Chapter Text
It was the dead of winter and the middle of a blizzard, yet Oliver had been adamant that they go out. Marcus looked about as convinced at four-forty seven that evening as he had at exactly five-thirty that morning, when he’d been woken by the sound of Oliver knocking about frantically. He’d had to remind Oliver rather loudly that there was no sense in trying to sand off that weird stain on their table - it was just like that - because they were going round to his family home; they weren’t coming round to their’s.
Oliver had tried to shoot him an accusatory look, but put up profoundly less resistance than he had probably hoped to when Marcus just sighed, put him over his shoulder and headed back to their bedroom. Turned out, Oliver had woken with a start roughly an hour earlier from a dream of similar impending arrival - his family visiting them instead - that had been so visceral, he proceeded to then have a cleaning panic. Marcus was sure he’d have tried to peel up the skirting boards and hammer new ones in, if he’d let him.
Presently, he was frowning at Oliver as he gestured to the hellish flurry of wind and ice that raged outside of their large window. “Wood.” he’d said, incredulous.
“Flint.” Oliver returned, sniffing primly.
“We’re gonna freeze our tits off.” he said plainly. He knew full well that his protest was falling upon deaf ears, however. They’d agreed months ago to go to the Wood family home for the holidays and the man had been dead set on it ever since. Marcus could hardly blame him though, could he? Oliver wouldn’t say it - not to him, not out loud - but he’d been aching to see his family. To finally be able to be open with them about… Everything.
Where they lived, who he lived with, hell, who Marcus not only was, but who he was to him specifically. Up until they’d agreed to go, neither had quite realized how much of their lives they’d fought tooth and nail to keep underwraps. For Marcus it hadn’t been anything horribly far out of the ordinary - a staunch, pureblood upbringing tended to have that effect - but it had been crushing for Oliver, who had felt the distance from his family doubly so afterwards.
“Well, then wear a thicker jacket.” Oliver supplied helpfully, doing his best to shoot a withering look at him as he whipped his scarf around himself, the end swinging up to lightly whap the tassels in his face. Marcus almost laughed at the sight as Oliver sputtered, cheeks red as he muttered to himself indignantly and went to hunt down his gloves, instead settling for a bitter sweet smile with dread riding in on its coattails.
He couldn’t help but wonder if the distance would result in more trouble once they broke the news. Oliver was insistent that it wouldn’t, in the way that he always was when he was dead set on one outcome. As if he couldn’t bare the thought of having to consider the alternative. Marcus instead mulled it over for the both of them, having spent long nights awake trying to work out how he could possibly manage to console him if things should go awry.
* * *
As they appeared with a whirl just outside the doorstep of a small, stone house with a thatched roof and a steady stream of smoke billowing from the chimney, Marcus thought to himself that it all rather looked to be out of a documentary. The railing outside the very small porch, just outside the doorway looked worn and handmade, notched together securely and holding resiliently against the gale. The rest of the space around them was hard to make out, for the wind and ice that whipped at them mercilessly, but if Marcus squinted he could make out the vague shapes of enormous trees swaying and bending hesitantly in the force of the storm.
For a moment, he wondered if they should worry about something being knocked loose, hurtling towards the small home, but a glance to Oliver suggested that he hadn’t even registered the thought as a worry. Instead, he seemed bright eyed and anxious, a mixture of excitement and dread all at once, and Marcus felt his heart sink a little. He wanted it to go well, if only for Oliver’s sake. He couldn’t bare the thought of the heartbreak it would cause him if they shut him out on account of him.
Before Oliver could take a step forward to escape the storm, Marcus pulled him back against his chest and looped his arms around him securely. If he’d protested, which he was fairly certain he had, the words were lost to the winds. He smiled a bit as he felt a sigh shake Oliver’s shoulders within his grasp, the other resigning to stay in the cold for just a moment longer as he brought gloved hands up to rest on Marcus’s arms.
He hoped that it went well. For Oliver’s sake.
After they’d managed to peel themselves from the front walk where they’d only partially frozen, they were enveloped into the warmth of the house readily, and greeted by Mrs. Wood, who was all smiles and hugs. Well, Oliver was. “Aye, there's th'lad! It’s so good to see ye!” Mrs. Wood exclaimed, patting her son’s back heartily as they clung to one another. They’d both been feeling the strain of the absence in particular, by the look of it.
Marcus was, unsurprisingly, met with a bit of surprise and apprehension as he ducked through the doorway and towered over the both of them. Marcus was hardly phased by it; really, he’d be more surprised to have been welcomed in with open arms as if he were anyone else. Oliver, ever the optimist, elected to take it in stride.
Something that was mirrored by Mrs. Wood, who had recovered quickly to smile warmly at Marcus once Oliver had been released. “Well, who’ve y'brought round, Oliver -- Come in, lad, let’s get y'both out of the storm!” she offered cheerily, holding Marcus at arms length a moment before brushing past to shut the door tight against the winds.
"Well, mum," Oliver said cheerily, trying to hide the near desperation that threatened to waver his voice and shake his confidence as he hung up his coat. "This is my boyfriend, Marcus Flint." The words were said simply, without batting a lash and Marcus didn’t catch the combination of alarm and concern look that crossed Mrs. Wood’s face, nor the hurt that, for a split second, instantly color’s Oliver’s, despite his best efforts. Instead for a moment, it felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room. For a moment, Marcus is frozen in place, the only movement being his heart hammering away in his chest.
The seconds that follow feel like hours and Marcus waits. Waits for the inevitable argument, the yelling, the screeching, the crash of important, loved objects being thrown in a heated objection; the 'How could you's, the, 'We raised you better's, the, 'He's a Flint, have you any idea what this means for our family's... But they never come.
The sounds of the space around him float past him like fog, unregistered as his gaze finds purchase focusing unyieldingly on... What had to be the most bizarre wallpaper he'd seen for an age, and for a moment he almost considered it, brows furrowing. But the words spoken around him - not quite heated - or, possibly even to him sounded as if he were under water, trying to tune in to the world above and he knew he should be listening, but the cold sweat that had wrapped itself around him kept him frozen as the seconds passed.
Marcus hadn't quite realized he'd essentially blacked out for a good moment after Oliver had spoken, something akin to pure, unbridled fear having unfurled within his chest and stretched out within him to curl itself around his spine. Fear... Fear of what, fear of judgement? Hardly. Fear of being forced to part from Oliver, because there's no way he, Marcus Flint, would begin to be worth fighting for in a million years if his family were to hand him an ultimatum? Undoubtedly.
"Marcus?" Oliver called, his tone worried in the way that it always is when he clammed up.
The light touch of Oliver's hands as he came to stand in front of him, holding both his own visibly startled him from his internal nosedive and he frowned, confused as he finally managed to tune in to the ever more worried look from Oliver. He seemed… Upset, eyes a little misty and brows knit, but didn’t hold his gaze for long. Distantly, he could hear someone else fretting in the background, scooting about, but he couldn't bring himself to look away.
"'M alright." he supplied after a moment. Oliver noded mutely, squeezing Marcus’s hands as he stared downward. Marcus returned the gesture and opened his mouth - whether to ask if Oliver was alright or offer to take him home, back to their flat he wasn’t sure - but shut it again as Mrs. Wood rounded the corner, glass of water in hand and tittering softly at the both of them. He did his best to look appreciative between the, 'Oh, sorry dear's, and the, 'We really hadn't meant to give ye such a fright's, but supposed he probably just looked vaguely uncomfortable as she continued to fret.
She gave both of them an apologetic look before rounding the corner again - “Back in just a tick, I’ve got to check on supper!” - as Oliver assured her that they'd be alright and took the glass as Marcus shrugged off his own coat, leaning up to press a gentle, reassuring kiss to his lips. “They’ll love ye, I’m sure of it.” Oliver promised. He hoped. With his free hand, he reached up to caress his cheek gently, thumb rubbing slowly over his cheekbone. Marcus lets his eyes shut for a moment as he leaned in to the touch, one of his own hands coming up to hold Oliver’s in place, just for a moment.
He merely hummed in response before turning his head to kiss Oliver’s palm, lips lingering before pulling away and turning their hands in order to lace their fingers together. “As long as you do,” he said, watching as Oliver’s gaze softened. He felt his cheeks warm at the smile that curled Oliver’s lips and looked away, suddenly too welled up with the swirling emotion of the evening thus far as he mirrored a small smile of his own anyway. “‘S all that matters.”
* * *
There had been blissfully little time to mingle, as they’d managed to show up rather close to when they were meant to be sitting down to tuck in. Possibly fortunately for them, this meant less time fielding pointed questions posed casually from cousins and uncles, who would be tutted at by kind aunts who - in all honesty wanted to know as well - but insisted they, “Let th'lads at least sit down first”. Instead, inquiries were saved for the more formal affair of a sit down meal, with the pretence being one of at least slightly more tact, as was only polite.
As they were shuffled into the dining room, Marcus did his best to not look wildly out of place amongst the other guests as they took their seats, but it was something that was increasingly hard to do for all the glances that were sent his way from relatives in brightly colored, knitted jumpers; a mustard yellow here, a carmine red there, and a mildly splotchy green, for flavor.
Oliver, he noted, matched him, more than he did his family. While he had opted for standard black, as he was want to do, Oliver had gone for a navy so dark one might think he was trying to blend into him. He couldn’t quite seem to mind the idea.
He paid no mind to the muffled whispering as he’d pulled out Oliver’s chair for him, offering a small, wary smile in exchange for Oliver’s own before taking his place beside him. Once seated, they had a chance to take in the spread set out across an almost comically long dinner table, and revel in the smell of the feast. Their supper consisted of cock-a-leekie and cullen skink, each served in two large, white and green heirloom soup tureens. Between either tureen was a truly magnificent looking turkey, a deep, lovely golden brown, and being passed around were large, lovely plates of roast potatoes and parsnips, stuffing, brussel sprouts and two sizable plates of kilted sausages.
As Marcus quietly marvelled at the spread, he felt a pang in his chest. No wonder Oliver had been missing home so sorely the closer they’d gotten to the year's end. Holidays at Flint manor had been considerably more frigid, from as far back as he could remember. More… Transactional, than anything. They showed up, put on finery, made a show of their wealth with exactly one decent act for a thimble’s worth of their funds for the year to impress the papers, ate in silence and then retired to their individual rooms.
When he’d been small, his parents - and by that, he really only meant his mother - had put in the effort to make things a little less gloomy with gift giving, for his benefit. It had been lovely, given the circumstances, and at the time he’d simply thought that that was how it was done. A few small gifts left in one’s room to unwrap and enjoy and hide later, lest his father find out. It had been lovely… Given the circumstances.
The tradition had fallen by the wayside when his mother had fallen ill, much to Marcus’s confusion. The gifts had never had any indication as to whom they’d been from, they’d just appeared. On birthdays, on holidays, while he’d been at school, if he’d been struggling little wrapped boxes would appear on his bed or nightstand. Sometimes they would appear just because. Once his mother had fallen ill however, things had slowed significantly and he’d stuffed down the hurt that flared with each missed marker, opting instead to channel that elsewhere. Quidditch had really been more of a godsend than anything.
“Lovely spread, aye?” Oliver asked, nudging him gently with his elbow. The unreadable expression that had settled on his features eased a bit as he nodded, gaze softening as he turned to Oliver. “Yeah, never… Had anything like it, really.” he replied, with a tone that he’d really only meant for Oliver. However, it seemed he’d spoken just a little too loud, or those gathered around them were a little too eager to be able to begin asking questions.
“Wot’s tha’ lad?” an elderly uncle in a very, very orange sweater, just across from them piped up. “What d’ye mean ye’ve no’ had such a spread? Yer a Flint, aren’t ye, wot’s yer usual fare?” Word of who it was Oliver had brought along had spread quickly, it seemed. Beside him, he could hear Oliver sigh in exasperation in that way that he does when he’s ready to wind up for a lecture. “Uncle Callum --” he began, frowning, but Marcus merely shook his head.
“I’m a Flint,” he said calmly, not batting a lash at the quiet gasps and tittering that sounded off. “Marcus Flint, to be exact, I’m sure there’ve been stories.” Down the table, a cousin cackled as Oliver grimaced a bit, his face going ruddy. There most certainly had been, ranging from complaints about quidditch - two whole months of screechy ranting in particular when Marcus had been deemed captain of the Slytherin team - as well as an embarrassing amount of pining, though he’d kept the descriptions vague. He couldn’t have his family, cousins in particular, working out who he’d meant. He’d have never heard the end of it at home or at school.
“My family doesn’t really take part in celebrating the holidays. Not for a few years now, at any rate, though I suppose Ivor still makes his one charitable donation a year. He’s always been rather fond of his seasonal portrait in the Prophet.” he sneered, jabbing a potato with his fork.
Anyone else might have been uncomfortable in the dead silence that followed, but Marcus couldn’t even begin to seem bothered by it. He’d long since grown accustomed to staring and hounding, and had been informed in no uncertain terms throughout the entirety of his life that his particular sob story had been nothing worth getting out of bed for, much less writing home about.
Save for Oliver. For reasons unknown, Oliver had elected to indignantly dig his heels in and squabbled and fought with him until he’d managed to claw his way into his good graces, tooth an nail, spitting curses the whole way. Once he had, well, Marcus couldn't bare the thought of letting him go any more than Oliver could bare the thought of leaving, and the rest was history, wasn’t it?
He felt Oliver’s hand come to rest on his knee as the rest of the Wood family shook out of their stupor, still chomping at the bit with more questions. The most pressing of which being, “Ivor, lad, is tha’ yer Da’? D’ye really use yer Da’s first name?” The question was posed from the other end of the table from a short aunt with very tall hair, styled in a sort of frosted swathe.
“Don’t see why not.” was the nonchalant reply. “Not as if he minds; he’d probably be uncomfortable if I called him anything else, really.”
From beside the tall haired aunt, a sort of squeaky voice piped up with, “Tha’s so cool!” The boy, who couldn’t have been more than eight, was swiftly lectured with lots of, ‘Oi, you’ll do no such thing Angus Evander Wood, do y’hear me?’ and ‘Wha’ would yer poor Da say, if he could hear such codswallop!’ There was little time to chuckle as the other end of the table busied themselves with chatting, for another question pressed forward, put forth by the previous relative across from them - Callum, if memory served.
“Is tha’ why yer here then, lad? Don’t ye miss yer family? I’m sure our young Oliver here’s missed us all terribly, we’ve no’ seen hide nor hair o’ him since th’blue moon ‘fore last!”
“Callum.” A stern warning at the head of the table from Mrs. Wood, a mildly distressed staredown trying to especially convey the need to Not. Unfortunately for her, Callum hadn’t ever been able to read a room to save his life and was blind as a bat, and instead simply waved a hand in her general direction.
Meanwhile, the hand rested on Marcus’s knee tensed and he could practically feel the discomfort that had clutched Oliver in its grasp. If only they knew how much it had truly been tearing him up, having so many things that he felt he had to hide that it was less exhausting trying to simply stay away. Setting his utensils down gently, Marcus leaned back in his chair and resigned himself to the questioning, but really, it was just an excuse to slide his own hand under the table to hold Oliver’s.
“...Alright if I’m honest?” he asked, to which Callum nodded obligingly and Mrs. Wood sighed heavily. “We won’t fault ye fer tha’, lad.”
“I don’t miss Ivor. I’d say I doubt that he’s even noticed that I’m not there, but he…” he trailed off, a deep frown tugging at his features as his eyebrows knit together. It was almost funny, in the way that horrifically unjust things always were, that he’d never actually had to say out loud before that his father had outright hated him. He’d always been aware, never had to doubt in the slightest his opinion, or even had to do much guesswork about where he stood in the grand scheme of things as far as his father was concerned. But it had only ever been an unspoken rule of his existence.
He’d never had to acknowledge it with any real intensity; never had to hold it up to the light and debate whether or not it was something worth saying, worth suffering the pitying glances and polite sympathies. Suddenly, the room felt remarkably warm, far too much for comfort. Beside him, Oliver twisted in his chair to face him, bringing up his free hand to rest on his arm. “Marcus--” he began, only to be interrupted by Callum.
“Oi, let th’lad say his piece, th’lot o’ye!”
From the hard frowns and mounting protest that were being pointed in Callum’s direction, it was almost hard to hear Marcus, whose voice had gone rather small, as he’d stared through his plate, rather than at it. “He disowned me.” Marcus thought for a moment he must have imagined himself having said it, for the great flapping that was coming from across the table, the protests getting more and more under way, interjected with, “Wot was tha’lad, cannae hear ye!”
Marcus had been too focused on his plate to notice the ghostly look of horror on Oliver’s face, having heard him the first time. He’d never had to tell anyone that his father hated him before. It had always just been an unspoken rule, a known thing.
“He disowned me.” he growled out, anger sparking to life in his voice before dying on the suddenly uneven exhale. "So as far as he's concerned, I'm not a Flint. Never was." He was shaking. The room felt far, far too hot for comfort, like he’d stepped into a great furnace. He muttered something along the lines of, ‘excuse me’ and refused to look at any of them as he pushed back from the table and stalked out of the room, leaving the Wood family to look on in silence as he disappeared.
Oliver sat, caught between horrified and stunned with the hand that had been resting against Marcus’s arm pressed to his mouth. For a long, long stretch they all sat in silence, as if entranced, unable to move. But the spell was broken by Angus, no more than eight, who interrupted with, “What does disowned mean?” The moment those words were uttered, an uproar broke out and Oliver bolted, like a shot in the direction Marcus had gone.