Dispondence
By Alyssa D'Angelo
-There aren't any DH spoilers here.
-I do not own these characters. Situation is fictional. Lyrics belong to Three Days Grace.
Additional note: No, I don't think Oliver is a jerk. This is all based on personal experience, and it just seemed that Oliver fit the description I needed to fill.
"Pain: without love, pain: I can't get enough, pain: I like it rough, because I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all." -Three Days Grace, "Pain"
It was a Muggle thing to do, and he knew it. Still, he couldn't argue with the reasoning behind it. Percy scolded himself, as he stared down at the razor blade he transfigured from a tissue. Perhaps Wizards and Muggles weren't so different afterall, he thought, knowing full well that down in his heart, that'd always been the case. Slowly, the red-haired man in his early twenties - age lines running too deep in his face for how young he truly was - took the blade in a trembling hand and pressed it against the under segment of his wrist. He winced as he slowly drug it a tiny bit and let a trickle of red ooze.
At once, he dropped the blade into the sink, staring at the small disfiguration he caused himself. It wasn't anything that a quick charm or a simple salve couldn't heal, but it was the principle of the matter that stopped him. It was ridiculous. Of course, the purpose he'd learned was that the physical abuse would take away the trauma of the emotional abuse. Really, it was only a badge to wear on the outside; a living display of the emotional damage he'd been enduring the past months (which seemed like years) since he let it start.
The problem was that, not only did he let it start, but he encouraged it to continue. It'd been almost a year since he let the other man kiss him. Percy's gut burned every time he thought of Oliver's lips on his whenever he wasn't around. That was the difference between real and imagined contact: when it was real, he didn't have time to think about anything other than the pleasure.
The blood continue to slowly trickle out of the small puncture on the underside of his wrist, flowing down the sides. Percy stared, unable to muster the energy to make it stop.
He was ashamed, in a way. Since Percy's first year at Hogwarts (and now here he was, nine years later) Oliver had been his safe place. By accident, Oliver managed to become a bit of reasoning in Percy's life. Though obsessed with Quidditch, Oliver always had a way of reminding Percy that it was the smaller things in life that were always more significant. He remembered thinking how foolish the other boy was when he'd come in from the pitch sopping wet at late hours of the evening, only to have it pointed out that he was up, in the same condition, only with a book instead of a broom. It were these simple reminders coupled with the occasional bits of encouragement that caused the friendship to develop over the years. Percy knew that it was unlikely occurance, but what seemed to have started as simple admiration truly became a trusting, stabilizing pillar in his life.
And it just seemed to continue from there. Oliver had a keen way of listening and understanding Percy's insecurities, and in turn, Percy was always supportive of Oliver's unlikely dreams and desires of becoming a professional in a highly competitive field. Even though they'd lost contact for periods of time, one would always discover a way of finding the other. It hadn't been until almost a year ago when Percy went to visit Oliver at his flat on the eastern coast that they each allowed their lips to meet.
And Percy liked it. He felt the phantom of those lips against his once again as he stood alone in his bathroom, letting the blood now drip onto the porcelin white sink. It would stain, he knew, but it didn't matter. He was the only one living in the flat on the southwestern coast. Distance, it seemed, had always been a problem.
Suddenly, it was a rollercoaster. They'd apparate to one another's homes. At first, the kissing would continue. But soon hands and tongues began to roam elsewhere. Before long it seemed that they would share the same bed at least once a week - their clothes tossed sloppily in piles on the floor.
It didn't start to hurt until after the first few months, but after awhile, he couldn't hide it anymore. Oliver wouldn't commit to him. In fact, he flat out refused to consider what they had as a relationship. Excuses would continue to flow freely from his lips - most of them about traveling for "Quidditch" or for "work". Percy could only manage to agree with the other man.
"I might be going north to train with the Bats in Ireland for a few months," he could hear Oliver's thick Scottish accent. "I want to stay open. I have a friend up there that wants to fix me up with a girl in the town. I'm gonna date around for a bit."
The words stung, but Percy only managed a weakened, "Oh." He couldn't accuse him, because he knew they didn't have a title on their lack of committment anyway. The funny thing about it was that a few dates later, and Oliver was finding excuses or anyone else he saw. And still, Percy gave the occasional permission for Oliver to penetrate his threshold on those nights in the fall when the papers had begun to proclaim that the Dark Lord had returned. He knew he was only hurting himself, and he'd managed to stay stable this long. Still, the other part of the problem was that not only did his insecurties prohibit him from breaking off their connection, but it also seemed senseless to throw away at least eight years of prior friendship. He'd gotten himself in a sticky situation, and it was most certainly glued inside.
Instead, he'd spend nights in the pub buying shots of Firewhisky, or, on a night like this, running a razor blade across his wrist in an attempt to block out the pain. The desire. The confusion. He hated Oliver Wood so much that he couldn't stop loving him.
"Fuck this." The words sounded like a foreign voice as they escaped his lips.
He knew he needed to get out of whatever the relationship had become, but the most antagonizing part about it was that he didn't even thinking that Oliver realized how much hurt he was causing him. The constant returning but never committing. Percy could remember drawing it to his attention one afternoon in a cafe, nearly shouting, "What do I have to do to get you to commit to me?!" And Oliver's somber expression responding, "I thought we agreed that we'd consider ir when the war was over."
Percy could hear himself laughing outloud. He never agreed to anything. Instead, he felt the sting in his wrist. The blood stopped flowing, but the wound in his flesh was still open and stinging. Funny, how such a small thing could hurt so much.
And yet, as he took another tissue and held it to his wrist, muttering a clotting spell, he knew he'd walk into the mess again within the next couple of nights. Percy could imagine Oliver's face as he climbed on top of him, kissing him savagely; his voice melting into a moan as Percy sucked in places that so many of his female peers had always fantasized to see; his expression as he released himself inside of Percy - forbidden but fulsome all at once.
Tossing the tissue in a garbage bin, he reached into the sink and pulled out the razor and added it to the disposal. A murmered charm escaped his lips and suddenly the unintentionally lost blood was cleaned away. No, he wasn't proud of himself for any of this matter. He didn't need the badge to confirm that he was hurting himself. He knew it. And he accepted it. But he continued to let it happen.
Instead, Percy just clambered up into his bedroom, without having eaten that night. It didn't matter, he wasn't hungry. Rather, he just let himself fall into the unmade bed, where he could smell Oliver's cologne from the night before.