Outsiders, Part Five: A Percy and Oliver Love Story
Author's note: Thank you for the reviews. Of course, I am avoiding writing for yet another deadline – this time my mediaeval history dissertation.
This was written before The Order of the Phoenix came out, and as such has no bearing to J.K Rowling's presentation of the character of Percy in that book. This story is set in an alternative universe where the pressure exerted by Voldemort is minimal or non-existent, and certainly has no overbearing influence on the characters. The interpretation of Percy is my opinion of how he may act in private – behind closed doors – and the struggles he faces in accepting the two opposing parts of his character. His relationship with Oliver is, to me, a facet of that inner struggle. This piece does not reflect the thoughts and beliefs of J.K Rowling or any other person or company with links to the copyright of Harry Potter. No infringement is intended.
Feedback welcomed.
Part Six
Everything had gone very, very wrong.
On a normal day, Percy was always more than happy to be in the office on his own; there was always a little reorganisation that he could be getting along with, a little twitch here and a little move there so that the whole team could start working more efficiently. When Oliver had last been away on tour, Percy had spent his weekends colour co-ordinating the filing cabinets and giving everyone their own card reference file to help allocate colour spots to every document. It had whiled away the hours quite satisfactorily. Admittedly, it hadn't gone down that well; the disgruntled looks on his colleagues' faces on Monday morning hadn't quite been the affirmation he'd required, but they'd soon got used to it. Then they'd thanked him. Anyway, Percy reasoned, no one in their right mind would turn down a whole day using stickers. Stickers were always fun.
But this wasn't a normal day. Percy had been allocated the job of re-classifying all recently archived diplomatic administration to incorporate the recent decision to re-categorise Yorkshire in terms of its four districts, north, east, south and west. This was an opportunity Percy had been hoping for since the decision was made; this was a clear chance to put his stamp on the thoroughly un-logical ministry archives. But Percy found he couldn't concentrate, and that annoyed him. It wasn't every day you got to spend a day in the dark, sombre archives unit. It should have been a wonderful opportunity for a bit of peace and quiet and a chance to get out of the office, but Percy couldn't stop his mind from wandering. Oliver was away for a couple of days with his Quidditch team to play a friendly in Iceland, and Oliver hadn't wanted Percy to accompany him.
"It would look too suspicious, Perce," he'd said apologetically, "how many Quidditch players do you know who take their best mates away with them?"
"I'm not your best mate," Percy had muttered belligerently, helping himself to a packet of hula hoops and sliding a chocolate frog across the counter towards Oliver. "I like to think I'm more than that to you."
"Yeah, I know, but they don't know that, do they?" Oliver leaned forward for a curly wurly as well.
"Well, perhaps it's about time they did."
"Percy, come on, be reasonable. I'd kiss away any chance I had of playing for the first team if I brought my boyfriend along with me."
"I don't see why you would. The other players take their girlfriends." Percy was drumming his fingers on the table, always a sure sign of future petulance.
Oliver had sighed, "I wish you'd get over this." He'd put the kettle on for some coffee, "It's only for a few days and I'll be back before you know it."
"That's not the point, and you know it. I'm sick of lying to everyone, and more than that, I'm sick of your career being more important than our happiness. You won't tell anyone about me in case it buggers up your chances of playing Quidditch. Well, perhaps I'm just not satisfied with that anymore." Percy's face was getting redder by the moment, his anger palpable as he leant back against the stove.
"Well, what the bloody hell do you want me to do about it?" Oliver shook his head, "Give up Quidditch?"
"Don't be so sodding obtuse." Percy narrowed his eyes in disbelief, "I want you tell the truth about us. I want people to know that I love you."
There was a long pause; Oliver gripping the back of the kitchen chair until his knuckles grew white, Percy staring despondently at the coffee pot on the side.
Oliver's fingers trembled as he picked up his jacket from the table. "I'm sorry, Percy." His voice shook with anger. He ran his fingers through his hair and turned to go. "I'm sorry, but I don't want anyone to know about you and me."
*
And that was how they'd left it. Oliver had left the flat that night and Percy hadn't seen him since. There had been a note pushed under the door the following morning, left whilst Percy was out at work. It was no explanation, just a couple of sentences:
Try to understand it from my point of view. I'll be in touch as soon as I'm back from Iceland. We'll have dinner. Oliver x
Percy didn't want to understand it from any other point of view. At some point in the last few days, a line had been crossed and there was no going back. Percy had never contemplated the possibility that Oliver was ashamed of him; he'd always assumed his reticence in coming forward was grounded entirely in the fear of the unknown. He'd always thought that Oliver was just the same as him – wanting to be honest but not knowing how to do it without hurting the people that they loved. The bare facts of the matter were that Oliver was ashamed of their relationship, and Percy wasn't prepared to accept that.
But at the same time, the logical consequence was too much to bear. Breaking up with Oliver would destroy the only real, true happiness that Percy had ever truly experienced. Even being without him for just these few days had caused an unremitting ache that Percy wasn't prepared to contemplate continuing for any longer than strictly necessary. It would be some cross to bear, carrying on without Oliver.
There was little comfort to be gleaned from the pristine organisation that haunted every other aspect of Percy's life. The archives could have been perfect, but they wouldn't help remove the albatross that Percy could already feel tightening around his neck. He was tired, it was late, and he missed Oliver. Percy sighed, blinking in the dusky evening light. All the recent administration was pristine, and it was time to go home. If only him and Oliver could be rejuvenated with a few colourful stickers and some radical shades of ink.
*
"What is it?" Oliver asked, finally, after doubtfully poking at it with his fork.
Oliver had got back from Iceland early the following morning, sending an owl to Percy asking if they could meet. Percy had decided to try out his culinary skills once more, and had spent nigh on two hours preparing dinner; all the time trying to decide what to say to the man he loved. His mind being elsewhere hadn't boded well for the food.
Percy narrowed his eyes, gazing in some disbelief at his plate. "It is supposed to be braised brisket with boiled potatoes and mange tout."
Oliver raised an eyebrow and tried poking it again. "What sort of animal is a 'braised brisket'?" he asked, leaning across the table towards Percy.
"I'm not entirely sure," Percy admitted, attempting to cut his with a knife. The blade didn't even make an indentation. "There wasn't much left to choose from when I got to the butchers. I think it might be beef."
"I don't think it's like any beef I've ever known."
"I might be wrong," Percy was staring in some concern at his dinner plate as a potato rolled slowly past him, narrowly avoiding his glass of water.
"Sorry Percy," Oliver hurriedly lent over and picked his potato up, attempting once more to stab it with his fork. It had quite clearly never seen the boiling that Percy had promised.
"You don't have to eat it." Resignedly, Percy pushed his plate into the middle of the table. "It's awful."
"It's not awful," Oliver lied, crunching a small piece of potato. "You get more nutrients if you leave the vegetables al dente."
"They're not al dente, they're raw."
Oliver grinned, putting his fork down. "You're right, I capitulate. It's awful. You are a terrible cook." Pulling his chair back, he picked up their plates, "Shall I knock us up some pasta?"
"No," Percy touched his arm, nodding towards the vacated seat. "Sit down."
"It won't take a minute, it could be boiling whilst…" Oliver's voice trailed away. Percy wasn't smiling.
"I don't want you cooking in my kitchen," Percy said slowly, a muscle beating periodically in his cheek, "I can't have you cooking for me anymore. Not until we both know where we stand on a few things. I said you could come over because we have to talk. Not so things could carry on just the way they did before."
Oliver blinked, leaning across the table for Percy's hand, "Look, Perce, I'm sorry about what I said, you know, before I went away. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Well, you did. Did you just think that you'd come back and everything would be alright? What you said changed everything." Percy pulled away from Oliver's touch, terrified of what he was admitting. "You made me realise something. We can't go on like this anymore, I'm too honest a person to go on lying." He took a deep breath, wanting his voice to stop shaking, "So, I've made a decision. I'm going to tell the truth, I'm going to tell my parents about me and what I am." He avoided Oliver's eyes, his gaze resting haphazardly on the red and white tablecloth.
"Are you… are you going to tell them about me?" There was no belying the fear in Oliver's eyes, or the sad resolution that clouded Percy's as he realised Oliver's priorities.
"Not if you don't want me to." Percy couldn't believe he was so calm; he had run this moment over and over in his head, and the inevitability of the conclusion was beginning to dawn on him.
"I don't." Oliver's palms were sweating; he wiped them on his jeans.
"Fine. And if my parents ask why you don't visit any more, I'll just have to say you're unhappy with my sexuality."
"I'm not going to visit them anymore?" Oliver's lip wobbled, his brain catching up with the reality of the situation. Percy wasn't going to put up with waiting around for him to change his mind any longer.
Why couldn't Oliver see that this was the only way? "I can't stay in a hidden relationship any more, Ol. It's driving me berserk. It's come to the end of the line. I love you, Oliver. I love you more than anyone else, but it isn't enough to make me lie to everybody else I love any more. I want them to know about me… about us. About you and me." Percy grabbed hold of Oliver's hand, feeling the calluses and rough skin that was as familiar to him as his own skin. "Please… I'm begging you. Do it with me. Stay with me."
"I can't." Oliver could feel Percy shaking, could see the effort it was taking for him to keep it together, and it broke Oliver's heart. "I'm so sorry… I just can't."
"Please…" Percy cupped Oliver's face, slowly stroking his thumb down the soft cheek, "Please don't be ashamed of me." His face crumpled, tears escaping and mingling with his freckles.
A sob escaped Oliver's throat, "I love you so much," he muttered, pulling Percy close, into a tight hug. Percy's whole body shook, and for a second, he hugged Oliver back, rejoicing in the familiar contours of his lover's body.
Percy pulled away, tears sliding down his face, hiccupping, "You don't love me enough."
"Percy…"
"You don't love me enough to risk everything for me."
"I do love you, you know that. I don't want to be ashamed of you… of us," Oliver took a deep breath, desperately trying to hold himself together, "but I just can't… I can't give you what you need. I'm so sorry…"
*
When Percy got home from work the following evening, the flat felt different. Percy dropped his keys on the coffee table, his aged leather case following a moment after. For a long moment, he stared around the flat, wondering what was different. Why did it feel so empty? There were no magazines overflowing from the coffee table onto the sofa and all over the floor; no slightly whiffy bag of sports kits overflowing as it inched its way towards the kitchen. No mars bar wrappers sticking out from between the sofa cushions, no jumpers or hats or scarves or trainers littering Percy's nice clean floor.
No Oliver.
Oliver must have come over to collect his stuff from the flat whilst Percy was at work, Percy realised, his legs shaking. Was every room as empty as this one, he wondered, his heart beating wildly as he headed towards the bedroom. The door was shut, and although his hand rested on the door handle, Percy couldn't open it. He just couldn't bring himself to take a look around the room that for so long had meant nothing but warmth and love and happiness.
The kitchen couldn't have those connotations, could it? Percy leant back against the wall of the hall, his fingers pressing hard as he struggled with himself. Get used to it, he told himself severely, this is your flat. Your home. Oliver isn't coming back. Chocolate. That would be a good step forward. At least if he was eating chocolate he wasn't thinking about anything else.
At the kitchen door, Percy felt his heart stop. Clutching the door frame until his fingers ached, he stared into the room, his mind frantically trying to erase what he'd just seen. Please, no. I'm sorry. Come back. Slowly, resolutely, Percy walked across the room, sinking down onto the wide windowsill, his brow resting on the cool pane. It was black and dark outside, but Percy couldn't see the stars.
On the kitchen table was a single yellow rose, Percy's favourite, lying beside the broken remnants of Oliver's Puddlemere United mug and a set of keys. Oliver's keys.
It was true. Oliver had left him.
*