Cowboys and Angels

moment thirty-three: knowing [the rules II] (October 1993.)

It was late when Oliver finally eased himself through the portrait hole, and into the reassuring environment of Gryffindor Tower. The place was deserted, and the still burning fire gave it an eerie cast, like some kind of haunted castle. Which, upon reflection, it was, but Oliver had never been scared of ghosts. Not that he was brave or anything - well, he never considered himself such, although he figured that being sent into Gryffindor he was supposed to have some reserve of bravado, or at the very least grace under pressure. Whatever it was, it certainly abandoned him the moment he came into contact with Marcus Flint.

Although that was an overstatement. Whenever they were playing, Oliver could certainly focus on the game at hand - making sure that he won, if only to see the expression on Marcus' face, the ruefully bitter twist of his mouth that let Oliver know exactly who would be in charge that night. And in class they continued to snipe at one another, to the amusement of fellow students and consternation of the professors. So in that regard, nothing much had changed. It was merely that whenever they met - whether it be in a deserted classroom, or a disused corridor, or that old favourite, the broom shed, the would invariably play Marcus' game, and his rules would be law. They would fuck - Oliver refused to call it anything else - at Marcus' discretion. He would choose the position, and the duration, and he would always be in control. Not that Oliver minded, not exactly: Marcus was admittedly a brilliant fuck, and Oliver's mind constantly shied away from considering where the Slytherin had got the experience he needed to be so good. But it was the little things, as it were: they would kiss when Marcus wanted to, talk when Marcus was willing, touch if he permitted it. Everything reminded Oliver that he was being kept firmly away, and it only added to his determination to break down those barriers. After almost a year of clandestine meetings every few weeks, he was beginning to like Marcus Flint, and that was just plain disturbing.

The steps up to his dorm were quite familiar, and besides, with his reflexes, Oliver had no fear of tripping over anything in the faint torchlight. Even if he did, everyone would be asleep, so any embarrassment would be avoided. He was lucky that Flint wasn't as rough as he seemed; well, not when it came to sex, or the journey up those steps might be too much for his bruised body to bear. Marcus was surprisingly gentle, come to think of it, typically sliding inside Oliver slow and deep, intent on delaying climax for the both of them as long as possible. If it was anyone else, Oliver would have believed it to be consideration, but knowing this was Marcus Flint, it was probably just a demonstration of his power over Oliver rather than an indication of any kind of feeling. Marcus fucked him because he could; because Oliver let him, and because Marcus enjoyed it.

The sixth and seventh year students were allowed some measure of privacy, in contrast to the other years. Each two students were allotted a dorm room, with separate beds, and desks for study. There were few boys at his year level in Gryffindor, so Oliver had been lumped with one randomly, and as he got closer to the top of the steps leading to his room, the torchlight only got brighter. Randomly meaning the exact same one he'd been stuck with last year, of course.

His roommate was up. Since when was he not? Oliver emerged from the shadowed stairway to see an all-too-familiar face: freckled skin, red hair, and wire-rimmed glasses precariously balanced on a thin nose, and he felt like groaning. Percy Weasley was giving him that look he usually reserved for first years who'd broken curfew, but then, thought Oliver, since when does he treat anyone as being anything but a first year?

"What hour do you call this?"

Oliver closed his eyes and ground his teeth together, walking quickly over to his bed (fortunately the one closest to the door), and sat down, unlacing his shoes. "Oh, lay off, Percy, you sound like my mother."

He could feel Percy stiffen from the jibe without having to see it. "I'm just pointing out your complete lack of consideration for anyone but yourself, Oliver. Some of us do have class in the morning. Classes we don't plan falling asleep in."

Oliver kicked one shoe off, then the other, and was pleasantly surprised to see Percy blink, startled in response as the footwear flew a little way onto the floor. "And yet you're up studying. Why does this not surprise me?"

The Head Boy bristled again, and Oliver almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Then Percy reminded him what a prat he could be. "I simply decided to make constructive use of my time, seeing as you were likely to wake me when you returned anyway."

"Bollocks. I have roomed with you for what, near seven years now? I know how to keep quiet, and besides, once you've exhausted yourself studying to all hours, you collapse into bed and sleep like a log. I could strip you naked and you wouldn't even notice."

Percy blushed furiously, and bent his head back to his books. Oliver, glad that Percy's infamous prudishness had finally come in handy for something, continued to undress in silence, stripping off the sweaty robes and piling them on the end of his bed. Irritably, he could feel Percy's gaze on him once or twice as he stripped, and it seriously pissed him off. Percy always acted as if everything was his jurisdiction, as if he had not only the right to interfere in everyone's business, but as if they would benefit from his intrusion, and any concerns they made have weren't even worth listening to. Finally, his nerve broke, and he turned to catch Percy staring at him. "Look, maybe that girlfriend of yours-" and oh, there was no love lost between Oliver Wood and Penelope Clearwater "-doesn't fulfil your every need, but I'd still prefer you don't perve on me."

Those dark hazel eyes froze, narrowing, and spat daggers in Oliver's direction. "Sorry for being concerned for your welfare," Percy said softly, enunciating every syllable. "Considering my own experience with Flint, I was making sure you didn't have too many ribs broken." In truth, Percy had been unable to stop himself from looking at Oliver, running his eyes along the lines of his back, entranced by the light tan of his skin, wondering treacherously if it would be as smooth to touch as it looked, and Percy was disgusted by himself, and doubly so that he'd been caught.

He'd known about it, of course, Oliver and Marcus' little dalliances. Oliver had come to him for advice when things had started getting too intense for his liking, his own need for Marcus too great, and Percy had pushed him away, unwilling to hear. Unwilling to hear how Oliver chose Marcus Flint to be his lover, because it terrified him secretly, that despite all the books and all the accolades, Percy Weasley would always be unworthy of the one thing he wanted and could not have: Oliver Wood.

He had been aware of his attraction to Oliver for a while now - it was just something else he needed to compensate for, and Percy took it in his stride. Whatever his feelings, they could obviously never be acknowledged, or consummated - and then he had met Penelope. Percy was fond of Penelope, and that suited him fine - none of this visceral longing he had for Oliver, no masturbatory fantasies when the image was too firmly fixed in his mind for anything but release. Penelope was not a distraction; and that was even better. Their relationship was polite, comfortable, ordered, and Percy could look forward to the day when they would marry and have children. Then he would be able to say that he had successfully matched his father's record of heterosexual bliss.

"Your experience with Flint?", his roommate enquired, brown eyes disbelieving. Percy's breath caught at the way Oliver's body near rippled as he moved, the light from the torches playing across the skin, and when Oliver sat down at the end of his bed, waiting for an explanation, Percy was so tempted to just reach out and feel...But he caught himself in time, and felt a brief upsurge of pride at his self-control. He wondered briefly how they looked together, Flint and Oliver, and forced such ideas from his mind.

Taking some few moments to compose a response, Percy's lips thinned into a disapproving sour expression. "Flint and some his Slytherin friends - Higgs and Pucey especially - used to delight in bullying me," he murmured, almost lost in the memories, adjusting his glasses. "They couldn't help but think up even more enchanting names to call me, let alone introducing me to the wonderful world of pugilism. Pugilism being their catchphrase for holding Percy Weasley against the wall whilst kicking the shit out of him. I was most fortunate." He continued, his tone filled with dry sarcasm. "Favourites included 'four-eyes', 'nerd', and 'loser' - they possibly couldn't think up anything more imaginative, I suppose. Of course, Flint also called me 'faggot' and 'cocksucker', and obviously I appreciate the irony."

"That was years ago," Oliver responded, his voice even. "And besides, they stopped during fourth year, didn't they?"

"Yes." Percy spoke almost imperceptibly, watching Oliver flop back onto his bed. "They stopped because you stood up for me. I'm so glad you remembered."

Oliver immediately sat up again, and felt horrible at his own memory, or lack thereof. Percy had turned back to his books, his shoulders hunched, and the Quidditch player could almost see the pain running through his form. "It's nothing personal, Percy! I couldn't let them get away with it."

"Quite." Percy said, still refusing to look at him, and Oliver knew he'd said the wrong thing again. He leapt up from his bed, still only clad in boxers, and stood behind his roommate, awkwardly reaching out to lay what he hoped was a reassuring touch on Percy's back. He felt the other student flinch under his robes, and for a moment he wondered exactly how much people like Marcus must have affected Percy, for him to react in that way to physical contact. There was so much Oliver didn't know about Percy Weasley, and it was never clearer to him than in this instant. "Please don't touch me," Percy said weakly, as if under some kind of emotional strain, and Oliver immediately pulled back, uncertain.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I just thought you might-"

"I don't. Besides," he straightened his back, still looking at his books, and Oliver could see the old Percy, proud Percy, perfect Percy, returning anew. "I wouldn't want to get any kind of infections that that walking disease Flint might have contaminated you with."

"Fuck. You," Oliver spat at that proud back, and stalked back to his bed, climbing beneath the sheets and turned over on his side, so he didn't have to acknowledge the Head Boy even existed.