Outsiders: Part Eight of Ten
by Sunsetmog
Other fiction can be found at livejournal dot com slash sunsetmogfics
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of J.K.Rowling and her publishers. No infringement or harm is intended.
Beta by KrakenWakes.
The last people Oliver expected to see at a Puddlemere United friendly match were Fred and George Weasley. Well actually, if he thought about it long and hard, there were other people he would less expect to see at a Puddlemere United friendly match; people like his Grandmother or even Dumbledore; but that was beside the point. Oliver spotted the twins at about the same time as he was blindsided by a well-aimed bludger; in the inordinately long time it took him to fall the fifteen feet to the ground, his scrambled, double-visioned brain had made out four identical gangly red heads on the sidelines. Once he'd actually landed on the ground, groaning slightly, and staring up at the sky with a bemused expression on his face, he'd shaken his head and hoped to God that the four heads he had seen on his passage down were the twins, otherwise he was in a lot more trouble than he'd originally thought.
Oliver was playing like shite. He'd clearly left his defensive skills at home, and he'd let in goal after goal from the vastly superior Dagenham Warriors (ranked seventh in the Quidditch first division, four time winners of Best Quidditch League team in the last decade). Puddlemere United hadn't even reached the upper echelons of the second division in the previous season, and Oliver's dismal performance as reserve keeper over the previous few weeks would just about guarantee his permanent relegation from the first team. He was wondering what sort of job he could possibly choose now his Quidditch career was virtually over, and contemplating what qualifications were required to become a full time gardener when a bludger whizzed past his head and through the hoop.
"Shit." Oliver closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
He hadn't even seen it coming. Too depressed even to blush, Oliver attempted to drown out the catcalls and the chants of 'Wood's going home in a bloody ambulance' by half-heartedly swooping around his own defence. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Weasley twins with their arms folded, frowning.
They did not look happy at all, and for a fleeting moment, Oliver wondered whether they'd come here to take turns to punch him for breaking up with Percy. But, he reasoned with himself, Percy had promised to keep Oliver's name out of all conversations regarding Percy's sexuality, and Percy never broke a promise. Nevertheless, he couldn't quell the cold feeling which was currently snaking its way down his chest. His mind wandered to where Percy was, and the ache of longing and loneliness he'd been attempting to quell set up its undulating thump in his chest. It had been sixteen days since he'd last seen Percy; fifteen days since he'd cleared the majority of his belongings out of Percy's flat. Fifteen days since he'd thrown that mug across the kitchen floor and watched it shatter, the regret hitting him immediately. Percy had bought that Puddlemere United mug for him, a couple of weeks after they finally established that what they were embarking upon was a fully blown, adult relationship.
"It's so you've got something to drink out of," Percy had explained with a blush.
Oliver hadn't known how to react to such a gift, so had grinned, and pulled open Percy's beautifully ordered and immaculate kitchen cupboards, indicating the rows of identical, spotless, duck egg blue mugs and matching plates. "Is your crockery too good for me or something?" he'd asked, wondering out loud if his next gift was to be a personalised plate and cutlery set.
"No… of course not, I just wanted…"
"Shut up, Perce," Oliver had laughed, and grabbed hold of Percy's belt loop, pulling him closer, "I'm touched." And then, as he'd kissed the end of Percy's freckled nose, he'd murmured, "Overwhelmed, actually."
Percy had smiled, shyly, and his hands had slid around Oliver's waist. "I'm glad you like it," he'd said quietly, his lips grazing Oliver's, Oliver's breath warm against his, "I wanted you to be at home here."
Oliver had pulled Percy even closer, surprised. Percy had never purported to be much of a Quidditch fan and apart from that one moment when Griffindor had succeeded in finally wrenching the Quidditch cup away from the sweaty grasp of their rivals (where Percy had forgotten where he was for a split second and jumped up and down in public), Oliver had long been of the opinion that Percy's awareness of the sport was of the same type as, say, his awareness of the existence of pirates or rabbits. Nothing more than a dim recognition, catalogued somewhere deep in the recesses of Percy's brain, shut behind a door with a red cross on it, meaning 'no daily relevance – no necessity for stickers or different coloured inks'. Oliver had thought this to be especially true since Percy had left school, for everyday conversation about Quidditch was no longer a part of Percy's life. The revelation that Percy not only actively acknowledged the existence of Quidditch, but also knew where the Puddlemere United merchandise shop was, had come as a nice surprise to Oliver, (who had previously considered the possibility that he may have to explain his job to Percy with the aid of flashcards and diagrams). Secondly, Oliver was aware that Percy offering him his own mug was tantamount to him offering a second set of keys and asking him to be his next of kin, such was Percy's determinedly private nature when it came to his personal space and possessions. To Oliver, who was generally considered useful only if somebody required a hoop defended, or a broomstick polished, such ready acceptance was almost enough to make a grown man well up. Or, in Oliver's case, enough to demand a post present-giving shag in order that he could enjoy a post-sex cup of tea out of his new mug.
"Want to come polish my broomstick, Perce?" he'd asked, with a waggle of his eyebrows in what he'd thought was a thoroughly suggestive manner.
Considering Percy's reaction had been something akin to hysterical laughter – the kind where you start to cry, and your nose runs, and when you stop you're red and hyperventilating, Oliver had surmised that what he'd thought to be thoroughly suggestive had just looked like a nervous twitch. He had decided the best way to combat such a reaction was to sigh, blush redder than a very red thing, sling Percy over his shoulder (and pretend that he wasn't ready to drop under the weight – he was a man, and men could do such lifting exercises without collapsing in a muddy, broken puddle) and stride (wobble, slowly) into the bedroom and demand a shag.
The mug christening shag had escalated into post-shag tea drinking celebrations, which had then escalated into post-tea-drinking 'I'm thirsty Percy, take the edge off it for me' celebratory sexual activity.
And then, in one moment, Oliver had slung the mug across the room and watched it smash.
The match ended with the commentators discussing something along the lines of 'a terrible defeat for Puddlemere United… not what was required at all… Wood's mind somewhere other than the job', to which Oliver blushed red and swooped off the field, trying to ignore the jibes and hand gestures.
The changing rooms weren't much better; his manager shaking his head and sinking onto the bench, not even bothering tear strips off Oliver for his humiliating performance. It wouldn't have been worth it; Oliver's mind was most certainly not on the job. It was somewhere off with duck egg blue mugs and post-shag cups of tea. All the same, Oliver knew before he even got as far as the showers that he wouldn't be playing first team Quidditch again any time soon. As he stood and listlessly scrubbed himself down with cheap, oil-smelling soap, with the hot water running over him and his skin turning to a boiled lobster red, he contemplated what it was that he'd do now. Puddlemere United wouldn't give him the sack; there would just be no more matches until the end of the season and then his name would be on the transfer list for sure. And considering his recent history on the pitch, it was highly unlikely that any team would be putting in a bid for Oliver Wood.
The team were quiet; each player aware that they had been responsible for their fair share of the crushing defeat, but the real scorn was left for Oliver.
"You might have played better if you left your broomstick at home," one of the beaters muttered, as Oliver had been rooting through his bag for his calendula cream (Madam Hooch had sworn by it) to put on the rather large bruise currently taking shape across his face.
"Bugger off, Macbride," Oliver had shot back, not in the mood.
He stalked off out of the room without a backward glance or another word, and ran straight into the Weasley twins outside.
"You played like shit," Fred informed him, holding out a packet of boiled sweets.
"Thanks," Oliver reached for a sweet before realising that he was probably taking his life into his hands in doing so, and hurriedly dropped it back into the bag. He looked at the twins suspiciously, wondering if they knew about him and Percy. They didn't appear to be acting out of sorts… Oliver sighed. He didn't have a clue. Just go with it, and hope for the best, he told himself finally. He was thinking of adopting that as his mantra, except for the fact it didn't have the same clout as Percy's Verita, Always, Verita. Only Oliver could never remember the Latin, so it came out as some curious English-Latin hybrid.
"They're alright, these sweets," George told him, "Just picked 'em up at the stall by the toilets." And just to prove the truth of the matter, George helped himself to a red one. "Go on, you probably need the sugar boost anyway."
Oliver picked out a green one, because frankly, what did it matter if he did grow a third ear or turn into a newt. At least he'd have something a bit interesting to contend with, for a change. And it was about time Oliver remembered what courage looked like. He squared his shoulders.
"Wanna come to the pub?" Fred asked, slapping Oliver across his (bruised) shoulder. "You look like you could do with a pint."
"Not round here," Oliver shook his head; "I'll probably be lynched for disservices to Quidditch after today's performance."
"Fine. We'll apparate to the Green Dragon. I like it better there anyway; they do a mean pie and mash."
The pub was freezing cold and dark. Oliver narrowed his eyes, having never been before, but Fred and George just pushed him over the threshold and towards the muggle bar. The landlord nodded at the twins and muttered, "Go on through, lads," to which Fred and George nodded sinisterly and headed through a heavy red curtain to the back room.
Oliver nodded. This was more like it. The room was dark, despite the last vestiges of afternoon still remaining outside, but mostly because heavy curtains covered the windows and candles burnt on every surface. Dark, heavy frames littered the walls, and old Quidditch teams and school groups stared out at him, some managing to look entirely constipated, as is always the way with older photos, where smiling was something other people did.
Fred and George ordered butter beers and pie and mash three times, and then headed to the smallest table in the corner.
"Where's that bloody drink," Oliver grumbled, taking the seat nearest the fireplace. "I'm parched."
"It's coming, it's coming." George punched him on the arm, "Stop acting so desperate."
Oliver narrowed his eyes, rubbing his arm. "That was my bruise, you…"
"Boys, boys." Fred raised his eyebrows, "Enough of the histrionics. You're disturbing the other customers."
Oliver took a look around, "Um, Fred, We are the other customers. This place is empty."
"Exactly. And you're disturbing me. So shut it, both of you."
Oliver shrugged, and before he could help himself, "How are your Mum and Dad?"
A shadow flitted across Fred's face, and a small fist of fear slowly clenched in Oliver's stomach. "They're alright." Fred said shortly, closing his mouth as the bar maid appeared with their drinks.
"If you count 'alright' as meaning 'a bit bloody awful really'," George added gloomily, taking a gulp of his beer.
The fist of fear was expanding with every second. Oliver gripped his pint hard, and tried not to make eye contact with the twins. He needed to get out of here, fast, before he found out anything else slightly inflammatory. He decided to make up a previous engagement. Fast.
"I suppose you know all about it." Fred nudged Oliver, and reached for his pint, "and you probably feel just the same as we do about it. "
Oliver's palm sweated, and to save himself the embarrassment of dropping the beer all over his lap, he deposited it back on the table with a hefty clump.
"Yeah," George nodded, not seeming to notice Oliver's discomfort, and appearing not to hear the heavy thump of Oliver's heartbeat, which seemed unnaturally loud to Oliver. "We noticed that we haven't seen hide nor hair of you since Percy's, uh, announcement."
"His announcement?" Oliver's hand shook. He quickly removed it from sight, and it rested on his thigh, twitching and pulling at the denim of his jeans.
"Whatever you want to call it." Fred snorted, and shook his head. "Always knew that under all that head-boy rule-loving whatdyerm'callit, he was a complete and utter idiot."
"Should have drowned him at birth," George nodded gloomily. "Would have saved us a lifetime of him threatening to tell Mum on us every other second, and now we would have been spared the shame of him being a…" he dropped his voice to a whisper, and eyed Oliver warily, "a you know what."
"You know what?" Oliver gulped. "He, um, told your parents that?"
Fred wrinkled his nose. "Mum hasn't stopped crying since. Keeps bloody cleaning, and then she cries all over her polishing and has to start all over again. The smell is starting to drive us all loopy."
"And Dad." George shook his head. "He was well mad at the beginning, after Percy left. He disappeared into the shed and all we could hear was banging. Till bloody three in the morning! Probably enchanted every single muggle artefact he had hidden in there. If he raided his own garden he'd have to arrest himself, I reckon. Now I reckon he's trying not to remember Percy exists. Better for all of us if he didn't, I say."
Oliver blinked. And tried very, very hard to quash the feeling that he had been right – that exploring the finer details of your sexual preferences and fetishes with your nearest and dearest was something best left to other people. His fingers itched and scratched at his jeans, and he couldn't help but forget the insignificant fact that he had been right all along, because, well, Percy had been so wrong. Percy, who had had faith in his family – that they would value him above the social norms proscribed by wizarding society. Percy had loved his family and trusted them with his most innermost secrets – and to what avail? Treated as more of a pariah than he always had been, shunned and reviled by his own family. "Haven't any of you stood by him?" Oliver asked, before he could inform his brain of the decision that that was a very bad idea indeed.
George's eyes widened.
Fred's narrowed. "I haven't exactly seen you round our house much recently, Oliver."
Oliver reached for his glass again, and took a long swig. "Aye, well, maybe I wasn't so keen on him breaking the news that he's gay to all and sundry either." Oliver was proud of himself. He still hadn't implicated himself in all of this. And there it was. Suddenly. The guilt. He'd never really thought it through, that whole 'breaking up with Percy' thing. Just because Oliver wasn't there to see him, to touch him, to argue with him over who made the best hot chocolate, didn't mean that Oliver had stopped wanting him, needing him. Suddenly, all Oliver wanted to do was to stick that mug back together again, and feel Percy's slim arms slide around him, resting his freckled cheek against Oliver's neck. The smooth expanse of flat, warm skin between hip and shoulder, with no ungainly lumps or bumps – it was all he wanted. Despite all his protestations that he didn't want anybody to know about him and Percy, that he didn't want anyone to know that he found men attractive, Oliver knew full well that he could never even pretend to be satisfied with a woman. But regardless of that, Oliver knew that he still couldn't bring himself to admit the truth to Fred and George.
He couldn't bring himself to stand up for him and Percy. He still couldn't bring himself to stand up for Percy. Not even when he knew that Percy would be at his lowest ebb, when he would be feeling broken and alienated and lonely.
Oliver wasn't brave enough.
Not only had he buggered up the Quidditch match (and his career, most likely) today, he'd revealed himself as a coward as well. Oliver sighed. Realising such truths about yourself was enough to put the dampeners on any day.
He loved Percy. He knew that. Especially now, when a couple of hours had passed and he was cradling his fifth butter beer and leaning his head against the mantelpiece, desperately trying to trace Percy's likeness in the flickering flames of the fire, Oliver knew that.
Oliver was in love with Percy, but it wasn't enough.
T.B.C