Fifty and Five Peaches
Au- Three Shot
Pairing: Marcus/Harry
Disclaimer: Don't own.
A/n: I rather took a fancy to this pairing a few months ago and a three shot came out it. Hope you enjoy it. This was so much fun to write.
I would like to thank Anna for putting up with me writing this on your floor and to E r i a h for betaing this for me and putting up with my poor grammar, and Ex Mentis for looking it over as well.
Without further ado, here is part one:
Please enjoy ~
Part One: The Rain
Harry laid spread eagle on the empty hardwood floor, a tan arm thrown over his eyes. Stacks of boxes were pushed up against the wall leaving the floor mostly open. A thick red carpet was poking his left arm, the carpet rolled up and laid partially against the far wall under the two windows looking out on the sun filled suburban street.
Fuck suburbia, fuck America, and fuck this. This isn't what he wanted; he wanted to be home, to be anywhere other than where he was.
A breeze blew in through the open windows, slowly dissipating the horrible stuffiness of the second-story bedroom.
Everything here was different. He missed London already, and he just got here; wherever here was. He missed the city, the rain, The Impostor, and as he lay perfectly still on the floor he could hear his mother down stairs. She was under his room, in the kitchen, humming cheerfully. Why she was so happy was totally beyond him; there was nothing for them here.
The light in Harry's room began to dull, the sunny afternoon melting into a rainy dusk. The sound of heavy drops was distinctive on the metal roof over head. The drops picked up speed; the whole room was filled with the echoing sound of the rain.
Harry closed his eyes and listened. He thought back a year previous, back when he felt invincible and, for the first time in he-didn't-know-how-long, happy. Now in less than a month he'd be seventeen and would be back where he'd started: nowhere.
So he focused on the rain and thought back to a day when he was still in London, before everything changed; back to the beginning.
It had been early fall and grey. Before London was covered in snow, instead a persistent chill hung in the air. A light rain fell, so light it was more like a mist. If one sat out in it long enough they'd be soaked through.
Harry sat on the only unbroken swing in the small park near his house. He had been there long enough for his school clothes to be damp and cling uncomfortably in awkward places.
He was lonely, frustrated, and bored; really, he was more bored than anything else. Harry had always been shy and never very social. As a consequence, even as the years went by, he hadn't managed to befriend anyone. So there he sat, just sixteen and friendless, on a perfectly good Friday afternoon. Instead of heading straight home to get his homework out of the way he'd stopped in the park to occupy otherwise unused time.
So far the two hours he'd sat there he had been lucky. No one came up the cracked concrete path and he'd relaxed. Then he heard heavy footsteps coming up the path from the woods. He looked up sharply, worried it may have been his cousin's gang of oversized morons. Ready to bolt if need be.
To Harry's relief it wasn't the gang that frequented the park.
It was just a boy.
He looked to be two, maybe three years older than Harry, and was certainly much bigger then slender Harry, who stood five foot ten and a bit on a good day. The boy was at least six feet tall and built strong. He had dark hair; a jagged style that fell slightly into his dark eyes.
He walked out of the woods, and up the cracked path. He stopped in front of the wall opposite the swings, and hoisted himself up onto the wall. He leaned back against a slender tree, his long jean clad legs dangled over the edge of the wall.
This dark and angry looking boy fascinated Harry; he looked to be everything that Harry was not. The boy's strong jaw looked as though it often jutted out in stubborn defiance, and a yellowing bruise was fading from his left cheek. He shook his damp hair out of his face, and pulled a slightly crushed box of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He tapped one free, placed in between his teeth and expertly lit up.
He inhaled deeply, and as he breathed out his lung-full of smoke his body relaxed. The tightness and anger in his face melted away.
Harry couldn't stop staring. He couldn't help how people fascinated him, but this time he was terrified that the boy would notice Harry watching him. He never did. He finished his cigarette, checked the time, sighed and pushed himself off the wall. He landed heavily and sloped off; leaving Harry alone once more.
Harry didn't dare linger any longer on the swing. The sun had begun to set. He didn't want to risk meeting Dudley's gang, and started home. The walk wasn't long; he left in the opposite direction of the woods, and came out of the park at the top on the hill leading to his house.
Harry opened the gate letting it bang closed behind him, as his mother wasn't there to scold him and stomped the stairs to the front door. He bent and pulled the extra key from under the yellow flower pot and let himself in.
Harry dropped his heavy school bag next to the stairs, kicked off his wet trainers and padded up stairs to change out of his very wet uniform.
Harry was glad his mother wasn't home; she had the tendency to coddle him. He never understood why. He was slender, and still not as tall as his father, but he was capable. He was by no means a frail boy.
He could take care of himself, given the chance; and he was hoping if he managed to grow a few more inches his mother would lay off and just let him be. He did love her and her intentions were good but often Harry had to agree with his father that she just was way too serious about everything.
Harry hung his damp uniform in the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and wandered into his room, absentmindedly toweling off his wet hair. Once he was sufficiently dry he pulled on a ratty pair of pajama pants and worn shirt and sat near his bed looking through his books for something to occupy his time. Although he had never found immense pleasure in reading, he did find it amusing and a good way to pass the time.
He pulled one of his favorites from the packed shelf, settled on his bed, and opened to the first page. He ended up simply staring at the words unable to process them. No matter how much he tried to focus his mind wandered back to the boy in the park.