bcdaily:

Art by astralsymphony, drabble by bcdaily

            “I didn’t think this would be so awkward,” she says.

            James holds back a groan, hardly able to fault her for pointing it out, but suddenly bitterly resentful of the very frankness that he’d always admired, and thus had partially led them to this point in the first place. The pub is crowded and it’d been a trial finding a table. He’d finally resorted to bribing some third years out of theirs, which was a fairly pathetic low. Getting butterbeers had proven easier, and Lily had resolved the issue of waiting for food by transfiguring a napkin into a shallow bowl and dumping her recently purchased Bertie Bott’s—all grape-flavoured, of course—inside. They’d picked at them absently in between their silence-ridden and glaringly stilted conversation.

            It was, quite frankly, a rather dull and painfully awkward first date.

            “Perhaps our expectations were too high,” she continues, lifting a bean to her lips and nibbling thoughtfully. “Or perhaps we’re not actually particularly compatible.”

            “We’ve never been particularly compatible,” James says, moving his fingers absently against the tabletop. “Generally that’s given us more to talk about.”

            “Well maybe that’s our problem, then. We’ve already talked about everything.”

            “That’s not true. We’ve never talked about…turnips. Or Scandinavia.”

            “Scandinavia?”

            “It’s cold there.”

            Lily only lifts her mug and takes a long sip, her face betraying nothing as James feels the flush begin to creep up his neck. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. His brain is telling his mouth all sorts of normal and clever things to say—how pretty she looks in her green blouse and cream cardigan; how he’s never seen her plait her hair to the side that way, how he finds he fancies it; the hilarious story about Kettleburn and the dragon’s dung he’s been saving for just this very occasion—but instead all that comes out is…Scandinavia. And something about turnips.

            He doesn’t even like turnips.

            “I can do better than this,” he says, leaning over the table, determined and adamant. “I can do better than Scandinavia.”

            “I don’t know,” Lily says, dropping her mug to reveal a small smile. “Scandinavia is sort of growing on me.”

            “It shouldn’t, because it’s stupid.” His fingers clench into a fist and he wants to hit something. Mostly himself. “It’s stupid and I’mstupid and this whole thing is stupid because today is just the same as yesterday and yesterday I could talk to you like a normal person and today I talk about turnips and Nordic countries and can’t seat you or feed you or even bloody look at you without dithering like a prattish pansy and I—”

            He’s almost expecting her to leave after the seat you/feed you/dithering pansy bit. He honestly wouldn’t have blamed her if she had done. His mouth is dry and his nerves are frayed and he’s still trying to get his mouth to shut the bloody fuck up when she reaches across the table, grabs the collar of his blue jumper, and drags him forward until her lips brush rough against his.

            Scandinavia is cold. Lily Evans’s kiss is not.

            “Hmm,” she says, barely lifting her mouth from his. Her fingers still clasp his stretched collar and her gaze darts thoughtfully over his face. “More or less awkward now, do you think?”

            “Less,” James says instantly, though his mouth is still dry and his nerves are still frayed and he hadn’t been the one to shut his mouth the bloody fuck up. “Definitely less.”

            “Interesting,” Lily says, and James thinks she must agree because her mouth drops on his again and she lets him take the lead when he nudges back and their lips know what they’re doing even if James’s frayed nerves and poor conversation skills do not and this is what today was supposed to be about, not turnips and bloody Scandinavia.

            After another few moments, she drops his collar and pulls away, leaning back into her seat and watching him speculatively. James follows suit, though he’d rather be snogging her.

            “Now that that’s over with, let’s try this again, shall we?” She settles back against her chair, folds her arms on the table in front of her. “First date, round two.”

            “Right,” James says.

            “So.” She sits up straighter, looks at him squarely and lets another small smile stretch across her lips. “Scandinavia…”