~by Weaving Radiance~
~To those who know the power of music~
She can feel your eyes on her. Your gaze is steady, and intense, and bordering on brooding. The first time she noticed you, her heart nearly skipped a beat. She isn't sure how exactly you've found her, but you have, and now you are watching her. You are distracting her, but she can't bring herself to stop.
Her cheeks grow warm and red, and her embarrassment clings to her skull, squeezing and clutching at it so that she almost loses her thoughts and her fingers nearly stumble. You shouldn't be here. How did you find out about this room? she wonders to you, only she doesn't say it outloud.
From the corner of her eye she can see you, leaning lazily against the door frame, your hair falling over your eyes in the front and sticking up straight in the back. Your hands are shoved deep into your pockets, and a scarf is tied loosely around your neck. Your cheeks are flushed with cold, and your nose has turned pink. The moonlight glances off your glasses, making them shine—but the bright blue of your eyes were vivid as ever.
Ignore him, she's thinking, Just keep playing.
She is glad that she knows this song so well. If she didn't, she is sure she would have made a mistake by now. But so far, all is well—she is playing perfectly.
The tune is slow and deep and smooth. It glides and resonates through the room and presses itself into your ear, ever-so-carefully. It sinks down into your throat and to the back of your skull, where it rests, warm and pleasant.
Your gaze is shifting from her face to her hands, and back again. You see her eyebrows tug together with concentration, her fingers tense as she plays. And then, as she accepts your presence, her face goes soft again, and her hands begin to move slowly and fluidly on the keyboard once more. Each keystroke is gentle, and it seems as if she's caressing the keys with her fingertips. They lightly brush, a soft push against the ivory, producing the most soothing of sounds.
The blue night casts long shadows on the features of her face and her hair and her neck, and turns her skin a pallid, almost sickly shade of ivory, to match the keys. Her red hair is turned brown-purple, and it gleams in the sparse amount of moonlight that pours from the window and onto the piano, and her. Her eyes are nearly closed, the lids glimmering and her teeth biting down gently on her lower lip, painted indigo by the dark of the night.
You don't remember her ever mentioning or even hinting that she can do something like this. You know it will eventually blow your mind later. But right now you're focused on the music. And her.
It seems as if no time has passed when the last chord resonates through the room, sailing along the walls and the ceiling and into your ears. You're a bit annoyed that the song has ended so soon—already you are missing its quiet, dulcet tones and melancholy melody.
You snap to attention, though, when you see her stand up. She does it slowly, and does not turn her body at all so that she is still facing away from you, and you wonder if she's a bit scared of you.
"That was beautiful," you say sincerely and softly, so as not to startle her with the sudden words. It doesn't make any difference, though, and she jumps anyway.
"What are you doing here, Potter?" she says, still turned away from you, and the menacing tone in her voice surprises you. You were expecting embarrassment, or annoyance, or exasperation, but not this, this anger. And she seemed so peaceful just moments earlier.
"I saw you run out of dinner early," you reply, keeping your voice cool, calm, and even. "I followed you."
"I didn't see you," she counters, turning slightly.
You smirk, and picture her heart beating faster. That's what Sirius says the girls say about you. That your smirk can nearly cause heart attacks. You push yourself off of the door frame and take a step forward. "I'm just that good, Evans."
"Still an arrogant prick, I see," she retorts now facing you. "Even though you've had two months to deflate that gargantuan head of yours."
You look like you don't know how to respond. She's relishing the expression on your face. It's not often that you can render James Potter speechless. She smirks, and the smugness encased in it could rival your own.
Suddenly, your gaze is fixated on her lips. The shift is so small, so quick, that you don't even realize it's happened for a fraction of a second. But now you're blatantly staring, and soaking in every detail. Like the way the corners tug up as she smirks, or how the bottom one is much fuller than the top, or how the same lip is slightly ripped in the left corner where she was biting at it earlier and slightly chapped everywhere else, or how they look almost purple in the sparse night light. You find yourself wondering, for the umpteenth time, how they would taste. Sweet, you think. And like strawberries. Her favorite snack.
She's watching you carefully now. She thinks she knows what you're thinking. You think she's right.
"Don't you come any closer, Potter," she warns, taking a step back. "I'm not an idiot, and obviously, you are."
You almost feel hurt. If you weren't so used to her jabs already. Thus, they're easy to ignore. So you do. You continue to stare, despite her clipped words. You'd like to say that you just can't help yourself, and you guess that's sort of true. But you also know that if you really wanted to, you could stop, turn away, leave. Only, you don't want to.
You can tell you're making her uncomfortable. She squirms.
"Can't you just leave me in peace for fifteen minutes?" she demands. "Just leave me alone to at least play piano?"
You want to laugh. "I don't think I'll ever be able to leave you alone, Evans," you say, and take another two steps towards her. You can smell her now. Strawberries and honey.
"Stop right there, Potter," she says, taking another step back. "I'll call you for harassment. I swear to God, Potter, I will."
You're not paying attention anymore. You're completely focused on her lips, and just her talking, making them move is driving you crazy. You can't remember ever feeling this needy, this fascinated, this intrigued before, even about her. Maybe it's the music. Or the full moon. Or her. Or perhaps it's a mixture of all three.
Another step forward, another step backward.
And that's when you realize you're prodding her towards the wall.
What the hell does he think he's doing? she's thinking as she takes another step backward. What does he expect is going to come out of this? She focuses her eyes down on the ground, on the piano, on the ceiling—anywhere but you. She doesn't want to look at you anymore. She's afraid of what she might do.
The intensity in your gaze is enough to turn her insides to mush. She's having to remind herself of what an ass you are, or she just might be tempted to kiss you herself.
Then again, he might just do that for me, she's thinking, almost deciding that that wouldn't be too awful. No, stop that, Lily, she chides herself. James Potter is nothing but an arrogant, mean, arsey little toe rag, whose head can barely fit through doorways.
She steals a glance back up at you—you're still staring. "Honestly, James," she says, though her voice twisted the exasperation she'd meant to express and instead it came out annoyingly feeble and high-pitched. She clears her throat.
You're no longer staring at her mouth, and she's feeling a bit relieved. Only, now you're staring at her eyes. She can feel it, as if there was a determined breeze blowing into them, only it didn't sting quite as much.
He's been nicer this year, she admits to herself. Less cocky, less play-boy-ish. Milder.
They're bright green, the brightest green you could have ever imagined, like the leaves on the trees in the middle of the most beautiful summer, or the vibrant, thick grass that rolls in the wind and whispers it's secrets during spring.
"Your eyes are gorgeous," you say softly, so softly you barely even hear it. She flinches, and you know she's heard you, despite. You take another step forward. She takes another step backward. She's now three long strides away from the opposite wall.
God, how you want to kiss her.
You take another step forward.
She doesn't move.
Move, Lily. She's berating herself. He's going to try and kiss you.
But she found her feet were stuck to the floor.
How unfortunate, she thought lightly, before he finally crossed the distance between them.
You nearly run across the floor, towards her, and when she realizes you aren't going to stop once you reach her, she finally moves, backpedaling into the wall. You waste no time, taking her face in your hands and crushing your lips to hers.
You'd once thought that this kiss was the one you would wait your entire life for, as long as you got it.
Now you realize you'll never want to wait for it again.
Her lips are soft, for the most part, but you can feel the stiffer ridges on them where they're chapped and waiting to heal. They taste of strawberries, just like you guessed. And chocolate, too. You remember that she loves chocolate almost as much as she loves strawberries.
You reach up to touch her hair. It's silky and smooth, and cold. You bury your fingers in it. She moans against your mouth.
You think it's one of the sweetest, most beautiful sounds you've ever heard in your life.
You pull her mouth open with your lips, and your tongue traces the tips over her teeth. Still strawberries, you think, dropping your hands to her waist. She gasps as you lightly tighten your grip, and reaches out to take your wrists in her hands.
You lower your mouth to her neck—it tastes of honey. She uses honey-scented soap, and strawberry shampoo, you think. What a delicious combination. You press your lips against the hollow of her neck and lean forward so your nose gently brushes her skin. God, how you've wanted to this. For what seems like centuries.
She can't remember feeling this amazing in a long time. She can't remember ever wanting anyone else to touch her as much as she does now. She almost hates what you're doing to her, but she can't help but revel in it anyway. Your lips are setting her skin alight, and your hands are causing her to gasp for breath.
She misses your mouth on hers.
"Yes?" you reply, your voice vibrating across her skin. She shivers, then continues.
"Kiss me again—please."
Yikes! I don't remember writing anything this... ahem... erm... steamy, I guess? well, ever. But I hope you guys noticed it was meant to be a sweet sort of steamy instead of an erotic sort of steamy. Because I was in no way going for the latter. (#'_'#)
This is basically how I fangirl-dream how Lily and James first started going out in their seventh year. ^_^ I've never written JamesxLily before, or anything outside of Harry's era, so I'm crossing my fingers that it came out right. I'm pretty sure James' eyes were brown, but not quite, which is why I made them blue here anyway.
Like I said, I'm sorry I haven't gotten anywhere with my chapter fics. I'm having major writer's block.
Hope you enjoyed! Oh, and it reads much better if you have the song (Movement 1, by the way) playing on in the background, on a loop. (It's by Beethoven, if you didn't know. And if you didn't it's okay, because I just heard it for the first time a few days ago ^_^)