A/N: You know the drill: Lily and James Potter, as well as the whole HP universe don't belong to me at all.
In other news, holy crow, it's been a while since I updated this! Inspiration came in the form of this mix: 8tracks-dot-com-/weasleywildling/sunday
12. Sunday
The cicadas were especially vocal that summer, creating a cacophony with their buzzing songs as soon as the sun had arrived. Closing the windows did nothing to silence them; they were so prevalent that year. Even if Lily hadn't cared for the sound of the insects, closing the window wasn't much of an option, not that Sunday morning.
The house was dusty and had the smell of not being lived-in for years.
"Pish-posh," James argued. "We used to come every summer."
There was an opportunity to fight over the use of the phrase "used to", but Lily chose to simply shake her head and return to the French toast that was sizzling on the stove. She wouldn't have been surprised if the last time the Potters had visited had been before Sirius had moved in. Personally, Lily loved the cottage in Godric's Hollow. In some ways, it was reminiscent of her childhood home. But she knew that James found the country to be boring. He'd always had too much energy for his own good and was only content when his surroundings could match it. He preferred being in London and Manchester where muggle autos created unnatural rackets and lights drowned out the stars.
~o~o~
As the day wore on, the orchestra of cicadas picked up vocalists in birds and grasshoppers to create a symphony of summer. Lily and James walked down the lane, hand in hand, bickering playfully about something or other from the past. His smile was cocky as ever and his hair ruffled in the light breeze. Her laugh was a set of windchimes and her free hand brushed through the tall grasses that lined the lane.
Her cheeks and nose were pink when they returned to the cottage and she complained about having forgotten her hat and about the freckles that would begin to show up if she wasn't more careful about covering up when she went outside.
"But I like your freckles," James said as his lips gently pressed against her bare shoulder. The contact sent a shiver down her spine and raised gooseflesh upon her skin.
~o~o~
Rain pattered against the window and the shadows of the drops rolling down the glass matched the tears on Lily's cheeks. Three year-old Harry was napping in the next room with Splotches the cat. James was gone, and all Lily had was the memory of lazy Sundays.
They would never be enough.