James is bad at admitting unfortunate truths about himself: his real fears about being sorted into Slytherin back when he'd first come to Hogwarts, or the fact that he wasn't really sure what he wanted to do with his life and what if he was a disappointment to the family name, and how he'd sat and dwelled on the memory of Scorpius's mouth against his own every night since the other boy had arrived.

He rubs at his own cheek, a little tingly with from the drink, before he leads Scorpius back to his room.

It's tidy, mostly, though the bed is a nest of blankets and pillows. There's a writing desk in one corner, and glowing, shifting stars cover his ceiling, giving the dark room a faint glow. He turns on a lamp, padding over to drop down onto his bed, indicating the chair at his desk for Scorpius.