"I bet you feel it now, baby. Especially since we've only known each other one day. I've gotta work shit out, baby."
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Small mercies still exist, and they exist in the form of Xenophilous Lovegood and Pandora Lestrange. They'd made me wonder if it's too late to still make friendships that will last a lifetime.
I'm still wondering about it now—with half an empty jug of butterbeer dangling from one hand and Pandora's arm slung around my other shoulder. We're singing a song in the common room. Some screechy sounds of the twisted sisters, it's horrible really. But all of the drunken seventh years have joined in and even some sixth years. It's a Wednesday night, but Ravenclaws just won a match against Hufflepuff. A game I didn't attend, but somehow they've convinced me to stay. To enjoy it.
I know i'm only capable because I don't want to return to my own isolation just yet. I know that's why the hole in my chest isnt opened quite now.
I don't sing. I just sway along with the rest of them, and drink my fair share and for once it's nice to just forget about everything. To ignore the fact that this is just another act of me pretending. This won't make anything go away. That day still happened. Iris is still dead, and Remus is no longer my boyfriend and lord knows what Amos has been up to.
I take another swig of butterbeer to chase away the thoughts and it doesn't work.
So, under the cover of the mass of rearranging bodies and chaos of alcohol ruled whoops and hollers, I leave. I slip out beneath Pandora's arm, past everyone, and out the common room.
The uncrowded air of the hall is nice, I gulp it down, thankful to find the jug of butterbeer still clutched in my fist. I giggle down at it and lift it up in the light, watching the warm coloured liquid swirl against the glass.
It makes me step back too far—sends me stumbling and tripping back a little. I skip to a halt. I haven't felt this light in a long time.
And I don't know how I get down stairs. But, somehow, I continue my journey all the way to the first floor corridor. I continue skipping and and tiptoeing until I see an unusual light in the entryway to the library.
What's left of my rational brain reminds me that the library is closed— or should be closed. But there's a torch light ahead in the section devoted to the Dark Arts. I make my way over, nursing the butter beer, I don't take it far from my lips. Books re-sorting themselves fly past me and over head, almost knocking me over.
But I dodge, skip again, trip, then sort of stumble into the corner where the light is, my corner. A loud giggle bubbles out of my throat.
A chair screeches, but i'm half sprawled across a study table and have to fix myself first to get a sense of my surroundings. I stagger to my feet for balance and brush my curls out of my face.
"I knew it would be you," I say bluntly, wagging a finger at him.
Regulus is, of course, the source of the light. He's got a lantern on the table besides him, casting light across a rather large stack of books.
He's still in his school things. His white shirt and green tie. If it were daytime, everything would be normal.
But it's the middle of the night.
I've startled him, and he's up out of his seat, one hand shoved into his pocket — clutching his wand, no doubt. And I really can't put together his expression, but maybe that's the butterbeer at work.
"Are you following me, Mr. Black?" I slur. It sounds alright coming out to my ears, but I have to recognize that the world is sort of sideways at the moment. My speech probably is, too.
"Evans," He says. Always, like it's a statement of fact. Why does he do that? And then, "The fuck are you doing?"
I sway, deciding to lean back against the table a little. And I take another swig before setting the jug down. "This library is closed," I say, curt and official. But then I hiccup and it dissolves into a small fit of laughter because this is so hilarious.
Really, it's so wonderful to laugh like this. I've missed this, this side of me. I know that come tomorrow it will be gone again.
"Evans, what the bloody hell is the matter with you."
I sigh as the giggles fade, wiping my eyes and letting Black come back into focus. "I asked first."
"Asked what?" his eyebrows are very funny when they pinch together like that. They twitch a bit with the force of his confusion, and it's funny to confuse him.
"Are. You." My hand finds the jug again, lifting it to my mouth, "Following..." I sip but don't break our eye contact—I swallow, "me?"
Black looks bewildered. He splutters for a moment, hand falling out of his pocket. "You...I—you're the one who keeps turning up everywhere I go,"
I click my tongue at him. "Who says it's not the other way around?"
"Evans, are you completely smashed?"
I yank the jug back up for another sip, shooting him a dirty look. "What a rude assumption to make." But after another gulp, I hear myself say, "Yes. Quite." Then I thrusts the jug out toward him. "Here. Have some."
Black studies me for a moment and gives me a once over with sharp eyes. He wrinkles his nose when he looks back at the jug. "Buterbeer is for children."
I snort a loud snort. "Seems to be working perfectly alright for me."
His expression remains tight and suspicious for a moment longer, then goes lax and so does he. He leans back against the windowsill behind him, diamond-shaped panes making a kaleidoscope of his shadow as he moves. "I can see that." He stuffs both hands into his pockets. "How very —you. To get drunk off Butterbeer."
I sniff at him, setting down the jug and bracing both hands on the table to heave myself up. Then I sit cross legged, leaning on my palms. I let my head hang back for a moment. "I'm not going to be offended by you tonight, Black. I've decided."
"Mature of you," he drawls.
"What are you doing here, Evans?" And now his voice is all deep and dark and serious.
I shrug. "I saw the light is all,"
"You weren't following me?"
I shake my head and giggle, haven't giggled so much since childhood, I think. "Do you know, Black, I think you and I just might keep appearing at the same place at the same time." I wiggle my eyebrows at him. "Y'know like coincidence—" I hiccup, "Fate."
"Fate?" His tone is skeptical, his face even more so when I manage to look at it. But there's something under it, maybe the hint of a laugh or a smile. The slightest hint of humour, I can't be sure. "Just how much have you had, Evans?"
My gaze snaps from his mouth to his eyes, and I stare at him blankly for a moment. Then I smile. A deep, mischievous smile. I hold up the jug, which has about a centimeter left in it, and swings it in front of him, victorious.
"Just drink it,"
That's about when I realize how close I am to him. Almost as close as the last time we were here, but without the hostile air between us, it feels much closer. I hold the jug in two hands in front of me, and it's touching his chest on the other side.
Back up.
Back up.
Back up.
Black quirks an eyebrow at me. It's a very elegant, aristocratic sort of eyebrow. It's a very Sirius sort of eyebrow. I follow it down as it relaxes, eyes snapping back to his when the weight of the jug transfers into his hands.
Back up.
He takes a large swig and I find myself watching his throat as he swallows. And when he hands it back, I ask, "Are we friends?" I sip, "You and I?"
"I don't need friends," He shrugs. "I like to drink alone,"
"You're drinking with me right now," I point out.
"Brilliant, you are." He takes the jug back.
"So, then what?"
He shrugs again and glances away as he takes the second to last sip. "How are you and I meant to be friends, Evans?"
I'm almost too shocked to take back the jug. "What's that supposed to mean?" I can't help but frown, though I know irrational.
"Doesn't mean anything. It's just how it is. You and I, we can never be friends," he says. "Maybe in another life, with another kind of...coincidence—"
"Fate." I state sternly. I wonder why this rejection is making me sad, I wonder why I feel the need to- "And you're a rotten liar!"
"Enlighten me."
"You could be my friend. It would be hard and would probably have to be secret but you could do it. You just don't want to," I insist. "I don't understand why though—why, Regulus? Why do you keep pulling me from the brink of death while simultaneously not giving me the time of day? " I hiccup again, a loud one.
Regulus laughs then, a thick throaty laugh I've never heard before. "You're so naive, Evans. What part of house rivalry do you not understand? What about the word supremacist is hard to comprehend?"
"No, not just that." I say as I set the jug down behind him, standing up. "I refuse to believe it's just that." My voice is a whisper now as stand and whirl around, so I don't have to face him.
I feel him stand as well, looming behind me. "Well, it's like you said," His voice is slow and steady and calm. Everything I wish I could be in this moment. "I don't want to be your friend,"
In the next instant, he's turned me around with a sharp tug and his other hand is suddenly molded against my cheek and it's just as cold as it was when he caught me from the ledge.
He's there.
His lips are on mine, his frozen, frosty lips against mine. Leeching warmth out of them, unmoving. Just his mouth, over mine, waiting there.
My pulse seems to panic, it stutters to a halt then desperately tries to start up again but it beats too fast.
Blacks mouth is on mine, he's not quite kissing me but he's there. He's right there, and it's not kissing. Not quite, not yet, but it's the gasp that does it. It opens my mouth for him, and then he's kissing me.
His hands find the edges of my jaw and he slants his mouth over mine and his lips force mine to part and he swallows that gasp. Swallows it and my next breath in one, and then his own breath gusts out against my lips. His fingers bury into my curls, and his nose brushes against the stretch of skin beneath my cheekbone that i'd never thought important until now.
My mind reels. My fingers shake where they've stalled halfway from stopping him. Halfway between pushing him away and staring something else.
His tongue brushes across the edge of my teeth, it flicks up in some erotic way I don't understand but it sends a pulse through me. It forms a knot in my lower stomach, no, lower, that tightens and builds tension. And he makes this sound. It's a quiet sound that I can't distinct. A subtle mix between a gasp and a groan.
It does something to me though. It sends all control to my hands; rather than to my head where's it's much, much, needed. Suddenly i'm tangling in my fingers in his shirt front, twisting one around his tie and pulling him in. Pulling him closer.
It's like i'm drowning and coming back to life all at once.
I've lost all rational sense to fight against the current, to swim.
I make my own sound, a desperate kind of sound because I want him closer and for the life of me I can't figure out why. My tongue flutters against his and in response he tightens his hands in my hair, increasing the pressure of the kiss.
It's just about now when I realize how much I want this. Somewhere between his tongue delving deep and eyelashes brushing against mine, I decided I want this.
My trembling hand leaves his tie and finds smooth comfort along the side of his throat. He gasps.
Regulus drops his hands from my hair, wraps his arm around my waist—fitting like a perfect belt— and draws my body against his.
He's so cold.
He's so cold.
He's so cold.
Why is he always so..?
He spins us around, pressing my back to one of the bookshelves and giving me déjà vu. Regulus pulls my hips foreword and slams them back against the wood as he kisses me, over and over again. I don't recognize the feeling of his body on mine. It's new territory and i'm an inexperienced tourist. I don't recognize the distinct, unspeakable hardness I feel against my thigh. I don't recognize the sound of the racing pulse of his heart in his chest.
Regulus breaks away from my mouth, lips seeking something different, something new, and I don't know if I know what it is to be kissed like this. With such need and craving and desire. Making me feel like if he doesn't have me now he might die. But his mouth is right next to where my pulse hammers and I can feel his tongue. His tongue sucking and licking and sweeping up and down. Repainting his artwork on his canvas.
An enchanted books flys off the shelf, literally, like with wings.
Regulus stumbles back, startled, and I have one hand gripping the shelves to keep me from collapsing without his body holding me up. Every inch of my skin prickles, feels raw, but not in its usual upsetting way.
And I stare at him because I can't form words.
He runs a hand through his disheveled hair—thanks to me. Then he straightens his tie and untucks his shirt front, dragging it down to cover...oh.
I wish I could press pause on this moment. Not to savour it. Not to memorize it. But because I can't bear to hear what he has to say. I can't bear to sort out the last ten minutes.
He stands there, gathering his breath for a deep long while. "Do you still want to be friends?"
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song: swim by chase atlantic