Work Text:
Sneaking out past curfew is hard.
It’s been seven years, and Oliver still hasn’t been able to manage slipping by the Fat Lady without her reprimands. And the sound of her talking is always a red alert for Mrs. Norris to come slinking by – Filch is the last thing anyone needs.
Honestly, the fact that he rooms with Percy should be enough to make him very, very adept at breaking the rules under the radar. Yet as he stumbles over his shoelaces, Oliver’s pretty sure that Percy plays both blind and deaf, because while he’s graceful on a broom, his feet never want to cooperate.
The shit he does to meet up with Marcus – Oliver can’t help being a little glad that they’re leaving Hogwarts soon.
That is – if they can last past Hogwarts. Oliver tries not to admit it, but the countless nights he’d stayed awake planning each step of his future always has the Slytherin playing a part. Marcus, on a professional team. Marcus and him in a flat together. Marcus, watching at his matches, little smirk on his face that only Oliver knows indicates he’s proud.
He doesn’t want to face the possibility that all of his plans (his dreams, really) aren’t going to come to fruition. They have to.
But he’s terrified of the possibility, the failure, all the same.
A whisper of the paintings shakes Oliver out of his reverie, and he treads quickly to the second floor, darting into the empty classroom that they use to meet. Marcus is there already, levitating a small apple with a bored expression on his face.
“You’ve gotten better at it.” Oliver says, nodding towards the floating fruit.
Marcus grunts in response, letting the apple float towards his outstretched hand. The Slytherin takes a large bite out of it, before tossing the rest into the waste-bin. Oliver watches as Marcus fiddles with his wand, mouth turned down in a scowl – there’s obviously something on his mind, but Oliver doesn’t know what yet.
“So – your House still pissed they lost?” Oliver asks, because while Quidditch is safe ground, his boyfriend had been sore at losing the House Cup a couple of days ago. If there’s anything that’s bothering Flint, it’s probably that.
Marcus snorts. “They’ll get over it. I’d like to see the whiny lot on a broom.” He glares sullenly at the floor.
Oliver knows he’s wounded Marcus’ pride, that Slytherin expected Marcus to cinch another win. But Harry had (finally) been able to attend, and at the end of the day, a Firebolt just can’t be out-flown. Even with all of Marcus’ tricks, dirty or not.
Oliver sidles up to Marcus tentatively, taking a seat on the table at the front of the room. He can feel Marcus’ warmth emanating through his thin school shirt – it’s always comforting, being next to the Chaser.
“You still mad at me, then?”
Marcus’ head jerks up. “M’not mad.” He says, and Oliver snorts at the trace of guilt he hears in his boyfriend’s voice.
“Sure you weren’t.”
Marcus has the good grace to look sheepish. “Alright, fine. Bloody unfair you lot have a Firebolt.”
“Slytherin got Nimbus 2001’s last year!”
“A Firebolt, Wood, you’re comparing Nimbuses to a Firebolt?” Marcus scoffs, but he lets Oliver thread their fingers together all the same.
Oliver grins. “Sorry.” But he’s not, and Marcus knows it.
“Whatever, Wood,” Marcus says, flicking a piece of lint off of his robes, “Magpies sent me a letter this morning.”
Oliver waits for Marcus to continue, but the Slytherin just stares at their intertwined fingers. “And?”
There’s no way the Magpies don’t want Marcus, because even with all the dirty tricks, he’d flown spectacularly in their last match – Oliver should know because keeping him from scoring had been harder than ever.
“Reserve chaser, as of graduation.”
Oliver gives a quiet whoop. “That’s great, Marcus, Merlin, I’m proud.” He tries to loop his arms around Marcus’ shoulders, but the Slytherin stands and moves a little further, slowly pulling his hand away.
“But they want me to go train. Bulgaria’s where the best chasers are made, according to them.”
Oliver’s breath stops short. “Bulgaria?”
“Apparently.” And Marcus is staring down at the ground again, sullen.
“That’s – far.” Is all Oliver manages to say, because he sees the little stupid daydreams he’s been entertaining himself with crumbling to pieces in real time.
Marcus rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no shit, Wood. Kind of puts a damper on things, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose.” Oliver says cautiously, because his mind’s going on overdrive and he’s not sure if Flint’s sour attitude is because of the thought of going so far, or because they’re going to have to break this off. They’re seventeen (eighteen, in Marcus’ case) for Merlin’s sake, and for them to tie each other down is absurd. Oliver knows it’s absurd, knows he’s thinking too far ahead but.
But when he was eleven, he’d dreamt up plans to win the Quidditch Cup, and he’d used that to fuel him all the way until now. When he was eight, he planned on playing for Puddlemere, and now a scout’s offered him a private tryout. He’s always seen the long run, always aimed for what he wanted, and he’s always gotten it.
And he wants Marcus.
(Oliver bites down the voice in his head that tells him that he loves Marcus because right now – well, right now, he’s not sure he wants to admit it.)
Marcus runs a finger along the wood of the desk, next to Oliver’s knee. “So – Bulgaria.”
“Bulgaria.”
Marcus is still looking at a point past Oliver’s shoulder, and Oliver kind of wants to punch him in the jaw to make him spit the words out faster. He doesn’t though, because that’s not what you do to someone you make out with six days out of seven (they fight at least once a week).
The Slytherin coughs lightly. “So yeah, we’ll write each other, that alright?”
Oliver doesn’t react for a moment, still waiting for the blow to hit. “Er – what?”
“We’ll write.” Marcus says.
“Uh,” Oliver stutters, “I mean – sure, we’ll - we’ll try it out…?”
Marcus gives him a rare smile, in sudden contrast to the brooding expression he had earlier. “We’ll see how it goes.”
Oliver can’t help staring at Marcus’ face blankly. And then it sets in that the person he’s in bloody fucking love with is going to be far, far away and sure, they’ll write, but he can’t just reach out for Marcus like he usually does, can’t curl around Marcus’ back, won’t get to kiss or tease or rile him up and.
It still hurts, even if they’re going to try.
He knows how his face looks – dejected, downtrodden, a list of adjectives that usually follow him around after a failed match. Marcus seems to take this the wrong way, because the Chaser pulls his hand back.
“Look, if you don’t want to, I get it. Stupid to assume.” Marcus grits out, face back to it’s thunderous expression, and Oliver quickly pulls him back as the Chaser tries to move away.
“No, that’s not what I want. I mean,” Oliver pauses to get his thoughts into words, “I mean, yes, Marcus, we’ll write and we’ll keep in touch and fuck, Bulgaria is far, but I still. I still want this. Still love you.”
Ah shit. Shit, he didn’t mean for that last part to slip out, but Marcus is looking directly at him now, gaze focused and intense. Oliver can’t find it in himself to laugh it off.
“What was that last part?” Marcus asks.
“I,” Oliver swallows, “Look, I love you, alright? Call me stupid or naïve or whatever, but I do.” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, but it’s been building in his chest for ages. Oliver’s known – known from how everything just feels better when he’s around Marcus, how he’d spend hours just watching the other man sleep, or study, and how Quidditch and Marcus Flint hold the two largest parts of his heart. They’re one and the same, really.
“Oh.” Marcus says simply, and before Oliver can panic, the Chaser’s pressing himself close and kissing him chastely. Flint’s hands are on either side of Oliver’s face, gentle and reassuring and Oliver can’t help but sigh into the kiss, tongue darting out to swipe at Marcus’ lower lip.
He knows Marcus won’t say it back. He doesn’t expect it, really. But the simple acceptance of it puts his nerves at rest.
Marcus presses his face against the crook of Oliver’s neck and they stay like that for a bit, Oliver’s fingers running through dark hair. There’s a couple weeks left before they leave Hogwarts. Before Marcus heads off to Bulgaria for Merlin knows how long. And all Oliver wants to do is keep Marcus in his arms for a little longer.
He rests his chin on the top of Marcus’ head. “Going to fucking miss you.”
“Yeah.” Marcus mumbles, then clears his throat. “But I expect you’ll be first string Keeper by the time I come back. Don’t disappoint me, Wood.”
Oliver slots their fingers together again, memorizing the feel of Marcus’ warm palm against his. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Flint.”
“Granted, it’ll probably be for Puddlemere, and they’re a disaster so-”
“I take it back, go rot in Bulgaria.” Oliver huffs, but Marcus is snickering as he presses a kiss against the underside of Oliver’s jaw.
***
“I love you.” Oliver says again, as he watches the sun play across Marcus’ broad shoulders on the train back to King’s Cross.
Marcus kisses him harshly, before turning and heading back to grab his trunk. They won’t be able to talk on the platform, will be facing parents and friends and Oliver knows the Gryffindor team is waiting with a bunch of goodbye sweets for himself as well.
He hates goodbyes. Hates endings.
As he watches Marcus’ figure disappear into a random compartment, Oliver tries to believe that this isn’t one.