Peter uncurled a little, staring at James as he nonchalantly took up residence in the third seat. That was James to a tee, fifteen year old James anyway. Not a care in the world. "Prongs..." he breathed, memories of moonlit nights and wood fire afternoons flooding back at the sight of his teenage friend. And yes, the occasional glance that had lasted too long, uncomfortable mornings and cold showers, his mother's voice berating him for every twisted thought that he couldn't quite contain. But still the best days of his life.
There was something to be said for the flush of youth, it was true. James looked fit, trim and windswept as always, without any trace of the constant worries that had begun to mark him as soon as Harry came along. Peter was suddenly very aware of his own unkempt appearance, ill-fitting jacket, and the stump of his right arm held no less awkwardly than usual in his lap. No wonder no one ever looked twice at him, unless they had a reason.
"Prongs, I... I have to..." he stammered, panic and insecurity making his throat quite dry. He ran a hand shakingly through his straw-like hair. "It's... I..."