presenting: the jily royal au no one asked for someone pls validate me i hate writing long fics
It starts at a party.
You’re dancing with your friends, beer in hand, hair held back with a headband, gold paint swiped down your temple, curling around your cheekbones.
Those damned cheekbones and that damned jawline. A bone structure carved from history. You are catastrophically beautiful.
Marlene waves at you; she tells me you’re old family friends. Your chin lifts, corners of your mouth lifting to reveal lines of perfect teeth. Her hands grabs mine and she’s weaving us through the crowds of hot bodies.
“Marls.” You say, pulling her into a hug and kissing her cheek. She screws up her face.
“Boundaries, Potter.”
You smirk at me. “She loves me really.” She scoffs but there is sunlight glinting in her smile.
“This is Lily Evans,” she says.
There is something in your eyes, as if I am puzzle you cannot figure out. You bite your lip.
“Dance with me, Evans?” you say. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol bubbling under my skin or the pulse fluttering at my wrist, or the way you’re looking at me, but I let you pull me onto the dancefloor, let your hands fall to my waist, let myself forget we will be front page news tomorrow.
“Where’s your crown?” I ask, eyebrow arched.
You laugh. “Not the most practical thing to carry round.”
“Very disappointing.” I whisper. I can feel your breath hot on my neck.
“I’ll make it up to you.” You say. The words settle in my collarbone.
This is a dangerous game we’re playing.
I sit on the kitchen table, painting my toenails a bright blue. Marlene is propped against the fridge, hair held in a messy bun by a pen that’s worth more than my laptop. Dorcas is throwing smarties at her whilst she tries to catch them in her mouth.
It is three in the morning and I’m laughing so hard I paint a blue line up my foot.
You muscle your way in, too broad shoulders knocking with the cabinets in our tiny kitchen.
“Evans, McKinnon, Meadowes.” You say, dropping into the chair next to me.
I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve called someone by their first name; you’re too engrained with public school habits, they’re etched into your very bones.
You’re staring at me again, chin propped up on fist.
“You going to come and watch our match tomorrow? You could be our cheerleader.”
“Will Benjy be playing?” I say, a teasing smile on my lips. You groan and let your head drop onto my knee.
“You’re killing me here, Evans.”
We stand in no-man’s land, stranded in the middle of friends and something else. I don’t know how we got here, it’s all a blur of film nights and drinking games and water fights. We can’t go back, can’t take back the arms round shoulders, the knuckles brushing under tables, the words whispered in the dark.
There is an orchestra of butterflies caged in my ribs. It’s getting harder to stop them escaping, their wings tattooed with the words neither one of us will say.
“Go on a date with me.” You say, lying on my bed.
I don’t look up from my essay, won’t look up, can’t look up. “Why now?”
You sigh and I feel the mattress shift beneath us. “Because,” you start, bumping your shoulder against mine. Every nerve in my body gravitates towards you, they always have.
You are the sun and you’ve dragged me into orbit.
“I like you, you like me. We can’t keep dancing around it.”
I close my laptop, placing it in the floor so I can turn to face you. You’re frowning, brows pulled together.
“And what about the papers?”
You bite your lip and we’re both thinking the same thing.
Girls from council houses in Cokeworth don’t date future kings.
There are rules, there are standards, there are expectations.
And we would break every single one.
“What if I don’t care?” you say. “What if I don’t give a damn what the Daily Mail thinks or what everyone says? What if I couldn’t give a shit about class?” Your eyes are blazing, jaw set, fists clenched.
I want to kiss you so badly I think I will implode.
“What if I’m not strong enough?” I say. “What if I don’t want the papers to tell me what a shit life I’ve had? What if I don’t want the entire country knowing every detail of my upbringing?”
It’s my turn to be the angry. Because your blood is laced with silver and mine with coal. Because you have lived a life I could only ever dream of. Because we will never work.
Your face softens and you’re doing the look that turns my inside to water. I will drown any day soon if you don’t stop;
“Then we won’t tell anyone, try it out. And if you want out you can go, no press, no media, no drama.”
You’ve caught me now, I can’t focus with you nail tracing circles on my ankle, up my calf, round my knee, on my thigh. You lean closer, your thumb grazing my jaw as your hand finds the back of my neck.
“Can you keep a secret, Lily?” you breathe.
You are too close, too far away. Your mouth drags up the hollow of my throat.
Lily
My hand finds the bolt of your jaw as our mouths collide. I can’t think. It is slow and delicate and I can feel every point our skin is touching, energy jolting through my bones. Your teeth nip my lip and it unleashes an ache in my ribs, and need for more.
You hover above me, resting on bent elbows, hair messier than I’ve ever seen it and skin woven gold under the amber light spilling from my lamp.
You have the look of a lion, proud and regal and deadly.
We’re lying in bed, legs tangled under sheets, your arms strong around my waist. We’re talking about anything and everything, my heart beating to the rhythm of your words.
“So, when do you actually wear your crown?” I ask.
It’s a taboo topic. We don’t talk about your titles, your job, your future. We don’t talk about after university, after the bubble has burst and real-life interrupts everything.
“Very rarely.” You say. I can hear the smile in your voice. “Official portraits, very boring ceremony’s, that sort of thing.”
My head is nestled in your chest and I realise I never want to leave. Something that hurts seeps into my veins and there are tears burning behind my closed eyes.
It’s raining when you ask. I’m curled up on our sofa, book balancing on my knee.
“Come to London with me?” you say, tossing your notebook onto the floor.
I nearly choke on my cup of tea. “What?”
You’re smirking again, reaching out to grab my book. “Come to London, to meet my parents.”
I do choke on my tea this time.
Because we’ve talked about it, in the late evenings with wine stained lips and dreams spilling out of every crevice. But we’ve never talked about it seriously, never talked about what we’re both willing to sacrifice.
“I love you, Lil, and I don’t want to hide it anymore.”
You’ve stolen the breath that curls in my lungs, keeping it hostage with the heart you already hold.
I think about the English degree I will throw away, the privacy I will lose, the simple things I will give up – dancing in the streets, sitting on Marlene’s shoulders at festivals, the ability to melt into a crowd.
But then I think about a future without you and my head starts to ache like there’s not enough air in the room
“Okay then.”
I meet your parents in a state room larger than the house I grew up in. The ceiling stretches for miles above our heads and my leg won’t stop shaking. You tell me before that we’re at Kensington Palace because you thought Buckingham might be a bit too much at first. I bite back my answer because this is your home, no matter how intimidating.
They’re smaller than I imagined, sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea balanced on a saucer. They ask about my family and life at St Andrews and you’re grinning so hard I think your cheeks might split.
You look smarter around them, swapping your rugby hoodies and jeans for tailored suits and dress shirts with sleeves rolled to the elbow. You wink at me and I’m blushing like we’re dating for the first time again.
Sirius waltzes in to drop off some flowers for your mum and the pair of you look like brothers as you stand side by side.
It’s hard to place the pair of you in our student flat eating beans on toast as Sirius calls over one of the staff to ask for more biscuits, as they bow their heads and ask if your highness wants some as well.
Because you are not James, history student with three weeks worth of laundry stacked on a chair, here.
You are James, Prince of Wales, heir to the throne.
I don’t know what that makes me.
It’s no surprise when you enrol in the army after graduation; you’d mentioned it before, the year or two of military service before you’re expected to step up.
I don’t try and stop you.
You can’t tell me where you’ve been posted, only your parents and Sirius know. The security surrounding it is tighter than anything I’ve seen before.
There is no spare heir, no other clear person to take the throne in your place. You’ll fulfil the family tradition but not in a way where there will be any risk of you getting killed.
I make myself busy to muffle the whole you’ve left; I get a job, I find a flat with Marlene, I cram every space in my life you occupy with distraction.
It doesn’t work.
The press haven’t been told where you’ve gone, they circle with their poisoned pens. We’ve broken up apparently, you’ve realised the differences will rip us apart, I’m sleeping with Sirius.
I’m not strong enough without you here.
There is a weakness between my shoulder blades, a haunting ache in my ribs that they are right, that you won’t come back.
I hate it.
You write me letters, pages and pages of scrawling ink. I trace the letters, telling myself I can feel the warmth of your hand on the paper.
I tie them together with strings of your kisses, stack them into a box along with my heart and the tears that won’t stop falling.
I won’t let myself become a ghost.
There are embers glowing in my stomach, waiting to spark into an inferno.
I strike a match.
You’re called back to rain and damp bones too soon.
The King is ill. Too ill.
A car takes you from the private jet to the hospital directly, I watch the news from your room at Kensington. Your set jaw decorates every television in the country, a frown fixed in your brow as you hurry to the car, deep in discussion with a man from the palace who meets you on the runway.
Sirius texts me hours later,
On our way, he’s in a bad way
I’m pacing the room when the door opens and closes, your body slumped against it like a puppet who’s strings have been cut.
“Lily?” you say, your voice crackling wood in a bonfire. You close the distance between us, your arms wrapping around my waist, your face pressed into the crook between my neck and shoulder.
You’re shaking as you take a step back, hands carding through your hair.
You don’t look like a king.
You look like a boy whose entire world is falling apart too soon.
“How is he?” I ask. You chew your lip as you walk me to the bed, collapsing backwards onto it.
You lie on your back, hands clasped behind your head. I settle next to you.
“It’s cancer. He’s dying.” You say. The words weigh anchor in my stomach, dragging life as we know it to a standstill.
“How long?” I ask. I’m not sure I want the answer.
“A year, maybe longer.” You turn your head so your eyes meet mine. “It’s not fair.” You whisper. “It’s not meant to happen like this, I’m meant to have more time. With him, with you.”
I want to tell you how lucky you are. How you can plan, how you have the time to treasure every remaining minute, how you can say goodbye.
I want to tell you that this is a luxury I didn’t have. That life is snatched away far quicker for some people.
I don’t.
Because I’ve felt my heart break into too many pieces to hold, I’ve sat and cried and cried until there was an entire ocean of parts of me I won’t get back. Now is not the time for sharpened words.
“Hey,” I say, pressing my lips to your shoulder. “It’s going to be all right.”
“I’m not ready, Lil.” You say. “I’m not ready.”
We lie there for hours, soft voices tangling above our heads. We plan a life away from this, picking out colour schemes for a house we will never have together. You tell me about your childhood dream of being a pirate or a queen.
I laugh out loud at that one and you swat me with a pillow.
“Hey, I wanted to be like my mum.”
“She’s an amazing queen.” I say. I know what’s coming. The speech about how you won’t have time for anyone now. How you don’t want to hold me back. How you’re sorry but you can’t do it anymore.
You’re staring at me with those damned eyes that shine like gold in the sunlight. “You could be too.”
“What?” I whisper.
“It’s not a proposal,” you say, voice barely loud enough to hear. “It’s not the time or the place, and you deserve the stars, not crumpled bed sheets. But I am asking you to be my queen one day.”
I can hear my heart pounding against my ribs, a mockingbird trapped in a cage. I manage to nod, vocal chords wrapping knots around my throat.
“Yeah?” you say, a childish glint in your eye, cheek dimpling, eyebrow arching.
“Yeah.” I reply, feeling a smile spread across my cheeks, into my lungs, into my veins.
You roll over, elbow either side of my torso. You’re about to capture my mouth with yours when there’s a knock at the door.
You sigh, pushing yourself up and off the bed. “Yep?” you call, swinging the door open.
A livery clad man stands there, looking distinctly awkward as he notes your crumpled suit and my messy hair. “The Prime Minister is here, your highness.”
Your shoulders seem to collapse in on themselves, like Atlas with the world on his back. “Shouldn’t the Queen be talking to him?” you ask, rubbing your eyes with one hand.
“No sir, her majesty remains at the hospital. She’s requested you meet with him.”
“Very well, find me McGonagall and ask her to meet us there. I’ll see him in the West Wing study.”
The man does a double take. “The West Wing study, sir? I apologise but it’s been assumed you would use the Gryffindor study.”
“That is my father’s study and will remain his until he is no longer head of state. The West Wing will be fine.” You turn, stretching a hand to me. “Walk with me, Evans.”
The man looks further affronted. “But sir-”
“Thank you, Dwalish.”
You raise your eyebrows at me, fingers dancing. I take the cue and get to my feet, tangling our fingers together as you pull me out of the room. The carpeted corridors are empty as we wind our way through them.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask you, noting the frown settled back in your brow.
“I don’t know.” You reply.
I nod.
A woman stands at the end of the corridor, clad head to toe in seriousness. You let go of my hand and press a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
I don’t have to time to answer before you’re striding towards her, spine straight and shoulders back.
Two servants open the doors to the study, light spilling out and cutting you a silhouette, all long legs and sharp joints, broad shoulders and angled jaw.
i threw water in ingrid’s face because she and her friends called you a slut for hooking up with william. that’s how it works in my ‘muslim gangster world’.
first year:
tentative glances, shy smiles. robes that are slightly too big,
scars as prominent as the quiet laughter in his eyes.
four boys, one compartment, their words drowned out by
the whistle of the train, the squeaking wheels of a trolley.
friendship, real and fierce.
second year:
full moons, half-hearted lies, pranks and hexes and
youthful folly blossom into questions without answers,
climax into a revelation.
he prepares for the inevitable, feels his scars burn,
lets the ashes of his secret spill from him in shame.
but the blow never came.
third year:
usual shenanigans and stolen glances, warm bodies
next to him now on his infirmary bed,
soothing words recited into his hair like a mantra.
but now he finds himself with a bias
on whose body is directly next to his, whose warmth
he wants to feel, mantras he wants to etch into his being.
he did not know whether the feeling,
should elate or unnerve.
fourth year:
a wanted, constant presence.
a yearning.
he feels it in his bones now, striking him
with every laugh and smile and everything in between.
it was somewhere around this time
when he found himself falling in love.
fifth year:
he hides his secret with all his might,
keeps it in the back of his mind, fights off the
flush in his expression, the flutter in his chest.
here, he is no longer alone during his runs,
finds himself happier than he’s been in years.
he stays in this bubble, relishes the feeling.
a year of maps and celebration and what should
have been confession.
instead he finds it tainted with betrayal.
sixth year:
a time of runaways and broken friendships.
most importantly, a season of forgiveness.
but the forgiveness, like broken friendships
and unlike the path of runaways,
is quiet.
it starts with willingly returned glances,
the brushing of pinkies and shoulders
the occasional dialogue, and ends with
tears, an overwhelming feeling of relief,
is sealed with a kiss.
seventh year:
laughter and love and friendship all around him,
promise after promise unfolding.
he prays to the gods, to anyone listening
in the skies or the ground or the droplets of rain,
that if they cannot give, cannot keep
promises without tragedy and blood,
of happiness and hope and love,
at least sear this memory into him,
let him wear these years, burn them into his mind,
bind his and these people’s souls to one another’s
for eternity.
please, he thinks. please please please.
take everything, promise nothing,
at least let him have this.
