#flintwoodnet

He was razor-edged, dark hair and sharp jawline identifying him in the shadows, gaze steady still despite the warm burn of the Firewhiskey, and the growing warmth of the room. The music was alright, he supposed. He could work with this. He could especially work without being forced to find a date he didn’t like just to fit in, because no one dared give him crap about it. That left him with a sour thought of a very different kind he’d already decided not to dwell on. A lot of other people were on the dancefloor, but he was good right where he was, absorbing the potential for chaos and waiting for the lights to go just a little lower and darker. That was more his speed.

Unfortunately, someone else didn’t seem to care what his speed was, when they came up behind him and spoke into his ear. “You look bored, Flint. Looking for someone?”

Marcus didn’t even turn his head, simply took a sip of his drink. “Hardly. You evidently were, if you spotted me back here. Shouldn’t you be with your date, Wood? I’m sure you had a list of invites to choose from.” The words were cool and more than a little antagonistic, holding the pointed hint that he’d been fine by himself, and that Wood was welcome to leave him be now.

The other boy didn’t so much as take the hint, instead spoke more quietly, that hint of Glasgow burr there and gravelly in his ear. “Didn’t accept an invite, so no date. You?”

A little more to drink, but then he caught a hint of Firewhiskey that distinctly wasn’t from him. “So, you’ve also been in a corner drinking from whatever enchanted hipflask you and your mates in Gryffindor came up with, then,” he observed dryly. “Please to Merlin tell me at least that it’s not one with someone’s initials on it for when they inevitably drop and lose it later, at least.”

There was a very nearly painful silence then, and Marcus snorted, soft but still audible. “It figures.” It really, really did. “You know, it’s good form to at least cast a charm to hide the initials, Wood. I’m assuming it at least doesn’t belong to you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Marcus usually had to shut his eyes and count to ten before he bit the offending person’s head off and told them to mind their business at this stage. The Firewhiskey mellowed him out enough that it took away the edge to some degree, but it was still there.

“Good observation skills there, Wood,” he remarked, aware of other people potentially in earshot. “It’s almost as though it’s not really any of your business. Which it isn’t. But since you apparently can’t let it drop, I chose to attend solo. This is like a knock-off of all the same stuff that half of us deal with on holidays anyway.” The curse of the Sacred 28, old pureblood family gatherings and traditions and parties littered every holiday throughout the year. Inevitably, they all found ways of coping with the boredom after the age of fifteen, and usually that involved finding substances or decent company (preferably both) and vanishing from the scene entirely once it was deemed polite.

Wood moved in front of him then, there in the corner, solidly built shoulders blocking the rest of the room, mirroring the way Marcus leaned against the wall. He didn’t have any choice but to look at him then, and could only be grateful that the warm breath into his ear had stopped. If it hadn’t, he might have had to think too hard about how it made him feel, and he really didn’t want to right now.

“So you didn’t come with anyone.” It seemed like Wood was trying to make a point, but Marcus couldn’t tell what. It was frustrating, so rather than focus on that, he looked at the boy in front of him instead. He’d been lanky when they were younger, a bit skinny and coltish, but Quidditch had bulked him out and he was solidly built now at seventeen. And then there was the choice of dress robes; apparently he wasn’t the only one who made use of a tailor for once. That was a fine outline right there.

Realising he was admiring the view and that that wouldn’t do given the reason why he was in a mood in the first place, Marcus exhaled a sigh. “Obviously. What do you want, Wood?”

Wood seemed to realise he only had a finite amount of patience. That was a years overdue realisation as far as Marcus was concerned. “To dance with you.”

That made Marcus stare for a few seconds. Seeming to register that he wasn’t going to get a response unless he pushed, Oliver tilted his head at him. “One dance, Marcus. Something slow. We can stay right here in the corner for all I care, since you seem to prefer lurking in the shadows.” Then brown eyes examined him far too closely, his lips curled up into a smile that held just a hint of smirk at the edges. “Presuming you’re not too caught up in posing and sulking, of course.”

Oliver was crowding him now, just a little, and Marcus wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about it yet. His immediate response was no longer to punch the other boy in the face, that had been gone for a long while, so that was progress. “You can’t hold your Firewhiskey and you’re seriously misreading things, if that’s the best offer you can give me,” he pointed out bluntly. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll continue minding my own business right where I am. Lurking in the shadows.” That was when he leaned back and away, and took another sip of his drink. No one could see them back here. That thought made his pulse race.

Oliver (Wood, his mind stubbornly reminded him, trying to hang onto it) wasn’t necessarily going to just leave him alone, though, or so it appeared. “Then come out of here with me for a minute,” he said, voice quiet but still carrying through the space between them. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Marcus sighed exasperatedly, and drained what was left in the cup. Obligingly, it vanished the moment he set it down on a nearby table, and at this point, he’d given up arguing with Oliver. “Fine. You get two minutes.”

Once they did get outside, though, Marcus hadn’t quite registered just how much Oliver intended to make the most of those two minutes. He found himself rapidly dragged around a corner and pressed into an alcove hidden behind a statue that he hadn’t even known was there. When he went to ask what the fuck, Oliver put a hand over his mouth. “Shh, someone will hear.”

Beyond annoyed and now suspecting where this was going, neither of which he enjoyed, Marcus dragged Oliver’s hand off his mouth and hissed his next words. “What are you doing?”

Earnest brown eyes were fixed on him then, and this time, Marcus couldn’t get away or give him the cold shoulder. “Are you seriously still mad that someone tried to ask me to this thing?”

Marcus gave him a truly evil glare then. “You mean, am I pleased that someone else asked the person I’m not allowed to walk down the corridor with? I’m absolutely thrilled. Someone else walks up to you and asks right where I can hear; I kiss you in dark corners and Quidditch changing rooms for three months and get ignored when convenient.” The tone was flat, but the sarcasm wasn’t.

He saw Oliver wince, and then, completely annoyed and altogether done with the conversation, Marcus went to shoulder past him. Instead, he found himself pushed back into the stone, found himself being kissed, and he wasn’t letting Oliver think that was the last word on it. He wasn’t about to be lulled into compliance. Rather than lean into it, instead, he nipped the other’s bottom lip sharply, just enough to make him feel it, a kiss like a warning, before he reached up and sunk his fingers into his hair.

If he couldn’t have the evening, he was going to make sure Oliver went back with bruised, swollen lips, hair a mess, and every possible hallmark to show that he’d vanished with someone. Let everyone wonder who.

That it changed when Oliver seemed to yield, to surrender to being kissed rather than one doing the kissing didn’t escape Marcus either. It wasn’t until he could feel him trembling that Marcus released him, leaving him looking faintly dizzy where he stood. He smoothed out his robes then, slow and insouciant, enough to make Oliver watch the trail of his hands. “I’m not going to take whatever scraps you decide to throw me and be happy that’s all I get,” he said, words short, making sure they landed home. This was probably one of the worst sides of him. “You don’t act like it, so you don’t get to call me yours. Because I’m not.” Wasn’t that just the biggest lie he’d ever told, but it was supposed to be, because he was doing it purely to be mean and he knew it.

He lifted his thumb to the corner of his mouth then ran it along to the middle of his own lower lip, as though he could taste Oliver there. He could, Firewhiskey and everything that had become so familiar since they first crashed into trying to understand what this was. The reason he really did it, though, was to be a little bit cruel, to watch Oliver’s pupils dilate some more, to see him want to close the distance again, and then to deny him. Or at least, that’s the intention, right up until Oliver shakes his head. “Merlin help me you’re impossible sometimes,” was the set of words bitten out. “I was trying to apologise. To tell you that I only wanted to go with you, but I also wanted to protect this because it’s ours and people are incredibly nosy. I’m not ashamed of what we’re doing. You might not be mine, but I want you to be.”

Those were a set of words that Marcus badly wanted to be true, and it was enough to stop him cold, to make him rein in the sulking (if he was honest about what he’d been doing, that was it) and register them. The attempts to deflect hard that his feelings had actually been hurt had all ultimately proven to be unsuccessful, and he knew better than to use kissing as a weapon, it too often backfired and this was very much a case in point.

As though Oliver sensed the weakness somehow, damn him for it, the next time he was being touched was much gentler. “We could dance right here, if you wanted.” The words were breathed between them. That was when Marcus realised that they could still hear the music from the hall.

He made a decision. “Nah,” he said, not hesitating to turn down the suggestion. “Come on. Let’s go back inside.” He gave Oliver a pointed look then, and threw down the gauntlet. “Together.” It was a ceasefire, or the closest that they’d get, because they still needed to talk about the actual feelings involved at some point.

There was no phasing a Gryffindor with that kind of challenge, though, so Oliver didn’t even bat an eyelid. Show them anything like a bet you can’t and they immediately decided that not only could they, but screw you who says I can’t. The only reply Marcus got was a hand in his. It turned out he did want to kiss Oliver softly then, so it still took a few minutes longer for them to get back to the hall. When they did, the night sky that illuminated the ceiling had darkened to hold a spill of stars, and the lights had gone down to something far lower and barely there.

Oliver got his one dance. What he also got was a truth in his ear. “I’m only yours if you’re mine. Non-negotiable. What about it?”

Marcus is very rarely around the house.

Ben hadn’t noticed at first because of his active avoidance, but now, he realizes he only sees Marcus every few days at most. Finally, he strikes up the courage to ask someone where Marcus has gone off to and they try to explain it as best they can. He finds out Marcus is a double agent, working for the Dark Lord as well as the Order. Ben doesn’t understand how anyone could trust him like that and says as much.

“You told us we should,” is all Kingsley Shacklebolt responds with and raises his eyebrows at Ben.

By the time Kingley is done explaining everything, Ben is overwhelmed and wonders how Oliver got wound up in all of this in the first place. At any rate, he thinks he understands why Marcus is gone and doesn’t question it again. After all, he’d hate to admit that he found Marcus’ actions brave and admirable.

Ben worries though. Worries about everyone’s safety, if there will be nights when Marcus may not come back or if any of the Order might not for that matter. He listens for the telltale cracks and pops in the late night, rushing to the door as people bustle in. More often than not, it’s just news about the wizarding world, the impending war, a boy named Harry, but injuries are not an uncommon occurrence either. Ben doesn’t know how Molly works her magic so well, but he’s thankful that she hasn’t had to deal with anything too serious.

This particular night is foreboding as Ben managed to overhear the meeting from earlier that a life-or-death mission was to happen. Molly picked up immediately that Ben knew once everyone had left, doing her best to reassure him. The pit was already growing in his stomach and he had waited in his room in order not to stress out Molly anymore.

A harsh crack rips through the night and Ben doesn’t even hesitate, sprinting down to the first floor. He stops himself on the last steps, seeing Molly already waiting in the living room.

“Are they back?” Ben asks, despite already knowing the answer. He grips onto the railing, the worst already running through his mind. It had been a big night for Marcus, at least that’s what others had said. All Ben hopes is that Marcus is alive.

When the door flies open, Ben’s stomach drops at the sight. Marcus’s face is covered with blood and he can barely support himself as he’s carried over to the couch by members of the Order followed by Arthur.

“Marcus,” Ben breathes out and rushes over to where the man has been laid. “What happened?”

“Ambush,” Arthur shakes his head. “Marcus tried to warn us but it all happened too quickly.”

Swallowing, Ben crouches down and finds himself running his hand through Marcus’s hair. The man almost looks peaceful if it wasn’t for the blood.

“He’s unconscious. As for his injuries...”

Arthur pauses as Ben stares at him with widening eyes.

“No, no, they’ll heal. Our magic can handle that. I just can’t say how long the recovery will take,” Arthur quickly corrects himself.

Both Ben and Arthur let out a sigh of relief just as Molly comes bursting into the room again.

“Out of the way,” Molly pushes through before anything else can be said. She tends to Marcus’ wounds, having to shoo Ben out of the way every so often because of him trying to hold onto Marcus’ hand.

Ben is wrought with emotion, despite the small part of hostility he still holds towards Marcus. It’s as if another part of him has taken over and all he wants is Marcus to be okay.

The wounds are wrapped up quickly and Ben is moved out of the way again as Marcus is brought up to his room. Ben trails behind, trying to keep an eye on Marcus through the few blocking bodies in his way.

When Marcus is laid down on his bed, Ben pulls over a chair and sits by Marcus’ side. A few people filter in and out of the room to check on Marcus, but once he’s alone, it’s only then that Ben cups Marcus’ face in one of his hands. Looking down at the man, Ben can’t help the feeling of wanting to hold him close. Instead, he lets his hand trail from Marcus’ face down to his chest where he can feel his heartbeat.

Ben swallows down the lump forming in his throat and simply stares at Marcus. This is where he’s meant to be, he thinks.

~

Molly had said Marcus’s recovery would take a few days, but Ben couldn’t help checking on the man every moment he had. He’s not sure what he’s expecting as the fourth day rolls by, lingering at Marcus’s bedside yet again. Ben’s only thankful that everyone in the house is at the very least humoring him.

As he sits in his chair, Ben concentrates on Marcus’ uncharacteristic quiet. Asleep, there is a softness to the man that Ben simply hadn’t noticed before. He wonders if this is the same face Oliver gazed upon in early mornings and his body becomes numb. He wants this. He wants Marcus.

Ben lets his eyes trail down from Marcus’ face to the rest of his body, stopping at the hands, laid perfectly next to his side. There is a comfort Ben finds in them and his fingers twitch in hesitation. Lifting his hand, Ben reaches for Marcus’s own and then stops himself. He feels the turmoil in his mind, the one that feels he should still hate Marcus and the other that wants nothing more to embrace him fully.

Ben curses and takes to leaning back in the chair next to Marcus’ bed in attempt to straighten out his thoughts. He needs to make a decision, he can’t keep changing his mind every time something emotional happens.

He’s scared though. If Marcus is to be his, he wants to be accepted as Ben, not as who he used to be. Oliver might never come back and Ben fears he will be tossed aside when everyone realizes this. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales heavily. Then again, they would’ve gotten rid of him already if they truly did not care.

Movement catches his eye and Ben scoots back, eyeing Marcus as the man starts to move, his eyes slowly opening. Ben waits as Marcus collects himself and holds his breath when Marcus turns his head in his direction. It’s a stalemate of who’ll look away first before Marcus opens his mouth.

“What...happened?” Marcus asks, his voice hoarse and weak.

“Ambush. You were knocked off your broom,” Ben replies as he grabs a cup of water and helps Marcus lift his head to take a drink.

Marcus grimaces but a small portion of his strength seems to come back as he swallows and he attempts to sit up. Ben immediately goes to help him, trying to ignore Marcus’ curious gaze.

“How long have I been out?”

“Just a few days,” Ben attempts to say in a casual tone, but the tension has risen in the room and he feels stifled.

“Have you been with me the entire time?”

Ben hates how Marcus seems to ask the exact question he hopes to not answer. With a few glances out the windows, Ben half-heartedly shakes his head and is unable to stop his response of, “Yes.”

Glancing down at his hands still on Marcus, Ben pulls away to leave, but Marcus grabbing his arm stops him. Ben doesn’t want to fight, so he stands, waiting for Marcus to take the first move.

“Why?”

“I needed to make sure you’d be okay, that you’d–” Ben automatically answers and then clamps his mouth shut, embarrassed that he let his emotions slip.

Marcus’ hand squeezes his arm and Ben finally turns to him. “I am. Thank you for staying with me.”

Ben tries to hide the sigh that leaves his body, but Marcus has already noticed, giving Ben a small smile. “When I’m better, I’ll take you flying, alright?”

Flying. Ben’s heart soars at this and he can barely contain his excitement. He had forgotten until now but flying the remembrance of flying had filled so many of his sleepless nights before all of this. It was the only thing that felt real in both worlds.