on a tangent, and we need to... get back on that tangent."

James snorts.

"That's not doing anything good for you, mister."

"Alright, sorry," he says. "So Sirius told me you like me—"

"You like saying that a lot, don't you," comments Lily, noticing the way his lips twitched at 'you like me'.

"As a matter of fact, I do," says James. He has to fight to keep a grin in, and when it breaks, he lets out this little growl of frustration. "Come on, Evans, let me talk. We're serious here. This is so long due."

"And that's my fault?"

"No, but you're sick-drunk, which makes you more willing to listen and likely to forgive, and I'm driving, which... prevents me from running. There's no better time."

Running? "Okay. Go. You're all clear."

He takes a deep breath. "So he told me... anyway, yeah, he told me that. I didn't know, Lily. Honest to god. How could I have... We didn't kiss when we had the chance, so I thought you weren't interested—"

"You had a girlfriend, you peanut. Of course I couldn't—"

"Yeah, I know, I know, I'm getting there... Actually, no, I don't know where I'm getting at." He licks his lips, a crease forming in his brows. The expressway is empty for as far as Lily can see, but James slows down, staring ahead in thought. "Jeanne said... She said a lot of things that day. That I was unfair to have started anything with her, that I never really tried with us, never really cared—and I got angry, because I did. You believe me, don't you? I really did. I might not have been... I mean, I truly liked her. She's pretty, she's smart, she's fun to be around with, I actually liked it when we—"

"Point quite taken, Potter."

He smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. Anyway, it wasn't my intention to hurt her or just—ditch her after some time, I swear. I tried to make it work, and we were genuinely happy for a while. I thought we were. But she accused me of having used her as some temporary thing while you had Wanker McCheekbones—" He means Lily's ex, Terrence Hunter, whom he never calls by his proper name, "—and then when the coast was clear, she said I promptly started trying to secretly win you over, and I thought—I said—bullshit. That was just unfair."

Lily doesn't know what to say to this, or how it relates to her original question. It seems important to him, however, so she feels like pointing this out might be mean.

"I was angry about you," he breathes out. "That day. Not at you. I was mad that—Jeanne and I were together for almost a year, and I like to think I did try with her, Evans. I told her that, but then she started throwing last summer at me, and then that kiss at the updates, and after her shouting at me about it over and over I started thinking, god, did I really try? I just—Do you know how pathetically easily I crack when I'm around you?"

Now Lily thinks she knows where he's going with it.

"So, yeah. This..." He lets out a weak laugh. "This might not be making sense at all. I've been trying to get away with having to explain to you for so long that I've forgotten what I'm supposed to really say to you about it, but the thing is—I botched up me and Jeanne, I felt like I'd just been lying to everyone, even to my own fucking self, and that the whole year was a fucking waste of time and I hurt this person for nothing. I feel rotten about it."

"You're saying we can't be together now," she says. A summation, not a question.

It's almost like he's physically hurt over what she said. "I'm saying not yet, if that's okay. I have to... I don't know. Fix this first? I've apologized to Jeanne, and she's slowly warming up to me again, but I... I'm having trouble..." He trails off.

"Forgiving yourself?"

"No."

"What then?"

He chews on his lower lip. "Well, fine, yeah. That, I guess... but I don't want to sound all self-important." He turns to her for a heartbeat to smile. "So I'm gonna say—I'm trying to understand what the hell my bloody damage is. Because I screwed up, Evans. Big time."

"James, you didn't hurt her on purpose."

"Didn't I?"

"No," says Lily firmly.

"I hurt you on purpose," he puts out. "And it wasn't even your fault." He pauses. "Hey, you don't think that, do you? Because it's not your fault. None of it."

"No, I never thought it. That's why I was mad, because it felt like it was."

"It wasn't," he assures her. "I'm sorry."

"Hmm."

He steals a glance again. "Still not going to unfancy me?" When she doesn't immediately answer, he says, "You can, of course. I'm not going to ask you to wait and all."

"Unfancy is not even a word," says Lily simply.

"Er... dump me then?"

"We're not together, like you said."

He's quiet.

"But it already feels like we are," says Lily. "And that's what matters, isn't it? Who cares about labels?"

"Oi, I do," he protests. "I want... I've fancied you for so long. I thought it stopped, and I did learn to ignore it over time, but it never really went away. You're rather hard to... er, tune out, sometimes, did you know?"

"Yep. It's the hair."

He laughs. And then, more pensively, "I want to make it right with Jeanne and me first so no one gets to accuse you of... things. I want us to be right, okay? I want it to work. I don't want to leave all my fuck-ups a mess and have them catch up to us later on."

"I understand." And she does. She really does.

"Are you mad?"

"No," she says truthfully. "I'm... proud of you. As a friend. Surprisingly."

"What?" he says, chuckling, incredulous.

"Well, when Sirius told me you were moping not because you broke up but because of me, I thought—objectively—wow, now there's an awful boyfriend if I ever saw one. I felt bad for Jeanne. I was worried I'd chosen to fancy someone problematic."

"Evans, sorry to break this to you, but I am veritably plenty problematic."

"I suppose," she says, a half-smile forming on her lips. "I don't know. This sucks for me as someone who wants to be with you—and I do. I actually want to be with you like that, can you believe it?"

"Yep, it's the hair," he echoes her, and Lily reaches out to weakly punch his arm.

"But I'm also really glad to know that you're not altogether some insensitive prick."

"Thanks," he says. "Sirius thinks I'm overthinking it."

"You are a bit." A thought occurs to her. "What if Jeanne never forgives you?"

"She will," he says determinedly. "And if she doesn't... well, I guess I'd... let you kiss me senseless and forget all about it."

"Why can't we do that now?"

He smirks. "You're sick, for one," he supplies.

"I have a feeling you don't care about that," guesses Lily. "'Sides, I thought you said you were immune."

"Evans, in the wise words of Gandalf the Grey—"

"White."

"Mithrandir—" He clears his throat, "—'Don't. Tempt me. Frodo.'"

She shouldn't be laughing so much because it makes her head throb—and wasn't this a serious matter to begin with?—but she does, and she thinks this is one of the reasons why she likes him, and then she goes from that to: this is is one of the reasons why she's falling in love with him. Well, might be. Falling bloody in love with him.

Watch it now, Evans.

"I owe Jeanne this," says James, and although the mirth hasn't quite died down on his lips yet, the apology is apparent in his eyes. "And I owe you a clean slate, too."

She thinks about all of it. And then, "Okay," she says, resolutely. "You've laid down your appeal well."

James settles better in his seat, a content smile plastered on his face.

The sun has long set.

It still feels like a sigh, this.

Lily can't see much of the sky from her place, but it's a starry evening from what little she's indulged with. Their conversation has traded places with the steady hum of the pickup, and Lily now finds it a struggle to not succumb to the inviting lull.

A sigh of content. Of pining. Whatever.

James notices her head drooping. He starts humming the Lord of the Rings theme.

"That's just gonna do the opposite," she chastises him, but it comes out a mumble, and its accompanying laugh comes out an amused, shuddering exhale.

But it also feels like a smile.

"Shut up and go kiss me senseless in your dreams," he advises, his fond smile blurred and flickering beneath Lily's uncooperative lids. He starts singing again.

This moment is a big, foolish, puppy-James grin...

Lily closes her eyes and does as she's told.

AN: One chapter left! Thank you so much for reading! Review if you can—thank you to every single one who already has, you have no idea how glad it makes me to know that this fic has made some people's days. Your thoughts on it keep me writing thank yoouuu. Sorry this took a week, I was sick the past few days and my mom didn't want me anywhere near my laptop because my head was going to explode. All better now though! I hope you're all well. x

—Jayne

(P.S: Doesn't SNSD's Back Hug make you want to fall in love? Sigh.)