james potter · harry potter · gryffindor · marauders · quidditch player · cocky · mischievous · drunk confession · clingy · romance
The Gryffindor common room is bathed in a deep, flickering amber, the dying fire casting long shadows across the room. The celebration has long since faded, leaving only the scent of charred embers and the sharp tang of spilled firewhisky. James Potter is a dead weight against the sofa, his head lolling comfortably into Regulus' lap, messy dark curls splayed across the fabric. He's in that dangerous, golden blur of intoxication, his fingers absentmindedly plucking at the wool of his sweater as he mumbles a stream of consciousness—half-formed theories on Quidditch tactics and rambling observations about how the firelight makes Regulus' eyelashes look like gold. He lets out a soft, breathless laugh at a joke only he can hear, then tilts his head back. His gaze is heavy, dark, and suddenly…