One blissful summer in August, James Potter is looking for something to yearn for and bedsheets to be tangled in. Regulus Black is willing to answer. He's (secretly) thrilled James has moved on from his long-time muse and is finally looking at him a...
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James' POV; "If I showed up at your party, would you have me? would you want me?"
Chapter 7
For the next week or so, a heavy cloud of despondence hung over James' head like a rainstorm waiting to happen. Everyone avoided him, scared to get soaked, except the people who didn't mind rain: Remus and Peter. Sirius hated getting his hair wet.
Lily stopped sitting with James in the Great Hall during meals. She averted her eyes from his throughout all of her classes and stuck with her girl friends instead. None of the Marauders protested her absence, not even Remus, who was sure to miss his platonic soulmate. She would've been handling the situation with more pizzazz, but she was recovering just as much as he was from the blows Regulus threw at his head. Well, he knew he deserved them, but that didn't make them hurt any less.
"What do I dooooo?" James whined one day. Remus had dragged James and Peter to the library to get away from Sirius, who was sure to make any interaction with James excellently awkward. He didn't rebuke James outright after finding out about the incident, but anyone could see the fire and smoke in his gray eyes that, with a blink, weren't silver anymore. James tried apologizing, begging for forgiveness, and improvising grand prank ideas for the Marauders' next big bang, but nothing worked. He hoped his brother knew how much Sirius cared about him.
With everything James said, Sirius nodded blankly along. Late at night and bleary-eyed, James sometimes heard Sirius creeping out of the dormitory, and he wouldn't come back for a while. Sometimes Remus went with him. He didn't know what they talked about, but he knew wounds took time to heal. Sirius was so naturally stubborn, not to mention protective of Regulus, so maybe the wound would just close slowly. Or, you know, maybe a scar would always mark its place.
Peter had scars from doing stupid things like falling off his bike and falling down the stairs (he tried not to laugh at his friend's expense when he told that story). Remus was a goddamn werewolf, Sirius had Walburga for a parent and so did Regulus. James was unmarked. Well...until this.
Remus banged his head on the table quietly enough so Madam Pince wouldn't kick them out. He'd chosen the one in front of the large stained-glass window. After a while, he'd given up on trying to console James. James hadn't given up his whingeing. He tapped his foot, ruffled his hair, drummed his fingers on the table, anything to stimulate his brain. Remus was hearing every bit of it, only louder because of his heightened werewolf senses.
Peter, bless his heart; in precious few situations did he have more patience than Remus. This happened to be one of them. His assertiveness was starting to shine.
Even Peter didn't have infinite patience, though. "I've told you this about five hundred sixty thousand forty-two times. You talk to him. You communicate, which you seem to be horrendous at. No—you talk to both of them and accept that neither of them will come running back to you like your hopeless romantic brain is imagining. You did something wrong, and that takes time to heal, just like wounds need time to heal and plants need time to flourish. I don't know when I started spouting similes. I need to lie down," he said with a groan.
