Jily Oneshots (pt2)

Caution: Wet Floor

by ReaderMagnifique
sequel to <When It Rains It Pours Boys Down The Stairs >

"WAIT!"

Lily instinctively shoots her arm out through the rapidly closing doors of the lift. Two of the boys from flat ten are hurtling around the corner, each holding a wet floor sign. Behind them come two others at a more sedate pace; one laughing, the other wearing a long-suffering expression. The sign holders wear proud grins, as if something remarkable has been achieved.

"Once again, I must ask, where are you planning to keep these?" asks the sandy-haired boy, as the four of them shuffle into the lift with her.

"Thanks," says the first sign holder, nodding towards her with a smile. He's almost a head taller than her, with dark messy hair. Lily nods back and wills her redheaded genes to not turn her into a piccolo tomato.

He's not that good looking.

"They're souvenirs, Moony." Replies the second sign holder. He wore a leather jacket, and Lily vaguely remembered him from some flat party or another. "How can we spend a year in these hallowed halls, and not take away any souvenirs?"

"Just don't collect any for me, please." He sighs; his tone more resigned than anything.

The doors open on Lily's floor, and they all realise as a collective that she is at the back of the lift. Rather than making her perform some kind of wriggling gymnastics to squeeze past them, the boys all shuffle out for her. Lily supposes this is nice of them, and they are probably a bunch of decent blokes, despite their strange penchant for stealing bizarre and cumbersome mementoes.

They troop back into the lift behind her, and she walks away to her flat, the debate regarding where their new keepsakes will live fading behind her as the doors slide shut.

"Hold the door!" James cries, and Lily caught the metal doors just in time.

She knows his name is James now, and she's learnt that they are more than just the boys from flat ten; she knows his hair is always that messy, and he is the deepest shame (announced very dramatically) of his father who owns a company selling hair products; she knows this is bollocks, because she's been in the room when he's skyped his parents, and it's clear to anyone with eyes Euphemia and Fleamont love their son dearly; she knows he's studying business so he can go work in his dad's company, but that he's also very creative and has decided he wants to carve a place for himself somewhere in the advertising side of Sleekeazy, giving himself the best of both worlds.

Most importantly, she knows he makes her laugh whenever she sees him, and he's thoughtful and lovely, and she'd really rather like it if at some point – whenever works best in his schedule, really – they could snog and date and happily marry.

You know, the standard things you should know about a friend.

James pelts around the corner arms laden with – of all thing – wet floor signs. The snogging she was hoping would naturally occur during the lift ride to floor six may be off the table for now.

"Two things," she says, "one; the obvious, why would you subject me to remembering Hodor's tragic demise in such a flippant way? Two; why all the wet floor signs?"

"One," he says, leaning against the wall of the lift, and grinning at her, "I am so sorry for my choice of words, you're right, poor Hodor deserves better. Two, because picking up one wet floor sign as a souvenir is apparently a slippery slope to collecting as many as you can hide in your flat."

"You should be more careful," Lily replies soberly, the corner of her lip twitching traitorously, "collecting wet floor signs is a gateway drug to all sorts of stolen property."