head over heels over head || James Potter x shy!Reader
James has always been quite certain you, along with anyone else in possession of eyes or ears, know he's madly in love with you. apparently, though, he needs to make himself clearer. he's more than glad to accommodate.
warnings: mention of alcohol/drinking (college!muggle!au). fem!reader - reader is described as having long-er hair and wearing a skirt. fluff!
James is thrumming with the momentum of being near you. It’s a gentle push and pull he’s been leaning into – knowing you – softer than he’s used to being. He came on a touch too strong at first, saw the way your eyes flashed with uncertainty when the first name he called you was ‘gorgeous’, and slipped into the gentle lapping waves of watching instead.
You are gorgeous, though. A brilliant, breath-stealing thing anointed in gold bracelets and long lashes. He keeps a watchful eye on the way your freckles dance across your cheeks as your lips pull into a smile, tumbling into laughter as you witness Peter’s awful dancing.
The house music thrums loud in the background, a beat pulsing through his veins, striking through his temples. It rattles his teeth and he swears he can see how the music wraps around you. He thinks everything must, really, because how could it not?
“Did you hear me?” you ask, leaning toward him. He’s perched on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch you’ve claimed as your own. You have to tilt your head up to meet his eyes, and the sight of you, throat exposed and teeth peeking between parted lips in a grin, makes his heart leap against his ribs.
Luckily, he’s used to pushing down the way your eye contact unravels him. “What was that, love?” he asks, leaning closer, angling his ear toward your mouth.
He feels your breath, warm and sweet with the slight scent of alcohol, fan across his cheek. It flushes him deeper than the pint resting against his knee.
“I said I kind of want to step outside?” you say, voice phrased like a question rather than a request.
James jumps up at once, snatching your drink from your hand and twisting his fingers around yours. He abandons his own in favor of anchoring himself to you. With a gentle tug, you rise, using your free hand to tug your skirt down.
It should be illegal, really, how darling you look when you send him a shaky, self-deprecating smile.
“Lead the way,” he says, directly into your ear, tucking his chin and bending his spine to reach you.
You guide him out the front door – not the back, where smoke clouds and strangers hover by the firepit. Instead, you lead him into the pulsing, almost-quiet of the front porch, your hand still gripping his.
“Everything alright, love?” he asks as you lean against the railing, still holding his hand like you don’t plan to let go.
He’s never been so delighted to stand with his arm outstretched.
“It’s quite loud in there.” You say it offhand, nearly, but he hears the question curled just beyond the curve of your vowels.
“Parties tend to be,” he says, eyes searching your face.
“You like parties.” Another observation; casual on the surface, cautious underneath.
“Only because I always see you at them.” The flirting is slathered in truth. He sees the confusion knit between your brows, so he takes a step closer, knocking your sandal gently with the toe of his trainer. “Yeah, I like a party. But I only keep coming every weekend ‘cos of you.”
You don’t answer that, eyes locked on your feet. Your toenails are painted shimmering pink.
He’s known you like this for two years, hovering closer and closer to that electric sensation of almost that drives him just the right kind of mad. He started out wrong: the first party he saw you, drunkenly trailing his fingers across your back to tickle your side and leaning low to whisper sweet words in your ear. He thought he’d ruined it, honestly. The shock on your face, the confusion. You didn’t recognize him from your shared friend group and, drunk as he was, he’d failed to realize that was your first interaction.
He was a perfect gentleman from then on. He found you on campus, walking between classes, trailing after you like he couldn’t breathe properly unless he caught a glimpse. He couldn’t hide how enamored he was, but he did his best to stay within the boundaries of your comfort.
Life as your friend was a brilliant sort of torture.
He’d spent his teenage years drooling over the idea of Lily and learned his lesson the hard way when she made it clear she wasn’t interested – not for a lack of kindness, but because he’d never truly tried to know her. He’d shaped up after that, made a best mate he’d keep for life, and promised he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
And unlike with Lily, the more he knew about you, the further he collapsed into his certainty.
He’s a patient one, James Potter, perfectly content with honeyed moments of holding hands and flirty comments. It took him time, after your initial rejection, to be brave enough to show his affection again. But now? Now he’s sure no one could be near him without feeling it. All that love, seeping from every corner of his being, just for you.
“Alright, love?” he asks after a few minutes of desperately trying, and failing, to catch your eyes.
He wouldn’t call himself a mind reader, but James prides himself on being intuitive with the people he loves. He knows the difference between Sirius and Remus fighting versus Sirius and Regulus. He knows when Peter needs to shout and when he needs someone to sit and problem-solve. And once he gave his friendship with Lily a proper go, he hadn’t even blinked when she told him about her and Mary – he knew. He knows because he makes it a point to see the people he loves.
And it’s gnawing at him now, not knowing why you look so bloody self-conscious. He’d been watching you all night, trailing your movements like it’s instinct, and you’d seemed happy.
“I just … I don’t understand you, James,” you say at last. Your voice isn’t quiet, but it’s uncertain, your gaze ducking.
“Ask me, then. There’s nothing I wouldn’t tell you,” he says without hesitation. “I’m an open book. Especially to you, love.”
“See, you say things like that, and –” You cut yourself off, tightening your grip around his hand, then letting go to lift his wrist between your palms. You finally meet his eyes. “You hold my hand. Walk me to class even when you’ve no lessons nearby.”
James blinks, confused. He watches you carefully, but when he doesn’t respond fast enough, you shake your head and sigh.
“It’s probably nothing, you just…” Again, you trail off. Chin tipped skyward, eyes shut, back pressed hard to the railing. You drop his wrist and something breaks inside him.
“It’s not nothing. I’m sorry, I’m just not following. I do those things because I want to see you,” he says, soft and slow, voice like syrup. He wants to fix this, whatever’s worrying you and bringing out the adorable wrinkle between your eyebrows. He wants to press his thumb there, too soothe it.
“Because we’re friends?” you ask.
“Because I love you,” James replies, agreeing, confusion tightening his voice.
“That means the same thing to you,” you point out, chin down, eyes still closed. “You tell Sirius you love him at least once an hour. You shout it after Peter and Remus every time they leave a room.”
“Yes,” James says slowly, head spinning to find your point.
“And that’s how you love me?”
“No. Well, yes. But no. Not like that. Not at all but also, yes.”
You nod a few times, slow, hair shifting in the night breeze. “Sorry. That doesn’t help at all,” you admit, cracking one eye open.
“You’re one of my best mates,” he concedes, “but it’s quite obvious it extends beyond that, isn’t it?”
It’s not. Not to you, apparently, as your head shakes no.
“No? Yes it is, love. Of course it is.”
He’s panicking now, completely aghast. James Potter is many things. Subtle with feelings is not one of them.
“Love, I just about sent you running the first time I talked to you because of how violently I fancied you.”
“That was over two years ago, James. A lot changes in two years.”
James is shaking his head before you even finish. “Fucking Christ. Not that. Not ever.”
“No?” you ask, voice going small again, fingers nervously tangling.
“No,” he says, stepping in until your chests brush. He waits until you look up. “No, not that. Never that.”
“How was I meant to know? I thought you gave up.”
“How could I?”
“I’m … difficult. I move slow.”
“Do you?” he asks, so sincere it catches his chest and burns his throat. “Hadn’t noticed. I’ve been too busy noticing everything else.”
“So you’ve just been waiting? For me?” Your voice lifts, hope woven through it. And he sees now, sees exactly what your heart’s been afraid to ask.
“Always, love. Thought it was obvious,” he breathes, lifting his hands to cup your cheeks. His eyes dart across your face, memorizing every part.
“No. Not to me.”
“Love, I’m absolutely wrecked over you. Everyone knows it.”
“Everyone but me,” you whisper, chewing your bottom lip. “I thought … that’s just how you are. Loud with love. I didn’t want to hope. But then people started saying things, and I kept getting my hopes up, and you just kept being you—”
“It’s a habit I’ve yet to break,” James interrupts gently.
“Never dare to,” you murmur reflexively. “But I didn’t know. And then you’ve just been staring at me all night and I just.”
“Please tell me you’re not pissed right now,” James says. He needs you sober, or near to it, in order to let himself say what he wants. You shake your head. relief is a gentle warmth in his chest.
“Good. Because I need you to know that I’m always watching you, love. And, yeah, I’m affectionate with my friends, but I don’t walk them to class. Don’t follow them ‘round like a lost puppy. Don’t bring them food and drinks and hope they notice.”
He laughs, shaking his head, resisting the urge to press your face into his palm. To hold you close until it’s all real.
“I’m rather mad for you, actually,” James adds, possibly using more words than he ever has to say it.
“I think I know the feeling,” you whisper, flushed and radiant in the cold night air.
“Yeah?” he asks, though he’s known it, seen it. Still, hearing it floods him.
You nod. And James grins so wide it hurts.
“Brilliant,” he says, practically glowing. “Been waiting on that for a while, actually.”
“Sorry,” you mutter, actually looking upset.
James can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t be. I’d have waited forever. I’m just lucky enough to ask you on a proper date now, aren’t I?”
