A/N: For my wonderful wife, Laura, for her 19th birthday. You recently got me hooked on Perciver, and I found that by taking some personal experiences with friendship, I could tweak them into a mildly romantic unrequited Perciver for you. :) I hope your birthday was as fabulous as you are, m'dear, because you deserve an absolutely amazing day. Hope you enjoy this and ily.
Word count: 3023
Thanks so much to Paula for betaing!
"It's more impressive [...] from a distance. You can't see the rust or the weeds or the paint cracking. You see the place as someone once imagined it." -John Green, Paper Towns
There is silence. You're sitting down with a book, scribbling down notes as quickly as you can read, when you hear a loud crack behind you. Your mouth drops open and you're about to scream when a deep laugh comes from behind you.
"Hey, Perce! How've you been?"
"Oliver," you gasp, "What are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you, too," he chuckles, slapping you on the back. "Thought I'd pop in and tell you about some news I have, but if you'd rather I leave-"
"No, no, go right ahead-" you say quickly, before seeing the smirk on his face. "Well, go on then."
He runs a hand through his mess of hair, a nervous habit you recognise from your days at Hogwarts. "Well, Perce, I... I got a new job offer."
"Fantastic," you tell him, unsure of why he's coming to talk to you for the first time in nearly six months over this. "Another Quidditch team?"
That's the thing." He bites his lip nervously and you feel a chill go down your spine. "I've been playing with Puddlemere for six years, and that's been amazing, but... The thing is, Perce, there are a lot of Quidditch players in Britain. And before I know it, me and my team are going to be kicked out the door because some new kids are better and faster."
"My team and I," you say automatically.
"What?"
"The proper- oh, never mind, what were you saying?"
"Basically, American wizards aren't nearly as successful in Quidditch, and my job there would be much more secure. Plus, if I do well enough, I could change the whole world's perspective on American Quidditch. They offered me a job in America, Percy, and it's too good an offer to pass up. That's what I came here to tell you."
Your jaw drops. Nothing quite fits together as you try to make sense of it all. Oliver, Oliver Wood, the one ever-present person in your life - even when he isn't - is leaving. And not just to Wales or France or somewhere you could hop on a train to, but to America.
"I'm leaving next week. I'm sorry to spring it on you like this, but it all just came so fast, you know? I'll talk to you soon, Perce. I have to go tell my parents."
Another loud crack and he's gone, leaving a crack in your chest to match. He told you first, a tiny voice whispers in the back of your mind. That means he must care about you a little bit. And as much as you've always hated the trivial things, you keep coming back to this little voice in your head, because right now, it seems to be the only thing holding you together.
You go to the airport to see him off. His light brown hair blows around in the wind and you smile as you watch him try to push it out of his face. His eyes light up when he sees you.
"Percy!" he shouts, bounding toward you. "I can't believe this is actually happening! I mean, it all happened so suddenly and-"
You force a smile and pretend to listen, but really, you're just thinking about how irrational it is for you to get worked up over this. He's the one who is moving, he's the one who will have to start a brand new life from scratch. You'll have the same life you always did, minus one person. But Oliver has always been the social one, and only now do you realise: he was your whole life.
His tone of voice changes suddenly, and you snap back into reality. "Thanks for coming," he says seriously, looking you in the eye. "I really wanted to see you one last time before I left."
You nod jerkily. "When are you coming home?" you ask, trying to sound mostly uninterested in the question. His expression is grim as he responds.
"Visiting is going to be hard, Perce. It- it might be a while."
"Not to visit. To stay."
You watch as he presses his lips into a straight line and stares over your shoulder. "I- I don't think I am coming back, Percy."
Your mouth opens and closes a few times, and for the first time, you find yourself at a loss for words. You almost want to storm out of the airport when an announcement comes over the speaker, telling Oliver that he'll need to board soon. Clearing your throat, you force yourself to look up at him. "Why are you taking such an inefficient Muggle mode of transportation?"
"You know I've never been good at Apparating over long distances," he says, blushing. "And my new fireplace isn't connected to the Floo Network yet. I'd better get going," he sighs, glancing down at his watch. "Don't want to miss my flight." You hold out a hand to shake, blinking furiously.
"Percy?" he asks, amazed. "Are you... crying?"
"No," you reply quickly, breathing deeply. "I'm just-" You break off, unable to speak through the lump in your throat. A tear leaks out of your eye and you clench your teeth.
"Oh, come here," he laughs, shaking his head as he wraps his arms around you tightly. He leans back for a moment so that you're looking directly into his eyes, and for some reason, you feel your breath hitch in your throat. You start to pull away just as his arms tighten around you.
"I'm gonna miss you too, Perce," he mumbles, and a smirk appears on his lips. "Pity I have to leave now; it's so rare that I get to witness you having an emotion."
This time, you really do step away from him, scared of what you might do if your bodies are pressed against each other any longer. "Well, I suppose this is it," you whisper, and he nods, both of you unsure of what else to say. "I guess I can't really say 'see you next time', since there might not be a next time."
And you want him to grab you, to shake your shoulders and tell you of course there will be a next time, tell you he was kidding and he'll only be away for a few months, but instead, a sad smile appears on his lips as he pulls you in for one last hug.
Another announcement comes on, and Oliver starts to get swept away by the mob of people heading toward their gate. He grabs your forearm, giving you the last few seconds you need.
"It's been good, Percy. It's been good." And then he is gone and it's over and you're empty, and by the time you turn around to get one last glimpse of him, he has already been swallowed by the crowd.
Within the next few weeks, you discover that writing helps a lot. Not writing papers and documents, because for the first time in your memory, you can't focus on your work, it's not keeping you distracted. Poetry is too... creative for you; stories seem too childish; the only things that seem to work are letters. And while they help you, they also scare you, because you've never been quite so honest with yourself.
I can't think of anything but the day you left.
.
I miss you.
..
I think I might love you.
...
I love you.
...
You fall asleep with a hole in your chest and wake up feeling empty, and you can't help but hate him for all the control he has over you, even from thousands of miles away. Every heartbeat is one more reminder of the hole he left, and when you can't take it anymore, you pull out your quill and start an entirely new letter, one that you can actually bring yourself to send. It's boring and trivial and serves no real purpose, everything that you're starting to believe Oliver thinks about you. After all, it's been nearly a month, and he hasn't contacted you once. You end with the parting words of I miss you, and it takes all of your self-restraint to keep yourself from adding Do you miss me?
You fold it up and send it off with Hermes, and as he flies away, you find yourself wondering why you didn't add that last line. It's not as if it really matters; you're never going to see him again.
The realisation settles in your chest again and you sigh. Somehow, you're going to get through this.
Two days later, you pick up your quill again and start over. You tell him how much you are aching, how hard it is for you, everything you've kept bottled up while trying to sound like you mean it as nothing more than a friend. You're sure you'll regret it later, but it feels good to let it out.
You send it before you can change your mind.
It's nearly two months later when he finally writes back. The letter is long - well, long by Oliver's standards, anyway - and although he barely talks about anything but Quidditch and the new friends he's made, you read it again and again, drinking in the essence of himself he's poured into it.
You'll get over this soon, Percy, he's written, and you can practically see the smirk he wore as he wrote it. I'm nothing special. And you don't have to say you're sorry for missing me, you know. That makes you feel a little better, but that's also where the letter ends. No I miss you too, or anything of the sort. Two months, and that's all he has to say.
It hurts at first. Then it makes you angry, and only then do you feel guilty. The problem isn't in Oliver; it's in you. He has never been one for soliloquies and inspirational speeches (unless they were about Quidditch), no, he was always the one who would crack a joke and slap you on the back when you needed it. And that's why you love him.
It's almost like when someone dies, you think, and you forget their flaws so that your memory isn't of them, but of the person you wanted them to be. Oliver could be blunt and careless and insensitive, but he always tried to make you feel better in the simplest way possible. And that's what he was doing in this letter, wasn't it?
That night, you tuck the letter back into its envelope and slide it under your pillow, your fingertips brushing against it. Recalling his flaws has helped you remember that he's a real person, so much more than the Oliver inside your head. And for some reason, that makes you feel a lot better.
By the time morning comes, he is again the person he never was.
You don't know why or how, but you've gotten a girlfriend. She's pretty and bright-eyed and clever, but something just feels wrong. You aren't sure what it is until she turns to you one day and says, calm and composed, "Stop trying to make me into the person you want me to be," and you realise that she's right- you want someone who is all hard eyes and shouting and punches on the shoulder, everything that she is not.
Everything that Oliver is.
You part on good terms, you suppose; she is not bitter and you realise you never cared much about her anyway. It doesn't take you too long to see that you're in the same situation with Oliver, this time in the opposite position. At least, you're trying not to be bitter. You know he's busy with Quidditch, but you can't imagine that he can't spare a few minutes to write you a letter. And as much as you hate it, anger for him builds up inside of you until you can't think of anything but how much you hatehatehate him -
(except when you're thinking about how much you maybekindoflove him).
Because half the time you remember him as the laughing, gentle, reassuring bloke, and that was only half his story; the other half of the time you see him as a self-absorbed arse who doesn't give a damn about you - which is as far off from the truth as you could get, and in the back of your mind, you know this.
But that doesn't change how it feels when another month goes by and Hermes comes back with nothing more to show than a dead mouse, leaving you clinging to the last threads of a dying friendship.
Three years pass, and you've mostly moved on. He's constantly moving from one place to another, hardly ever at home for more than a few days at a time, making it much more difficult to communicate. Every once in a while, you'll receive a letter and your heart will leap into your throat and stay there long after you've finished reading. You're sure he doesn't get the same joy from your letters (after all, what's there to enjoy?) but by now, you've decided it doesn't matter. You can live a mostly Oliver-free life and still be... not unhappy, and that's fine with you. At least, it is until you get promoted to a job with better pay and more vacations, and you realise that in three months, you will have exactly enough money for a round trip to America.
Oliver sounds genuinely enthusiastic when you relay the news, promises he'll arrange to be home and sends you a list of all the places he'll take you and people he'll introduce you to, and then you settle back into your normal pattern. Except now, you fall asleep every night with his name on the inside of your eyelids, waiting for the day when you'll finally be able to see him.
Another letter comes, just weeks before your big trip, and you're slightly disappointed to see that his enthusiasm seems to have dwindled. In fact, you're almost afraid he's forgotten about it until you come to the last line where he's written See you soon! beside a crude sketch of what is supposed to be the two of you. You laugh. He's never been one to excel at art, he never had the patience. You tuck the letter into your back pocket, and it's still there three weeks later when you appear outside his apartment.
And that's when you start to panic.
No no no I can't do this absolutely not maybe I'll just go home yes I think I'll just go home maybe it's the wrong apartment oh god I hope it's the wrong apartment I can't-
"Percy!" He engulfs you in his arms, and you swear your heart stops then and there.
"H-hi," you stutter, blinking rapidly. His hair has grown a bit longer and his muscles are even more defined; you try to keep yourself from staring. Instead, you glance up at his eyes, bright and intense, and immediately look down at your feet again.
"Are you hungry? I know this great pub nearby. Or I could give you a tour of the city. Up to you." You shrug, so he decides for you. "Lunch it is," he says authoritatively, grabbing your arm. He turns on his heel and before you can say a word, the air is being sucked out of your lungs and then you're thrown onto a paved driveway. You stand up, embarrassed, and brush yourself off, and the two of you walk into the pub.
Four hours, three monuments, and two aching pairs of legs later, you both walk into his apartment ready to collapse. He crumples onto his bed and you stand in the corner, uncomfortably digging the toe of your shoe into the fraying carpet.
"Oi, my bad," he says, scooting over. "Have a seat, Perce." You aren't sure why an invitation onto his bed surprises you so much - you lived in a dorm together for seven years, for Merlin's sake - but you hesitate a moment before sitting down beside him.
"Lovely to see you again," you say awkwardly, trying to keep the emotions to a minimum. But of course, that's never the case when Oliver is involved.
"I've missed you so much, Perce, you don't even know," he tells you, blunt as ever, and you feel your face turn red. "You and my parents and the team and everyone. It was really hard to just leave like that, you know? I've been practically counting down the days until you came."
You stare at him, nonplussed. "Have you really?"
He nods sheepishly. "Not much else to look forward to, really. Don't get me wrong, I love the team here and stuff. Nothing I'd rather be doing. It's just nothing new, you know?"
You stare at him again. "You were counting down the days until I came to visit?"
"Why is that so hard to believe, Perce?" he asks, chuckling, and you don't know what to say so you lean over and hug him instead. It surprises both of you, but he hugs you back, and this time you don't even blush.
It physically hurts when you have to go home. He hugs you one last time and you're scared to let go, because this time, it really might be your last. When you tell him this, he shakes his head.
"That's what you said last time, and look where we are now. Don't count on it, Perce," he laughs, "You're not quite rid of me yet." He wraps his arms around you for what really does feel like the last time, and you let your arms fall to your sides before you find yourself wrapped around him forever (which you really wouldn't mind, would you?).
You can barely speak, but you manage to grin at him, echoing his words from four years earlier. "It's been good, Oliver. It's been good." And this time you are the one walking away, trying to find a hidden corner where no one will see you Disapparate. You can feel his eyes on the back of your neck, boring into you like lasers.
This time, you don't look back.