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They’d had a fight – a big, royal fight, the type that ended in overturned chairs and slammed doors and Oliver running out of the house, and Marcus wants to tear after him but he’s not sure whether or not that’d end in anything other than fists.
Marcus isn’t even sure what they’re fighting about anymore.
(You do, a voice pipes up in his head, but Marcus doesn’t want to admit it. Doesn't want to face it because then everything will be too real, and too much and…)
It’s about the war, their fight. It’s about the war and sides, and picking them. It’s about Marcus being terrified of losing one of the best things he’s ever had. Oliver says it’s selfish, that he needs to face the bigger picture – all of them are going to face the after-effects, anyways.
Marcus doesn’t care. He is selfish – always has been, always will be, if it means Oliver won’t get into harms way.
It’s too silent, him just sitting there in their flat. He can hear the slow tick tock of the clock and it’s winding him up, presses down the urge to just grab the infernal device and chuck it out in the bin.
The Prophet’s slowly burning in their fireplace, one of them having chucked the paper in there in the midst of their arguing. Probably Marcus, because it’s all lies, and propaganda, and the uptightness of the Ministry, full of men who are going to be sitting in cushy offices instead of drowning in the thick of it.
Oliver wants to fight. Marcus wants them to stay as far away as possible because blood and politics and dying shouldn’t be something they touch, not when they’re young and filled with far, far too much life, and for fuck’s sake, they’re men, not martyrs.
(“For fuck’s sake, you’re a pureblood!” Marcus tries, desperately, pulling out the only thing left for him to argue for.
Oliver glares stonily back at him. “This isn’t about blood, Flint. Thought you’d realize that by now.”)
Oliver wants to go fight, assist for those who can’t, and Marcus gets it. He hates that he gets it. He doesn’t want to come in any contact with the Dark Lord, not after how he’s cleared the manor after his father’s death and -
God, god, he doesn’t want Oliver to end up rotting in the ground.
It’s not about what’s right or wrong, never has been. It’s about hiding and saving his own skin, and making sure that Oliver is safe.
The clock ticks by another ten minutes, and there’s no familiar sound of the front door opening, low squeak of the hinges indicating that one of them has crept back in half-ashamed. Marcus almost believes the wild notion that Oliver’s left for good – ran out, on some manic mission to go help. But the Keeper’s wand is laying on the coffee table next to him. And while Wood may be brash, may have a one-track mind most of the time, he’s not stupid.
The drizzle of rain on the windowsill starts after the minute hand on the clock goes another round – it’s March, and still bloody cold. For fuck’s sake, the Wizarding World is at war, and Oliver’s meandering around without even a coat. He pulls on his own grey jacket, grabs an umbrella, and trudges out to find the idiot, fight be damned.
It doesn’t take long – Oliver’s shivering on a park bench two blocks away, tossing pebbles around with little focus. It’s raining harder now, to the point where Marcus can’t tell if it’s tears on Oliver’s face, or just the rain.
“Wood.”
“I want to fight.” Is the stubborn response he gets, but it’s quiet, barely there, as Oliver lets the remaining rocks in his hand dribble to the ground.
Marcus thinks of Terence, who’d whisked Adrian away to hide out in Belgium at the first sign of trouble. Of Warrington, who’s sitting on one of those cushy Ministry jobs, but avoids being seen at all costs. Of Montague, whose memory is still shit enough after his escapade with a Vanishing Cabinet that he’s no use for either side.
He thinks about Malfoy, who he still sees in his head as a snotty little kid, but who he knows is in the thick of it. The idea of a Dark Mark burned into his old Seeker’s delicate skin makes him sick. Marcus has never been especially fond of Malfoy. Doesn’t like the Weasleys much either, or Potter, or anybody on either side but fuck, he doesn’t want them to die.
“I want to fight.” Oliver repeats again, stronger this time.
“I don’t.” Marcus says in return and Oliver’s mouth thins out, into a solemn frown.
“Then I’ll go fight without you.” But now he knows Oliver’s crying, because Marcus is too, hot tears running tracks down his cheeks. He hates crying, loathes it – has never fully gotten over his father yelling at him that it’s a sign of weakness and that Flints are supposed to live up to their namesake, but Oliver has always managed to cut him right to the core.
Because he’s so bloody fucking in love with Oliver, loves Wood so hard sometimes he can’t breathe at the sight of the man, wants to wrap himself up in Oliver’s arms and just stay there, if the world would let him. But everything keeps turning, after all – war and death and child soldiers don’t stop for anything.
“You’re not going to.” Marcus says.
Oliver stands up at that. “I will – you can’t stop me from going -”
“You’re not going without me.” Marcus finishes. Oliver realizes, and then Marcus has a shivering, body back in his arms, wet wool fuzzy on his fingertips. Firm hands grasp the front of his coat, and the umbrella he’s holding slips a little in his grasp, droplets hitting the side of his face. Oliver’s eyes - blazing, shiny, earnest – are too much to look directly into, so Marcus chooses to glare at the raindrops slowly sliding down the nape of Oliver’s neck.
“I can’t make you fight for something you don’t believe in. I’ll go, you’ll let me go – but -” Oliver trails off, biting his lip as if he’s scared of the other words that are going to spill out if he’s not careful.
Still a Gryffindor, always noble. Chivalrous, brave – all the things Marcus knows he isn’t but damn it, Oliver makes him wish so bloody hard that Gryffindors were capable of seeing reason.
But they’re headstrong, always a little too quick to jump in, will burn themselves down to the quick for the things they love – Marcus knows because he’s had to take care of far too many Quidditch injuries just because Oliver was too stubborn to let up on his already stressed body.
And war’s a larger duty than that.
Marcus huffs quietly. “Not going to fight for anyone. I’ll go just to make sure you don’t die on me.”
Oliver blinks. It’s as if he’s never thought about dying and Marcus wants to scream because - because it’s a war, Wood, and do you think it’s going to be a game? Quidditch? Nobody walks away from a massacre the same, if at all.
It’s easier to get angry, easier to feel the heat scorch his insides instead of getting exactly why Oliver is going to do this, regardless of life or not.
It’s easy, but Marcus doesn’t want to choose that route, not this time.
Instead, he presses his cheek against Oliver’s wet brown hair, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and leather and home.
Oliver shifts against his body. “You don’t have to.”
Marcus knows he doesn’t, but he will. Knows that he won’t be able to sleep at night in an empty bed, can’t live with the idea of Oliver coming into harms away and him not being there to take the fall. Because fuck, fuck, this man, this man is all he wants to keep safe. The only thing he’s willing to fight for.
He can’t say any of this – it’s too vulnerable, too raw and he’s worried he’ll choke on all his words. Instead, he kisses Oliver, biting down the fear, and Oliver’s face is wet against his cheek. His lips are clammy, cold, and desperate and Marcus wants to fold Oliver into his body, hold him where he’ll be forever unharmed.
They’re probably going to catch colds and die from that instead, umbrella tilted and useless, but they stay, until Marcus memorizes the steady heartbeat, resonant, pounding against his own chest.
Marcus knows he won’t believe in any of the sides, at the end of it all. Not the blatant destruction that his father had played with. No overarching martyrdom will ever make sense.
But Oliver – Oliver has always made sense to him. He believes in Oliver.
***
His mouth is filled with dust, right arm bleeding a little too freely, and the only reason there’s an eerie silence is because the Dark Lord has called for an hour of truce.
A truce to deal with the dead. No more pure blood spilt – Marcus stares down at where red dribbles from his injured arm onto the chalky concrete and can’t help letting out a maniacal chuckle.
There are far too many faces sprawled out across the stone blocks that once was Hogwarts, and Marcus keeps scanning, scanning, searching desperately for the familiar chestnut hair. He’s not sure whether he’d rather find Oliver right now than not, and panic grips his chest at the sheer desolation of the hallway he finds himself in.
Marcus hadn’t done his job. Hadn’t protected properly, had let Oliver get too far. He curses as another stab of pain shoots up his arm.
Wreckage looks like carnage and Marcus isn’t sure he recognizes the faces of anyone anymore, grief and worry and fear tugging down mouths and child soldiers, so many, so young – didn’t they get rid of everyone underage?
He’s subconsciously looking for that telltale shock of Malfoy blond hair, Bole’s dark skin, any sign of his Slytherin mates but they’ve all either evacuated or – the alternative is not something that Marcus wants to think about. The bareness of his left forearm isn’t something he takes for granted.
It’s automatic, the way he rips off a strip of his shirt to tie up his own wound, bleeding staunched, and he does the same for a whimpering girl whose leg is in a worse state. Marcus can’t tell if she recognizes him (reputation still precedes him, particularly back at Hogwarts, and he’s not wearing dark colors for a reason), but she gives his hand a grateful squeeze after he brings her to the Great Hall. He waits until she’s hobbled off to a crowd of Hufflepuffs administering aid, before turning to scan the Hall himself.
There’s no Oliver in here, either. Not one of the injured, and that either means that Oliver’s still alive, or -
Marcus keeps moving.
The sky shouldn’t be this clear, he thinks, as he steps towards the front doors. It shouldn’t be this normal, today of all days. There are blocks of stone knocked down by giants obscuring his vision, but he sees two people walking towards his direction, carrying a small body back into the castle.
A Gryffindor (red tie, hard expression) brandishes his wand defensively once Marcus nears.
“He’s alright, Neville.” He hears Oliver say calmly, but there’s a shake in the undercurrent of the Keeper’s voice.
Right. Longbottom – that’s who the Gryffindor is. Marcus remembers him as a sniveling kid and now he stands like a general, even without the troops. Funny, how war either shapes or breaks a person. Longbottom shoots him a suspicious look but seems to trust Oliver’s judgment enough, and his wand lowers.
“I’ve got him.” Oliver says in that tired voice again, and hauls the body more fully into his arms.
“You sure?”
“I’ve got him.”
Longbottom grips Wood’s shoulder firmly, before moving off, no doubt, to recover more bodies.
Oliver’s holding a skinny boy with hair the color of corn floss, and Marcus is surprised that he recognizes the body – Creevey, who used to hang around the Quidditch pitch snapping pictures and getting on the collective nerves of every team. Dedicated, a little too loyal to Potter. Marcus had barked at him on more than one occasion. The boy’s miniscule, tiny enough that Marcus knows that Creevey hadn’t been of age.
Oliver brushes past him, and Marcus waits until the brunet returns from the Great Hall, arms and eyes empty.
“Wood.” Marcus says, before wiping a smear of dirt off of Oliver’s brow.
“Couldn’t find you.” Oliver says, voice shaking in that quiet way again. “After you fell out of the group.”
Marcus swallows. “Yeah.”
He’d been flying behind Oliver, playing a rare case of defense and marveling at the irony of their switched roles. A series of nasty curses sent up in their direction had made them break formation, Marcus crash landing somewhere in the towers. He’d only been able to watch as Oliver flew farther and farther out of reach, small against the dark sky.
Oliver touches Marcus’ right arm tentatively, fingers brushing over the bloody strip of cloth. “How did-”
“Falling debris. Stopped the bleeding already.” Marcus scans over Oliver for any sign of hurt, but the brunet seems to be alright. Physically, anyways.
Oliver’s palms are dry and dusty when they brush against his face, and they’re both tired – exhausted, from watching the young fall dead and the old war heroes in their bedtime stories turn into mere humans. But they’re alive, for now. That’s all that they can ask for.
There’s a dried smear of blood on Oliver’s neck – someone else’s – and Marcus wonders when the frown lines are going to disappear from Oliver’s face. Whether or not he’ll get to see that. Oliver presses their foreheads together and takes a few deep breaths before pulling back, shoulders no longer slumped.
“There are more people, in the castle.” Oliver says firmly. “Let’s get them all to the Great Hall. Before-” He swallows roughly, and Marcus wishes that they were anywhere else but here right now, covered in grime and sweat and blood. Wishes they’d fled to somewhere, far, past countries and maybe oceans – far enough that watching Hogwarts crumble in on itself would be impossible.
But Oliver’s never been one for running away. And Marcus never could leave.
“Before anything else happens.” Marcus finishes for him. He threads their fingers together loosely. The courtyard’s empty, but beyond that there are dark hoods and glinting masks somewhere in the forest. Half the people underneath those have probably known Marcus since he was a child.
They’ve lucked out, this round, he and Oliver. He’s not sure how long it’ll last, but he’ll take what he can get.
Oliver squeezes Marcus’ hand firmly, before leading them towards the next hallway in search of survivors. Marcus follows because he was right, a couple of months ago. At the end of it all, he’ll still only believe, unwaveringly, in Oliver Wood.
There’s probably fifteen minutes left before the hour is up. So they keep moving, while they still can.