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“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” Oliver huffed, slamming his locker door shut. “You’re just avoiding the storm and throwing us under the bus!”
He clipped his thumb on the edge of the locker in his anger, and swore loudly. Behind him, Flint remained unimpressed, arms folded and legs crossed from where he leaned against the wall.
“What part of Malfoy’s arm being useless don’t you understand?” Marcus sighed, rolling his eyes. He’d grown used to Oliver’s emotional outbursts – warranted this time, albeit dramatic – when not getting his way in the context of quidditch.
Oliver scoffed, tugging on his gloves in order to avoid Flint’s gaze. “Bullshit. Harry told me that it wasn’t anything that Pomfrey couldn’t fix.”
Flint sighed again. “And I’m telling you that Malfoy’s not going to play. But the point is, Wood, it’s Hufflepuff. They’re pushovers. They’re useless on offense.This is a gift, honestly.”
“Not with Diggory as captain,” Oliver shot back, “And we’ve been training to play you, haven’t we?”
“What do you want me to do? Snape signed off already.”
“Fuck Snape, then.”
“Look,” Marcus moved, and covered Oliver’s hands with his own, putting a stop to the vicious attack on loose twigs at the end of his Comet, “I’ll make it up to you, alright?”
“Fuck off,” Oliver grumbled, though now that Marcus was crowding his space it was becoming harder to ignore him. Oliver was strong, but Flint was stronger, and taller, and arguably better at caging people in from many years of experience.
Marcus flicked a stray piece of thread off of Oliver’s quidditch robes, smirking slightly. “Care to help?”
Oliver chose to ignore the come-on, and shoved past him. Practice with the rest of the team was in exactly twenty minutes, Flint had both delayed his personal warm-up by ten minutes and given him an added point of stress.
“C’mon,” Flint groaned, hooking his arm through Oliver’s and dragging him back into the locker room.
It took all of Oliver’s self-control not to wrestle his arm away from Marcus, but that would’ve devolved into a scuffle. They’d gotten into enough detentions for fights in the past, and Oliver really could not risk missing valuable practice time, now that Flint had done him the brutish disservice of blowing up his game plans. He’d have to rethink their entire defensive side, and Potter had never gone up against as good a flyer as Diggory before during bad weather, and –
“If you could get out of a game, to your benefit,” Marcus was fed up, gripping Oliver’s chin and forcing their eyes to meet, “You would too. So stop acting fucking high and mighty. What do you want, Wood? I’ll give you whatever, but the game isn’t changing.”
Before he could respond, the doors to the lockers swung open. Alicia and Angelina stopped mid-conversation at the scene before them, bags slung over their shoulders – Alicia looked uncomfortable; Angelina merely looked bored.
“Trouble in paradise?” Angelina asked, raising a well-groomed eyebrow.
Oliver removed Marcus’ hold on his chin. “You should go.”
Flint shot a dark look at the girls, but didn’t protest. He clapped a hand roughly on Oliver’s shoulder, before brushing past the girls to leave. Angelina watched him go with a grimace on her face.
“What was that about?”
“Nothing good,” Oliver muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache building at everything on his plate – practice, homework, studying for NEWTs with Percy after dinner. Leave it to Flint to add one more stupid thing to deal with. “We’re playing Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin for our next match.”
“What?” Alicia exclaimed, eyes wide, “How the hell did that happen?”
“Malfoy,” Oliver said bitterly, “I don’t know the details but apparently his arm is severely injured and he can’t play.”
Alicia wrinkled her nose. “That’s such an excuse. As if we didn’t play last year’s final without Harry, and it’s not like the Slytherins can’t come up with a reserve seeker.”
“You’d think. But apparently Snape’s already worked something out.”
“More like Flint has,” Angelina chimed in, shrugging off her bookbag. “I don’t know, Wood. I know you’re dating and all, but.”
She let the unspoken words linger, shooting a look at Oliver over her shoulder. It was one he’d become uncomfortably familiar with since Flint had become a more prominent figure in his life. He wasn’t able to find it in himself to come up with a response.
***
“Incoming,” Percy said, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exasperation because he’d been kept up the whole night by Oliver’s ranting and his suffering in relation to Oliver’s romantic woes was about to continue. He pointedly dug around in his bag, as Oliver watched Flint cutting through the bustle of the corridor, making a beeline right towards them.
“Where were you last night?” Marcus asked bluntly, completely ignoring that Percy was Head Boy and capable of taking off points at the information that he and Oliver consistently met up after curfew.
“Drawing up a new game plan, thanks to you.”
Oliver tried to side step Marcus, but he was tripped by Flint’s purposefully extended leg, and went careening into the corridor wall instead. “Oh for –”
Percy, the traitor, had melted into the crowd by the time Oliver righted himself, red hair barely visible among the throng of students making their way up to Divination. Adrian Pucey, one of the more tolerable members of the Slytherin team, shot Oliver a sympathetic look at being obstructed by Flint. Oliver grimaced – the last thing he wanted was the gossip mill at Hogwarts getting into his business.
“Fuck’s sake, Marcus,” Oliver hissed. He decided it was better to deal with his errant boyfriend than cause a scene for the whole of the second floor to watch, and dragged the two of them into a side hallway that was mercifully empty. “I was pissed, obviously.”
“You could’ve said,” Flint rolled his eyes, and if Oliver hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought Marcus was sulking. But Flints didn’t sulk – Marcus had never been anything but coolly dismissive after any arguments. It’d been something Oliver quickly learned: old pureblood upbringing caused their kids to keep a stiff upper lip, and that meant keeping a fair distance from any emotion, or romantics.
“Are you so arrogant that you couldn’t possibly understand that I’d be mad?”
“It’s a Hogsmeade weekend,” Flint ignored Oliver’s snark, “Are you going to ignore me all through that as well?”
“I wasn’t planning on going, seeing as I need all the practice time I can get,” Oliver shot back. “Wonder whose fault that is.”
He made to walk away, but Marcus once again stood in his way.
“I said I’d make it up to you,” Flint said, arms folded. “How do you suppose I do that when you’re throwing a fit?”
“You can make it up to me,” Oliver knocked his shoulder into Marcus’, “By leaving me alone until the match is done.”
He strolled past and threw a rude gesture over his shoulder as Flint’s groan filled the empty hallway.
***
For all of Flint’s faults, he knew to give Oliver a wide berth after a loss, particularly one he was responsible for. If Oliver cared less about losing, he’d probably want the consolation. But he didn’t, and Flint knew that the post match moods would eventually ease up. There was no point in words of sympathy, anyways; they’d been rivals and the reason for each other’s loss for so long that any simpering words of encouragement wouldn’t be true. But the cool down was always meant to end at some point, and so two days after the match, Marcus’ efforts renewed.
Oliver had dodged all of Flint’s attempts to talk to him during class, but it was harder to do so once Flint employed a slew of his Slytherin housemates to plead his case. Warrington was the first one dispatched, appearing over the shoulder of a disgruntled Percy after a prefect’s meeting as Oliver was attempting to finish his Transfiguration essay before class.
“Hello Wood,” Warrington said, eyeing the mess of ink on Oliver’s hands disdainfully, “Let’s make this easy, for the sake of my sanity.”
“What do you want?” Oliver narrowed his eyes — they’d exchanged all but a dozen sentences in their overlapping years together at school, and he didn’t trust Warrington as far as he could throw him off a broom.
“Are you free to meet Flint tonight?” Warrington said gruffly, face screwed up as if he had eaten a particularly sour lemon. “He’s...being adamant about it.”
“Tell him to piss off,” Oliver replied, “In those exact terms.”
“I think it’s best if you tell him yourself,” Warrington said hurriedly, “He’s – ah – a bit softer on you than the rest of us.”
“I’m not talking to him at the moment, and that’s that.” Oliver said stubbornly, ignoring Percy rolling his eyes. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
He gestured to the messy scrawl that comprised his essay, and raised a pointed eyebrow at Warrington.
“Told you,” Percy muttered.
“He’s not going to be happy about that,” Warrington tried again.
“Well, you can tell him that I don’t give a rat’s ass,” Oliver said sunnily as Warrington grimaced, “Make sure you say that exactly, too.”
***
“Wood!”
Oliver was halfway across the courtyard, sore and tired after the first practice after their loss – they’d rehashed everything that’d gone wrong, and spent an additional twenty minutes trying to figure out how exactly one fought off a dementor long enough to catch the Snitch.
The last thing he wanted was another one of Flint’s attempts to reconcile, but there it was in the form of Adrian Pucey. The fifth-year Slytherin jogged over from where he’d been reading, scarf flapping comically behind him in the wind.
“Hi,” Pucey grinned awkwardly, when he came to a stop in front of them. “Spinnet, Bell.”
He nodded in greeting to Alicia and Katie, who were hovering over Oliver’s shoulder, unsure if they should continue back to the common room. “Do you have a moment?”
“Fine,” Oliver conceded, because he liked Pucey well enough to entertain it — he was never belligerent on the field, wasn’t as aggravatingly aggressive in his chaser tactics like Warrington, and he knew Marcus had a soft spot for him, though Flint would be hard pressed to admit it.
“We’ll see you later,” Katie said with a meek wave, as Pucey directed Oliver firmly by the shoulder to the corner of the courtyard.
“You’re not stupid, Wood, you know why I’m here,” Pucey said the moment they had adequate privacy. “Flint’s been a real grump recently, and he’s starting to take it out on all of us.”
Oliver sighed. “I’m sorry, really, but I don’t need to hear it from any of you. He brought this on himself.”
“I’m sure, but you’re not making it easy for him to fix things, are you?” Pucey wheedled again. “I think he’s been trying.”
“Well, forgive me for still being annoyed, because now my Seeker is down a broom, we’re last in the house cup, and Slytherin has an easy walk-up with Ravenclaw next weekend. It’s all looking pretty good for you lot right now, isn’t it?”
Pucey sucked in his cheeks. “Yes, well.”
“Tell Marcus he can make it up to me by losing the match with Ravenclaw,” Oliver continued, “How about it?”
Pucey baulked. “We don’t want to lose –”
“Neither did we,” Oliver cut him off. “Eye for an eye, yeah?”
“I’ll pass along the message,” Adrian said weakly.
***
Are you still mad?
A dark tawny owl had deposited the short message at breakfast, landing just shy of his bowl of oatmeal. It was unsigned, but Oliver knew the handwriting in a heartbeat. Sure enough, Flint was looking expectantly at him from across the tables.
He wasn’t mad. But he was irritated that his boyfriend had decided to take the upper hand. And maybe, deep down, also a little guilty at the fact that if he’d been in Flint’s shoes, he would’ve considered the exact same. Oliver probably wouldn’t have gone through with the last minute reschedule, but he was the one with the bloody Gryffindor conscience, and it was unfair to expect Marcus to operate the same.
So he caved a little.
No. But I haven’t forgiven you yet. Oliver scribbled quickly on the backside of the paper, reattaching it to the owl’s leg. It soared back over to its owner quickly. Flint, who’d been glaring angrily at the ceiling the whole time, made a face at the returning message.
The next note was deposited onto his desk during Charms, dropped casually down from Flint’s sleeve. They’d gotten well practised at passing notes without detection, had kept their relationship a secret until it wasn’t just a bunch of snogging in locker rooms – in another circumstance, Oliver would’ve found it fun again.
I’m not throwing the match with Ravenclaw was written in stark, black ink in Marcus’ blocky script.
Fine then. Oliver folded up a fresh sliver of parchment and returned the favour on his way out of the classroom. It was to be expected – Flint would’ve never taken him up on it, even with Oliver’s affection on the line.
Even in his frustration, he liked Marcus a little more for it.
***
“Please,” Percy pleaded, dumping a handful of notes into Oliver’s lap the moment he got back to their dorm, “For Merlin’s sake, just talk to him. He’s spent all of Ancient Runes pestering me with messages to pass on to you, and it got Gryffindor docked ten points, and now Higgs keeps calling me your handler.”
“I don’t want to yet,” Oliver sniffed, “Our chances at the cup now lie in the hands of Ravenclaw, and you know that Davies—”
“To be perfectly honest,” Percy said loudly over him, “It’s been a week. You’ve dragged this out for far too long, and I’m starting to sympathise with Flint.”
Oliver gaped.
“Precisely,” Percy shuddered. “Look what you’ve done, Oliver.”
***
Oliver’s willpower was on its last legs, not only because of the sheer annoyance of Marcus’ efforts to talk to him, or admittedly missing Flint and feeling a bit guilty, but also because the bastard had gotten a haircut over the weekend and Oliver was a weak, weak, horny teenager. The sharp cut of Marcus’ jawline often jumped in annoyance in class, and each time, Oliver’s thoughts got more and more deranged. So when Marcus stalked up to him one night after dinner, face set and thunderous, and proceeded to drag him into an empty classroom, Oliver didn’t put up much of a fight.
“You’re infuriating,” Flint huffed, before shoving a neatly wrapped parcel into Oliver’s hands. “Open it.”
He had a snarky comment on the tip of his tongue, but Oliver decided maybe enough was truly enough, so he opened the parcel under the intense scrutiny of Marcus’ gaze without complaint.
Beneath the brown paper was a pair of keeper gloves that Oliver had been dreaming about for ages – a limited edition model from an elite manufacturer in Lisbon that he knew for a fact cost a decent lump of money. Just the look of them was enough to get Oliver itching to put them on for a go.
“Is this you making it up to me?” Oliver asked.
“I’ll have you know that was hard to get,” Flint said, “The shopkeeper said I’d caught the last of their shipment. It’s to apologize. I suppose I fucked up pretty badly.”
At Oliver’s judgemental face, Marcus flinched and put up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, I was a selfish dick, and I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry. I mean it. You have every right to be mad.”
Oliver felt the last of his residual anger (or pettiness, if you’d asked Percy) slip away, softening at the sight of Flint so uncomfortable, so eager to avoid his gaze. Their arguments normally resulted in non-verbal apologies, so it was a testament to Flint’s earnestness that he’d even uttered the words. Pride was something every Slytherin had in spades.
And they were rather nice gloves.
Before Oliver could accept Flint’s apology, Marcus swore under his breath and kicked the leg of the desk in front of him. “I understand if you wanna call things off.”
Oliver blinked. “What? Why would I do that?”
Marcus shrugged. “You’ve avoided me for what, a week? — not too far of a stretch.”
It was the pale pink to Flint’s cheeks and the dejected slope of his shoulder that made Oliver reach for him, settling next to Marcus where he’d been sitting on the empty professor’s desk, long legs sprawled out. Flint relaxed slightly.
“I never even thought of it, even when I wanted to rip your head off,” Oliver said honestly. “And okay, I shouldn’t have dodged you for that long. So — I accept your apology. And forgive you.”
“Really?” Flint asked, still wary. “You’re last in the house cup because of me.”
“Don’t remind me,” Oliver chewed the inside of his cheeks, “But not entirely, I mean – storm. Dementors. And if I’d been in your place, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”
Marcus’ surprise was quickly won over by a grin that was almost prideful. “Rubbing off on you, Wood?”
“I like winning,” Oliver said simply.
“I’m well aware,” Flint snorted, then he let his whole body sink against Oliver’s side. It felt nice, to have that solid warmth beside him again, and Oliver realised for the first time how he’d missed it. Just being in Marcus’ presence again made Oliver feel clingy, and soft, and he did not like the fluttering in his stomach, a neediness for Flint’s affection that he’d kept at bay over the past week. He allowed himself to twist his hand into the bottom of Marcus’ sweater.
This was what Angelina, and the twins, and Percy didn’t get. That Marcus let him have his moods and his pettiness and never faulted him for it, even when he more than could. That Flint would never think negatively for the enormity of his quidditch ambitions.
“And if it wasn’t clear, I’m not breaking up with you, dipshit.”
“Good,” Marcus said, and he stroked the base of Oliver’s neck absentmindedly. “Because I told my parents that you’d be coming over after Christmas already, and I’d have no idea how to explain.”
“Merlin,” Oliver groaned, “I don’t want to sit through your father slandering the Scottish national team again.”
Flint laughed, deep and full. “They should be less shit then.”
“They’re underfunded !”
“Still shit,” Flint cuffed the back of his head and had seemed to decide enough was enough, and pulled Oliver in by the tie for a snog.
“They’re not! –” Oliver attempted between kisses, “– with proper funding –”
Flint was always good at distracting him like this, because Oliver’s arguments faltered quickly, losing himself in a top lip messy kiss that made his entire body flush. The stupid haircut and Flint’s stupid jaw had already gotten under his skin, and the way that Marcus was now inching his hands up underneath his shirt was making it hard to defend the honour of his national team.
“What was that?” Marcus said after he’d made Oliver’s head spin, looking far too pleased at his own handiwork.
“Get over yourself,” Oliver huffed, and then he pushed his laughing boyfriend up against the desk for a better angle to keep snogging at.