james potter most definitely has a spider tattoo, close to his v-line, on his left side, placed specifically so it peeks out from his trousers when he’s shirtless and it’s 100% a dedication to spider-man
The thing about Trc is that every single character is from a wildly different genre. Ronan is from an edgy 80s movie. Adam is from a low budget indie movie that randomly has one absolutely iconic A list actor in it for no reason anyone can discern. Blue is from a Greta Gerwig movie. Gansey is from one of those feel good period pieces that takes place in the 1930s. Greenmantle is from a shitty summer blockbuster action movie. The laumonier triplets are from a bond flick. And Declan? Declan is from gossip girl
ever think about how the way rodansey's intimacy is established in the opening of book 1 is thru ronan and adam both knowing gansey's weird autistic burger order.....
i love gansey so much i love him so much. i love that he’s a fucking wreck for the entire series but so unable to face it that his own NARRATION tricks the reader into thinking he has it together, literally while he is like. narrating panic attacks and obsessive spirals about potentially dead friends and tortured insomnia and borderline hallucinatory sleep deprivation. i love that he comes at everything from a POV of “i want to help :( let me fix :( i love you :(” but has no framework for how to healthily do that bc He Is A Wreck. i love that his most consistent character flaw is that his inability to acknowledge and work on his own issues sabotages his ability to care for other people the way they need to be cared for, i LOVE what that says about relationships thematically, i love him slowly going to pieces in trk, i love that his trk arc is about seeing all the friends he THOUGHT were “worse off” than him get better & being like oh i am alone and going to die and no one will mourn and i can’t fix it and i can’t distract myself. i love that gansey really 100% honest to god truly and wholly loves people and 100% honest to god truly wants to do the right thing and do the best thing for his loved ones but that simultaneously that’s a shield so he doesn’t have to look inward. he’s so well-intentioned and so loving and so inherently kind and his refusal to work thru his own trauma STILL almost ruins him & his relationships bc he projects his own viewpoint of “right” and doesn’t realize he’s doing it. and bc he cannot separate trauma-based terror from rational terror. (which is not helped by how terrifying most of his friends’ situations are.) i love that he thinks he’s too privileged to feel pain but that the only way through is to feel the pain and he doesn’t want to do that so he hides behind the privilege. i love that he is simultaneously incredibly strong and crumbling to dust & i love how complex his narration is & i love that the second series read is COMPLETELY different from the first. once you know what gansey has known and been repressing for 3.5 straight books.
I LOVE HIM he’s such a complex character, who does a LOT of masking and tricks even himself into seeming perfect while he is crumbling to pieces and he tries to help others but fails mostly because he is the first person he can’t help and he is so scared of being alone and forgotten and all becomes a lot worse when you realize he knew for 3 books he was going to die and he just….repressed it and tried even harder to help his friends. He is a mess of PTSD and anxiety disorder and insomnia and he keeps spiraling in negative thoughts and unheathly trying to help others while…putting himself aside (his family doesn’t help I mean the first time he died he litterally knew he couldn’t go to his family because he’d have ruined the party, then he was let go on his own like at 12)
Like he litterally had a panic attack in the school and tried to be cool abt it bc it’d have ruined his family’s name and he’s so good at masking that his own friends are shocked to understand he has flaws and terrors he doesn’t let himself open up to his friends bc they have worse conditions and he hasn’t the right to suffer while he’s (litterally) dying…
Summary: James ruins reader’s date and attempts to make it better.
Word Count: 2829
Warnings: Jealous!James; kissing; and reader wearing heels, jewelry and makeup.
A/N 💌: A quick James oneshot that’s been on my mind, but I’m heavily consider making a second part to this.
As usual, thank you to @moonpascal for reading!
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
“Go on, kiss and make up!” Sirius' voice trails after you as you hurry down the corridor, James close on your heels. On any other day, you might have tossed a playful jab back at Sirius, well-accustomed to his relentless teasing about you and James. But today, the weight of everything made your throat tighten, leaving you silent, your focus fixed on reaching the safety of your dorm.
The sharp click of your heels echoed off the stone walls, and James' muttering about your surprising speed in heels barely registers. Your anger simmers, blocking out his words as you storm ahead and shove the door open. James is right behind you, catching it just before it could slam shut in his face, determined not to let you shut him out.
“Get out, Jamie.” Though your voice was laced with anger, the way you used his nickname gave him a glimmer of hope. It wasn’t hopeless—there was still a chance to make everything better.
“I’m not leaving until we figure this out.” James says, stepping forward and leaning against the post of Lily's bed as he watches you roll your eyes and turn into the room. He doesn’t say anything as you begin furiously grabbing clothes and scattered heels off the floor—remnants of you getting ready for a date, now tainted by the tension hanging between you two.
“There’s nothing to figure out! You ruined my date, plain and simple.” You spin around, clutching a black heel in your hand, and for a fleeting moment, James braces himself, half-expecting you to launch it at him in a fit of frustration. But it’s you, his sweet best friend—the one who cares so deeply for others that you always put them before yourself. It’s a trait that drives James a little crazy sometimes, knowing you’d sacrifice your own happiness without a second thought.
The realization only sharpens the sting of your anger, an unfamiliar weight he’s not used to carrying. He can recall times you’ve been disappointed—maybe after one of his careless pranks or his thoughtless disregard for someone’s feelings—but never this. Never this level of anger.
“I said I was sorry.” He tries, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches you scoff and turn away, angrily kicking off your heels. You bend down to pick them up, and despite himself, his eyes drift to the curve of your body. He knows he shouldn’t be looking, but he can’t help it—he’s never been able to take his eyes off you. And now, a bitter feeling twists in his gut, knowing you're dressed all pretty for someone else.
“You're not, though. Why the fuck did you feel the need to scare him off?” You toss the heels into your trunk and turn to face him, arms crossed. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die before they form—because he doesn’t know how to tell you the truth. He knows exactly why, but admitting it out loud would change everything between you. And he’s not sure he’s ready for that.
The silence between you stretches, heavy and unspoken, as you wait for an answer he isn’t ready to give. You both know exactly what you're waiting for—a proper explanation.
One you’ve been holding out hope for, quietly, for years.
“It's not fair, you know.” You let out a deep sigh, turning to face your desk, your gaze falling on the mirror. James watches as you begin to remove your jewelry, your back turned to him, but his reflection still catches glimpses of you. The anger in your voice has softened, but he knows that if he says the wrong thing, it could all flare up again, as sharp and sudden as before.
“What isn't?” He hesitates, watching you carefully as he takes a cautious step forward. His eyes follow the way your lips part in the mirror, the soft exhale of frustration escaping you as you fumble with your necklace.
He wants to step forward, to gently brush your hair aside and unfasten the clasp, to press a soft kiss against the back of your neck once the necklace slips away. But he can’t—so he remains still, trapped in silence, as he watches you instead.
“Why is it that you go out with girl after girl, but when I show interest in a guy, you scare him off?” You already knew the answer—weren’t blind to it. It had been clear to everyone that you and James had been circling each other for years, dancing around unspoken words.
But he refused to admit that he cared for you as more than friends. It felt pointless to tell him how you felt when it was clear James was intent on keeping you in the friend zone.
From the moment crushes became a part of your life, James had been yours. But you were never certain about his feelings—until that one night when he got blackout drunk and confessed he was in love with you. He has no memory of that drunken night, but you overheard him later, telling the boys he’d never drink that much again because he wanted to actually remember the parties he went to. You’d felt a pang of disappointment, but you were gathering the courage to confront him about it. Then, the next day, he hooked up with a girl from Ravenclaw, and just like that, all your resolve crumbled, leaving you feeling more invisible than ever.
He didn’t remember what he’d said, and if he was out with other girls, it was clear he didn’t care enough to mention it while sober.
That was a year ago, and you still hadn’t brought it up.
So, to cope with the mess of it all, you went on a date—a rare one, the first in nearly a year. And now, here was James, wrecking it all over again.
“I—” He stops himself, clearing his throat, the tension in his voice betraying the lie before he even finishes. “I don’t think that’s true. You go out on dates.”
He knew he spent a lot of time flirting with girls—whether it was during class, when he should have been paying attention, or at parties where conversation flowed too easily. But when someone showed interest in you? That was a different story altogether. He’d like to blame it on the fact that you were his best friend, but deep down, he knew better. He was protective of you because he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone looking at you the way he did. Was it selfish? Definitely. But the thought of losing you terrified him more than anything.
“You know that’s a lie. You saw how excited I was! Why did you take that from me?” You were fully aware of how weak and accusatory your voice sounded, but you didn’t care. You were hurt, and it was clear in the way you shook your head, disappointment heavy in every movement. James watched your reflection, noticing the way you swallowed hard as if trying to shove down the swell of emotions threatening to break free. And with that, a wave of guilt slammed into his stomach, settling there like a stone.
“I just didn't want him to hurt you!”
"So you decided to take that off his hands and hurt me instead?" You scoffed, making James flinched as if you had slapped him. It probably would have hurt less if you had.
“Merlin, no! Sweetheart, that wasn't what I was trying to do—”
“Then what were you trying to do, James? Because I'm getting tired of this little game, we have going on.”
He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes following your hand as you gently remove one of your earrings. For a moment, your gazes meet through the mirror, and the weight of it all presses down on him. He wishes, desperately, that you would just turn around and face him.
He was racking his brain, searching for the right words, trying to find a way to fix this. He considered stepping back, giving you space like he did when you got agitated with him. But this felt different. It wasn’t just about a moment of frustration—it was something deeper, something that could damage your friendship permanently if he didn’t speak up. He knew he had to fix this.
“You guys make up yet?” Sirius hollered, and James could practically picture him standing at the bottom of the stairs with his hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted at the both of you.
Sirius' words from earlier echoed in his head as if they were taunting him, swirling around like a cruel mantra.
Go on, kiss and make up.
It felt like an accusation, a reminder of how much he’d messed up. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, twisting in his gut. Every nerve in his body screamed that his next move would either make everything worse—digging the hole even deeper—or finally give him a chance to tell you why he’d ruined your date. But the fear of losing you pushed him forward.
“Tell me to stop, sweetheart.”
“Stop what—?” You ask, tossing your last piece of jewelry into the ceramic dish with a sharp clang before turning to face James. Your breath catching in your throat as he moves closer, and without thinking, you instinctively take a step back, bumping into your desk. The sudden movement rattles the items on top, sending a soft, anxious clatter through the room.
A sharp gasp escapes your lips as James reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, and James can’t help but think how pretty you look—more than he’s ever allowed himself to admit.
He’s never been able to admire you like this before, not without the constant fear of you catching him.
His hands are shaky, and his proximity to you is making him nervous in a way that he couldn’t quite shake. But he didn’t know how else to explain himself. So, tentatively, he let his fingers graze your skin, admiring how you melted into him. He watches, heart pounding, as your lashes flutter and your lips part in surprise at the softness of his touch. The anger in your eyes had faded, leaving behind disbelief and something that looked dangerously close to hope.
He startles both himself and you when the words slip out, low and raw: “You make me so fucking nervous.” You blink up at him, silent, processing the confession. His gaze drifts over the mascara you’d carefully applied, the gloss glistening on your lips—details he hadn’t noticed before, but now felt like a punch to his gut. The jealousy flares, burning hot and fast in the pit of his stomach. It was devastating to realize you were all dressed up, and it wasn’t for him. Those heels, those glossed lips—they were for a guy who hardly knew you.
Not like James knew you.
You part your lips, and James unknowingly silences you with a gentle brush of his thumb just beneath your lower lip. A soft, satisfied smile tugs at his mouth as he hears the gasp escape you. His hand rests on your left hip, pulling you closer, grounding you against him. The tension in the room thickens, and just like that, your anger has melted.
“If you want me to stop, just say the word, sweetheart.” He murmurs, his voice low and thick with intention as he edged closer. His fingers caressing your jaw, tilting your face upwards, bringing you within a breath of him. The air between you crackles, heavy and charged, and you feel the pull—the tempting, intoxicating proximity. He was so close now, you could feel the warmth of his breath, and all it would take was the slightest movement for his lips to claim yours.
You thought about saying it—the words were right there, just on the tip of your tongue. But then his lips brushed against yours just barely, and everything else faded away. You couldn’t bring yourself to say no—not when this was something you’d wanted for years. Even with the anger simmering inside you, the frustration over James ruining your date, you couldn’t pull away.
Not now. Not when he was so close.
If anything, a strange sense of relief was starting to wash over you—relief that he had ruined it. Because if he hadn’t, it might have been another guy standing where he was now, and the thought of that made something tighten painfully in your chest.
“Last chance.” He mumbled, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, searching for any sign that you might stop him. The only sound between you was the uneven rhythm of your breaths, erratic and heavy, pulsing with the desire that surged between you both. When you didn’t say a thing, no rejection, no hesitation—only the warmth of your breath mingling with his—he offered a barely-there smile before leaning in, his lips finally capturing yours with a slow, gentle kiss.
He started slow, cautious, as if afraid he might push you away. But the wrecked hum that escaped your throat—the sound of pure desire—told him everything he needed to know. You wanted this as much as he did.
It was overwhelming how quickly the kiss shifted—what started as sweet and searching, quickly turned frantic and hungry. The slow, deliberate pace gave way to a fiery urgency. The gentle brush of lips became a desperate meeting of mouths as the two of you gave into years of pining.
Your hands, which had been gripping the edge of the desk hard, moved slowly toward him. You let your fingers trail up his stomach, feeling the dips and ridges before reaching his chest. Your other hand found its way into his curls, you tugged softly, the motion pulling a low, pleasure-filled groan from deep within him. That sound, the sound of him unraveling, seemed to shatter something inside James. In an instant, he stepped closer—if that was even possible—until your bodies were pressed together, the heat between you two undeniable, consuming.
He pulled away just an inch, and the desperate whine that escaped your lips was enough to pull him back in, his arms circling your waist before effortlessly lifting you onto the desk. You gasped his name, the sound caught in your throat, as his lips claimed yours again, urgent and hungry. One hand slid around your thigh, pulling you closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours as he stood between your parted legs. His grip on your hip was firm, grounding, while his other hand found its place at the side of your throat, fingers warm and possessive.
You had never been kissed like this before. It was overwhelming—an all-consuming heat that ignited deep in your belly as James kissed you with a hunger, as if he'd been waiting for this moment his entire life.
And it was ruining you, because if this was how it felt to kiss James Potter, you never wanted to be kissed by anyone else ever again.
He rocked his hips against yours, the pressure making you gasp, and that breathless sound was all he needed. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting you as if he couldn’t get enough. You were so completely immersed in him—the feel of his lips, the taste of him—that the low, teasing whistle from your doorway barely registered in your mind.
“Bloody hell, I didn’t expect you to actually go and kiss her.” Sirius’ voice rang out, loud and unfiltered. The words struck a panic through you, your body warming with embarrassment as you instinctively tucked your head into James’ chest, hoping to hide from the intrusion. You would recognize Sirius’ voice anywhere, and you knew you would be teased about this for ages.
James, with you still propped on the desk, remained a shield, his body pressed protectively against yours. He glanced over at Sirius and Remus, who stood by the doorway. Sirius, leaning against the doorframe, raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, while Remus stood next to him, his usually calm demeanor showing signs of awkwardness.
“Fuck off and shut the door, mate.” James groans, his arms pulling you tighter as he fights the urge to hurl a book at Sirius and Remus. Instead, he sends them a warning glare and brings a hand up to the back of your head, the heat of the moment still burning between you, and silently dares them to say anything more.
The boys hesitate, but not before Sirius calls out with a teasing smirk, “Didn’t know you had it in you, Potter. You finally got your girl.” And just like that, the door slams shut, leaving the air thick with tension and you cringing in embarrassment.
Maybe telling him you loved him wasn’t that pointless after all.
please consider reblogging or leaving a comment! it keeps me motivated to write and spread my work! 🤍
a moodboard for my fic based on taylor swift’s song "how did it end?"
summary: james and you gave it your best shot, no one can say that you didn’t. but things are brutal & out of your hands when it all comes crashing down for a second time. tired of all the greedy interlopers, you escape into the forbidden forest and run into a suspiciously empathetic stag
summary: james and you gave it your best shot, no one can say that you didn’t. but things are brutal & out of your hands when it all comes crashing down for a second time. tired of all the greedy interlopers, you escape into the forbidden forest and run into a suspiciously empathetic stag
pairing: james potter x ex gf!reader
warnings: failed second chance romance, pure angst, no happy ending. i hurt myself with this one tbh x
a/n: another angsty one wow ttpd is turning me into a sad sod. well, the song this fic is based on is painful & beautiful so. enjoy? here’s a moodboard bc i’m extra
──────── 𑁍︎ ‧₊°
The Forbidden Forest is bleary as you descend further into it.
Hazy streams of moonlight pool through the tree crowns as leaves crunch beneath your boots. A few greedy branches scrape your arms, intensifying the blood rushing in your ears. Some get stuck in your hair, but you can't find it in you to do anything about it.
It's just a testimony to how conspicuous you feel about your pain. How exhibitionistic they've made your grief, treating your heartbreak like it's nothing more than a circus show where you are both the performer and spectator.
Gradually, you come to a halt at a clearing, hands resting on your knees as you double over to catch your breath. You weren't running, not more than you were metaphorically, but you might as well have been.
All week, you've been escaping people's hushed gasps and their hungry stares. Each tale was a dagger to your chest, and there were just so many of them, still stuck in your crazed chest that you've been clawing at. It's been nothing but a bloodbath, and what does one do with a mess like that?
"I heard he got tired of her. She was too much for him, as was expected. Awfully needy, that one."
"I heard she cheated on him with that bloke from Ravenclaw."
"Wasn't it him who cheated? More likely if you ask me."
"Oh, maybe. I just heard he didn't love her anymore."
Your eyes drift upward, drinking in the cloudless night, letting the baring moonshine bleed over your tear stains.
"Well, it's just so sad, isn't it?"
"Yes, so."
"James," you hear yourself whisper into the dark because you can always be more pathetic. "I can't do this by myself. I don't know how. Please—"
A twig cracks behind you, and you break off your sentence with a jolt.
Reflexively, you slip out your wand, adjusting your feet and tasting the beginning of a spell on your tongue. Another crack. You strain your eyes, peering into the gloom. For a long moment, it's silent. Though you are almost certain someone's watching you, and the realisation makes the hair on your arms stand up.
Something moves in your peripheral view, and you spin around, arm outstretched and wand gripped tightly. There's a rustle of leaves, the sound of stone hitting stone, then a quiet huff. Finally, a branch is swept aside and it's all so theatrical that you nearly let out a delirious laugh.
Instead, you gasp—apparently you're not one to leave out the dramatics either. But it's impossible to be nonchalant about what you're seeing.
Standing between the soaring trees in a narrow, moonlit path that funnily enough reminds you of a stage is a magnificent stag.
A magnificent stag in all its breathtaking glory.
Some part of you is telling you to run, trying to convince you that you've somehow met the only violent woodland creature on the rare hunt for human flesh. Unfortunately, you can't seem to move your feet, and maybe you don't want to.
You get the strange sense that you're standing on your mark and stepping away from it would ruin the performance. So you stay compliantly rooted to your spot, watching in frightened awe as the stag slowly cocks its head to the side, looking majestic while doing so. It looks at you with what feels like mirrored curiosity.
The creature takes a step forward. You hold your breath. Detecting that you're not going to scurry away, it takes another step into the spotlight, letting its stare drift across its surroundings. Before you know it, it's towering over you, antlers glinting and all that's left for you to do is stare up at it, wide-eyed and completely still.
Certain that nothing will come jumping out of the bushes, the stag turns its head, finally meeting your gaze. You are definitely losing your mind, that's a given, but you could've sworn its features softened. You come closer.
Its pearly black eyes are big and so sincere that it feels like you can genuinely discern emotions in them. They're raking over your face, and you feel horridly seen, which is just so ridiculous.
Hesitantly, you reach up, hand stopping in front of its nose. With a pounding heart, you watch it lean down, sniffing it before letting it rest on its muzzle. You can feel yourself relax. The stag sinks to its knees and you mimic it until you both find yourself on the ground. You're gently stroking its neck.
The stag has soft, brilliantly dark brown fur, you remark, except for the area around its eyes. That part is of a slightly lighter colour and shaped like connected circles, making it look like it's wearing glasses. You let out a startled laugh.
"You remind me of someone I know." The stag seems to perk up at that, looking delighted almost, and that too feels so pointedly familiar that your face slowly falls. You have to stop yourself from looking away in embarrassment. "Someone I knew," you say with a quiet wince and after a long minute, the stag makes a sad noise.
"Sorry," you whisper, continuing your strokes as the awe you've felt subsides, heartache sharpening again. "I don't mean to make you sad, but I don't think I have it in me right now to be anything else."
You sigh, glancing at its face again. Nothing about the stag's features has changed, really. But, Merlin, it looks devasted now. Entirely wrecked. Like it can't help but share the sentiment, appearing just as heartbroken as you feel. That alone makes your eyes sting.
"Oh, no," you say, hurriedly. "No, what have I done. Please don't look at me like that. I wish I could stop being sad, too, trust me, I really do. I'd be grateful if it could all just end, but—" Your voice cracks because, of course, it does. You let out a stuttered breath.
"I miss him," you admit, sounding pitiful and fragile because you're hopeless. "So much. Fuck, I really do. How can a touch that feels like my birthright become so fucking foreign?" You see your reflection in the stag's increasingly shimmering eyes, and it almost makes you whimper.
"It's stupid, I know. But if missing him is all I have left of him, then..." You let out a miserable laugh, though it might just be a sob. "Godric, what's happening to me? I can't even talk to a stag without making it about James. He's not even here."
You listlessly turn around, turning your back to it to look up at the blurry sky. You feel more defeated than deflated. There's another soft whine before the stag rests its head on your shoulder, nuzzling softly into the side of your neck. It's a piercingly comforting and desolating gesture, and you have no choice but to let the tears fall.
Have the animals of the Forbidden Forest always been this thoughtful and kind? This empathetic?
"You know what the saddest part is?" You say weakly, not sure why you're speaking at all.
Maybe you're hoping for another soul to listen to you; to hear you without the rotten empathy or feverish urge to run off and share it with all their friends to rejoice in your sorrow.
Maybe you're just trying to turn it all into something more digestible. A soliloquy, it seems.
"I always knew that it would end. It happened once, so why wouldn't it happen again, you know. We were just happy to be happy again. I think it made us blind. We really were, you know. Happy, I mean. James made—" You shake your head, frustrated. "James makes me happy. It's just so confusing. I can't pretend like I understand, but I think...we just learned the right steps to different dances."
You open and close your mouth, the hostile memory taking over your mind like a sleeper wave, here to crush your bones and wash them ashore all over again.
The door slams shut behind him. You try to find your footing in the empty classroom while your boyfriend runs his hand through his dishevelled curls. He's not sparing you a glance, too busy pacing. He's still angry, that’s obvious.
"What was that earlier?" James comes to a sudden halt. The look in his eyes is accusatory, hopeless, making it hard to breathe. "What do I have to do for you to believe me? No, seriously, what does it take?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," you bite out, hands feeling clammy.
"I love you, Y/N." James spells it out for you, his tone not any more pleasant than yours. "You're the one I care about the most on this bloody planet, can't you see? It's not a pretence. None of this is a show! It's never been, not for me!"
The walls are closing in with every word he flings at you. Your vision shrinks, black edges drawing in until you feel claustrophobic. Until all you can see is James at the other end of the tunnel, unreachable and drifting further away. You don't understand.
"It hurts, Y/N." His voice sounds too raw, too broken. You want to touch him, wrap him in your arms, and take away his pain. James should never feel this way. You can't move. You wonder if your death rattle breathing will stop once your soul leaves.
James is crying, you realise. You are, too.
"It fucking tears me apart that you can't see it. I love you, fuck, I love you so much, it scares me. But if that's not enough, no matter what I do—then I don’t think I can do it anymore. I can't, I just can't..."
His words echo harshly in your head, they ruin you, clanging all the way down to your burning ribcage. This feels painfully familiar, you think to yourself, feeling lost and mad about it. Haven't you been here before?
Your heart is bursting in your throat, and it's impossible to form words, your mind's zeroing in on survival, and, oh, yes. You've been here. With James, yes.
Oh.
It's happening again, isn't it?
"He's always been loud and brave with his love, and I love that about him. He never intended to show us off." The stag lets out a huff, reminding you that it's still there, listening. You pet it. "Alright, maybe a little. But he mostly just didn't see a point in hiding it, not when we were so sure. Even Remus thought it would stick this time. Peter was so convinced."
Your breath hitches in your throat, and you try to breathe through your stuffy nose, only to fail miserably. You miss the boys, too. "Sirius—even if he never said it aloud—we knew from the way he teased us like we were first years again that he believed in us. He really did."
The ghost of a smile tugs at your lips as you recall how he used to run past his best mate whenever he saw you two together, reciting the nursery rhyme at the top of his 11-year-old lungs. When James told him that you were together again, he didn’t waste any time. The moment he saw you, he tackled you into a hug, singing about how you and James were sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
Now, it's just you and your beloved ghost sitting in a tree D-Y-I-N-G. Some deranged part of you thinks that makes for a funny joke, but you know there's nothing amusing about it. You can't even tell it to Sirius seeing how he stopped talking to you.
"Godric, we all really believed it, didn't we?" You say, addressing an audience that, for once, isn't there.
They have been though.
From the moment they found out that their beloved Gryffindor quidditch captain and charming head boy was back together with his ex-girlfriend, they were fighting over front row seats, awaiting you with badly veiled smugness.
"Well." You laugh wetly and spread your arms halfheartedly. "Come one, come all. It's happening again. Let's enjoy the fucking show."
Not longer able to contain yourself, you break into wretched sobs. Your body trembles and dissolves into all the scarred dreams you're still holding onto.
James’ name slips past your lips a couple of times. Sometimes it's the word ‘sorry’ and ‘please.’ A few times, you're no longer sure what you're saying. The words are mangled, ripped from your throat.
They're bloodstained goodbyes, and although they do not in the slightest take away from the ache in your chest, you don't intend to stop them either.
James and you have lost the game of chances. So there is no need to perform or conjure up something that isn't there. Everything about this performance is true. You're just putting on your last show.
The best one, if you dare say so yourself.
And the stag is there to witness it all, left to wonder how it all ended.
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