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chapter eleven; a brain somewhere
James had a brain, he knew it was somewhere inside his thick head, it had to be, but it didn't seem to be functioning properly as of late. What the bloody fuck had he been thinking when he kissed Amaya?
The answer was simple, he wasn't thinking. He had her in his arms, her bloody whiskey eyes peering at him with desire, and apparently, that meant he couldn't use the right head to make decisions.
It was official, he'd fucked up. And it wasn't as if he could move out—Remus had been very eloquent in telling him to fuck off and that he couldn't just move in with them because he decided to discard common sense and kiss the beautiful witch that threatened him to kiss her.
"If you don't kiss me—" He hadn't even waited to hear the whole bloody thing. He could just think of her soft lips on his and something had snapped in him. He should've waited to hear the bloody thing. Whatever consequences there were for not kissing Amaya Santoro had to be better than the ones for kissing her.
Because aside from his brain suddenly beginning to work on overdrive and leading him insane, everything was awkward between them.
He had to give it to Amaya though, she'd made it a point of pretending nothing happened between them and she was being fucking fantastic at it—James couldn't help but feel a bit hurt. She was going about her days like nothing ever happened—whilst James was freaking out over the best fucking kiss in his life.
He used to think the kiss he'd shared with Lily had been good, at that point it had been a bloody dream come true, even when she said she regretted it, even when he realized there was no spark in the kiss he waited so long for.
To be honest, James couldn't even remember the kiss anymore. He wasn't sure where they had been if it had been any good if he was nervous—he had no fucking idea because all he could think about was Amaya, and her bloody lips and her soft skin, and the sounds she made when he kissed her neck—
"You're fucked," Sirius had told him. Perhaps he was—not in a literal sense though.
The thing was, Amaya was acting like nothing ever happened but James could feel the tension between them as both of them tried to go along normally (ones better than others). He could see her blushing at times when he caught her looking. She was tense when he came closer to her, and so he stopped—the usual comfort they had around each other was gone. And she made sure to keep her distance; and because making her uncomfortable was the last thing he wanted James made sure she had her distance.
He tried to make her laugh, though, and for the most part, it worked and then it was as if everything was back to normal, even if his heart fluttered at the sight of her dimpled smile. But it didn't last long, and soon they were merely focused on the task at hand, trying to work through the convoluted tomes Dumbledore had lent them, and the flowery mumbo jumbo Goldsaint wrote.
