Weight
Everything reminds me
Music surging bedroom dance
Crazy spinning sultry glance
I inhale your presence still
These your arms of daring grace
Encircle me, what pact is made
Desire is your masquerade
Want me you never will
- “Unwritten Letter #1”, Vienna Teng
Warm air fills my lungs as I inhale slowly, shakily. The darkness hides my face rather well, and for that I am grateful; I am quite certain that my skin is several shades of red beneath my freckles. It’s amazing that I haven’t caught fire yet. My companion stands quietly beside me, unobtrusive and yet so achingly present. I cannot see all that well, but I know he’s looking at me. This realization promptly interrupts my careful breathing exercise, and I struggle to get it back in order again.
The party inside is in full swing. James has taken the liberty of explaining the karaoke machine to Sirius and Frank Longbottom, and now the three of them are doing a rather decent rendition of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ by The Beatles. I feel the need to go offer Alice some moral support, but I cannot move for the life of me. I can’t even think clearly anymore.
The man beside me releases a huge sigh, and his breath washes over me in scented waves of laundry soap, peppermint, and the lycanthropic smell of firewood. I inhale again, taking him in, moulding him to me in the safest way I know how.
“You look stunning, by the way,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. I think he is complimenting the simple blue dress I wore for the occasion, but I’m not sure anymore. I imagine his lips on mine, perfect, firm, overpowering, and a shiver dances down my spine. The logical part of me cautions me. Careful, it whispers. I’ve always been careful. But the deluge of memories”fragments of dreams and flights of fancy” practically undoes me, and it’s all I can do not to throw myself into his arms this very second.
Whether he will keep me there or not is another question entirely.
“Thank you,” I muster. My voice sounds foreign to my ears. It’s too feeble, too meek. I’m sure he can hear it, too. Carefully, his fingers find the curve of my elbow, his thumb pressing gently into the inside crease on my arm, and I stifle another shiver with difficulty.
We’ve been playing this game for far too long. I used to keep telling myself, especially back in fifth year when it all started, that I was misreading things, as teenagers often do. But the electricity in his gaze, the careful calculation in his eyes as if he can see through you, see your soul, see every right and wrong in you and accept it unconditionally, has always been the breaking point for me. No one with eyes and a smile so sincere could possibly be so cruel.
But though his feelings have always been nothing short of obvious to me, he never acted on them. All those years of furtive glances, secret smiles, slight brushes on the shoulder, quiet study dates, and muted conversations during prefect patrols have amounted to nothing. The most affectionate gesture he has ever done was a soft kiss goodnight on the forehead, and it was a mark of how much I wanted him that I nearly exploded then.
Now.
He squeezes my arm gently, and I feel him. There. The soft pads of his fingers against my skin are like satin, comforting and arousing at the same time. My eyes shut out of their own accord, and I reach a hand out and touch his knuckles with my fingertips.
“Remus””
“I believe congratulations are in order?” he says quietly, interrupting me. “I can’t believe you’re engaged, but I suppose it’s to be expected. It was only a matter of time, eh?”
I feel the overwhelming urge to strangle him. How dare he.
“Lily””
“Remus, can we . . . let’s not talk about that now. Please?”
He acquiesces by falling silent. I breathe a small sigh of relief, but consequently feel guilty as James’s voice rises above the others in an almost deafening rendition of a Led Zeppelin song. I watch him through the living room window, momentarily distracted.
It still boggles me sometimes how quickly I fell in love with him when I allowed myself to. If I had told myself three years ago that I would be marrying James Potter, I probably would have died in mid-guffaw. Yet, here I am, engaged to the bullying toerag.
He proposed a few months ago in the most unconventional way imaginable, with the pair of us hidden behind a tall hedge as we watched for Death Eater activity outside the Muggle Prime Minister’s home. Under normal circumstances”normal being that death wasn’t in our very immediate future and neither of us were desperate to get as much out of life as possible”I probably would have told him to wait. As I would have waited. As I am still waiting now, incomprehensibly, even though I have already made the decision to spend the rest of my life with him.
If I had told myself three years ago that I would not be marrying Remus Lupin, I would have also died in mid-guffaw. I was so sure then. As I am sure now that I can’t let him go. Not yet. Not when things are so unresolved between us.
“Lily?”
I start when his voice breaks through my musings, and then I realize that I have stepped even closer to him, my fingers closed around his wrist. My first instinct is to take a step back, but I obstinately hold myself there. His free hand inches carefully up my neck and cups my face gently. My breath hitches.
“You must stop this,” he whispers, and I discover with a jolt that his mouth is so very close to mine that I feel the ghost of his lips against my own as he speaks. “You’re engaged to James. Not me.”
“I could be.”
“Stop.”
“You stop, then,” I hiss back at him, unable to temper the anger in my voice. As if I had hit him, he lets go of me and takes a step back. I feel his absence painfully; the cold air around me almost stings my heated skin. For a moment, I regret lashing out at him, but then I decide that it’s high time I discovered exactly what his intentions are, why he feels toying with my emotions is necessary.
Always the man with initiative, he obliges me quickly. “I’m sorry, Lily. I can’t do this to you or James. Not even back then. He’s my best mate, and so are you. I loved you first, but he loves you more.” A spasm of pain courses through me at his words; he quickly corrects himself: “Or, not more, but . . . he has everything possible to make you happy. I don’t.”
Delicately, he places his hands around my face. “I love you,” he continues, and no one, especially not I, can doubt his sincerity. “I do. It’s just . . . I’m not the best person for you. You should know that.”
“How am I supposed to?” I say through gritted teeth. “You never gave me reason to doubt you. All those years, Remus Lupin, and you never made it clear for me. I love you, but I suppose that doesn’t matter much to you, does it?”
“That’s a lie, and you know it.”
“I don’t know what I know anymore.”
“Lily. . . .” He hesitates, gazing down at me with those bloody honest eyes of his, and my heart jolts as I realize what’s to happen next. Very carefully, he presses his lips against mine, and his kiss is every bit as scorching and electric as I expected it to be. Against my better judgment, I lean into him, marvelling inwardly at both his gall and his dexterity.
Too soon, he pulls away and, again, takes a step back. I gaze up at him, feeling as if I have been burned”and not at all in a bad way. He tugs his mouth into a rueful, lopsided smile.
“Now you know,” he says softly, his voice laden with so many implications”all of which I understand. “Now you know,” he repeats. “No more secrets.”
I step towards him and chance one last kiss. Our last. He doesn’t retreat, and for that I’m grateful. It’s the least he can give me”a taste of what could be before I surrender myself to James completely.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his lips. His only response is a smile.