None of this is supposed to happen.
Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood are standing alone in the middle of an empty Quidditch stadium, as silent and unmoving as statues. The breeze ruffles their hair, sends their robes flapping around their legs.
Oliver didn't come here for this. He came to practice for the match, which, he vaguely remembers, is tomorrow. If he doesn't practice, Gryffindor won't win. Gryffindor will lose. And Oliver hates to lose. In fact, he's obsessed with winning. Anyone on the Gryffindor Quidditch team could tell you that.
So why is it, he thinks, that whenever Marcus - Marcus of all people, a person he should hate - is around, he forgets his need to win? Why is it that whenever Marcus touches him, or even looks at him, everything else falls away, and the only thing Oliver needs is him?
These thoughts come to him - how could they not? - but he doesn't think about them too much. Why bother? It won't change anything. Won't change that he loves Marcus Flint.
"Marcus," his voice comes out ragged, hoarse. Pathetic. His breath is warm on Marcus' thumb, which is still languidly stroking Oliver's lower lip. Every touch tingles on the brunette's skin, sending pulsing warmth down his spine. How could this be wrong, as Marcus keeps telling him? "Why won't you let me love you?" His voice breaks slightly. He's asked it so many times before, but it's never any less humiliating. Again and again, once then twice, until he lost count, confessing his love to someone who didn't return the feeling. Flint smirks.
"You like to win, right Wood?" Oliver blinks away the tears, swiftly batting his lashes. He hates it when Marcus calls him Wood.
"Yes." A sigh ghosting from between Slytherin lips.
"Wood. Love is a game you can't win. If you fall in love... you lose." Then the touch is gone, leaving his skin bare against the cool wind. Oliver's left standing there, feeling frozen and alone, watching the bulky boy's receding back.
His next words are too soft, and Flint is too far away, and their sound is spoken to the cold air of the empty stadium.
"...I don't care if I lose."
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Marcus tells himself every time he sees that look in Oliver's eyes that he doesn't care. That he's only in it for the sex. The only thing he wants from Oliver Wood is a good fuck. If that's true, then why do you hold back to keep from hurting him? a voice whispers in his mind. Why do you go to him with no intention of having sex? He tries to bury the voice beneath other thoughts. Slytherins don't love Gryffindors, and vice versa; not to mention that boys don't love other boys. They just don't. Simple as that. He knew that - he wanted Oliver to know that too. Why do you want him to know it? the voice is there again. 'So I don't have to see that look in his eyes anymore,' he mentally snaps back. Why don't you enjoy the longing in his eyes, the hurt? You're in Slytherin, you like hurting people, right? If you really don't care about him, it shouldn't matter. He strangles the voice in his mind, killing it.
He doesn't love Wood.
Wood shouldn't love him.
He tries not to dwell on the fact that he never wins any of his arguments against the voice. A different voice pipes up: Because you're wrong. You do care about him. He pushes this voice away, too. He must be going mad. He doesn't care about Wood.
He doesn't.
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Neither of them can remember how it happened. How hatred and rivalry fell away, leaving... this. Whatever 'this' is.
Oliver doesn't care. All he knows is that he loves Marcus. Simple as that. He loves Marcus, and he gives himself over to that feeling, embraces it totally. His love is unconditional. He doesn't care that it's 'wrong,' it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except Marcus. Quidditch, his reputation, even winning isn't important anymore. He would give it all up for Marcus. He decided this a long time ago.
Marcus Flint is a different story.
Marcus does care. He knows that he shouldn't love Oliver. He doesn't love Oliver. He refuses to love Oliver. Because this isn't supposed to be happening, and it's wrong on so many different levels.
All he wanted was a good shag.
So how did it turn into this?
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Oliver's in his lap, now, facing him, long legs draped through the back of the chair. He's happy. Smiling. His fingers run through short dark hair. Marcus can almost let himself forget that it shouldn't be happening. Oliver's slim body, so near his, can let him almost forget. His large hands rest on the small of Wood's back. They sit for a while, Marcus raunning his hands over the other boy's back, Wood raking his fingernails over Marcus' scalp. Oliver is the one that breaks the silence. He's always the one to break the silence. Marcus can tell he's about to say it. He's said it so many times. Again and again, telling Marcus the words he least wants to hear.
"I love you, Marcus," his voice is thick with emotion. He knows where this is going to go.
"You shouldn't."
"But I do," Oliver's chin is quivering.
"You can't." Marcus stands, dumping the slimmer boy off of him. He leaves without looking back. Like he always does.
And, as always, Oliver's words are lost, spoken only to an empty room.
"I do."
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Marcus will never admit that he loves Oliver. So Oliver has to say it. Again and again.
Marcus must love him. He can see it, feel it. Every time they're alone, and Marcus slips his hand possessively into Oliver's back pocket, or hooks a finger under his belt to pull him closer, he thinks he can see it.
Marcus has to love him.
It would hurt too much if he didn't.
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They're lying naked across Oliver's bed, hot and sweaty and panting. Basking in the afterglow. Oliver grins weakly at Marcus, chest heaving.
Marcus snakes his arm around Oliver's waist, pulling the smaller boy towards him and kissing his ear. They fall into an easy rhythm, breath in sync with breath, chests rising and falling in unison. Oliver's brown eyes flutter closed, his body relaxing into the Slytherin's. Marcus takes this oppurtunity to let his eyes rove over the Gryffindor's body, picking out the things that he loves about the other boy's physique, things he's seen a thousand times before and never gets tired of. Muscles rippling under smooth, tanned skin, the curve where neck meets shoulder...
His body isn't even what you love about him most. Damnit. That smug voice again. You could do without the sex, as long as Oliver's near you. Marcus grits his teeth. 'Shut up,' he thinks back at the voice. 'You don't know what you're talking about.' Oh but I do...
Marcus abruptly pushes Oliver away, swings his legs over the side of the bed. He starts picking his clothes up off the ground. Oliver sits up, feeling the prick of tears in his sinuses.
"Marcus?" his voice is high, lonely, and hurt. The Slytherin doesn't look up. Oliver swallows around the lump in his throat. "Don't leave," his voice is barely above a whisper. Marcus doesn't respond. He pulls on his pants, his robes. Oliver can feel it again, the thing inside him that keeps breaking. A strangled sob, muffled by a pillow, breaks the cold silence in the room as Marcus Flint strides out the door, not looking back.
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He's drifting slowly back into consciousness, feeling achy and sore. His eyes are still closed, and he doesn't remember where he is. Warm sheets are pulled over him, he's still wearing his clothes... and someone is stroking his hair.
Oliver.
He opens his eyes slightly, seeing through the slight opening that he's in the hospital wing. Oliver's face is above him, gazing lovingly down at Marcus. He's singing something - a lullaby, by the sounds of it - his voice feather-soft and lonely-sounding in the empty room. He wavers slightly on the high notes. He notices that Marcus is awake, and stops singing.
"You all right, Marcus?" he says kindly, still running his fingers through the Slytherin's bangs. Marcus grunts. A small smile graces Oliver's lips. "That was quite a fall you had..." Marcus can feel the tug of sleep again. He's only half-listening to Oliver talk about the bludger that (apparently) hit him during the Quidditch match, knocking him off his broom. Just before he's plunged into blissful slumber, he can hear Oliver's voice, saying "I love you, Marcus."
He pretends he doesn't hear.
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Happy Birthday, Marcus.
He stares at Oliver in front of him, smiling nervously, clutching a package wrapped in bright paper. "I, uh... I got you a present," the Gryffindor says, holding it out. Marcus just looks at it.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Oliver's grin is faltering slightly, and he starts looking crestfallen. "Do... do you want it?" he says softly, blinking rapidly. Marcus grits his teeth. This was going to be harder than he thought.
"Wood... No." Oliver's arm falls to his side. Marcus is using his surname again. "Wood. This can't go on anymore. Stop coming to see me. Stop talking to me." He can tell Oliver doesn't take him seriously - he's said stuff like this before. "Wood! I'm serious. I never want to see you again. Ever."
Oliver feels like the floor has dropped out from under his feet.
A/N: I'm not sure the writing in this is that good... but ohwell. Just so you know, the different events are all pretty random, just to show you what their relationship is like. Well, I hoped you liked it (especially bimupp, for whom this is written). Review, please! Tell me what you liked/didn't like about the fic. Oh, and the more reviews I get, the sooner I'll post the next chapter. This scene continues in the next chapter.