Prompt: the closest James comes to relapsing.
There was nothing that had particularly stressed him out that week. It was just a normal five days of classes, quidditch, homework, and meals. He hung out with Blake every evening to make sure she was still alive at the very least, but apart from those brief moments she was virtually absent from his every day life. It was late Saturday night when he had just decided it was time to head back to his own dorm that she offered for him to stay. Normally, with his streak of rule-following in mind, he would have declined. But something told him to hang around, so he did. She fell asleep around midnight, but James remained wide awake. His eyes stayed on the same spot on the ceiling that they had been for several hours. Finally fed up with doing nothing, he slipped out of her grasp, hoping a walk would clear his anxious mind. He stopped in front of her dresser though, his eyes landing on a small bag of stark white powder. He glanced back and Blake, half expecting her to be watching him, but found that she was still sound asleep. He looked back at the dresser, his wide eyes instantly finding it.
He swallowed against his dry mouth and took an unsteady step forward. His mind was screaming in protest, begging him to turn away, open the door and lock himself out. Anything, anything to get away from it. But his hands were sweating, palms itching. He wanted it so bad. Never in his life had an attraction to anything been so potent and painful. He wanted to look back at Blake again but he couldn't remove his watery eyes from the small stash. He couldn't even open his clenched jaw enough to call her name.
Not that she would do anything to help. He frowned, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. He was reached out with something wound around his ankle. He ignored it as he brought his hand down on the bag and picked it up. Something made a sound but he ignored that too as he brought the bag up to eye level. It looked exactly the same as it had the last time he'd seen it. Maybe a little whiter, a little more inviting. He had been just about to pull it open when something sharp raked into his ankle. "Ow, bugger!" He yelled, dropping the bag and stumbling backwards. Cat jumped up onto the dresser the moment he backed away and curled up atop the blow.
James blinked as she just laid there looking at him. She made another noise, which he now realized was one of her ferocious meow-growls. He exhaled, and left the room immediately. When he was pulling the door shut behind him, a flash of blonde hair caught his eye. He looked up and Narcissa Black was directly across the hall, leaning in her doorway. When he met her eyes, a look of concern wash over her pretty features. He must've looked worse than he thought. "Are you okay?"
Was he? His heart rate was slowing down, his palms no longer itched, but he was still sweating. His eyes burned and it was boiling hot. His brain no longer screamed at him and every part of him that longed for a splash had dissipated. He was okay. He was still sober, and he was okay. He took a deep breath, because he could do that now, and nodded. "Yea." He cleared his throat, "Yea. I'm good."
jacobvanloon
titsay
dailybridgerton
stormborns
