A/N: So this one's a bit slashy, which is strange, because I've never written slash or even read much before. It's not graphic or even fluffy, I guess it's just a bit angsty, and I hope you enjoy it.


Character: Oliver Wood

Prompt: In denial

Pairing: Oliver&Marcus


He was in complete, and utter denial. How could he feel this was about him? Not only was it the fact that he was a guy, but he was the captain of the rival team, and he actually physically hated the boy.

So this was what hatred felt like, huh?

The weird feeling in the pit of his stomach when he bumped into him in corridor, or when their eyes met for that one infinite moment.

Yeh, hatred, that was all it was.

Clearly, it was hatred that boiled in his blood, not something else. Definitely not something else. And the way that his skin got hot every time he was even close, yes, that was just fury, not something more. Definitely not something more.

Oliver had a gash across his forehead, and the blood was painting melancholic patterns across his pale face. He'd let in so many goals – too many goals – because of him. He relived the many moments in his mind; the times he flew in and out of the clouds, sometimes arching so high that Oliver couldn't even see him. And the then he would charge towards him, graceful and powerful beautiful, and Oliver really couldn't bring himself to think about him like that.

Oliver was the last out of the changing rooms, though he hadn't showered or even bothered to clean himself up. He'd just sat in that little corner of the room – the corner he'd sat in a lot lately – and just cried. Angry tears, sad tears, frustrated tears, confused tears, all mixed into one huge, clammy mess. When he finally hauled himself up from his corner he was still shaking, but feeling better nonetheless.

Well, he was feeling better, until he saw him, standing outside the Slytherin changing rooms, a lost look on his face.

Oliver hastily tried to retreat, as those feelings, that weren't really feelings, began to pulse through his veins once more. But he had seen, and he was staring.

"You're bleeding," said Marcus Flint quietly, looking a little surprised to see Oliver standing in front of him.

Oliver nodded, wanting to run away and hide somewhere safe and warm. His feet, however, stayed firmly rooted to the spot.

Oliver looked pointedly away, but his body still refused to move. It was the hatred, he was sure of it.

Flint beckoned for him to come into the Slytherin changing rooms, and for some bizarre reason, Oliver followed. Hatred acted in strange ways, sometimes.

Flint took a white cloth from underneath the sink, rinsing it with warm water. He reached towards Oliver, cloth in hand, and began dabbing at his injuries.

An involuntary shiver ran through Oliver as Marcus' skin brushed against his own. The strange part was that Oliver wasn't even cold. No, in fact, he was extremely hot. Burning, in fact. His skin was flushed with anger and loathing, not anything else – definitely not anything else.

Both boys' breaths were deep and uneven, and both boys' hand were sweaty and shaking violently – not that either noticed this about the other.

Oliver closed his eyes as Marcus finished cleaning his wound, and when he opened them again, Flint was upright, and leaning against the other wall.

"Are you okay now?" he asked, avoiding eye contact with the Oliver. His voice was filled with hatred, nothing more – definitely nothing more.

Oliver nodded, and slowly stood up.

"This never happened, yeh?" said the burly Slytherin, gruffly.

"Yeh," said Oliver, leaving the room.

Both boys remained in complete and utter denial.


A/N: Oh my Gosh! Did you see that? I just wrote slash – well, kind of slash. I hope I've done okay. Please let me know.

Thankyou very much for reading, and reviews make my world.