Author's Note: Hey what's up hello? I got a job, guys! You're looking at a professional ballerina now. I'm super psyched to announce that I'll be a trainee with a company next year. As per the usual, I own nothing. This was written for Hogwarts School Challenges, totally go check it out!
Class: Transfiguration / Prompts: meet the parents (scenario), peach (color), giggle (action).
Window Panes
September
It wasn't always bruised lips and curses. It wasn't just tugging at skin and pinched nerves, fists clenched tight and teeth snapping words that sound like venom. Marcus wasn't just a constant thunderstorm just bellowing for an end. He looked for the light in the world, yearned for it more than anything.
Oliver wasn't exactly the light. He was shades of peach that folded over rays of yellow, just harsh enough that they didn't seem soft enough to begin with. They met in Peewee Quidditch League, and even then Marcus sought him out. There was something real about him. Something different.
They fought every day over the stupidest things. That was just their personalities, circling predators looking for an in. They had problems that needed to be solved, issues that needed to be worked out in ways different than kissing and cursing. But there was nobody else who would drop onto his worn canvas couch and argue thirty different passing techniques in ten minutes.
Their first kiss was in the broom shed, thirty seconds after Marcus had punched him in the face. Knuckles connected with skin, Oliver went reeling, and they were facing off. Chiseled features against muddled cheeks, a toothy boy and a golden child. All he thought of was hatred and fire, and the next thing he knew Oliver was cupping his cheek and asking for permission. They were seventeen, and there just wasn't time. Because Marcus was green and dark and sharp and broken and Oliver had hopes and dreams. They kissed again and there were promises made to meet after graduation and then Marcus failed his exams.
It took a while to reconnect, and it was harder for them to click after something like that, because peach and green didn't match, and Marcus was made of glass. He had lost so much, he had been branded an outcast, and all he wanted to do was play Quidditch.
Oliver was the glimpse of sun through the dark clouds. Once he caught those rays in a jar, he didn't want to let them go. He wanted to keep the warmth to himself. He wanted to bathe in the sunshine and hold it close- he would deny it if asked, because he was greedy and callous.
They had their problems, and everyone did, but if he was being asked to jump over the moon, he would have. Marcus did everything he could to prove he was more than a broken shard, that he deserved the proffered light. That meant meeting the parents.
It was going to go terribly. He wasn't anything in comparison to Oliver. He was stupid and thick, and his temper was the only thing making a difference. Passionate, Oliver said. Kindling, he called himself. He was ready to burn away.
His parents already hated him for being a failure. He knew they would kill him for liking men, and they would rather die than see him be involved with someone like Oliver. He could only imagine Oliver's parents feeling the same. Because, really, he was useless, and he was a Slytherin, and his best friends were forced to be Death Eaters.
Oliver's best friends were in the Order, they were Gryffindors, and they had smiles with straight white teeth. He knew they could spit venom, but Katie and Angelina had the hearts of gold.
These people were going to eat him alive, and he was going to let them. This was all for Oliver, because he deserved it. His boyfriend (it ached to say it) had gone through a war and had lost his father, and Marcus's family and friends had helped. They had lined up blood traitors and eagerly slaughtered to prove their loyalty. His own parents had been involved, and he was supposed to be there.
The only reason he wasn't there was Quidditch. Oliver knew that the sport was his saving grace, that it allowed him to bow out of everything that he would have been forced to do. Being on the Tornadoes had kept him from cursing Muggles. His stupidity kept him from being Marked. It was a relief, really. Marcus didn't care about blood status. He didn't care about the war. He cared about playing a sport. That was his calling.
They reconnected at a Quidditch game, and he had punched Oliver in the face. It was their first official game off of reserves, and he had punched Oliver in the face. Both sets of parents were there. That was Mrs. Wood's first impression of him.
His heart quaked as he straightened his tie. The witch was going to curse him. She was going to hate him.
He swallowed with a rough shudder. He wasn't ready for this. He was all sharp edges and bruises, and he had to be softer. He was only softer with Oliver, not near others. He couldn't just walk up to his boyfriend's mother and be himself. Marcus wasn't ready for the fight that would happen after.
He had worried his bottom lip raw when Oliver had come home, and the man had pressed sunshine kisses to his forehead and cheek. It'll be fine, he promised, over and over. You're being dramatic. But he wasn't dramatic, he was pragmatic. He was a man that knew what was going to happen, even if he wasn't sure how he was supposed to act. He was useless with Charms and books and spells, but he knew people. He knew this was going to go terribly wrong.
He was a thunderstorm and Oliver was the wind and the sun, even as they stood right outside of the door and Marcus held his breath. He had made up his mind already; this was certainly going to be their last date. This would be the last time that they would see each other, because Oliver did what his mother asked. She was all he had.
The witch opened the door with a serious look, saying hello solemnly as she led them in. Marcus prepared for the worst, he got ready for the shouts that were certainly about to come. They were doomed.
Linda Wood was giggles and smiles, her warm hands pressing against his arm as she greeted him in the safety of her home. She was gentle and kind, and Marcus saw Oliver in her. Passion, that's what it was. Passion and compassion as she served them dinner, her lips quirking as she commented on his shirt. Tornadoes blue, she remarked, her eyes light. That's good. Better that than the Arrows, eh?
He was wrong. Oliver wasn't the light, he was just the peach that fell on the sunset. His mother was the light, warming them as she made sure they were comfortable and happy.
And it was nice. It was nice not to argue over the harsher things, it was nice to just talk Quidditch with another person. It was different, but Marcus thought he liked it. He liked being in the room with a parent that didn't want him to die.
He had drawn the anxiety out over five weeks just for it to be removed in a second. Gone. Washed away.
Forgotten.
As soon as they got home, it was back to bruised lips and hissed compliments, grabbing fingers and fights over plays. And he liked it, he liked it more than he thought he could, because he knew there was a future. He might have been a glass shard, chipped beyond belief, but Oliver was the strong frame around him, and with him Marcus could see through to a future.