So, Bill, it's been a while, hasn't it? Must be nearly 3 years coming the end of July, and it still feels like almost yesterday that I'd left Hogwarts and was spending my time out in Egypt with you. Anyway, I was talking with Charlie and he said that you'd come back to the UK sometime last August – you know how it is with him, news travels slow when we talk about Quidditch – and, well, I think it might be nice to see you again, maybe catch up on what we've missed over the years. Are you free any time soon?
Oliver
X
The eldest Weasley shuffled along the winding London streets, caught up in the bustle of tourists, school children, office workers, racing about to get things done, to get home to loving families and cooked dinners. He was rather idle in comparison, nonchalantly placing one foot in front of the other and letting his legs take their own time to move along the swarm. More than once had he been violently honked at whilst crossing a set of lights or walking too close to the edge of the path, refusing to make like a Muggle and run. Besides, he had no reason to speed or rush, he was merely meeting an old friend, partner, nothing of real consequence in his life any more.
For a short while, the twenty-six year old veered off route into rows and rows of closely knit houses and wearing picket fences that pushed long, fantastic shadows across tarmac in the pleasant orange glow of the dying April sun. The area wasn't particularly clean; grey, rain washed sofas perched on front lawns in grand piles of broken chairs and mismatched appliances; large patches of unpleasant green moss climbed up dark walls, and the occasional tracksuit clad commoner passed, trotting about their daily life and flashing judgemental looks towards the young man. Though this didn't faze him, if possible it made the whole adventure of getting lost even more fascinating and wonderful than it had been before.
And then came the inevitable signs of familiarity, like the warm smell of a bakers that would waft past every day on his journey to work, or the distant peak of the Houses of Parliament, pulling him back into the horde of London commuters.
The particular café they had chosen to meet at was a quaint little place that ran from one of the side roads, small, looking almost as if it had been cobbled together in an old woman's front room. Though it seemed to retain a particular charm about it that had kept the couple coming whenever they had sought to do so in the past and, as it showed apparent, now as well.
William let his eyes drift across the space, absorbing every dark table, every head, every memory of the boy's cherub like smile as they had locked hands and spoken of the future; now all no more than a distant dream. He placed himself down in a seat in the far corner of the room, protected from bright sparkle of dusk and instead illuminated by the faint hum of a little hanging light. There was nothing left to do but wait, wait and then quite politely tell the boy that he was engaged – with a slight implication that he should be left alone – in the midst of a curt smile and simple farewell.
His head dropped, looking into his clasped hands quite nervously. What if Fleur found out, wouldn't she be angry? I mean, he certainly would if she was getting together with ex-partners. Although,he was certain no one had ever known the nature of their relationship, not even Charlie, so he was in a clear shot of getting away with it so to speak.
"Ah, Bill! You haven't changed at all, have you?" sighed the Quidditch player, resting a hand on the wooden chair and gazing happily at the redhead.
The Weasley flinched somewhat at the sudden appearance, dragging him unwillingly from the depths of his mind and back into the harsh planes of reality. Indeed he hadn't, still wearing his hair long, his clothes as interesting and wild as ever and the small fang-shaped earring Wood had bought him nearly 4 years previously in a busy Egyptian market – though in his defence, he had liked the earring a lot, regardless from where it had come.
However, little could be said about Oliver. He'd certainly grown and, under Bill's keen evaluation, the only thing that hadn't actually altered about the boy – man rather – was the colour of his hair and the beady brown eyes that resided in his head.
The Curse-Breaker let out a delightful huff of laughter and beckoned to the younger man to take a seat.
"Well, no, I haven't. I suppose I don't really try, do I? I'm perfectly pleased with surviving the day. I see no need to."
"Oh, I didn't realise they had dangerous jobs here in London..."
He let another smirk pass his face. "They don't. It's the boredom that I'm most worried about. Although... it has its ups – Two coffees, please," he motioned to a waitress.
"And they are...?" probed the younger of the pair.
"It's quite obvious. It's because I'm working with my-" For some reason, however, William stopped himself, something lying, a faint glimmer, in the backs of Oliver's intently viewing eyes that seemed to push him further and further from his initial, quickly swept goal. "-working with Goblins. They make you feel incredibly tall. The best part being that after their snide and malicious comments, the second they get down from their podium you can just as easily sit on them."
He lifted the freshly brewed beverage from the table and gave the surface a quick blow.
"So what's 'my wee Woody' getting up to these days then?" he asked, receiving more pleasure from the use of the old nickname than was strictly acceptable for a soon to be married man.
"'Your wee Woody' is getting up to Puddlemere United. Only a reserve, though."
"Oh really? Wow, good for you! I bet you're loving it!"
"You have no idea what I'm talking about," Oliver chuckled.
"Not – a – clue!"
He leant into the table on his elbows and pushed what little hair there was to push behind his ear, twirling the spoon about in his drink.
"You really are still the same William Arthur Weasley I left back in Egypt, aren't you?" His arm extended out and he stroked the loose hair that framed Bill's face. "Still as stunning as I remember you."
For a fraction of a second, Bill leant into the younger's hand in a slight embrace, reminiscing; drawing away upon the sudden realisation of his impulse. "Please don't, Ollie. You didn't leave me, we both agreed it would be best. Don't treat me like some kind of ailing heart because I'm not."
"That's not what I'm saying," Wood heaved, frustratingly running long fingers through the brown mess that sprouted from his head. "Can a man no longer admire his long lost lover?"
A short sigh passed the elder's lips and he took a lingering sip of his coffee. "Has it ever crossed your mind that there might have been a reason why we became 'long lost lovers', why we haven't had contact till now? I don't want to sound cliché, but I'm sure there is someone I'm destined to be with and clearly that someone just isn't you."
"Who says not? It's been 3 years for Merlin's sake! In that time you could have gotten married, had children. Isn't it fate enough that we're both sitting here as two single men after so many years apart?"
Bill shuffled uneasily in his seat, clutching desperately to the warm ceramics of the mug. "Oliver... Ollie... Please. Can't we just leave it as it were?" He took a last swig of his drink, grimacing at the bitter taste of the dregs sitting at the bottom of the cup, and insecurely rose to his feet, placing a small sum of money on the table. "Look, I have to get home – Fleu-m-mother might be getting worried. If you really need to get in contact with me just send an owl, but otherwise-"
"Bill," Wood interrupted, placing a hand on the elder's forearm in one final desperate attempt. "I don't like losing. You know that. Even if you have no feelings now, I will make you fall in love with me all over again or die trying."
William gave a brisk glance back at the boy, cold sympathy dancing in his eyes.
As much as he had wanted to dismiss them, he'd never thought he would once again feel stirrings for the young Quidditch player, even if they were only small patches, niggling at the back of his mind.
X
The Weasley stared into warm, red glow of the numbers on the alarm clock. Five thirty one in the morning. It had been almost two weeks since he'd met up with Oliver in the little café, the calendar progressing into May as of around six hours ago, and much to his disappointment he had not received a single word from man, writing nor speech. The digit on the timepiece rolled. Five thirty two. And again. Five thirty three. Already, the veil of night had began to lift, turning the sky a deep, piercing blue that crawled through the gaps in the curtains and stared him dead in the eye.
He'd been awake for a while, Fleur's spindly arm draped over him in a state of sweet slumber, body immersed in the delicate caress of the duvet. For all intents and purposes, the girl was a splendid partner, and undeniably he did have feelings for her, though as of late he'd noticed something lacking in her touch, a missing spark. Not to say that he'd lost any compassion or love for the woman, he'd simply noticed a little break in the patch work that he vaguely recalled having once been filled by the muscled arms of a certain Oliver Wood; the feeling of being protected. From the side of someone who knew very little about him, it may have seemed rather pathetic, perhaps even stupid, but in his mind it showed perfectly reasonable – to feel protected there must be at least the smallest of notions that there is something out there you needed to be protected from, and that sense of adventure, of threat, of pending danger was exactly the sort of thing that thrilled Bill Weasley.
Slipping his foot from beneath the covers, he placed it down on the wooden floor with a light thud; the boards groaning as he dragged himself up and across the room to rest on the windowsill, gazing out into the waking world. Something about this time in the morning had always sent a slight buzz through his body, a kicking necessity to stay awake despite how tired he had been before. He leant his head into his hand and slowly closed his eyes, turning to face the open window from which the subtle breaths of dawn blew. It had drizzled in the night, the dog-like scent of the wet tarmac below wafting three stories up to tingle in his nostrils, the quiet sound of hissing car tires as they rolled through the dampness. Though upon a lengthy glance the sky was perfect, only the orange gauze of light pollution on horizon tarnished the heavens as they glowed paler and paler, strewing spectacular colours over the untouched blue, the sorts which one would imagine presented in a fantastical painting by Turner.
A sigh passed William's lips. He ached to escape from there, to break free from the cycle he'd worn himself into, but there was this ugly catastrophe he called 'work' to get through before Saturday, and then after that the slightly more attractive catastrophe he called 'darling'.
X
Ollie,
I'm bored. I'm tired. Take me to the beach. I want to see the sea.
Bill
X
"Sorry I was late," sighed Wood, scratching the back of his head nervously. "I literally woke up about forty five minutes ago – barely had enough time to throw on some clothes, let alone shave. So please excuse my sordidness just for today."
A timid smile fluttered across Bill's face. "Yeah, don't worry about it. The rugged look suits you."
"Good, because I am going to stink to the High Heavens of BO by midday if it stays this hot."
William laughed and turned outwards to stare at the sea as it lapped against the pebbles, leaving a faint dewiness on the surface of the rocks that glistened in the light as they moved across the sore. It was barely eleven o'clock in the morning and already small groups of people had congregated on the beach to soak up the first flickers of summer, littering themselves as pale, fleshy colours in the distance.
"You didn't send me any letters," he hummed, words mindlessly caught in the salty winds.
"What?"
"Letters. You didn't send any. I was sure I was going to be bombarded with them the second I left the café. But I got nothing."
Oliver cocked his head to the side and smirked. "There is a fine line between Romanticism and Stalking. You needed time to think. I gave it to you. Admittedly, I was beginning to consider the latter, hadn't you sent an owl on Thursday. But if I had, I very much doubt we'd be with each other now."
"You think things through more than you'd expect for a Quidditch player."
Wood winked, taking his jacket off and laying it down on the stones before he sat facing the water. "Game tactics, Billy boy, game tactics."
For a moment, the Curse-Breaker eyed him awkwardly, cautiously placing himself down in the space beside and gazing out to the ocean, letting his mind lapse dreamily into the hiss of the sea, the cries of the gulls, the subtle breaths of an old lover. His mother had never approved of Fleur, right from the off, something about her attitude, the bluntness with which she spoke and her obvious adoration for his face was possibly what had done it for the woman, and yet he had always been certain that if she had met Oliver, if he were a girl and the girl he wanted to marry, Molly would have fallen in love with him as much as he had done, would have blessed the idea. He often used to fantasise about taking him home to The Burrow, even as a man, and revel in the happiness as the family fawned over them as a couple, as Oliver skipped off with his mother to bake a cake or have in-depth conversations about Quidditch with the budding players the were the Weasleys. Though in reality, he had never had the courage to tell anyone about this feeling, this wonderful, spectacular, blissfully dumbfounding feeling that had resided in the deepest recesses of his mind. And so he hid away the real him, the him only Wood had ever seen; denied himself the emotion so that his mother might one day smile and proudly say that he had given her a beautiful set of grand children.
Oliver pushed his hair around his head and leant back onto his hands. "I think I'm going to go in the sea..."
"Really?" William sighed, tilting to give a disapproving look to his junior. "Look at it: it's grey and dirty looking, and probably freezing. Are you really going to sacrifice your nipples to get in that?"
A quaint smile slipped across the Quidditch player's face. "I'm Scottish."
"And...?"
"Well, in case it slipped your notice in the – what – seven years you were studying at Hogwarts, but there is no. Such thing. As sun. In Scotland. I'd have to be the middle of a snow storm with piranha infested waters before it stopped me going in there."
Bill peered off to the side and heaved to himself. Maybe this was a mistake. The man clearly wasn't as grown up as he'd though he was, the whole scenario of the romantic stroll on the beach as the sun set over the horizon ever so slowly slipping from his mind... Yes, he should get back home – Fleur might be lonely... Or Charlie might have made a surprise arrival at the Burrow for a family get together... Or Ron might be having love troubles and needed some friendly advice... Or...
"I assume you're not going to join me," Oliver chuckled, throwing his shirt next to himself and starting for his trousers.
The Weasley continued to look in the other direction and grunted in acknowledgement.
"Good, because I need someone to look after my clothes while I'm taking my dip. And, just so you know, if anything of mine gets stolen in my absence, I will be holding you personally responsible."
By the time he'd turned back, Wood was sprinting off down the pebbles into the crashing waves, leaving him alone to occupy himself.
"I guess I don't really have a choice..." he muttered and spread himself out against the cloth, watching the young man move in the water as he fiddled with his earring. From time to time, the Quidditch player would wave and grin in the distance, inviting him to pass one timidly back, body slightly panicking as his insides clenched, curling further into the fabric and indulging the old scent in his little dream world.
X
"You're going to burn if you fall asleep there," called Oliver's voice, skipping through the darkness of the Curse-Breaker's mind, lighting the black as it drove past, like the subtle works of the spring fairy after a particularly long and gruelling winter.
A low groan crawled from within him, eyes opening onto the silhouette of his half naked companion against the glaring azure sky. "How was the water?"
"Cold and wet," Wood muttered, suppressing a shiver and wiping a swelling droplet from beneath his nose. "...very, very wet. But exciting none the less – I seem to have roused a band of hormonal teens to my every waking call."
William gave an icy grunt and lay his head once more upon the smooth rocks, absorbing the sun's heat from their surface and growling to himself, "Bet that's just what you wanted."
A hearty laugh erupted from the Quidditch player's throat, "Someone's being a tetchy little bitch today, aren't they? If it's any consolation, some of them were asking about you – seems I'm not the only one who has a thing for tall, dark and sunburnt redheads... You know, I'm sure you'd be calmer if you just came swimming with me."
The Weasley turned to glare upwards, a fair flush on his cheeks, but still his eyes still held a firm grip of reproachfulness in their backs.
"Oh come on! And I thought you were supposed to be the adventurous one. What's more thrilling than the sea?" Oliver beamed, glimmering with some frightful impetuosity that seemed to spread over every inch of his frame.
"Fine! I'll come!"
"Look, you don't have to," he muttered, eyebrows furrowing as his elder rose and began on his dragon hide boots. "It wasn't an order. If you really don't want to, you can just sit back down and snuggle with my trousers again."
The Curse-Breaker gazed up to the boy through a veil of daring red, face alight with a haze of rose and a long smile playing across his lips, one of sorts that kept unperturbed by the ails of the heart and the protests of the mind, pushing with great thrusts his previous animosity unto the very backs of his consciousness.
"I was doing nothing of the likes," he grinned, shaking his head and throwing his shoes beside himself.
"Oh, you can't deny it, I saw you there."
"They were conveniently placed – a mere coincidence."
The Quidditch player smirked, clutching his hands together and batting his lashes. "You know you can't resist it. I'm like the more awesome male equivalent to a Veela."
Bill scanned him for a moment and snorted, "You keep on thinking that, Ollie, you keep on thinking that. It's not as if Veela are at all interesting or beautiful or anything."
"Oh, they are, it's just Oliver Wood beats Veela hands down!"
"Of course," he jeered, stopping at the water's edge and turning to rest his eyes upon the surface of the twenty-one year old's skin. "You beat everyone and anyone I've ever met: all of my friends, all of my colleagues, every girl I've ever slept with – it's endless."
The ocean lapsed over his toes and swilled about his ankles, nibbling incessantly at his feet with frosty pinpricks, though his gaze stayed firmly in place. A simple vehemence, in that moment, to which time had no place and 'goodbye' had no meaning, encompassed his very being, to recall once more the warm textures of the boy's hand, or feel his subtle embrace, or taste lingering beauty that lay between his lips. And, at that point, the existence that had become so futile, so unfruitful and unforgiving bore new light, a faint hope for a fresh adventure, the re-encounter of an old one rather, as he pulled Oliver Wood, the only reality he wanted to face, into the rippling waves and drew a from his mouth three years worth of painful longing.
"I missed you."
Thank you so much for reading the first part of my story.
I'd love to hear what you have to say so please drop by with a review :)