"It's not a silly little moment,
It's not the storm before the calm.
This is the deep and dying breath of
This love that we've been working on."
Friday, October 6, 2000, 11:13 p.m.
It had been three days, four hours, thirteen minutes and eighteen … no, nineteen seconds since their fight.
But who was counting?
It had been an insignificant matter; one that Marcus hadn't given much thought to at the time. In the grand scheme of things being tossed from a game for arguing with the officials over blatantly botched calls seemed like a pinprick of an annoyance considering the morale it gave his team and the fans to rally behind. He figured Oliver, hell… any player for that matter, would have done the same thing.
Simple strategy really: be the bad guy, call them on their mistakes, get tossed, look like the hero, have your team rally around it, come back and win the game.
Why was that so hard for Wood to understand?
"Did ya 'ave 'ta make such a huge scene?" Oliver dropped his rain soaked quidditch bag down with a squishy thud.
They had been arguing about the incident the entire way home, neither man able to see the other's point of view.
"Scene? You call that a bloody fuckin' scene?" Marcus cocked a questioning eyebrow in the Keeper's direction.
It wasn't a scene as much as a simple exchange of words. O.K., maybe a heated exchange of words… but a spectacle it was not.
"You got ejected, Marc." The deep Scottish brogue coming out in full force. "Ya, I'd call that a scene. Reporters are gonna have a field day with that one."
"Oh fuckin' let um." What did he care anyway? Maybe if he were lucky they would even quote him, which would make for an even better write up.
"Honestly, I don't know what you're so worked up 'bout."
"Worked up about? The referees cost us that game!"
"No, you cost you that game. We beat you, fair and simple." Oliver was attempting to ignore his irate boyfriend by rummaging around for a late night snack. Stale cookies had to be better than their current conversation.
"Like hell you did!"
"I think the score would favor my side on this one."
"We are a better team than you." Marcus stated matter-of-factly, like it was common knowledge between the two of them. "Our Chasers are faster, our Beaters are stronger and our Keeper is far superior to your Kee-" Marcus stopped himself short. In his anger driven haze he forgot they weren't just comparing players. He was actually about to dog his own boyfriend. "Fuck, Oliver… I…"
"Don't stop yourself, Flint. Go 'head and say it. Actually," Oliver turned to face the Chaser, crossing his arms across his broad chest as he did so. "I'd love 'ta 'ear what you have 'ta say 'bout The United's Keeper."
"Don't."
"Don't what? You obviously have somethin' you want 'ta say."
"I was just gonna say that our Keeper outplayed you tonight… was all."
"Right, 'm sure that's what you were 'bout to say."
Marcus rolled his eyes and raked his fingers through his short dark hair in frustration. Just when the thought this argument couldn't go any further downhill he had to go and prove himself wrong.
"Don't be an arse, Wood."
Marcus turned on his heels, picked up his gear and headed for the bedroom.
"Me! Me be an arse? Oi, that's rich commin' from you, Flint."
Marcus paused mid-step. "Don't start with me tonight, Wood." He spoke though clenched teeth. You won't like where it will end."
"What? With you tellin' me my playin' is shite?" Oliver obviously felt like pressing the Chaser's buttons tonight." Ya, too late for that one. Although I should be used to it. All those years at Hogwarts and all."
That's it. He had done a halfway decent job of biting his tongue and keeping his temper in check up until that point in time. But that... dredging up the past and throwing it into Marcus' face was a sure fire way to get him to go from zero to pissed in no time flat.
"Ya, O.K. fine... you want to play that game… fine." He dropped his gear back to the ground and walked right up the Keeper until he was mere inches from the other man. "Yes, tonight you played like shite. And yes, I do think our Keeper is better than you. Actually, he could kick your arse six ways from Sunday on pretty much any given day. There… you happy now?"
"Go fuck yourself, Flint."
It had been three days, four hours, fifteen minutes and three seconds since their fight. Oliver had yet to speak a word to him since.
"Damn me and my stupid mouth." Marcus grumbled the words into the spine of his open playbook. He had been staring at the damned thing for the past two hours, but instead of a brilliant play, the only things he could come up with were about a hundred and two better ways he could have responded to that situation.
Tact might not be one of his better attributes, but he is pretty sure using that as an argument for his behavior wasn't going to win him any fans. Not to mention the look Oliver would give him when he tried to explain his reason for being an arse was just part of his DNA… even if it was true.
Marcus groaned loudly and threw his quill down. Wallowing in self-pity was getting him nowhere.
The Keeper had yet to come home from what he assumed to be another drunken night out with teammates. Oliver had never really been much of a partier, but for the past few nights he had been looking for any excuse he could find to stay away from their flat and away from the Ballycastle Chaser. That left lots of quiet time for those nagging voices inside his head to finally poke holes in his self-built emotional barrier. As much as he hated to it admit it, Marcus would be lying if he said he didn't miss the man.
In fact, he's not sure what punishment is worse: Oliver acting like he didn't exist or the heartbroken look the Keeper had carried on his face for the past few days. It should be pathetic, walking around as if someone just avada kedavraed his dog or something. Instead, thinking about it just made his chest ache… and that was not something he was used to handling.
Sure, they had been together awhile… well, more than awhile… longer than anyone else Marcus had ever been with before, but that wasn't the point. Ya, o.k., they always went to each other's games, family holidays, and maybe they liked to spend a night in every once in a while… just the two of them, instead of going out with friends. And maybe Oliver would tell him that he loved him… when they were intimate, or after a brilliant game or late at night… and ya, sure… Marcus would say it back sometimes and even mean it…
…but it wasn't like… I mean they weren't… Oliver wasn't the only person in the world who…
"Bloody fuckin' hell," Marcus slammed the book shut with a loud thud. This was ridiculous. Here he was, moping like some lovesick puppy. Absurd. He had every right to speak his mind and say whatever the hell he pleased. Even the Daily Prophet had done a write up the next day about the shoddy calls made. So maybe he had gone a little overboard with Oliver. The man should know he was angry and he always gets mean when he is angry. It's just in his nature.
From the other side of their flat Marcus could hear the telltale creek of their front door opening, his stomach instantly dropping at the sound.
"Wood? Is that you?"
The only response he received was the sound of the heavy deadbolt locking back into place. With a loud sigh he pulled himself up from his desk chair and walked into the living room. It was time for some answers.
Saturday, October 7, 2000, 12:03 p.m.
It had been four days, five hours, three minutes and twenty-two seconds since their fight and Oliver was dreading going home.
It's not that he was trying to avoid the man, because he's wasn't. And it's not the fact that the Chaser can't even apologize, because really… he should be used to that by now. It's more the fact that he couldn't look his boyfriend in the eyes without wanting to breakdown in tears. And that pissed him off more than anything. Course he would never let on to that fact. Willingly open himself up to more self-ridicule? Over his dead body. But the fact that Flint- Marcus bloody fuckin' Flint- is the only one who could ever get to him like this… well; it's enough to make him wonder about his own sanity.
Not like his friends hadn't questioned it when they started dating. Merlin knows they all thought he was crazy. But the invite for a harmless drink after a run in at a charity game seemed too tempting to pass up. Mostly Oliver was curious to know what could have possibly made Flint play in a charity game, but was pleasantly surprised to learn just how much the man had changed since Hogwarts. A fact his friends noticed as well.
"Oi, this is fuckin' stupid." Oliver whispered to himself. He had been
standing outside of their flat for a good five minutes, hand on the
doorknob, just waiting to go inside
This is no big deal, stop acting like a baby and just go in. With one final mental pep talk he gently pushed the door to his flat open. The sound of the deadbolt snapping out of its lock was defining and he cringed against it.
Maybe Marcus was already asleep; maybe he went out for the night with friends…
… or maybe he was standing in the kitchen leaning against the counter looking as defensive as barbwire.
Fuck.
Silence filled the room and Oliver thought that maybe, just maybe, if he moved quick enough he could cover the length of their flat before Flint had time to verbally pin him to the wall.
"Are you ever going to speak to me again?"
And there it was… the exact conversation he had been hoping to avoid. Yet oddly, the words didn't carry the sting he expected them to.
Oliver stopped short of the bedroom, sighed heavily and answered
"'M not not speakin' to ya." Not the most eloquent of responses, but it made enough sense to be more than half assed. And really, what more can you ask of him at this moment? Just breathing seemed like a lofty goal considering how worn down he felt.
"You're not not?" Marcus thought about the answer for a minute, decided it hurt his head too much and gave up. "The fuck does that even mean?"
The Keeper couldn't help the way his eyes rolled at the comment. Leave it to Flint to act like even more of an arse. Merlin, he didn't even know that was possible, but here the man was… proving him wrong once again. Would wonders ever cease to exist?
"'M not ignoring you, or not talkin' to ya or anythin' like that, alright?" He lumbered over to the barstool that sat tucked under the counter, pulled it out and flopped down on it before resting his face against his hands.
"Sure fooled me."
"Ya, well…" It's all he had to offer as a comeback.
Marcus stared at the Keeper for a long minute before finally uncrossing his arms. "Where'd ya go tonight?"
"Don't act like ya suddenly care."
"What? I'm asking aren't I?"
"Sure ya, o.k." This conversation was going nowhere quickly. "Went to the tavern with my team. Happy?"
"Actually," Marcus stopped to think it about. "No, I'm not. Not in the least."
"Good." He was done for tonight. His head couldn't take anymore. Picking his bag up Oliver quickly slung it over his shoulder and headed towards their bedroom only to have his wrist grabbed before he even got half way down the hall.
"Can we talk about this?"
"What's there to talk about, Marc?"
"I don't know… I…"
Sometimes in life, there are these all-encompassing earth shattering moments where, before you even know they happened have drastically altered your life. They leave you starry-eyed, mouth agape, cinderblocks crashing over you in waves and waves of astonishment as you wonder how your life will ever be the same.
"Exactly… you don't know." Using his strengthen to his advantage Oliver ripped his hand away. "And until you do figure it out… just leave me alone."
And sometimes, there are just… moments.
Saturday, October 7, 2000, 3:00 a.m.
It had been…. what in the bloody 'ell time was it?
Oliver knew it was late, but just how late is going to have to be left up to his imagination. It was pitch black in his bedroom and he didn't feel like groping around to find his wand so he opted for stumbling out of bed and hoping to Merlin he didn't break a toe on the way to the bathroom.
He wasn't drunk by any stretch of the imagination, but his head was pounding and his throat was dry and he couldn't help but wonder just what was in those drinks his team kept ordering. Not that he had anywhere to be today, just didn't feel like spending his entire day fighting a hangover he didn't deserve.
Once inside the tiny room he reached for the small plastic cup on the counter, filled it with water and immediately downed the contents. He proceeded to repeat the process two more times before he felt even slightly better.
Stupid Flint. If it wasn't for the man's shear idiotic tendencies Oliver wouldn't even be in this situation. Referees aside, he knew The United had outplayed Ballycastle. And even if they hadn't… where did Flint get off belittling his playing abilities? Always got the better of him when they went head on… don't see him bringing that up all the time and throwing it back in his boyfriend's face.
"Bleedin' idiot that one is," Oliver grumbled the words into the cup as he drank, the water doing little to quiet the pounding in his head.
With a loud sigh the Keeper placed the cup back on the counter and headed out towards the kitchen. Pain pills seemed to be the only remedy that was going to allow him any amount of sleep tonight. He hated taking the blasted things, but with the way his head felt like it was about to split down the middle his decision had been easily sawed.
The rest of the flat was just as dark as his bedroom had been and he thanked God he had lived there long enough to know the location of every table and the spots where Marcus liked to leave his shoes. Once safely through the obstacle course that was their living room, Oliver rummaged through the small cabinet next to the stove that housed all sorts of pain relievers, gels, bandages, and other assorted items for taking care of whatever quidditch ailment they were currently suffering from. Oliver had thought it was a silly idea to keep it in the kitchen instead of the bathroom, but Marcus had been insistent that the kitchen was closer to the front door and he didn't want to limp any further than absolute necessary. Oliver chuckled at how silly that fight seemed now.
The two of them were always getting into some kind of row and then making up. Just kind of the way their relationship worked. Hadn't really been a big deal in the past, but they had rarely wanted to go this far with it.
"Stupid fuckin'…" he pushed a few boxes and vials aside and, in his hasty attempt to locate the exact orange bottle that housed the pills he needed, a small avalanche of medicine was unleashed from the cabinet. "You 'ave got to be kidin' me!"
This really just wasn't his night.
"Want some help there, killer?" A long, toned arm reached around from behind him and nabbed a small bottle off the shelf. "Drink too much?" Marcus gently pushed the bottle of pain pills into Oliver's hand.
"For your information I did not." Oliver struggled with the cap, impatient and not willing to go back to get his wand to charm the damned thing off.
"Give it here," Marcus held his hand open waiting for the Keeper to turn and face him.
"Don't need your help. 'M not five."
"No, you're not… but you are frustrated. And you get inpatient when you're frustrated."
"Do not!"
Marcus cocked a questioning eyebrow at the Keeper's back.
"Ya, o.k…. maybe." Oliver sighed, turned around and tossed the bottle at Flint who snatched it out of the air with one quick fluid grab. "What are ye doin' out 'ere anyway?"
Marcus chuckled and easily twisted the cap off. "Been sleepin' on the couch, remember?"
Oliver mentally kicked himself. "Right, how could I forget?" Defensively, he crossed his arms over his chest.
"Come off it, Wood." Marcus dropped two white pills into the palm of his hand before closing the vile and handing both it and the pain relievers over to Oliver. "Said I was sorry."
"No, actually you didn't, Flint." Oliver popped the pills dry before turning his attention back to load of bottles and boxes that now littered the countertop.
"That why you're so mad?" He knew it was a stupid question the second he saw the Keeper's shoulders tense. Marcus had known the man long enough now to gage his reactions.
"No. I'm mad because you are a right foul git and-" Oliver paused, a box of cotton swabs crunched between his fingers. "Never mind. Doesn't matter anyhow."
"Come off it then. Just have it out with me and be done with it." He was done with this… done with fighting, done with moping, done with this damn ache in his chest every time he looked at the man.
"It's not that simple."
"Sure it is. Watch…" Marcus cracked the knuckles on both hands as if warming up for an impending boxing match. "You're a thick headed bastard who can't accept and apology. See? Easy. Your turn."
Oliver was torn between completely unleashing on the man and ignoring him all together. Both had their benefits and honestly, yelling until he was blue in the face sounded like a great venue for his frustration. But in the end his better judgment won out and he opted for silence.
"Wood?"
The Keeper didn't act, didn't say anything. Instead he rested his hands on the edge of the countertop and leaned heavily against it for support. Oliver closed his eyes hoping that maybe… just maybe he was actually dreaming and this entire situation would melt away behind closed eyelids.
"Oliver?"
Still nothing. Just silence.
"Ollie?"
Oliver squeezed his eyes shut tighter. "You don't get it… at all, do you?"
Marcus knew that in this situation with Oliver, right now, nothing he did… nothing he said would be right.
"Just tell me how to fix it." The words were barely above a whisper.
"You can't just fix it, Marc." Oliver turned to face the Chaser, head shaking in frustration. "This, us, it doesn't work that way. Thought you might have learned that by now." He looked back at Flint who looked more lost and bewildered than ever. "You're gonna have 'ta figure this one out for yourself."
"For the sake of Salazar, what do you want me to say, Oliver? I was frustrated, I took it out on you… it was wrong, I'm sorry! For fuck's sake, I'm fuckin' sorry!"
He was desperate... he was desperate and he doesn't know how to handle it. How to express his sudden need for Oliver to believe him and understand him, the ache in his chest so strong he felt like he wouldn't be able to breathe if something didn't change.
Oliver took a breath before tuning to face his boyfriend, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "I…" He couldn't find his voice or words to finish the sentence.
Marcus balled his hands into fists at his sides, blunt nails digging into the skin electing a small jolt of pain. "I was angry. You know how I get-" He quickly held a hand up to stop Oliver's obvious oncoming protest. "'S no excuse, I know. But I was furious alright? I've worked really hard at keeping my game above the bar since school and it really pisses me off when we lose because of shitty calls. You can stand here and tell me you think the game was fair, but you know what crap like that does to morale. I took it out on you, yes, and for that I really am sorry," his eyes begging the Keeper to finally believe him.
And for the first time that night, Oliver didn't doubt the Chaser's sincerity.
"It's alright," Oliver shrugged his shoulders in defeat. He was tired and didn't feel like keeping up this fight any longer than necessary. He had gotten what he wanted… a decent apology out of the man. "Was mostly just mad because of what you said about Bryant and all."
Marcus furrowed his brow, "What I said about Bryant?" What did I say about Bryant… what did I say about Bryant… what the fuck did I say about Bryant?
"'Bout him being a better Keeper than me and all."
"Oh." Shite.
Oliver watched as Flint got that cross look on his face, the one he used when he was trying really hard to hide his real emotions under the familiar layers of anger and "I don't give a fuck".
"You didn't mean it, right?"
Marcus crossed his arms and looked at the ground.
"Marcus?"
"He played for England in the bloody World Cup, Oliver!"
Anger instantly seeped back into the Keeper's veins.
"Right, stupid me for thinking you actually cared about my feelings. Won't make that mistake again, thanks for the reminder."
"Come on, Wood." He felt like he just finished running a marathon, heart about to pound its way out of his chest. Don't do this to me. Don't fuckin' do this to me…
"No, I'm done… I really am done."
"Good, I don't want to fight about this anymore either I-."
Sometimes, there are just… moments…
"No, not with this fight… with you."
…moments that embed themselves into your life like a shard of errant glass, silently paining you over time until they finally cut so deep that there is nothing you can do other than pray for the bleeding to stop.
Friday, October 13, 2000, 11:35 p.m.
It had been seven days, twenty hours, thirty-five minutes and five seconds since their row in the kitchen. Oliver hadn't been home since.
Whether that had more to do with their fight or his recent quidditch schedule Marcus couldn't be sure. But the lack of owls and the way he stormed out of their flat that night was a pretty good indication that it had more do to with the given state of their relationship than game locations.
"It's ridiculous," Marcus thumbed the edge of his glass as he spoke. "I mean really, this entire thing. Utterly ridiculous."
Adrian Pucey looked at his friend from across the pub table. Between the two of them there were seven empty beer glasses, two half-drank glasses of Fire Whisky, four empty shot glasses and three wasted hours.
"Was kind of an arsehole thing to say."
When Adrian thought about it, which was odd given the reason they came to this hole in the wall pub was to not think, it was more than just an arsehole thing to say. It was a flat out horrible thing to say. The kind of thing you say to someone you hate or the guy you are looking to rile up after a game, not the bloke you are currently… or was it formally… shagging.
"Dear God, not you too." Marcus rubbed at his tired eyes as he spoke. Sleep wasn't something that was coming easy for him anymore. An hour, maybe two last night if he was lucky and counted the nap he took after practice.
Adrian shrugged his shoulders. "You asked. Besides, who else is gonna call you on your shite?"
"Ya?" Marcus grabbed for his drink. "Remind me not to next time."
Given it was a Saturday night the tiny pub they were in was stuffed to the gills with patrons. Normally, the two players liked to come here as opposed to some of the better known establishments due to the fact that they could go pretty much go unnoticed. No one asking for autographs or photos, just two old friends catching up over a few pints, but the sheer volume of cigarette smoke currently swirling around their heads was enough to make Marcus rethink his decision.
"Hey, got a fag?" He figured if his eyes were going to burn and his throat was going to string from breathing this stale air all night he might as well get some sort of enjoyment out of it.
"Thought you gave those things up?" Adrian fished the cigarette case out of his pocket and slid it across the table.
"Ya… did…" Marcus stuck the end of the cigarette into his mouth before bringing the tip of his wand up, muttering a quick charm and lighting the end. He inhaled deeply as the nicotine quickly took hold. "Wood hated it. Always said it made me smell like a bar and taste like an ashtray."
Adrian quickly frowned. "You could owl him, you know."
Marcus scowled at his former housemate. "Right, because that has worked so well in the past. Besides…" he leaned back heavy against the chair. "What would I say: Does this mean we're done shaggin'?"
"Not exactly what I had in mind."
"Would do about the same amount of good," the Ballycastle Chaser puffed out a huge cloud of smoke. "He's pissed."
Adrian sighed and set his glass down. This was obviously going to be more difficult than he originally thought. He had seen Marcus through many a rocky relationship. Affairs of the heart weren't something the Chaser really had a knack for. But when Oliver came along, well… nights like these… pissing the daylight away bitching about their significant others had become few and far between. Even if he didn't understand how they went from mortal enemies to lovers, he was just glad to see his friend happy… meant less shite he had to catch from the man.
"Think about it his way, Flint." He leaned forward, elbows heavy on the table as he downed the rest of his Fire Whisky in one large gulp. "How would you like it if Wood came up and talked about how this or that Chaser was better than you? Throwing it in your face and all that."
"Moot point." Marcus took another heavy drag as he spoke, the smoke sitting heavy on his tongue.
"Why's that?"
"Oliver wouldn't do that."
The Chaser for the Falmouth Falcons raised an eyebrow at his friend and waited as the words sunk in.
"God damn it!" Marcus quickly ran his fist into the wood table.
Friday, October 13, 2000, 11:40 p.m.
It had been seven days, twenty hours, forty minutes and three seconds since Oliver finished clearing his last possession out of the small two bedroom flat.
Gabe, the United's Captain, had offered to help. Said it would go much quicker with the two of them, but Oliver didn't want to subject him to what would happen if Flint wondered home early… which he was pretty sure wouldn't happen. He had seen Marcus and Adrian leaving a few hours earlier and if Oliver knew them, which by this time he hoped he did, they were probably heading out for a night of drinking leaving him ample time to collect his things and be out before anyone was the wiser.
Besides, it was really something he should be doing on his own. He made this mess, only fitting he cleaned it up himself.
The flat was oddly quiet and dark when he had entered, only the dim glow from the streetlights flooding in through the windows. Working quickly, he alternated between shoving his clothing into bags and carefully packing what quidditch gear he still had left behind. Mostly old brooms, gloves and pads, but he couldn't bear to part with them after all this time. And he didn't dare think of what Marcus would do with it all if he left it.
The furniture proved to be less cumbersome than anticipated with the help of a few quick spells his mum had provided him with. He had lied though his teeth telling her they were just moving a few things around. He really didn't feel like dealing with her giving him the third degree on this or trying to talk him into staying and working things out. No, his mind was made up. Things were better of this way… he would be better off this way.
And that's what he had to start thinking about now.
What was best for him?
Just him.
Before leaving Oliver had jotted a quick note to Flint and left it on the kitchen table.
It took him all of one flight of stairs before he ran back up, snatched the note and tossed it into the nearest trash bin.
Sunday, November 5, 2000, 11:42 a.m.
It had been three weeks and two day days… give or take a few hours… since Marcus had returned from the bar with Adrian and found his flat almost completely empty. Bloody fuckin' hell…
He hadn't really realized until that moment just how much of his life had become entwined with Oliver's. Photos were gone from wall, the couch was missing as was the huge chest of drawers from their... he meant his bedroom and the large stash of quidditch gear was no longer falling out of the closet. If he needed any more of an answer than this surly had to have been it.
"Can I uh, crash here tonight?" A soaking wet Marcus Flint stood outside of his friend's flat. He was freezing fuck cold, clad in only a light tee-shirt and jeans as he hadn't thought to grab a coat on his way out despite the horrible November weather outside.
"What happened?" Adrian stared in disbelief at his disheveled former teammate.
Marcus couldn't answer, couldn't tell his friend that he had spent the last half an hour standing outside smoking in a sleet storm because he couldn't take another bloody fucking moment alone in that empty shell of a home. Only after his fingers started to go numb did the thought to apparate to Adrian's flat finally cross his mind.
It had been a blessing in disguise that the past three weeks Marcus had been gone, traveling with his team for a string of road games all over Europe. While he normally dreaded long stints away from home, this time it had been a welcome distraction.
He hadn't slept the first night he came home to half empty flat. Instead, he spent the majority of the night alternating between working on his playbook, staring out the window and drafting an angry letter to Oliver that he never sent. Now, faced with the thought of spending his first full night alone in what used to be their place… it was too much. The silence, the empty spots where photos or furniture used to be… the holes only reminded him of what was missing.
It wasn't something he knew how to cope with.
"Course you can. Guest room is yours for as long as you want it."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Just, uh," Adrian leaned forward, whispering into the Chaser's ear. "Don't tell anyone I'm harboring a sworn enemy alright?"
Marcus smiled for the first time in what felt like ages.
"Don't worry, Falmouth doesn't have to know." He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "As long as you promise not to tell Ballycastle either."
Thursday, December 14, 2000, 1:00 p.m.
It had been about a month and a half since Oliver moved into his new flat. It was finally starting to feel like home.
Something about the way it smelled… too much like cleaning products and too little like quidditch. A few weeks of practice had taken care of that straight off. Muddy gear, broom polish and dirty towels could have that effect on a place. But it was clean. Cleaner than his place with Flint had ever been, mostly due to the fact that the Balleycastle Chaser wasn't around to muck it all up day after day.
Idiot… stupid bloody wanker…
There had been a moment, maybe a few days actually where he felt bad for leaving the way he did. But then he quickly remembered that, if Marcus didn't care enough about him to not belittle him, then he didn't care enough to have the courtesy of ending their relationship like a normal rational person.
It was selfish, childish and felt so damn good he wished he could have been there to see the look on the man's face.
A month and a half had done nothing to quell his anger.
And that, Oliver thought, was reassurance enough that he had done the right thing.
Sunday, December 17, 2000, 3:22 p.m.
It was his birthday and for some stupid reason he expected an owl from Oliver. He always did hate disappointment.
He should be over it, and sometimes he thought he was. But how much can a wound that deep heal in two months?
Two months and ten days…
Two months, ten days, one hour and forty-five minutes.
Damn it.
This needed to end… quickly.
Sunday, December 17, 2000, 4:45 p.m.
Oliver stared at the scribbled note in his hand. He started, not really realizing what he was doing until he almost singed the damned thing.
Right, that was dumb. But for split second he still thought about sending it.
Only for a second…
Or two.
No, dumb. Really really dumb.
The card quickly found space in the trash bin instead.
Friday, December 22, 2000 8:45 p.m.
It had only been a few days since he stopped sleeping at Adrian's and moved back into his…his… flat. Already he didn't like the quiet.
The constant silence made his head hurt. Not that it was a difficult feet these days given his sudden chronic battle with insomnia and the bad case of pneumonia he contracted during one of his late night walks. Causality of not being able to sleep, his overactive mind needed something to concentrate on other than how tired it was and how empty his bedroom looked. In retrospect, walking for hours in the cold and snow probably wasn't the best use of his pent up frustration. But then again, he had never been one to know how to handle something a game of quidditch couldn't fix.
During his forced downtime by the team's trainer he had finally managed to pick up a new couch. It wasn't anything fancy, but the two chairs left in the living room and the bar stools weren't adequate space to fit an entire quidditch team. Besides, Ballycastle was about to mutiny if they were forced to have another card night on the floor at Flint's place. The chest of draws had been replaced by his old school trunk and the desk from the guest room, which received frequent use as he found himself pouring more and more of his free time into in his playbook. But it never looked quite right no matter how he arranged the furniture.
One night when his fever got particularly bad, he pushed the bed to the middle of room directly under the windows. He lay there as the cool December air drifted in finally allowing him some comfort from the heat rolling down his body. If the room already looked ten shades of wrong, then what was the big deal with having his bed smack dab in the middle of it? He figured it was enough of a deterrent to keep it there for the foreseeable future.
Not like anyone was there to argue with his reasoning.
Merlin, he felt like shite.
December 25, 2000, 6:45 p.m.
It was Christmas. Oliver had't been happier.
Surrounded by family, friends and loads of homemade goodies he couldn't wipe the smile off of his face.
"Uncle Ollie! Uncle Ollie!" The smallest member of the Wood clan gently tugged on the hem of his pants.
"Oi, little one." he bent down and scooped his niece up into his arms. "I think someone's 'ad a bit too much sugar."
"Nooooooooooooo," Emma made a show out of drawing out the word and shaking her head in disagreement. "Guess what I asked Santa Claus for?"
"Let me guess…" Oliver quickly tossed her into the air. "Wings so you can fly!"
Emma squealed and giggled, her pigtails flopping around her head. "No! I asked for a broom- so you can teach me how to play quidditch like you!"
"That sounds like trouble." Oliver's sister chimed in from behind them, arms full of presents for under the tree.
"Trouble for you… she is your daughter after all."
"And she is going to be begging you for flying lessons every three minutes."
"Is that so little Emma?" He quickly turned his attention back to his pigtailed niece who quickly shook her head yes. "Well then, you do know the first rule of flying right?"
He watched as her eyes opened wide and again shook her head, this time signaling a no.
"Always make sure you get your mum's permission!" He laughed as he tossed her into the air again.
Ya, life was good.
December 25, 2000. 6:45 p.m.
It was Christmas. Marcus hadn't been this miserable since…
January 2, 2001 1:45 p.m.
Whoever's idiotic idea it was to play quidditch in January ought to find himself on the wrong end of a Cruciatus Curse.
Oliver couldn't feel his toes let alone his fingers, the hard slap of the leather the only assurance he'd actually made the save. But the stands were packed and the crowd was loud. Both of which were sending a steady pulse of adrenaline through his system.
It was a welcome distraction. He had been dreading this game ever since he had seen the schedule over a month ago.
January 2, 2001
Start time: 1:00 p.m.
Opponent: Balleycastle
Home/Away
Fuck.
Honestly, the pitch should be the prefect meeting place for the two of them. Large, separated and revolving solely around quidditch they wouldn't even have to speak. Sure Oliver expected Flint to play a little dirtier than normal, Merlin knows he probably would have anyway after their teams' run in a few months back, but this would be more directed at him than anything else.
Compounding that was the fact that the man could throw a quaffle harder than anyone he knew; the Keeper had many jammed and broken fingers over the years to prove it. So he wasn't particularly looking forward to what the Chaser might decide to hurl at his head. And he couldn't blame him, not with the way Oliver had left things… or didn't leave things… or just left.
But when Flint didn't show up on the starting line with the other two Chasers and he wasn't sitting on the team's bench worry, instead of relief, instantly filled Oliver.
The minute the game ended Oliver made a bee line for the group of Balleycastle players.
"Oi, Bryant!" Oliver shouted at the opposing team's Keeper over the sounds of United victory chants and congratulatory handshakes.
"Wood! Brilliant game, mate!" The Ballycastle Keeper eagerly clapped him on the shoulder. "I swear you get better every time we play. Don't know how you do it. Our Chasers just can't crack you."
"Thanks, means a lot coming from you."
"Ya, just don't tell Flint I said that to you. Bloke would probably murder me if he saw me talking to ya."
It was a joke. Oliver knew that. But it did nothing to ease the giant knot in his stomach.
"'Bout that," he absently kicked at the dirt as he spoke. "Tell him… uh, when you see him… that ah… he isn't hurt is he?"
"No, not hurt. Just on a little R&R time. He's been… he's been needin' it."
"Oh well, that's good… I guess, that he is resting up that is… not good that he needed it… um…"
Bryant let the Keeper ramble on for a bit longer before finally interrupting. "Was there something you wanted me to tell him?"
Oliver swallowed the huge lump forming in his throat. "Nothing, don't worry 'bout it."
"You sure?"
"Ya, ya. 'M sure. Hey, good game." Oliver shook the man's hand again. "Maybe you'll get us next time ya?"
Bryant smiled wildly back at him. "Oh you can count on that, mate."
January 5, 2001 1:30 p.m.
It had been two days since Balleycastle lost to The United… again. Marcus felt oddly numb about the whole thing.
"I'm sure you heard we lost." Bryant was sitting in Flint's living room drinking a beer.
"Ya, believe it or not I'm still up to speed on what's going on over there." He fished his sentence with a hard cough.
"We owe them a solid beating next time." The Keeper stared into the longneck of his bottle like there was some answer he was looking for at the bottom of it. "Team's not the same without you ya know."
"I appreciate you trying to cheer me up and all, but…" Before he could finish the sentence Flint practically doubled over with hard, moist coughs. "Until I can kick this I'm stuck on the sidelines."
"Well hurry up and get well would ya? I miss blocking your sorry arse in practice."
"Tying to block. You miss trying to block my sorry arse."
"Right, and so humble too."
"Ya well, someone has to be around here. Merlin knows your head is big enough as is."
"Sure, sure." Bryant leaned forward in the chair, silently contemplating wheatear to share his next piece of information. "He was asking about you by the way." He took a quick drink hoping to block off any line of questioning that may follow.
Blame it on his current medication, his lack of sleep, or the fact that it been three months, but Marcus actually had to take a second to figure out who "he" was.
"He?"
Bryant looked at him confused. "He… Wood."
"Oh, ya… Wood. Right." Marcus felt like he had suddenly spiked a fever; the mere mention of the name making him hot and uncomfortable. "Wha'd ya tell him?" The question made more difficult to spit out for fear of the response.
"Just said you were taking some time off, didn't feel the need to spill your personal life to him or anythin'."
Thank fuckin' Merlin. "Thanks, I appreciate it."
"Anytime, mate. Anytime. But uh," he swished the last bits of remaining beer around in the bottle before he looked back up at his teammate. "It's a good thing you didn't know who I was talkin' about at first right? Means you aren't thinking about him as much… or something like that."
Marcus honestly didn't know how to answer.
Wednesday, February 7, 2001, 3:30 a.m.
It had been four months to the day since he left. Oliver work in the middle of the night screaming.
It had nothing to do with the date and everything to do with the wisps of nightmare still groping around in his head. Belligerently, Oliver stumbled to his small kitchen in search of water. Despite the cold February temperatures outside it felt like a million degrees in his flat. His white undershirt was drenched in sweat and sticking to his chest and back. His hands shook and his breath came in heavy gasps as he tried to steady them enough to fill a glass.
Beside him on the counter sat yesterday's Daily Prophet, the horrible front page photo staring back at him with cold grey eyes. Oliver shivered and quickly turned his attention back to his water glass. He kept telling himself to breathe, to just calm down and breathe, but that horrible face from his dream kept popping up behind closed eyelids and suddenly the floodgates in his mind were opened. Memories from fighting at Hogwarts invaded his consciousness with horrid image after horrid image and he had to fight to keep the nausea at bay.
He had hopped, prayed that battle would be the last time he ever saw the porcelain mask of a Deatheater staring back at him.
But there it was… on the cover of the Daily Prophet nearly three years later.
Oliver sucked in a deep breath and grabbed the newspaper by the corner. Taking it and the glass of water with him, he sunk heavily to the ground right there in his kitchen. Wedging himself in the corner between the stove and the sink he pulled the paper into his lap.
The front page echoed his nightmare back to him.
Deatheaters still among us?
He swallowed hard as his eyes lingered on the photo of the man in a tarnished mask with crazy eyes struggling against a group or Aurors. The story below the photo offered even less hope.
The wizarding world was rocked today with the arrest of Anthony Flint, a prominent Ministry Employee and former advisor to Cornelius Fudge. A known associate of pardoned Deatheater Lucius Malfoly, Flint was taken into custody after an apparent setup operation by the Ministry. Aurors on the scene had no comment for the Daily Prophet, but this reporter thinks a large public trial is imminent…
"Marcus…" Oliver couldn't help the overwhelming gnawing fear in his stomach. "I'm so sorry… I'm so so sorry."
Saturday, February 10, 2001 1:00 a.m.
It was the middle of the night when Marcus woke coughing and gasping for air. He had always hated his father.
Memories of childhood beatings flooded his mind as he struggled for another breath.
"You're lucky you have quidditch Marcus, Merlin knows you couldn't do anything else."
"Failure… that's all you are and all you will ever be!"
"If it wasn't for your mother I would have written you off years ago."
"Disappointment… why is that the only word that comes to mind when I look at you?"
Caught between his real life nightmare and memories of past ones, he ran for the bathroom and quickly splashed handful after handful of cold water over his face. While it was a welcomed relief from the heat pouring down his body, it did nothing to settle the ball of nerves coiling in his stomach.
"Eight years, Marcus. Eight! I spend good money on your education and this is how you repay me? Ungratefully little bastard."
"Stop it…" he knew he was talking to no one, just whispers of a ghost inside his head.
"You are nothing. Nothing! Do you hear me?"
"Stop it!"
Cursing loudly Marcus turned and punched the wall. The deep telltale crack of the drywall giving way almost lost in a hailstorm of dust and plaster.
Stupid… stupid… stupid… stupid… idea.
Immediately his knuckles and wrist began to throb. Blood was pooling to the fresh cuts and slices as he flexed each finger in turn wanting to make sure nothing was broken or jammed too badly.
One, possibly two busted knuckles at the most, fuck it. It all seemed so insignificant at the moment.
After his father's arrest the Ministry decided to conduct a full investigation into his entire family. His grandmother, mother, brother, sister… no one was safe from prying eyes. He felt damn lucky the league hadn't suspended him over it or that his teammates hadn't turned on him…yet. Marcus figured since quidditch was the last real thing he had going in his life then that bastard he was forced to call a father would figure out some way to take it from him during the trial.
He'd be damned if he was going to let that happen.
Preoccupied with cleaning off the line of blood now running down to his elbow, Marcus almost didn't notice the quick rap on his front door. He had to do a double take at the clock and wait for the second knock before he fully realized what was going on. Still a little shaky on his feet and half expecting a Auror to be standing on the other side with a wand aimed to hex his balls off he made sure to grab his own wand before slowly opening the door just enough to catch a glimpse of the occupant on the other side.
His heart dropped instantly into his stomach at the sight. "Oliver?"
"Hey." It's a lame response and he knew it, but he couldn't come up with anything better given his current mental state. The moment Marcus appeared in the doorway it felt like coming home and Oliver instantly knew this was going to harder than he originally anticipated. The Chaser was clad in only his boxer shorts and a white tank and he couldn't help the way his mouth went dry at the sight. It had been months, but he suddenly found his fingers itching to touch olive skin, to dig into hipbones and cradle the curves he once knew by heart.
"What…" Marcus had to blink a few more times to ensure it really was Oliver Wood standing in his doorway. "What are you doin' here?"
"I uh… I wanted to make sure… with the news and all…" Oliver ventured a glance down both sides of the hallway before continuing on. "Maybe we um… maybe we should talk inside?"
Deciding that probably wasn't a bad idea, Merlin only knows what listening devices the Ministry had planted around here, Marcus pushed the door wide open for his unexpected guest. Turning his back to his former lover, he walked towards the kitchen with both hands clasped behind his head… wand still clutched tightly in his right, blood still oozing down his left.
"Merlin, Marc…" Oliver was completely unaware the nickname had slipped, out stinging Flint like a million barbs at once. "Expecting unwanted company? Or…" he looked at the blood and swallowed hard. "…did you just get done throwing them out?"
Marcus laughed. What else could he do in this situation? It was insanity.
"Like you said," he turned and pointed his wand at the door, a quick spell closing it with a loud and booming thud. "Given the news and all." He didn't feel the need to elaborate past that.
Oliver raked a hand through his messy dark blonde hair. This was crazy, he shouldn't have come here. That was more evident then ever now given the way he couldn't rip his eyes away from his ex's frame. But he had to know, just had to know if… Oliver quickly caught the look Flint was sending his way. He was staring, he knew it and Marcus had to know it, but damn if Marcus' didn't look good, the lean lines his muscles formed sticking out hard and prominent again his thin shirt. Merlin, what that man did to him. Heat practically rolling off Marcus, Oliver can almost feel it… thick as humidity crackling the moment it hit his own skin. It sent the hairs on the back of his neck straight up as the itching in his fingers returned at full force.
"'Bout that…" He forced his eyes away from the hard outlines Flint's shoulders were making against the dimly lit room. "You o.k.?"
Marcus laughed again, this time more mantic. "Am I o.k.? Ya, I'm fuckin' brilliant, Oliver. Thanks for asking."
"'S not what I meant." He instantly felt like a sodding idiot.
"It's what you asked isn't it?"
The Keeper roughly bit his tongue to stop the harsh retort that was building behind his teeth. He hadn't come here to fight after all. Figured they had done enough of that already. "Ya, it was. I was worried alright. Just wanted to make sure your dad hadn't gone crazy and…"
"Killed me?" Marcus turned to meet Oliver's stare.
"Merlin, Marc. I wasn't gonna say that." There it was again.
"Nah, but you were thinking it."
Oliver didn't know how to react, how to take the man's obvious agitation. He looked fine all things considered. His skin was a little pale and his hands seemed a little shaky, but his eyes were still shining the same emerald shade of green. Oliver loved those eyes. Loved the way they stood out like streetlights calling him home. Loved the way they looked up at him from the shadows of their bedroom in the middle of the night- eyes the only thing he could see as hands found their own way in the dark.
Merlin he was going to get hard just thinking about those times.
In a shite attempt to regain his composure he took a deep breath and looked around the room, silently counting the number of items he didn't recognize.
"Do you need anythin'? Anythin' I can do?"
"No," Marcus glared at the Keeper. "Think you've done enough already." He waited a few minutes, wondering if the man was going to fight back at the comment before deciding he'd had enough of this night. "Was that it then?"
The dismissive tone in Flint's voice foreign and harsh; something Oliver wasn't used to hearing.
"Ya, I guess it was."
"Well, I'm alive. You can sleep in peace now." Sarcasm was practically dripping off every word.
"Good. I mean… I'm glad you are o.k."
"Right. Good."
Awkward silence filled the room and before Marcus could start to toss him out Oliver let curiosity get the better of him. Well, curiosity and the nagging incessant need to be closer… just a little closer to his former lover. "Missed you at the game last month."
Missed me… sure. "Sure you didn't."
"Ya," Oliver walked over to where the Chaser was leaning against the kitchen counter. "Something about having all my fingers perfectly intact after playing Balleycastle just seems… wrong."
Marcus couldn't help but chuckle. "You're a masochist, Wood. Always have been."
"Nah, just like playin' against ya is all."
"Ya?" He doesn't know why the answer comes as a shock. "Well… I was out."
"I noticed. Weren't hurt were ya?"
Like you would care. "Nah, picked up a bug or something. Trainer made me sit out a few games."
"Oh…" another step closer, little by little, his itchy fingers getting the better of him, "but you're better now?"
Marcus found himself subconsciously leaning towards the Keeper. His body was slowly closing the small gap between them even if his mind didn't realize it. "'M fine now, ya."
"Good…" Oliver's voice was deep and slow, his accent flaring up thick as he took another step in, bodies practically touching. He couldn't help himself. It had been too long and he wanted the man too much… always had. Without hesitation he reached over and placed a hand on the side of Flint's face, a move that would atomicity earn anyone else a broken wrist.
His skin was hot to the touch and the Keeper couldn't help but wonder if the man was lying about being over his ailment. Either way it wasn't going to stop him. "Still feel a little warm." He let the pad of his thumb gently run back and forth over Marcus' skin.
"I'll live." Marcus couldn't even fight against the touch. Oliver's hand felt cool against his overheated body and he found himself leaning into the comfort.
It was the invitation Oliver was looking for. He could hear Marcus' breathing stutter before he leaned in, their lips almost touching… "Marc-"
It only took a split-second for reality to come crashing back to Flint. The nickname a quick reminder of who he was with and what he was just about to do. With every ounce of hate, every bit of anger and frustration that had pent up over the past few months he managed to push himself away.
"The fuck are you on about?" He practically growled at the Keeper. "That what you came over here for? A pitty fuck?"
"No-" Oliver was taken off guard by the Chaser's violent reaction. "I thought you wanted… I didn't realize I was… Merlin, Marc."
"And would you stop callin' me that?" You don't know how much it fuckin' hurts!
Annoyance quickly ran through him. He rubbed at his forehead as he spoke. It was late, his willpower was shot and he didn't have the time or desire to get mind fucked any more tonight than absolutely necessary.
"Callin' ya what?"
"Marc… you've done it a handful of times tonight already."
"Didn't used to bother you." Oliver was perplexed buy the man's sudden aversion to the nickname. Never one to throw around pet names, Marcus actually had taken a shying to the moniker.
He just doesn't get it, does he? "Things change, Wood."
"Ya, guess they do."
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to block the image of the Keeper from his mind before he did something stupid. Like almost kiss him… again. "Was there anything-"
"You didn't know about your dad, did you?" Oliver blurted out, the question lying in wait on his tongue since he had read the article.
Marcus instantly froze in place, the words rolling over and over again in his head… his mind not making sense of what he just heard. This wasn't happening… this was not fucking happening. He violently shook his head from side to side in disbelief. If he had any energy left to cry he would have broken down right there, for the first time in his life not caring how weak or vulnerable he looked. That's what Oliver reduced him to.
"You come to my flat… at one in the morning…to ask me if I'm a… a Deatheater?" His voice broke with every syllable. Oliver took his life and now he wanted his sanity on top of it? Fuck it… take it… you can have it… I don't need it anymore. "Had to clear your conscience? Had to make sure you didn't fuck a Deatheater? Didn't lo-" He couldn't spit the word out. He could feel it, taste it heavy and sweet on his tongue, but he couldn't force it out though his lips. "Get out." Those words quickly filled the void of what he can't say. Shallow and angry, but they fit the space perfectly.
"Marcus…"
"Get out!" His voice was almost gone as he choked back sobs. "Get the fuck out!"
Oliver couldn't move. "I'm sorry, I just…"
"GET OUT!" He was sure the neighbors could hear, but he doesn't care. He just wants Oliver gone… out… exercised from his flat and his life. He'd cut his wrists and bleed out every bit of the Keeper left in his system if he could. Hands shaking, eyes wet and head pounding he points his wand at the door sending it flying open at the hinges. His jaw is clenched tighter than he ever thought possible, but managed to force the word out through his teeth one last time in a heavy whisper… "Out."
It had been four months, four days, twenty-two hours and six seconds since the last time he had seen Oliver Wood. Marcus wished he didn't have to start that countdown over again tonight.
Saturday, February 10, 2001 2:30 a.m.
Oliver walked out of their... shite... Marcus' flat an hour ago and straight to the nearest bar. He was already drunk.
"Ever fuck up so bad that you didn't realize it 'til it was too late to fix it?" Oliver ran his thumb around the edge of his pint glass as he spoke.
It was the same bar he and Marcus used to frequent when they had a craving for pub food and a good pint. They would sit there for hours on end, pissing the night away talking about quidditch and plans for the off season until the barkeep would kick them out way past closing.
As it was now the bar had closed around a half hour ago, but recognizing Oliver and the broken look on his face the bartender didn't have the heart to toss him out.
"So ah, where's your friend?" The old man behind the bar was whipping glasses clean as he spoke to the Keeper. "Haven't seen either of your around 'ere lately."
"We um, well…we aren't really friends anymore I guess." The words hit a little closer to home than he expected them to. He hadn't just lost a lover after all.
"That so?"
"Ya, that's so."
"Well then…" the barkeep reached for Oliver's empty glass. "This one is on me. Looks like you could use it."
"Thanks." Oliver stared blankly out the window until the telltale thud of the dink being placed in front of him hit his ears.
"So…" The barkeep leaned forward, resting one elbow on the solid wood bar for support. "This friend of yours…did you beg 'um to take you back?"
Oliver cocked a questing eyebrow at the man.
"Come on, kid. I've seen enough of you two in here to know you were more than just friends, ya?"
"Ya." He lowered his head and took another sip from his glass. "And no, I didn't beg him. Besides, who said it was my fault? Maybe he should be begging me 'ta take him back."
"Hmm…" the man scratched at his wiry white beard. "Well then, you want 'um to beg ya?"
"That's beside the point."
"Is it? You're the one who brought it up kid, not me."
Oliver ignored the question with a dismissive wave of his hand. Rummaging around in his pocket he pulled out a few coins and tossed them on the bar. "Thanks for the dink." It was late, he was pissed and he still had to drag his sorry arse out of bed for practice in the morning.
"Hey!" The old man called out to him just before he reached the door. "You didn't answer the question."
Oliver looked out the window at the cold grey night waiting for him.
"I know."
Saturday, March 3, 2001, 1:00 a.m.
It had been three weeks since Oliver showed up at his doorstep. Marcus had blocked the entire night from his memory.
Mostly due to self-preservation, but knowing the only person you ever truly cared about had to ask…ask… if you are a no good low life like your father made you realize they must have never really known you in the first place.
It might be the hardest lesson he ever had to learn.
But it had been three weeks. Three weeks and he hadn't lost his friends, his team or his sanity. The world didn't come crumbling down and he still managed to make it out of bed in the morning. He could still live… breathe… and make it through the times in between knowing that maybe Oliver never loved him.
It was easier to deal with, he told himself, since you can't miss what you never really had.
Wednesday, March 21, 2001, 5:36 p.m.
It had been twenty minutes since the rest of his team left the locker room and headed for the victory celebration. Oliver had yet to leave the showers.
He was exhausted, frustrated and broken. He had jammed at least three fingers playing the Chudley Cannons today and possibly broken a rib… or two. How his teammates could possibly have energy left to go out for celebratory drinks was beyond him.
His head ached, his side burned and his fingers throbbed with every beat of his heart. Damn this sport.
It had been a good game. Better than good actually, they had played a fantastic game, but the current weather conditions outside had made it almost bloody near impossible for their Seeker to find the Snitch. Instead of the anticipated thorough whomping, The United ended up playing six full hours of heart pounding adrenaline pumping quidditch against one of the worst teams in the league.
His body paid the price.
There was a time when, not that long ago, aches and pains didn't bother him like the suddenly seemed to now. They were a sense of pride, of accomplishment meant to be shown and shared with the world. Look what I did, what I can do, what I did do! Now more of a nuance warranting a trip to the trainer's office for whatever pill or potion they had handy for just such occasions.
Oliver rubbed as his sore right shoulder under the hot spray of the shower. It also wasn't long ago when he had someone to do this for him, someone to rub away the tension and pain after a long hard fought game. And maybe, he thought to himself, that's what made this that much worse. Knowing that when he got home the only thing waiting for him was a restless night.
Marcus had always known how to fix whatever damage Oliver had done to himself on the pitch. The man could have been a trainer if he wanted, always having some miracle treatment or knowing just the right way to wrap a sprained wrist or ankle. He had spent many an hour patching the Keeper up over the course of their relationship. Even it was just a warm bath and a good backrub.
The last of which sounded bloody fantastic at the moment.
Oliver groaned remembering the way the Chaser's hands seemed to melt the tension in his muscles away so quickly. The way those nimble fingers felt running down his shoulders and over his back. Merlin he missed that.
Letting his mind wander, Oliver roughly took himself in his right hand and tugged. His jammed knuckles protested, but only momentarily as the familiar waves of pleasure quickly took hold. Images of late night interludes and after victory celebrations splashing behind closed eyelids in shades of arms, legs and hands and he could almost feel it. Bodies pressed tight until there was no air, no space between them to take up. Hot velvet and warm lips, tongues sliding across teeth and skin and the security of it all knowing how fucking right and perfect and oh God…
Oliver came, hard and fast, coating the shower wall and his hand.
It had been five months. Five long months and Oliver still couldn't find anything that made him feel the way Marcus did.
He wondered if he ever would.
Wednesday, April 25, 2001, 11:45 p.m.
It was late and Marcus couldn't remember exactly how he got himself into this situation. He really needed to lay off the Fire Whisky.
He knew it had started with a few beers at the pub after Balleycastle had beaten the Magpies. A few beers had led to Whiskey, which lead shots, which lead to the Montrose Seeker practically going down on him in the bathroom.
How they ended up back at Flint's place, with his cock buried into the other man up to the hilt was beyond him. Hell, anything besides groping, grunting and fucking was pretty much beyond him at the moment. Consider it a damned miracle he could do any of the three concurrently.
But there he was. Fucking some bloke he had only met a few hours prior. Is this why he was supposed to love being single?
It wasn't good, how the hell could it be? But it wasn't bad either and the alcohol mixed with his current lack of stamina had the Chaser cumming in a matter of minutes. He would have apologized, had he given a fuck. But as it was he was exhausted and just South of completely inebriated.
Stumbling to the bathroom he thanked Merlin he had enough common sense to have at least used a condom even if had no idea how it got on his cock in the first place. Remind me to thank what's his face in the morning. Snoring quickly erupted from the bedroom and the Chaser peered around the corner to find his partner in crime already fast asleep. Making a snap decision Marcus opted for passing out on the couch. His couch.
Kicking the man out could wait until the morning… when he hopefully remembered the Seeker's name…
Besides, he was sleeping on Oliver's side of the bed anyway. Did he really just think that? Fuck… that's it… no more… what the hell had he been drinking?
May 5, 2001, 10:11 p.m.
Another year older didn't sound so bad… did it? Since when did he care about age anyway?
Oliver was seated at a large round table in the back of he pub, empty drinks, shot glasses and friends surrounded him.
"Everyone listen up!" Gabe climbed on top of the wobbly wooden table. His voice was loud enough to catch the attention of even the most inebriated pub-goer. "This here is my boy Oliver's birthday!"
The pub erupted in loud cheers and applause.
"That's right that's right. So I propose a toast. To the best damn Keeper I know and the best friend any bloke could ask for." Gabe raised his pint glass high above his head as he spoke. "To Oliver!"
O.K.- maybe another year old wasn't so bad after all.
May 5, 2001, 11:13 p.m.
Oliver,
It's been six months and twenty-nine days and I still can't bring myself to hate you the way I think I should.
Marcus quickly erased what he wrote before quickly jotting down...
Happy birthday.
-Flint
Wednesday, June 13 2001, 8:30 a.m.
It's been two weeks since the quidditch season ended. Oliver could already feel the uneasiness settling in.
Last year he and Marcus had taken a vacation to—bloody hell; it had been too long to be dragging those memories up.
Saturday, June 16, 2001, 12:30 p.m.
"Do you know what the date is?" Adrian asked as he checked his watch.
"No, I don't." Marcus was busy examining a particularly expensive pair of quidditch gloves and didn't bother looking up at his friend.
"Hmmm…"
"What ya need it for?"
"Need to know if my team meeting is tonight or tomorrow."
"Oh." Marcus looked around before walking up to the young woman who was working the register at Quality Quidditch Supply. "Excuse me miss, don't happen to have the date do ya?"
"June the sixteenth," she replied promptly. "Was there anything else? I could box those gloves up for you while you wait."
"Ah, nah, thanks. 'M still thinkin' about 'um." Marcus walked back over to where Adrian was mulling over the latest edition of Quidditch Weekley. "Sixteenth."
Adrian paused, blinked roughly and looked over at his friend. "June the sixteenth?"
"Ya." Annoyed, Marcus grabbed the glossy magazine out the Chaser's hand and began to flip through the pages. "That's what I said."
"Um… k."
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing, nothing at all."
"So…"
"So what?"
"Your meeting?"
"Oh ya, no… it's tomorrow."
"Great." Marcus shut the magazine and threw it on the nearest table. "Owl Higgs and tell him cards at my place tonight. And tell that cheapskate to bring his own beer this time."
"Sure, I'll do that. What ah…" Adrian looked anxiously at his friend. "What time?"
"Nine?"
"Sure, see you then. Nine, great."
"And stop acting so weird."
Adrian apparated back to his flat in seconds and had an owl scribbled to his team Captain a minute later. He figured ditching one team meeting wasn't going to get his arse in too much trouble… given they ever found out he wasn't really ill as he was claiming to be. Besides, it would be nothing compared to what Flint would do to him if the Ballycastle Chaser ever found out Adrian lied to him about when his meeting was so he could spend the night making sure his friend didn't remember that today would have been his and Oliver's anniversary.
Thank Merlin for small miracles.
Thursday, July 12, 2001, 10:12 p.m.
It was hot, hotter than Oliver could remember Scotland being in ages. Why had he made the trip home again?
His mum had begged him for weeks to come and visit and since the season was over he had no real excuse. Now, lying in the field behind his childhood home, he was glad he had.
As a child, he had come out here to practice, at all hours of the day and night… always practicing. Quidditch was his life, is his life, but… no, it was silly to think otherwise. The game was who he was, who he would always be. Not many people could understand that or want to take the time to try.
Here, lying underneath the stars of a hazy Scottish July night sky, he was o.k with that.
He was o.k. knowing that no one would probably ever understand him the way he needed them to.
He was o.k. with quidditch being the thing that made him get up in the morning and go to bed happy at was o.k. being who he was, what he did… what he'd done.
He was o.k.
He would be o.k.
Tuesday, August 21, 2001, 2:00 a.m.
Marcus couldn't sleep. Again. God damn he thought he was over this.
It was two in the morning. God damn two in the morning, he had training camp tomorrow and instead of sleeping he was sitting up in his bed reading his copy of Quidditch Through the Ages for about the seven hundred and fiftieth time in his life. The edges were going to start disintegrating at this rate.
He knew it cover to cover by now, having read it every time he needed an escape from the horrors of his real life, but even reading the words he knew by heart had to be better than reading the letter that was sitting unopened on his bed.
The large scrawling letters across the front could only belong to one person. Oliver. Even after all this time he could pick that handwriting out anywhere.
Marcus had debated throwing it into the trash straight off. Nothing the Keeper had to say could be of any possible interest to him.
Nothing.
He was over it. After months and months he was over it. Over what happened. Over Oliver and….
…damn those letters forming his name across the front…
…
…
Damn you, Wood.
Marcus made a hasty grab for the envelope and quickly tore it open.
Marcus-
I never properly thanked you for the birthday card. It was really thoughtful of you. Sorry I missed yours… I was… well, there is no excuse. Saw our schedule for this season. Looks like we play you first game out. Here's hoping you actually play this time. Take care and… just take care alright?
-Oliver
"Ya," Marcus ran his thumb over the ink letters. "You too, Oliver."
Saturday, October 7, 3:00 a.m.
It had been one year since Oliver walked out on him.
Marcus thought he should feel… something. Something other than the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, the sheer volume of nothingness overtaking everything else and he wondered if this is how it was supposed to feel. No pain, no ache, just a big empty fissure where something used to be.
He couldn't remember the last time numb felt so…
Thursday, October 12, 2001, 11:00 a.m.
"Ready for the first game of the season, Flint?" Bryant looked over at the Balleycastle Chaser with a wide grin plastered on his face.
"You have no idea."
Marcus had been looking forward to this game for months. Their team had finished last season with their best record in years and were considered big contenders for the title this year. Despite the normal start of season nerves, the Chaser felt oddly at ease with their first game being against The United. He knew they were good, hell, always got the better of them last year, but Balleycastle was better this year. Better than they had been in years.
And The United knew it.
Grabbing his gloves from the bench he roughly clapped their Keeper on the back.
"Make sure you show Wood up this year, ya?"
"Course! I think it's the least we owe them."
"Right." Marcus nodded in agreement. The least we owe them.
"You cool with this?" Bryant leaned over, resting his shoulder against the Chaser's so only the two of them could hear his question.
"Ya, Marcus smiled. "I'm cool."
Thursday, October 12, 2001, 2:36 p.m.
It's been forty-five minutes since Balleycastle finally beat The United, fair and square… no botched calls, no getting tossed from the game. Just pure, raw, emotional quidditch.
Forty-five minutes and the after game celebrations on the pitch were done, no more hands were being shaken, no more victory songs to sings. Just two players who refused to leave the pitch, to leave the moment and return to something that didn't even resemble what they thought their lives could possibly be like.
"Did you, ah," Oliver rubbed at the short hairs on the back of his neck as he spoke. "Did you get my letter?"
"Ya, ya I did." Marcus leaned heavy against his broom, the after game high quickly fading away leaving only sore muscles.
"Good."
"Ya."
"Look, there's something I…" Oliver suddenly slammed his mouth shut. Biting at his lip he tried to will the emotions that were quickly bubbling to the surface down. "I'm a horrible person."
Marcus shook his head. "No you're not."
"Ya, I am. I should have never done what I did 'ta ya. Was… childish and the fact that you are even talkin' 'ta me right now shows just how much of a better person you are."
The words, for some reason, crushed Marcus like a ton of bricks. "Don't say that."
"Why? It's true. I've been awful to ya."
"Wasn't a saint myself ya know."
"Better than me." Neither man spoke, fearful that the wrong words would come crashing out and ruin the moment. "About your dad-"
Marcus held up a gloved hand hoping it would stop the Keeper from continuing on. "It's done with."
"I know, been following it in the news."
"Oh." Marcus didn't know why he was relieved to hear it.
"What I asked you… that night, 'about your dad…"
Marcus could instantly feel tears spring to his eyes. The memory of what to date may be the worst night of his life almost too much for him to handle. He quickly shifted his eyes away from Oliver and to the ground. Kicking at the dirt he couldn't bring himself to look back up.
"I'm sorry. Don't know why I did that… asked that. I know the answer. I know you… knew you."
Marcus nodded. It was the only response he was going to be able to get out.
"Marc-" Oliver stopped himself, quickly remembering he had been asked not to use the nickname. "Sorry. Merlin, why can't I do anything right when it comes to you anymore?"
Flint chuckled, thankful for the distraction. "I'm starting to think maybe I'm bad luck, ya?"
"No… no, don't… please don't think that." Oliver couldn't help the way he instantly moved forward, closing the gap between the two of them.
Marcus instinctively took a step backwards.
"See, there I go again." Oliver shook his head in frustration. "Maybe it's best I just… we just… God, why does it hurt so much when you do that?"
Marcus froze. There were so many things he wanted to say, so much he needed to spit out, but just couldn't find the words to. And maybe he didn't need to. With a deep breath he took a step forward, recovering the ground between the two of them.
Sometimes in life, there were these all encompassing earth shattering moments where, before you even know they happened have drastically altered your life. They leave you grasping tangibles, anything rock solid to place your faith in.
And then, sometimes, there are just… moments. Moments that slowly embed themselves into your life. Like a shard of glass they subconsciously pain you throughout their existence until they unexpectedly explode leaving you dazed... mopping up the pieces of your so called life.
Marcus had always figured there were really only two things that mattered: living and breathing. Everything else, all of those other moments between the two just get slapped together like a collage and labeled as your life. Messy, rushed, and never exactly how you expected it to turn out, it was something you have to pretend to be proud of and show off to everyone about how great yours is… even if it looks like a crumpled mess of paper and glue.
That's where he was wrong.
If you asked him how long it had been since he feel in love with Oliver Wood, Marcus could give you a rough idea off the top of his head. If he really thought about it, he was sure he could get more specific. But none of that mattered right now.
The only thing he could concentrate on was the fact that it had been fifty-five minutes since the game ended and suddenly he didn't feel numb anymore. No more indifference, no more apathy, no more needing to be filled with something other than pain and hate.
"You're a fantastic Keeper, Oliver." Marcus knew it wouldn't do anything to fix the last year, but… "Absolutely bloodly fuckin' fantastic."
Oliver tried to suppress the smile threatening to break out across his face. "That's kind of out of left field. Especially considering your team won."
"Nah," Marcus smiled back him. "Just way overdue."
"Only a year, three days and uh…" Oliver looked over at the stadium clock for the time. "…. thirteen hours… give or take a few minutes."
This time it was Marcus that smiled.
Sometimes, in life… there are moments…