A/N: First off, let me tell you that Percy's a little OOC. He just ended up that way. Beyond my control. Pretend he's drunk or something. That being said, the title for this story comes from the following quote by Ibid: "If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all." This story is also written in response to the ABC challenge posted on March 14, 2002 to the "Percy/Oliver Writers Support Network" group on Yahoo! Groups ( http://groups.geocities.com/group/POWSN ). Basically, you had to write a fic where the first letter of every sentence is in alphabetical order. I ended up having to come back to "A" in reverse order after I reached "Z" to finish the story, but I'm pretty pleased with the results. Hope you are, too! Here goes nothing...
Naturally as the Leaves to a Tree
or
Why Quidditch Players Shouldn't Write Poetry
by: dangermouse
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An owl screeched in the distance as two cloaked figures silently made their way across the Hogwarts' grounds by moonlight. Behind the first, the second one whispered, "Oliver, I can't believe we're doing this."
"Cut it, Percy. Don't go getting skittish on me now, seeing as how this is all your fault in the first place," Oliver whispered back, leading Percy into the Gryffindor Quidditch locker room, motioning for the redhead to sit on one of the changing benches while Oliver stood before him, fishing a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and clearing his throat.
"'Every time I see you, my heart fills with love,'" Oliver read from the paper, raising his hand in a dramatic pose.
"'Fills with love?'" Percy repeated, chuckling a little and rolling his eyes. "God, how cheesy."
"Hey, I'm only doing this because you asked me to, so you shouldn't make fun," Oliver pouted, dropping his hand back to his side.
"I apologize," Percy said with sincerity, smiling encouragingly. "Just ignore me. Keep going, please."
"Luckily, we don't have to worry about your brothers out here, seeing as how they would laugh their asses off if they could hear us," Oliver stalled, still not quite ready to continue with his poem.
"Mmm, so that's why you dragged me out here so late," Percy mused, an odd twinkle in his eye. "Not for any other reason, I'm sure."
Oliver glared. "Please let me finish this now?" he pleaded, and Percy motioned for him to continue, leaning back on the bench a bit to get comfortable.
"'Quietly, I watch your graceful movements from high above,'" Oliver said, his hand once again rising into the not-so-dramatic pose.
Really trying hard to choke back the laughter that threatened to spill forth, Percy asked, "High above?"
"Sure, like while I'm on a broom," Oliver said in all seriousness, his hand once again dropping to his side.
"That explains it," Percy replied, nodding, then frowned. "Unless you're talking about a figurative broomstick, of course, in which case this poem could have a totally different meaning so far."
"Very funny," Oliver said dryly, though Percy could see the laughter in his eyes as well. "What a comedian. X-rating my poem like that. You crack me up, love, you really do. Zany sense of humor."
"Yes, well, what can I say?" Percy replied with a careless shrug. "X-rated things are all I think about when I'm around you. We all know I'm the funny one in the family."
"Valid point," Oliver said, managing somehow to keep a straight face. Under it all, though, Percy knew he was dying to laugh. The corners of his lips kept twitching.
"So, you going to finish my poem?" Percy asked.
"Ready or not," Oliver muttered, then took a deep breath and reassumed his not-really-at-all-in-any-way-dramatic pose.
"'Quaff - from you I wish to quaff, as often as I might,'" Oliver said, and was about to continue, but was cut off.
Percy frowned and tilted his head, then said, "I know I'm going to regret this, but what did you mean by 'quaff' exactly?"
Oliver blushed and scratched the back of his head, looking down to the floor, then mumbled something.
"Now what was that?" Percy asked, sitting up, getting very curious.
More mumbling.
"Love, just tell me!" Percy said with a laugh.
Kicking himself mentally, Oliver looked up at Percy and said, as clearly as he could manage, "It means, 'to drink deeply or repeatedly.'"
Jumbled images raced through Percy's head at that and he laughed out loud. "It is that kind of poem after all!" he said, doubled over, his face almost matching his hair and he laughed until tears were running down his face.
"Hell with this," Oliver said with a laugh of his own, crumpling up the poem and tossing it on the ground. Grinning, he leaned down and whispered into a now much-more-under-control Percy's ear, "I know better ways to show how much I love you than by my terrible sense of rhyme and meter."
Feeling his heart start to beat faster, Percy's breath started to hitch a little as Oliver leaned forward, their lips touching in a kiss that started out sweet and light, but quickly moved to something deeper, more personal, more passionate, until the kiss ended, leaving Percy breathlessly starting into Oliver's chocolate brown eyes.
"'Every time I see you, my heart fills with love,'" Percy whispered, echoing Oliver's earlier words, while trying to remember when he'd stood up and how he'd ended up against a locker in the Quidditch player's arms.
"Doesn't sound so cheesy, coming from you," Oliver mused, running a hand through Percy's hair, making the redhead sigh deeply.
"Context," Percy said, feeling Oliver pushing up against him and gradually losing the ability to think and speak in complete sentences.
Breathing deeply, Oliver leaned down, gently laying kisses on Percy neck, then whispered, "Love me, bad poetry and all?"
"Always," Percy replied, giving himself up to his lover's ministrations, while outside, an owl screeched in the night, celebrating its simple joy in being alive.
~The End~