Silver-lit Sensation
I hadn’t planned on leaving the house when I found out that Sirius snuck out liquors from the hidden cabinet that our father had made years ago. It was supposed to be out of reach from kids. But Sirius had grown tall enough to reach it. I wasn't sure though if he was wise or foolish enough to grab at least three bottles of Firewhisky.
It was a sensible thing to stay behind. I had only drink once with Barty and Rosier, and decided I should stay away from it.
The plan of staying away from it was long forgotten now. Instead, I was being pulled down the dirt path, Sirius laughing too loud beside me, Remus walking ahead with a lazy sort of ease, and James, James' at my side, his fingers brushing mine as he passed a bottle between us.
The night stretched wide above us, moonlit and endless, the air thick with the summer heat. The scent of earth, of lake water, of something sharp and burning—alcohol, clove smoke—filled my lungs.
Sirius had insisted. Said we all needed a proper night out, away from the house, away from expectation. I hadn’t argued, not really. Maybe I was too tired of thinking.
Or maybe I had known James would be there.
We reached a clearing near the lake, where the moon cast silver lines across the water, and Sirius dropped onto the grass with all the grace of a falling star, spreading the mat they had stolen from the drawers to carefully lay out the beverages and food. Remus followed, stretching out beside him, and James sat too close.
I felt him before I looked at him. Instead of his usual smile, he was frowning. The warmth of his arm was brushing against mine, the slow shift of his leg against my own. In my mind, I told myself to move away a little but my body didn't understand that.
The time was ticking oddly slower. Sirius was saying something, half a story-half a nonsense, his words slurring at the edges. I was only half listening, catching little words of what he was saying and making sense of it. The shot glass that Sirius grabbed from the kitchen was passed again, and I took a slow sip, letting the burn settle deep in my stomach.
As the night unraveled in pieces, Sirius was laughing, breathless and careless. Remus was muttering about something Sirius had done, shaking his head but smiling. James exhaling smoke, his lips curling at the edges. Peter was wise enough not to go.
And me.
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be.
James took another drag, and I watched the way his fingers curled around the delicate texture of the cigarette, the way his throat moved when he exhaled and how he would move his head to the side to puff out the smoke, the way the faint scent of smoke clung to his clothes, warm and sharp. He turned his head slightly again, his profile limned in silver light, and I saw the corner of his mouth quirk like he knew I was looking. I was, so I looked away.
The night stretched longer and slower than I had anticipated, blurred at the edges, and at some point, James shifted closer to me. Not enough to call attention to it, not enough to seem deliberate, but enough to secretly move his finger on top of my pinky, enough that I felt the warmth of him pressing along my side.
Another sip from the shot glass. Another slow drag of his cigarette. The embers glowed in the dark as he passed it to me, fingers brushing mine in the transfer. I hesitated only a moment before bringing it to my lips. For a moment, my mind went back yesterday, at my bed, when all I could think was him. His body against mine, the sun and the grass.
The taste of the cigarette lingered. The smell of smoke, warmth, the faintest trace of something else. James was watching me when I exhaled.
On the other side of my peripheral, I could see Remus looking at us but not saying anything. I looked away again and with no memory of how the four of us got back in one piece, I woke up to the sun already high, its heat pressing against my skin through the open window. My head ached faintly, the weight of sleep still clinging to me.
I had slept later than usual.
Pulling myself from bed, I moved through the quiet house, the floorboards warm beneath my feet. The air smelled of something sweet, citrus-sharp, mingling with coffee.
I found them outside, gathered at the back of the summer house beneath the wide stretch of the tangerine tree. Sirius was slouched in his chair, legs kicked out in front of him. Remus was reading something, a half-eaten piece of fruit resting on his plate. Peter was speaking between bites of toast.
And James was peeling a tangerine, fingers working the skin away in careful motions. The sunlight filtered through the branches, painting dappled shadows across his arms, his face. He looked at ease, laughing at something Sirius said, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
Something about the sight of him, so effortlessly placed in the morning light, unsettled me.
I lingered in the doorway for a moment longer before stepping out, the warmth of the morning wrapping around me.
"Finally awake, little prince?" Sirius smirked, tilting his chair back.
I ignored him, my gaze flickering briefly to James. He met my eyes, his expression unreadable, before holding out a freshly peeled tangerine.
Wordlessly, I took it. The taste was sharp and sweet against my tongue as we both held our eyes.
James smiled.
---
The heat of the afternoon had settled thick over the house, making everything slow and languid. The shade beneath the tangerine tree wasn’t much relief, but it was enough. I sat on the grass, my back resting against the trunk, half-listening to the idle conversation between Sirius and Remus a few feet away.
James was beside me.
He had stretched out on his side, one arm propped under his head, the other tracing idle patterns in the dirt. He was talking, something lighthearted, his voice easy and unhurried. I wasn’t listening, not really.
And then, a touch.
His fingers, warm against my forearm, brushing absentmindedly over my skin. A slow drag from wrist to elbow, then back again. My breath caught, barely. If he noticed, he didn’t show it.
I didn’t move.
The touch wasn’t deliberate, or at least, it wasn’t meant to be. It was casual, the kind of touch that meant nothing. It should have meant nothing.
To me it did. It means so much more.
The heat of his fingertips lingered long after they had moved away.
Later, when the conversation shifted and he reached up—without thinking, it seemed—to brush something from my neck, I felt it again.
A light press of his fingers. A second too long.
I exhaled, the sensation a little tickling. He didn’t pull away immediately.
Our eyes met.
And for a moment, the world around us faded to the sound of cicadas and the distant ripple of the lake.