Cowboys and Angels

moment thirty-five: breaking [the rules IV] (July 1995.)

Marcus looked at the small photo on the kitchen table and wished fervently it would curl up and die. It showed himself and Oliver in this very kitchen, Marcus' arm wrapped around Oliver's waist as he made breakfast. They talked to one another, idle chit-chat presumably, and then Marcus saw himself gently kissing the other, before the photo wound itself back and started again. On the back of the photo, scrawled in clumsy block letters designed to hide the hand, were the words "We're watching." It was there on the doorstep when Marcus had woken in the morning, and he'd quickly stashed it out of sight. He could have told Oliver it existed of course, but that would mean telling Oliver about his father, and if the Death Eaters could watch them, then perhaps they could hear them as well. He would take no chances with Oliver's safety.

From the angle it almost seemed to have been taken from inside the flat, somewhere near the small bookshelf where they kept their various editions of Qudditch Through The Ages, and it was the angle that worried him. He'd cleaned the flat several times over each month, causing Oliver to exclaim slightly at his new-found obsession with dust. He'd brushed it away as giving himself something to do, and Oliver relented. Still, he'd found nothing, but this photo alone confirmed that there was some kind of spying charm in the flat, if not more than one.

He wished for an instant that he'd paid more attention to the myriad Dark Arts knowledge that had been passed around Slytherin, the little tricks that everyone had. Marcus hadn't learnt many beyond the basics seeing as they weren't useful in Quidditch. But there was no time for regret, not now. He'd made his choices, like everyone else. As had the people watching them.

A few months ago Marcus would have brushed off the photo. Indeed, he'd largely forgotten about the whole deal, certain that as no sign had come, the Death Eaters' focus had moved onto new and more important things.

Then Cedric Diggory had died. Through Percy Oliver had heard the official version, which Marcus trusted about as much as he trusted Percy. Although that was perhaps a bit too harsh. When Oliver wasn't out training, or playing now, he was hanging around with Percy. The two had rebuilt their friendship almost as if nothing had happened between them in the first place. Marcus certainly wasn't jealous of the time Oliver spent with Percy; he knew Oliver needed someone to confide in, to talk to, and he knew that it couldn't be him. Besides, he knew that in the end, Percy would do his best for Oliver, even if it meant listening to his worries and giving him relationship advice.

And how that must hurt the Ministry man, Marcus thought, chuckling grimly to himself. The few times Percy had come up to the flat, to collect Oliver or drop him off, he saw the emotion dark in Percy's eyes as he watched both him and his former roommate, and Marcus almost crowed at the sheer insanity of it all, the twisted little triangle they'd become. He trusted Percy to look out for Oliver, but he didn't trust Percy to look out for himself. The fawning little shit would go running off the cliff the moment Fudge told him to. Both Marcus and Oliver had heard the other version of events, however much the Ministry was suppressing it as unjustified rumour, however much the populace didn't want to believe. But Marcus heard, and believed, and now there was a photo on his kitchen table, and the threat was all too real.

All he had to do was figure out what to do about it. Oliver had gone off to a training weekend, and wouldn't be back for a few days, so that was little trouble. He couldn't be in much danger; the professional Quidditch teams valued their players far too much to let them be easily exposed to harm. There would be wards and charms strewn liberally around the ground as there always was, and ex-Aurors on guard.

They had accused Oliver of being a security risk, simply because he existed. Simply because Marcus was with him. They must know that Marcus hadn't told him anything, though, or Oliver would already be dead. This was just a warning, a reminder. They wanted Marcus to do something, but he couldn't think what. Leaving Oliver - his chest tightened involuntarily at the thought - wouldn't be enough. Communication could still be relayed; the relationship could be reformed. As long as Oliver existed, Marcus could say something to him, and they couldn't be watching and listening all the time. They might just kill him to eliminate the possibility. Either way, it looked like the only way they could trust Oliver and leave him alone where if Oliver were dead-

Marcus stopped suddenly, another idea coming to him. It wasn't the greatest idea he'd had, but it would get Oliver out of trouble, and didn't that mean more to him than anything? He moved to the small cupboard they had in the living room, pulling out some parchment and fresh quills and ink. Fishing around the flat, he found their address scroll, and opened it, and addressed the envelope, putting the scroll back.

He wrote quickly, almost feverishly, his tongue pressed against his upper lip in concentration. There would be no time to waste, especially if they were watching. Marcus had no idea how much they could see of what he was doing, and hoped it wasn't much.

Finishing it off with a scrawled signature, he placed it inside the envelope, and turned, grabbed his wand and keys from the sideboard. Stuffing the envelope into one pocket, and keys into the other, he raised his wand, and murmured "incendio", taking a rather petty satisfaction as the photo caught on fire, and did indeed, curl up and die.

That being done, he took one look around the apartment, nodded, and left.

* * *

To get to where he needed to go, he could not Apparate. Fortunately, it was a day off work, or he'd have to call in sick. Following his abrupt departure from the family business, Marcus had found himself a job on the floor of Sainsbury's Diagon Alley store, and it paid better than his father ever did.

He apparated as closely as he could, and then walked the rest of the way. He found the ferry, and paid the small toll to the water-goblins who ran it. Soon enough, he was over the moat, and within the familiar old halls. If Marcus tried, he probably could have found the staff lurking in their quarters, although they were empty of students.

Empty of students, but filled with ghosts. In these halls, he had fought and played and fucked like everyone else, and even learnt some of the things he was supposed to. It felt familiar; he could almost hear the shouts and chatter of the students around him, the old catch cries and insults. Calling Percy "faggot", and Oliver "thick as wood". Old times. Before everything changed. Before he'd changed. Lost in his reverie, he almost bumped right into his ex-Headmaster.

"Marcus Flint," Dumbledore greeted him, "I had not expected you to be returning to the bosom of your alma mater so soon."

Marcus blushed somewhat, still spooked by schoolboy rumours that Dumbledore could read your mind. "Just wanted to take a look around, Sir," he said stiffly. "Recent events have made me kind of jumpy, you know? Missing the days when everything was so simple."

Dumbledore's eyes were sad. "Indeed. It is a shame perhaps when even the past becomes a refuge, as the future is far too unpleasant to think about."

"I think I'll just go visit the pitch," Marcus explained, not really sure why he was doing so. "I might talk to you later, Sir," he forced himself to say, and moved off.

"Mister Flint," Dumbledore called out, and Marcus turned. "My thoughts are with both you and Mister Wood at this time. I hope you have found some consolation in each other's company."

"Thank you, Sir," Marcus responded, simply. "We have." There was a brief pause, and he said the only thing he could. "I love him."

Dumbledore favoured him with a striking glance, and made his way down the corridor.

Marcus continued his journey, ignoring the thudding of his heart inside his chest, or the fact that he gripped his wand too tight at his side. He could have walked there in his sleep, but he kept his eyes open, drinking in the memories of what he'd been. Soon enough he was out of the corridors, and making his way towards the field. At the last minute, he decided to take a detour, making his way up a small nearby hillock so he could look down, and see the familiar pitch outlined before him.

If he closed his eyes, it threatened to wash over him, and he let it. This was where he'd been reborn, the smell of the broomstick grease, the thrill of the crowd. This was where he'd lived and died many times over, each defeat a little death, each victory the most important thing in the world. Until the next one. And through it all ran memories of Oliver, zooming around on his broomstick determined not to concede any goals, biting his lip in concentration. Whenever he managed - as he often did - to block one of Marcus's attempts at goal, he'd give the Slytherin a broad 'fuck me now' smirk, so it was hardly surprising Marcus eventually did.

And so through the terror of Oliver's sixth year, and the muted worry of their final one, they'd stayed together - as together as two of them could be, anyway, and they'd fucked and snogged and fought and kept the fear at bay. But now, just when they'd escaped, just when they'd built something together, again it had been tainted by fear. Even if they were together. Even if they'd found some peace, and calm, and love. Except they weren't going to drag him down, and he'd be damned if they'd use him to get to Oliver.

"I love you, Oliver Wood," Marcus bellowed out the landscape, almost cackling. "I fucking love you!"

There was no-one around to hear. Nor was there anyone to hear when he raised his wand to his temple, a crooked grin on his face. You bastards, he thought, you'll never get me now, and you'll never get Oliver! He had finally found a way of beating that at their own game, changing the rules so he could win.

Two words, and his body crumpled to the ground, like a puppet with its string cut.

They found him a day later, his eyes sightlessly staring up at the sky, his arm flung out in the direction of the pitch.

* * *

Oliver was beside himself for the funeral. Percy had to sit by him, and watch as Oliver's heart broke constantly, again and again and again, privately cursing Marcus Flint to the deepest depths of hell.

Oliver couldn't even get through the eulogy without crying, but stayed up there, defiant, grounding out the words as the tears ran down his cheeks. Like Percy, he couldn't understand why Marcus had killed himself. At first, Percy had visited Oliver every opportunity he got - and he got quite a few now that his workload had been reduced - and made him tea, and cooked his meals when he could, and made sure he ate, which Oliver wasn't doing by himself. And every time he visited, Oliver would turn to him with those large doe-like eyes, haunted, and ask him, "why would he have left me, Perce? Didn't he love me?"

Percy would force himself to squeeze Oliver's shoulder, or rub his back, and say the words that Oliver wanted to hear. "Course he did, Oliver. Of course he did." Privately, he thought even Marcus Flint wouldn't have been stupid enough not to love and care for Oliver, but the question remained as to the reasoning. It had broken Oliver completely, more than anything. Most of the time he shambled round like the walking dead, not taking notice of his surroundings. Puddlemere put him on indefinite personal leave, although Oliver had insisted turning up to practice, even when he was barely coherent. Some of his colleagues there had breathed a sigh of relief when Oliver had asked Percy to move in with him, stating that he couldn't bear to be by himself right now. Reluctantly, Percy agreed a week before the funeral, his reluctance partly because he was tempted, and he knew that was the wrong reason.

Oliver had improved in that week, still tortured by grief and questions he could not answer, but able to do chores, and shopping, and do what he was told, rather than just stare at the wall. Percy fretted that the funeral alone would add another month onto his convalescent time, and Merlin only knew what the sheer fact of the gathering beforehand would do to him, all those people wanting to pay their respects. Half of Slytherin house was there, including Snape, and virtually everyone Marcus had played Quidditch with was there, no matter what the House.

Through it all, Percy stood by Oliver, glaring at anyone who dared approach him, one hand lightly resting on Oliver's upper arm, as if to support him. In many ways, it hadn't gone too well. Terence Higgs had spat on Oliver, said that he'd made a Gryffindor out of the ex-Slytherin. Oliver, without Percy's help, had wiped the spittle off his face, and calmly informed Higgs that Marcus had told Oliver many a time that he was a far better lover than any of the Slytherins he'd bedded over the years.

Higgs' face had flared crimson at that, and Percy's suspicions had been confirmed - Higgs was suffering from a dual case of hero worship and jealousy. He'd stormed off then, muttering, choosing not to start a fight, and Percy briefly wondered if Higgs would give them any future grief.

After all the well-wishers, and condolences, and handshakes, it seemed that Percy had heard every single positive adjective used to compliment Marcus' Quidditch ability. Oliver took it all in his stride, thanking each person who had attended, and thanked them again for their kind words.

Of course, Marcus' father had chosen not to attend.

Waiting last in line to greet Oliver were two wizards Percy didn't recognise, in grey flowing robes, of a nondescript make and style. One had dark blond hair, and he mused that the other one looked like a weasel, or a rat. They both shook Oliver's hand, before the blond one spoke, in a distinctly East London accent.

"We're very sorry to hear about your loss," he assured, looking suitably crest-fallen.

"Thank you," Oliver replied. "How did you know Marcus? I don't believe we've met."

The two looked at one another, and the other one took the lead. "Oh, we were acquaintances, really. Nothing more. He was helping us out with a project."

"Oh. I'm sorry. You mustn't have got to finish your work."

Rat-face was shaking his head, and Percy innately trusted him as far as he could throw him, which wasn't very far. "Actually, he came up with a solution to the problem we were facing just before he passed on. A most unusual solution, but it worked." He looked at his friend. "Didn't it?"

"Oh, yes," the other one said, startled into activity. "Worked a treat. So we won't be bothering you again, Mr. Wood."

They shook Oliver's hands again, and departed. Oliver looked around the empty little room they'd hired for the wake, and clapped Percy on the shoulders. "Whaddya say we go home?" he asked, his voice slightly husky with grief. Percy nodded, and went over to talk to the attendants, who were clearing away the food. He'd come back over to settle the bill in the morning, he told them, and thanked them for the effort. That being done, he went back to Oliver, and was pleasantly surprised when Oliver's hand snaked down to hold his, gently squeezing.

Percy usually avoided physical contact like the plague, of course, but this was different, so he let it be. Walking out of the room into a corridor, Percy lead them out into the street, and they walked the way back to their flat, not talking.