A Matter of Course

For a long time, Percy did it as stress relief. Settling down to bed, he would wait until Oliver's breathing had evened into long and deep gasps for air. Oliver always did breathe through his mouth when he slept. In first and second year, Percy found the habit annoying. Until sixth year it had been simply convenient. Lately, it was. . . different. Even so, Percy continued with his late night activities.

It was the same every evening, like clockwork. Night by night, Percy would wait for Oliver to fall asleep, his fingers itching at the delay. Fifteen minutes was all it ever took for Oliver to be gone, but that was still fifteen minutes too long for Percy. Fear of discovery abated, Percy would mutter a couple of spells (silencing, darkness) and begin. Body tense and trembling, Percy would loosen the drawstrings of his pajama bottoms, sometimes letting out a small sigh as his hand skittered down his thighs. Skirting near the juncture of his thighs, Percy would tickle at the stiff curls, brush his nails against his inner thighs. The soft skin there was so sensitive Percy never failed to tremble at the feeling. He was never able to tease himself for long, though. That was when he would begin pumping himself, pulling in just the ways he liked, fingers gripping just so.

Percy sometimes wondered what the other boys did when they jerked off. From the whispered snippets that he sometimes overheard, most everyone else seemed to think of someone while they did the deed. Phantom lovers, who knew exactly how to please and conveniently wore the faces of loved ones and crushes.

For Percy, however, there was no phantom lover, no cherished ghost. That would imply that he viewed the act as something more than an exercise in stress management. Percy did not entertain any romantic illusions about his nightly ritual: it was simply him and his hands and the feelings that they evoked. In truth, it was impossible for him to imagine himself playing pretend while he jerked off. He didn't exactly understand how everyone else did it; of course, he also didn't really understand what it was like to care for someone, love someone in That Way. This, of course, did not interfere with his regard for one Miss Penelope Clearwater. Penny was. . . perfect. She was someone who Percy could talk to, who understood his ambitions, who respected him. Sometimes Percy felt like she was the only person who did. Love, yes. But passion? Penny did not make Percy hot and bothered, and he rather doubted that he inspired those feelings in her.

So Percy had no dream lover, and certainly not one with Penny's breasts and hands and lips. Penny's lips were cold and rigid, more like Percy's grandmother's lips than those of a girlfriend. The idea of letting those same lips near certain parts of Percy had a very chilling effect. Yes, he loved Penny. A great deal. But he didn't want her. He doubted that he ever would. It was just one of those things, a matter of course.

Things taken for granted, however, have a nasty habit of changing.

It happened one evening in Percy's sixth year. He was in Oliver's and his dorm room (unlike Oliver, Percy had never lamented the lack of other Gryffindors in their year) and was busy working on an Advanced Transfiguration extra credit project. He had just completed his thirteenth foot, and was contemplating how he might not actually have to scrap this draft when Oliver stumbled through the door. Percy thought that gaping was extremely undignified, but even so he almost gave into the urge.

Oliver was filthy. Not filthy in the normal 'took a tumble off my broom' sense, but more like the 'just went diving into a pile of refuse' way. Percy honestly had no idea how anyone could become that dirty, even Oliver (who seemed to attract mess like it was his karmic burden).

"Oliver. What in Merlin's name happened to you?" Percy shuddered at the dirt that Oliver was tracking across the floor.

"An accident after practice." Oliver's voice came out thick as he pulled off his shirt.

"With what? Hagrid's animal pens?" Percy pursed his lips at the way Oliver was tossing his now-vile clothing onto the floor.

"Almost the same. Damn, Flint is such a bastard!"

Ah, that explained it. While both Percy and Oliver had been targets of Flint's persecution at one time or another, the Slytherin had recently zeroed in on Oliver. It had become so bad that Oliver frequently wondered whether or not someone had magically fixed a target to his back. The reek from Oliver's clothes reached Percy. He flared his nostrils and shuddered.

"That's quite unfortunate, Oliver, but couldn't you have used the locker room's showers?"

A low grunt and Oliver's pants hit the floor.

"That was the accident."

"Oh. Well, please do us both a favor and take a shower. I'll take care of your clothing."

"Thanks, Perce," Oliver bounded naked into the bathroom, looking more like the Green Man than human. There were even twigs peeking out from his brown curls.

Percy sighed and waved his wand at the mucky clothing, anxious to get back to his report. Which, upon second thought, might have to be scrapped. Mere editing probably couldn't save it from its many errors. What errors, Percy had no idea, but they were sure to be there, all the same.

Percy was a foot into his eighth draft (having stuffed draft number seven into a nearby wastebasket) and staring contemplatively off into space when Oliver emerged from the showers. He started a bit when Oliver invaded the space he'd been gazing at, then jumped again when he focused on Oliver.

It has been said that people only notice things in their own time. It is very difficult telling someone an unpleasant truth, just as showing something to a person without the eyes to see it is generally impossible. It was like this for Percy. Of course, he had noticed Oliver before that moment: Oliver was rather tall, had brown curly hair, a ready smile, and seemed to be the object of quite a few crushes. He was surprisingly good at Potions (not that Snape would ever admit this), crap at Ancient Runes, and had the deplorable propensity for making bad puns. Not that there was such a thing as a good pun. He was a satisfactory Keeper for Gryffindor and hoped to play Quidditch professionally after graduation. That was Oliver Wood.

And what of water running down slick calves, lips red from hot steam, thick curls clinging to ear and eye? Were those, too, Oliver Wood? Apparently so. Percy scrawled something unintelligible on his parchment, his eyes following the path of Oliver's towel as it explored the curves of the other boy's skin.

That night, Percy's ritual experienced its first hiccough. When he touched his fingers to his penis, they were no longer his fingers, but Oliver's. Each fumbling caress and sliding touch belonged to a hand more rough and brown than his. At first Percy was horrified by the change. Then, when he resigned himself to the fact that yes, there had been a change, and no everything was not going to go back to the way it had been he became horrified by what the change signified.

He spent the next week in the library, researching about men who liked other men. It was a foreign concept to Percy, even though it had obviously taken over his life. After a week of reading about homosexual intercourse, public opinion on 'poufs,' and pamphlets on exiting the closet, Percy felt entirely certain that he did not want to be a pouf. Percy had his entire life planned out, complete with a little white cottage, a swing, and red-haired children playing in the front yard. If he was smart and just a little bit lucky, Penny would be there with him. There was no room in Percy's dreams for callused hands and broad shoulders. But that did not stop them from paying him court every night.

The rest of sixth year came and went, and Percy had scarcely blinked before it was his last year and he had been made Head Boy. Head Boy. The title was one that he'd worked for, dreamed about, schemed for. And it was his. So Percy was more than a little confused at the regret he felt when confronted with his new rooms. As he stood in the threshold, Oliver passed by and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Looks like we both have singles now, eh, Perce?"

Percy smiled, a painful thing, and murmured, "Yes, it does, doesn't it."

Oliver went on to his own rooms, leaving Percy alone with his titular glory. Percy flopped on the bed and fingered his sheets as he stared out the door. He now knew where the regret was coming from. Not that it mattered. And it was better this way, anyway.

Seventh year sped by like Firebolts, and even though Percy didn't see much of Oliver any more, he was visited by his year-mate every night. Phantom fingers trailed fire over his body, the fantasies becoming more and more real. Kissing Penelope, never a pleasant business to begin with, became utterly leaden. Perhaps the worst kiss of all had been the one when Penny threw herself at Percy, fingers clutching the simple gold ring he'd specially designed, lips wild on his face and mouth. She'd been waiting for this forever, it was like a dream come true, oh she loved him so much. He kissed her back gently, his lips feathering over hers like fairy wings, unwilling to take the gesture any further. From the glowing look on her face, it had been more than enough.

That evening the news had spread quickly, culminating in Oliver coming over to Percy and smiling that sexy lopsided smile. "Congratulations, Perce. You'll invite me to the wedding, right?"

Never.

"Of course," Percy distantly wondered if the tinning in his ears was the sound of his heart breaking.

Graduation was a day that Percy never forgot.

He and Penny were posing together for a commemorative photo, their hands loosely clasped, fingers entwined. Percy foggily mused that he might just have discovered happiness. That was when he saw Oliver.

Oliver was smiling, smiling like he'd found the person who had hung the sun in the sky, and that person had done it just for him. Percy followed the path of Oliver's eyes until they came to rest. On Marcus Flint. Who was smirking as though he had some secret, a 'wouldn't you all like to know' secret. And he was staring back at Oliver. And then Flint was striding forward, reaching out, grabbing his enemy (his enemy) to him and kissing him like kissing was oxygen. And Oliver was kissing Flint back to the cheers and gasps of their classmates.

"I'm glad they finally figured it out, aren't you? I thought they would never realize," Penelope's words struck through the fog surrounding Percy, wounding him into awareness.

"Yes. Good for them."

Percy looked back at Penny and smiled, the knuckles of his hand white as he gripped at Penny for dear life.