NOT ANOTHER OPEN RP POST

[wunderkind]

an open rp post
(it is what it says it is)

-1-
pick a character

-2-
leave me a comment. maybe a scenario, maybe an AU scenario, maybe a picture, maybe a word,
maybe a request to resume old game canon, maybe just a comment.
i don't care. do your worst.

-2a-
helpful note: i am currently obsessed with the Walking Dead, Christmas, and vampires. can you combine those into one tag?

-3-
let's get it on



disclaimer: we probably won't get it on
+ there are no promises i will take this seriously

Comments

and i would wait a lifetime, for you;

[staggerings]

crying hard about this

[doggedly]

The way it works is, James and Sirius are perfect compliments to one another--but in such a way that they seem deeply similar. Like brothers, everyone says, or, really, better than brothers, if you're Sirius Black and your only real brother is Regulus. James outstrips Regulus in so many ways.

The subtle differences are what make Sirius and James perfect for one another, fit them together like interlocking pieces of a two-piece puzzle. The presence of James is like a magnet for Sirius, and he always looks for him in the crowd without seeming as if he's looking--and he'd never admit to looking, like that's some betrayal to his coolness. And he doesn't have to, really, because that's the thing about James, he knows without being told. He always knows things.

In first year, Sirius was standoffish about physical contact. Pureblood raised, where dry kisses on the cheek and forehead were affection enough, where people greeted one another with handshakes and bows, and nothing more. He wasn't prepared for James Potter and all his casual touches, the way he'd throw an arm around your shoulder or throw his legs across your lap when you were on the sofa. It had been startling, at first, and Sirius had very nearly punched him one or two times, out of sheer claustrophobia--but where someone else might have shrank beneath the puppyish intensity of that friendly affection, Sirius had made himself grow with it, learn how to invade personal space and learn to have his own invaded--until, now, sixth year, and he can worm his way onto the sofa beside James without thinking twice about it, tangle himself against James and shove his head under his arm and in the way of the book that he's reading and press himself heavily against his side and shoulder. And just sit like that, for a moment, unbearably, before he looks up at James with a little grin.

"Wotcher, Potter."

--And if there is ever a second thought about this affection, about what it means to worm very close to someone you love fiercely, without end--Sirius never thinks it. He doesn't allow it of himself. It would ruin this, this warm casual late-evening air, so close to summer and end of term and blessed freedom. It would ruin everything.

Instead, he squints one eye at James, surveying his face from this very close angle--the faint white scar on his upper lip, the scatter of stubble across his chin and jaw. "Are you having fun, pretending that you can read?"

i regret everything

[staggerings]

James has never been shy, or thought excessively hard about showing affection. He'd been a late appearance in his parents lives, far past the point that they'd ever expected to have him, and as a result, they'd never been anything but delighted with him. He'd wanted for nothing, whether it was material possessions, attention, or assurances of love. And so he had learned to love easily and fiercely, in the ways that only children do, with both hands grasping tightly, and utterly stubborn.

It was lucky then, that Sirius was the sort willing to adapt, because he'd never quite manage to wound James for long, if at all- with his stiff, claustrophobic behaviour, or the subtle shifts away from him. He'd always inevitably done something that had James reaching out to swing an arm around him, or all but crawl into his lap to make room on couch that dwarfed them both, but never seemed quite big enough to hold all of them.

And for all his love of being the centre of attention, he'd had to learn to adapt too. While he dispensed affection without discrimination to any that could be counted a friend, he'd never quite so thoroughly invaded anyone else's space- and never tolerated a lingering invasion to his that he hadn't invited, from anyone else. He'd adapted until Sirius was the most familiar part of him, until it was disconcerting if when James reached out, his fingertips connected with air, instead of his best friend. A frequent occurrence, his version of searching through the crowd.

In Sixth Year, it was bone deep, irrevocably apart him- but inexplicable, and carried no name. It hovered in the peripheral, and like most things- when he'd been chasing a dream so long, with a narrow minded focus- more in for the winning of it now, than an earnest desire- it fell to the wayside and garnered no further examination. For now, James was content in the knowledge that it existed, familiar as breathing.

All it accounts for, is the way that James shifts automatically on the couch, making space, legs shifting to tangle with another's before he's even properly registered the who. Once settled, he makes a non-committal hum in a return greeting, one arm leaning now against the groove between Sirius' neck and shoulder, instead of his own ribcage.

"Quite a lot, actually." They're close enough that James' nose almost brushes the hair that falls across Sirius' forehead, warm breath tickling across the bridge of a too perfect nose as he drawls, "What a delightfully pedestrian concept for sharing thought." It's a poor imitation of a Pureblood, aristocratic tone- something James had never encountered before coming to Hogwarts and something Sirius was born for.

A moment later, he shifts the book on his chest a little more to the side, so he can see the pages once more, but so that Sirius can as well. It's one of Remus'- because it's been long since established that what belongs to one of them, belongs to the other- all but James' cloak, which requires at least a note to it's disappearance. As such, he's been careful with it, and it's tediously academic, with little yellow squares dispersed across the pages with notes in Remus' careful, loopy letters.

Evans had once informed him they were called 'post-its' and they're easily the most interesting thing about the book, from reading the scrawl to place commentary on the work, to flipping them up to see actual text beneath, or mind-numbingly trying to see through the part of it that glues it to the page. The struggle to read, is actually, just a little bit real.

Which of course, begs the question of why he's bothering at all. Perhaps because he's bored, and it's the sort of evening where the summer heat is just starting to sink in, and the couch is extra soft and drawing his mind to a stand still is an enticing prospect. Perhaps it's a topic that interests, even if it's talking in circular methods or- perhaps it's to stave off the cloying sense of loss that always seems to loom over the ending for a term.

But there is Sirius, warm against his side, and James has never had to suffer his absence, not really- and so he doesn't falter. Flicks the page over with his mouth curved in a small imitation of a grin.

well i don't regret a thing except how long this took me

[doggedly]

Fitting himself to James takes nothing at all. It's a similar sort of mindlessness that has him grin at that quip and accent--after all he is, almost always, going to grin at the things that James says. That's part of this friendship, like a double comedy act without a straightman.

He turns against James a little, more to free up an arm and a hand so he can reach up and tweak the corner of one of those queer little yellowy papers stuck to the inside of the book.

"You have always been interested in the weirdest things, Monsieur Prongs, the pedestrian and the odd." His pureblood accent is far less affected. There's always the hint of it in the way that he speaks, for all that he tries purposefully to shake it--but it's exaggerated now, put on to make James laugh in turn. There's nothing that pleases him quite like making James laugh. "You should hear the way they talk about you in the social clubs. What the hell are these for?"

That's in reference to the yellow bits of paper. He pinches one right off the page and sticks it to James' hand.

"Bet I could make you a really bitchin' moustache out of these thingers."