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Marcus found out about it from Warrington, who heard it from Montague, who heard it from Derrick, who heard it from Nott, who heard it from Zabini, who heard it from Malfoy, who they said heard from the Quidditch dressing room, which really just meant that Marcus was going to fucking kill him.
"You are so fucking dead," Marcus told him at breakfast, which was probably not the best timing, because Malfoy just looked at him, unblinking.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because," Marcus said, "I fucking hate you. Because of the thing, and you weren't supposed to say anything."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Malfoy said, and with all the practice he'd gotten putting on that innocent face of his, Marcus almost believed him. Almost, except that Warrington had said that he said, and Warrington was usually fairly reliable.
"Okay," said Marcus. "Then let me make it clear for you. If you tell just one more person about you-know-what, I will fucking well turn you inside out." As an afterthought, he added, "Or worse."
"Oh, I see," said Malfoy, and unconcernedly continued chewing his bacon.
"I'm not kidding."
"One problem. What is this I'm not supposed to be telling?" Malfoy asked.
"I'm not stupid, Malfoy," Marcus hissed. "You know, I know you know, you worthless piece of trash."
Malfoy made a noncommittal sort of noise at that, so Marcus plucked a roll off Malfoy's plate, and got up. He could wait.
And it was just his luck, of course, that they had double Herbology with the Gryffindors immediately following breakfast. Herbology was bad enough as it was without them, because it was one of the few classes he actually hadn't failed last year, but had to take again anyway, because otherwise he wouldn't have had a full schedule, but it was going to be even worse then, because apart from the obvious, they were still dissecting mandrakes, which was fucking revolting.
Pucey had grabbed the clippers from the front of the greenhouse, and Marcus was snapping on the equally revolting protective gloves when Pucey said, "So, I heard about you and Wood." And Marcus promptly dropped both gloves into the glowing muck of the mandrake's intestines.
"What?" he said. Because it was one thing for Malfoy to have told, but another altogether for him to have made things up.
"Oh, you know. Don't worry about it," said Pucey.
Marcus stared at him. "Worry about what?"
Pucey grimaced, and fished out the gloves with the end of his clippers. He was such a fucking girl sometimes. "The thing," he said. "It's fine, no one thinks you're a traitor." Most times.
"A traitor," Marcus repeatedly dumbly.
"Not at all," Pucey said.
Marcus opened his mouth, then closed it, and pulled out his wand to clean off his gloves. Then he looked at Wood and back at Pucey, and when he was good and ready, he said, "What the bloody fuck are you talking about?" just a little too loudly, because Professor Sprout cried, "Language, Mr Flint!" He ignored her.
"No, really," said Pucey. "It doesn't matter." He pulled on his own gloves, and started separating their already dissected bits from the attached bits. "But seriously," he added, dropping his voice a little, "what's he like?"
"Like?" Marcus continued to stare. He was pretty sure Pucey'd gone completely mad. "Like? You can see him as well as I fucking can. I really don't know what the hell you're on about."
"Mr Flint," Professor Sprout repeated, and Marcus made the mistake of looking up, because she was standing next to Wood, who was looking right back at Marcus with that stupid knowing smirk, like he was so superior, even with a smear of yellow mandrake blood all down the side of his face. Asshole.
"Yeah," Marcus said dully.
"I would suggest you watch your mouth in the future," Sprout said, "unless you want to come back to my class for another year, which I don't imagine you do." And Wood fucking laughed at that. "Five points from Slytherin," she said, and Marcus glowered. He was going to murder Malfoy in cold blood; there was no question about that.
"Sorry about that," Pucey said.
"Fuck you," Marcus said. Sometimes he had to wonder just how the fuck Pucey had gotten into Slytherin House in the first place.
Wood caught him after class, crossing the field back to the castle, and even when Marcus tried to ignore him, because what if he'd heard, Wood said, "Don't you ever get tired of taking the same classes over again every year?"
Marcus rolled his eyes and said, "Don't you ever get tired of harassing me about the same fucking thing, every class, every year?"
"No, actually," said Wood, and Marcus had to stop himself from looking at him, because it sounded like Wood was smiling and -- and that would have been a bad idea.
He grunted instead and said, "Well, you know what they say about small things."
Wood, unsurprisingly, looked blank. "No," he said after some hesitation.
"Right," said Marcus brightly. "And that just proves my whole point."
"I don't think he does, Perce," Oliver said, dumping his stack of textbooks on the table next to Percy, who jumped.
"What?" Percy asked irritably, and looked up at Oliver. He was scribbling down arithmantic equations without any apparent thought or logic, or so it appeared to Oliver, but then, there was a reason Oliver wasn't taking Arithmancy. "I don't know what you're talking about," Percy said.
"The thing about the thing," Oliver said, and sat down. "You know. You told me about it."
"What?" Percy repeated.
"The thing," Oliver said. "About Flint," he added, a little more quietly, when Percy shook his head. It was just like Percy to make him actually say it.
"Oh," said Percy noncommittally, and went back to his homework.
"So," Oliver said. Percy didn't even look up. "So we fucked, me'n Flint," Oliver continued, almost conversationally.
"Sorry, what?" Percy said, and scratched out a line of writing from of his equation. "Oh, I see," he muttered to himself, and glanced at Oliver, who was looking at him quite expectantly. "Sorry, what did you say?" he asked.
"I said," said Oliver, "that it's not true."
Percy made a sudden choking sort of noise in the back of his throat. "Oh, well, that's rather a pity, isn't it?" he said, after a moment.
Oliver looked at him. "A pity?" he said. "As in, that's too bad?"
Percy looked right back. "What, you mean to say it's not?" he said.
"What," said Oliver, incredulous, "you mean to say you think it is?"
Percy shrugged. "Isn't it? I only thought, because, well. Because of." He coughed in a very unconvincing manner. "Well," he said, having recovered, "it was only a bit of gossip, so I shouldn't have assumed. You'd tell me, though, wouldn't you?"
"Tell you what?" Oliver said suspiciously.
Percy got up abruptly. "All right, then," he said, apparently deeming the matter done with. Oliver made to follow, but thought better of it, for once, and didn't.
"I have to talk to you," Malfoy told him, before Marcus had made it even halfway across the common room.
"Actually, no," said Marcus, "you really don't."
Malfoy made an irritated sort of noise. "It's about Quidditch," he said.
Marcus rolled his eyes. "Good thing we're on our way to practise, then."
"Isn't it, though," said Malfoy, and Marcus thought that no, it really wasn't. Since the whole thing with Wood, Malfoy'd been under the impression that he actually had some kind of power over Marcus, and was quite smug about it. "I'm not playing," he said, and Marcus snorted.
"Sure," he said, and slipped through the passageway, Malfoy on his heels.
"I'm not," Malfoy repeated, and Marcus stopped at the mouth of the passage, and whirled around.
"Sure," he said again. "And why's that?"
"My arm," Malfoy said simply.
"The hell you're not," said Marcus. Malfoy opened his mouth, eyes narrowed, but Marcus said, "First match is against Gryffindor. We aren't going to beat them without you practising."
Malfoy scowled. "I'm not playing that, either," he said loudly.
"Oh, I see," said Marcus. "And I guess you think I should get Terence in, even though he hasn't even played for over a year? Until you're done with your fucking joke, anyway, and then you're going to want back, hm?" Malfoy flinched, and Marcus knew that was probably exactly what he'd been thinking. "Look, Malfoy," Marcus said, and caught the collar of Malfoy's practice robes, "you aren't completely indispensable. We need you now, but we won't always need you."
Malfoy tilted his chin up, glaring, and he probably thought confidence was going to make up for the foot or so he lacked on Marcus. "You wouldn't dare," he said. It wasn't, Marcus was pretty sure.
"I'm not afraid to have you replaced for good, if you're going to keep this up," Marcus said.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow, and Marcus would have laughed, if Malfoy hadn't been taking himself so seriously. "Maybe you should be," Malfoy said, and sneered.
"Maybe I should be," Marcus agreed, and then tightened his fist in Malfoy's robes, and shoved him back against the cold stone wall. "And maybe you should think a little harder before you go threatening me," he hissed, leaning down over Malfoy. "Doesn't mean it's going to happen."
He could feel Malfoy's heart racing against his ribcage, and yeah, Malfoy really hadn't thought this through. Malfoy wasn't supposed to be scared; he'd never been afraid of Marcus in his life, not even as a first-year, when Marcus had given him every reason to be. "You wouldn't," Malfoy said, and he sounded a lot less sure of himself than he had. Marcus scowled.
"Don't fucking tell me what I would or wouldn't do, Malfoy," he said, and seized Malfoy's wrist, before he could reach for his wand. Malfoy tensed, and Marcus could feel the brittle bones in his arm shift. "Fucking little coward," he spat.
Malfoy's eyes widened a little. "Yeah? Coward?" he said, voice strangely tight. "Then what does that make you?"
Marcus tightened his grip, catching Malfoy's pulse under his thumb. Malfoy was trembling almost imperceptibly, almost, but enough that Marcus knew. "That," he said, wrenching Malfoy forward, making him stumble, "that makes me better than you," but he thought that maybe Malfoy had a point.
"What the fuck did you tell them, Pucey?" Marcus said, rolling up the sleeves of his Quidditch jersey, and Pucey appeared to have snorted toothpaste up his nose.
"What?" he asked around his toothbrush. Pucey's reflection in the mirror had a decided deer-in-headlights expression, as well as watering eyes, and Marcus thought he heard the mirror snickering.
"What did you tell them?" he repeated. He wrenched on the tap next to Pucey's sink and stuck his hand under it, waiting for the water to get warm.
Pucey spat toothpaste, and pointedly didn't look at Marcus. "Tell who?" he said, and spat again, rubbing his nose.
"Them, you asshole," Marcus said. He splashed some water up his forearms, on his face, and considered maybe hitting Pucey, but instead said, "Malfoy. And Nott, and Derrick, or whoever. And the fucking Gryffindors." He paused. "Especially the fucking Gryffindors." Pucey continued to stare morosely into his sink. "What the fuck did you tell them?"
"Um," said Pucey. "Ah, what makes you think I told them anything?" and the tone of his voice pretty much cemented it.
"Because," Marcus said, "because you're a fucking git who'd do anything for a good piece of gossip, and you have no bloody standards at all." He grabbed at the front of Pucey's shirt, getting a fist in it, and wrenched Pucey away from the sink. Pucey flinched.
"I didn't tell anyone anything," he said.
"Don't you fucking give me that," Marcus said, and tightened his grip. Pucey tried turning away from him, but didn't get too far before Marcus pulled him back. "It was either you or Malfoy, and Malfoy really doesn't know shit, so you're fucking well going to tell me."
"What makes you think--" Pucey started, then thought better of it, and said, "Look, it's not my fault, it was only because I was talking to Percy and--. I only said, I only told Malfoy, and I just said that maybe, maybe you were, ah, maybe a little -- Marcus, I swear -- maybe a little more interested in Wood than, er, ah, the Quaffle. But that's all, I swear to god."
"Oh," said Marcus, and he was pretty sure this was the calm before the storm, because he was feeling pretty fucking calm. He carefully released his grip on Pucey, even though he was sure somewhere inside, he really wanted to kill him. A lot. "I see," Marcus said instead, because he couldn't think of anything else. "I see."
"All right?" Pucey said, and put his hands up defensively, even though he didn't have his wand. "All right, Marcus?"
"Yes," said Marcus, and shoved past him out of the bathroom, not even bothering to turn off the faucet.
"It's not true," Marcus told him, after the Gryffindor's Quidditch practise -- though, not that he'd been around or anything.
"What's not?" Wood asked. He'd stripped off his gloves and his Quidditch jersey, so he was only wearing one of those stupid Muggle undershirts under his robe, and Marcus could see his collarbone prickled with sweat and -- not that Marcus was looking, not at all.
"Whatever it was you heard about me from whoever the hell it was who told you," he said.
Wood smirked a little. "You're going to have to be a little more specific than that. I haven't really heard much, actually, since I don't care, except for the thing about Snape--"
"Shut the bloody fuck up," Marcus said. "That's not what I'm talking about and you fucking know it."
"That's a shame," Wood said. He was leaning against his broom, and Marcus was really not staring.
"So look," he said, to give his mouth something to do other than gape, "I don't know which sick fuck started this, but I don't bloody like you, all right?"
"Oh," Wood said, and gave Marcus a momentary unreadable look, before he said, "break my little heart, Flint," and it passed.
Marcus glared. "I just don't want you getting any ideas," he said, even though that was maybe, just a little, exactly what he wanted.
"Don't worry," said Wood. "I'll really try not to," and that was maybe, just a little, too bad.
Percy had gotten first class with honours and Oliver wasn't surprised, because it was just one step closer to everything Percy'd wanted, one step closer to being on top of the class, on top of the House, on top of the whole school. "Gonna be Head Boy," Oliver had said, and had clapped him on the back in what he'd hoped was a congratulatory manner, and didn't even look at his own marks.
Instead he'd found himself looking at the seventh years', eyes drifting down the names, skipping over marks as he neared the bottom of the list, until he reached Flint, Marcus. Slytherin: none given. He'd thought, Too bad, and meant it, and hadn't gotten it until later, when he told Percy, and Percy said, "Well, shit."
"What?" Oliver had asked, and Percy gave him a look so curious that Oliver felt his ears heating up, because he should have known.
"That means he's going to be in our year," Percy had said, and it had felt as though it was in slow motion, like Oliver had had to wait before Percy pronounced the next word. "We're going to have classes with him."
"Oh," Oliver had said, and, "He fucking failed," but it hadn't made it seem any more real. Because up until then, Flint, Marcus had just been a name on the Slytherin Quidditch roster, someone he played against a few times a year and rarely saw and almost never spoke to and wanted all the fucking time, and now they were going to be in the same year, in the same classes, and Oliver didn't even know what he was supposed to think, or if he was supposed to think at all.
Two weeks and Marcus thought that maybe they'd have just forgotten it, given it a rest, moved on with their lives, but of course they hadn't. Of course Oliver hadn't, because Oliver couldn't let anything go, ever, not school and not Quidditch, and definitely not this.
"It's a fucking lie," Marcus said fiercely, his fingers clenching in the fabric of Oliver's shirt. He could feel the slide of Oliver's skin beneath the cotton, cloth too well worn, skin too bloody smooth.
"What is?" Oliver asked. He was blinking up at Marcus, pupils dilated in the fading dusk light, and Marcus was not, not studying the shadow that fell under his jaw.
"I don't fucking want you," Marcus said, and at this point, he didn't even know who he was trying to convince. His knuckles tightened and he shoved, roughly, and he felt Oliver's shoulder blades jar as they met with the wall of the broom shed.
"All right," Oliver said, his voice stupidly breathless.
"I don't," Marcus said. The words sounded unnaturally loud and flat, harsh to his ears, and Oliver flinched.
"Okay," said Oliver. Marcus felt Oliver tense, a muscle in his shoulder strained where the heel of Marcus' fist rested against it. "Okay, I get it," Oliver repeated, and his chin was tipped up and his head tilted, and Marcus thought that maybe, maybe--
"You're a bleeding idiot," Oliver said petulantly, "if you thought I cared enough to believe it anyway," and Marcus didn't think it at all.
"I didn't," said Marcus, and hesitated, because Oliver was still looking at him, looking like he was going to say something, do something, do anything.
Instead, Oliver said, "Good," and he shoved Marcus back. It wasn't as if it made any difference to Marcus anyway.
Slytherin-Gryffindor, first game, second year. He only remembered it because of Oliver, because Oliver'd spoken a tone too high, laughed a touch too loud, and hadn't even looked before he moved. Marcus had thought of saying, "excuse me," or maybe just, "move," but there was little point in civility to Gryffindors.
He'd glared down at the pack of them, first years, all of them, and shoved past. The Weasley -- he'd heard enough about them to know them on sight -- had said, "hey, watch it," and he'd rolled his eyes, because who listened to Weasleys, anyway.
He'd ended up saying, "excuse--" and not getting any further, because then there'd been Oliver knocked down on the steps, legs awkwardly splayed beneath him, and he was looking up at Marcus accusingly. Marcus had detachedly heard Weasley say, "how rude," and he might have snorted, but there was this other bloody first year, staring, challenging Marcus to respect him, like Marcus had any reason to take him up on it. Anything Weasley said was secondary to that, and Marcus hadn't even known why.
Percy was in the library when Oliver found him, which shouldn't have been a surprise and yet was one anyway.
"Been looking for you," Oliver said, though it really had been a half-assed sort of search. He sat down across the table from Percy, tossing down his Quidditch robes, and leaned toward Percy in what he hoped was a conspiratorial manner. "So Flint's been following me around a bit lately, and trying to rough me up and such--"
Percy looked up abruptly and set down his quill. "That's way, way too much information, Oliver," he said seriously.
"What? No, it's not like that. It's just that I think that maybe he really does like me or--"
"Like I said," Percy interrupted.
Oliver made a face. "Seriously, Percy. I think he's in denial or something. It's really very." He stopped, then said, "Unsettling."
"I'd've thought you'd be a little happier about that."
"Happier? It's-- okay, fine. Maybe a little, but it's not, you know, the most positive experience ever to have him, to have him keep saying all that, that's so obviously not true, and all, well, yelling at me and everything."
"I hardly think I'm the right person for you to be talking to," said Percy.
"Why?" Oliver asked, and Percy seemed to consider this for a time.
"First, I've work to do," he said at last. "I am Head Boy, you know." For a moment Oliver was certain he was about to pull out his badge and flash it at him, a reminder in case maybe Oliver had forgotten, which was highly unlikely. "Second," Percy continued, "I'm not the one who's, as you say, trying to rough you up, and really, third--" Percy smiled self-gratifyingly, "--I just don't care."
"So," Oliver said slowly, "you think I should go talk to--"
"Flint?" Percy interrupted. "Yes I do. And really, if you'll excuse, I have got work to do."
"Sure," said Oliver, and got up, "of course you do." Percy always had work.
He spent the whole week trying to talk himself into it, then all of Friday morning and lunch and Transfiguration before he finally figuratively cornered him and said, "If I could talk to you," and then neither he nor Marcus really had much choice.
They weren't supposed to be up there and Oliver knew it, just the way he knew he wasn't supposed to be anywhere at all with Marcus, even if Percy had said. But then, that didn't matter much, because Marcus had growled, "What?" and Oliver had put a finger to his own lips, because he didn't want to get caught, not now, not like this. He curled his fingers into the heavy sleeve of Marcus' robe, and Marcus tried to shrug him off, but he obviously hadn't been trying too hard.
The classroom up there had been long abandoned since they built the new astronomy tower, and Oliver guided them around the dust-caked tables. He swallowed a cough and--
"Look," Marcus said abruptly, and ruined Oliver's concentration. He was thinking of saying something like, 'so I'm starting to think it's actually true', but that obviously wasn't going to work, because Marcus said, "I don't even like you. At all. I fucking mean it."
"I know," Oliver said instead, even though he didn't, and it was probably the wrong thing to say before ducking his head to press his lips against Marcus'. But then, he expected it when Marcus shoved at him and turned his head away from him, pushing Oliver clear away.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Marcus said, and wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. "I fucking told you," he started, but the words seemed to die on his tongue. "Just don't," he said, but Oliver couldn't couldn't not do it, because there'd be talk, more talk about how he couldn't even land the fucking worst catch in the whole school.
He reached out and his fingers caught in Marcus' robes and he pulled, and Marcus followed, just like he was supposed to. Oliver tried again, then, bringing his lips to Marcus', hard, praying that please please please, Marcus wouldn't push him away. Wouldn't, because then Oliver's Gryffindor honour would be at stake, alongside everything else.
Marcus froze this time, stiffened, and Oliver opened his mouth. Oliver was sure he was making some stupid sort of needy noise in the back of his throat, because that would be so like him, and then Marcus moved, which meant this was probably the part where Marcus pushed him away until he backed into a table or something, and broke Oliver's nose and spat and said, "You make me fucking sick," and never looked at Oliver again.
But Marcus didn't do that at all, and instead, when he reached for Oliver, it was to rest his palm against Oliver's waist. Oliver's breath hitched in his throat, because Marcus' lips had parted ever so slightly, and Oliver could feel Marcus' breath skittering uncertainly across his lips.
Oliver closed his eyes and kissed him, and might have mumbled please, but it didn't matter, because Marcus met him halfway. Marcus was cautious about it where Oliver was reckless, because Oliver wanted everything where Marcus, he was pretty sure, wanted nothing. Oliver curled his tongue against Marcus', and a wash of ice-hot spread through him, because it was so fucking wrong that he wanted this.
Marcus tasted the way Oliver expected he would, like a Slytherin, like lies and deceit and every single time Marcus had said one thing and meant something else entirely. He kissed the way Oliver expected he would, too, careful and maddening and precise but rough, like Oliver wouldn't get the point any other way.
It turned out that Oliver didn't get the point anyway, because when Marcus pulled his mouth away, his breathing was quietly erratic, and he hissed in Oliver's ear, "It's not fucking true, I hate you." And Oliver didn't get it when Marcus pressed the heel of hand hard against Oliver's waist and pushed, pushed so Oliver had to reach for a table behind him before he lost his balance, and still didn't get it when Marcus kissed him again, hard enough to bruise, because mixed signals what?
"What," he tried to say before he thought, but Marcus' tongue was sliding against his, and if Oliver had made any sound at all, it certainly wasn't a word. Vaguely he felt Marcus fumbling with the buttons on his robe, slipping it down over Oliver's shoulders, but that wasn't really important at all, because it was more about the slide of Marcus' lips against his and wondering whether this was going to keep on, because Oliver was half-hard from just the very idea.
Marcus sounded breathless in Oliver's ear when he broke off, trailing his mouth along Oliver's cheekbone as he leaned forward against Oliver. Oliver could hear his blood rushing in his ears, heart racing against his own better judgment, with Marcus pressed up against him, and Oliver wasn't so stupid not to be able to recognise that it was Marcus' cock pressing against the curve of his hip.
"Holy shit," Oliver felt himself breathe. Marcus growled something against his neck, and Oliver's breath came out more raggedly than he expected. He pushed Marcus' hands away from the buttons on his robe so he could do it himself, and finally shrugged it off, letting it pool on the table behind him. Oliver felt Marcus roll his hips against him, letting his hands slither down against Oliver's thighs, and Oliver was gone, just so fucking hard that he had to close his eyes, biting down on his tongue to hold back.
And then Marcus' lips found the soft skin just below his ear, and Oliver was fucking not going to come in his trousers, not at all. He hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt, and immediately Marcus slid one hand across the bare skin at the small of his back, and the other up to Oliver's belt buckle. Marcus' palm was hot against his back, and Oliver let a little sigh escape his lips.
"No," said Marcus abruptly, and pulled away from Oliver. And Oliver's stupid fucking heart plummetted from somewhere in his throat to his stomach, and he thought, not now. Not fucking now.
"Why?" he asked weakly, forcing his eyes open, so he could take in Marcus' flushed cheeks, and the way Marcus couldn't even look at him.
"I don't like you," Marcus said, and Oliver couldn't fucking believe it, because of course Marcus did.
"Yeah," he said slowly, and he undid his belt himself, fingers brushing over Marcus'. "But you want me." He swallowed, and considered, and since he'd already gone this far, it wouldn't hurt to say, "And I want you," so he did. "Please," he added, and he could see Marcus' carefully constructed denial crumble, just the once.
Marcus pushed the shirt off Oliver's shoulders, and then arms wrapped around Oliver so fucking tight he could barely breathe. Marcus kissed him hard, and Oliver couldn't thing of a single fucking thing but him. Marcus let go long enough to unbutton his own robes and pull off his shirt, shucking off his trousers, and Oliver was making some kind of feeble noise, because school robes certainly hid a whole fuck of a lot. He bit down hard on his lip to force himself to shut up, which was hardly working, because he was fairly certain most of his extremities were about to go numb, and all he could think was want.
"You too," Marcus whispered, and Oliver had no fucking clue what he was talking about, but it didn't matter. Didn't matter at all, when Marcus tugged Oliver's trousers down his hips and thrust his hand inside Oliver's underwear, wrapping around Oliver's cock.
Marcus' hand was rough the way Oliver expected, rough the way Oliver's own hands were from Quidditch, but it was somehow better because it was Marcus, somehow a whole fucking lot better, especially when Marcus was stroking his cock, hard and rhythmic. And Oliver didn't say anything, not a damn word when he came harder than he had in months, in Marcus' hand, but that could have been for Marcus' mouth over his, muffling the sound.
"So fucking easy," Marcus muttered, while Oliver was still trying to catch his breath. Almost back to normal, or what qualified as normal for now, until Marcus circled his fingers around Oliver's wrists, while Oliver braced his hands harder against the table, because then Marcus was trailing his mouth damply along Oliver's collarbone, and his hips were twitching insistently against Oliver's. He was so fucking, and Oliver didn't even let himself finish that thought.
"I'm going to fuck you," Marcus said, a growl against Oliver's skin, and Oliver felt it crawl as a chill moved through it, because how many times, for how long, had he wanted to hear Marcus say just that?
"Please," he breathed, and detachedly felt himself kicking off the rest of his clothes. And Marcus dragged Oliver down onto his robes where they had fallen on the floor, because there was no way, no bloody way Oliver was going to fuck on a stone floor. Marcus pinned Oliver beneath him, mouth sucking at Oliver's neck, still, and hands trailing down Oliver's sides, and Oliver vaguely felt himself starting to get hard again.
"Let me," he said, fucking pleaded, arching his hips into Marcus'. Marcus shivered, grinding his cock against Oliver's thigh, and Oliver was sure he could feel every tremor, every restraint, every little hold Marcus had against coming right then and there.
"Fuck me," Oliver whispered, and Marcus made a noise that sounded suspiciously like "yes." Oliver drew one leg up, so he half-straddled Marcus, and with the sensation, the mere knowledge that it was Marcus' cock pressing against his inner thigh, Oliver was hard again, twice in the same fucking day for the same fucking reason, and he didn't even care if Marcus was right, if he really was easy.
And then Marcus was sliding a saliva-slicked finger against Oliver's ass, and in, and Oliver arched his back even though it hurt, hurt like fuck, but couldn't even care, because it was Marcus. Marcus twisted his finger inside, and Oliver tried not to even notice when he added another, for concentrating too hard on the fact that it was Marcus, and he'd wanted and wanted and wanted, for so fucking long, and now he was going to get it, and it would be the best fucking thing of his life. He wasn't sure when it was that he hissed, "do it, please, do it," or maybe nothing at all, but those things were mere details, because then Marcus was pressing into him, slowly, slowly, with Oliver's hips angled up and his legs wrapped around Marcus' waist, and fuck, that was it.
As Marcus started to move, so slowly, too slowly, the pain was a fizzling sort of burn, racing its way down his spine to his cock, and Oliver couldn't even stop himself from whimpering. Marcus knew what the fuck he was doing, Oliver thought wildly, when Marcus rolled his hips, and Oliver shuddered. Marcus was intense, intense like Oliver wouldn't have imagined, because he was braced awkwardly against Oliver, with his eyes tightly shut and his lips parted just a little as he moved, sweat prickling across his brow. And he looked so bloody stupid, but like every wet dream Oliver'd ever had, and Oliver knew he was just so gone.
Oliver tightened his thighs around Marcus, had to, and arched his back involuntarily when his cock brushed against Marcus' stomach. It was just, he was just, it was all just so, so fucking good when Marcus' thrusts quickened, friction sparking need, and oh. Oliver's breathing turned ragged, and he clutched hard at Marcus' back. He could feel the bite of his nails against Marcus' skin, marking, hard harder hardest. Marcus let his head fall forward a little, until his face was mere inches from Oliver's, and Oliver could feel Marcus' breath hot on his cheek, somehow making it more real, more honest, more everything.
Oliver came with a moan before Marcus had come even once, and he felt stupid, so stupid that Marcus could get that sort of reaction from him when he couldn't even do the same to Marcus. Fuck, he thought, and Marcus whispered something rough and desperate, something Oliver'd never thought he'd hear, and Oliver twisted his hips, fucking himself harder onto Marcus' cock. Marcus met him halfway and came with a shuddery breath, hot and damp and printed on Oliver's skin.
Marcus didn't say anything when he pulled away, but reached for what ended up being a sock, to wipe the come from his stomach, and then Oliver's. Oliver collapsed boneless atop Marcus' robe and closed his eyes, warding off anything he might see in Marcus' face that he didn't want to think about. Because he wasn't so stupid to think that just because they'd fucked, it would mean Marcus would think he was in love with Oliver or something, but he was maybe stupid enough to think that-- no.
"Are you getting up?" Marcus asked finally. And when Oliver nodded reluctantly, Marcus kissed him, fast and urgent, sucking Oliver's lower lip between his own, with his fingers splaying across Oliver's waist. Oliver touched the tips of his fingers to Marcus' cheek when his tongue met Marcus', slick and right and like it always should have been. But Marcus pulled away violently, and Oliver felt his insides coil and go cold, because a kiss, a kiss was nothing against everything else, and yet it wasn't.
Marcus said, "Don't you even fucking try to make this something it's not," and because Oliver didn't even know what that was supposed to mean, he pushed Marcus away and got up, only bothering to put on his trousers and shirt, and didn't do up the buttons. He plucked up his things from the floor, and he walked out. He left Marcus to sort out the rest.
It was out of Oliver's hands now, anyway.
"What? What happened?" Pucey said anxiously, before Marcus was even halfway down the stairs to the dorm.
"What?" Marcus asked, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. It was sticking up every which way, it felt like, and still damp with sweat. "Nothing. It's fine. Nothing," he said. He brushed past Pucey when he got to the bottom of the stairs, and he heard Pucey take in a sharp breath as he passed. "What?" Marcus asked.
"Where the fuck were you?" said Pucey.
"Nowhere," Marcus said.
Pucey looked at him, and wrinkled his nose. "Then why the fuck do you smell like that?"
"Oh," said Marcus, "and you're really one who should be passing judgment about that."
Pucey narrowed his eyes. "Do you even know how many fucking points Snape can take off because you skipped his fucking class and bothered to show up back at his fucking House in broad daylight?" he said.
Marcus rolled his eyes. "No," he said flatly.
"A lot," Pucey said.
"How unfortunate," Marcus said, but he didn't even believe it himself.
Percy was working, as usual, when Oliver got back, because he didn't want to make it look as if maybe he didn't deserve to be Head Boy. "Where were you?" he asked sharply, when Oliver tried to slip by.
"Um," said Oliver hesitantly. He glanced down at his creased shirt and rumpled trousers, and decided he didn't even want to think about how the rest of him looked. "Out," he said.
"Weren't you supposed to be in class?" Percy asked.
Oliver looked back up, and sucked in a breath. Percy was looking at him scrutinizingly, like he knew exactly what it was Oliver'd just done. "I fell in the lake?" Oliver tried, anyway.
Percy looked nonplussed. "I'm sure you did. And yet, I doubt Lupin'll take that for a proper excuse."
"Fine," said Oliver, "so you come up with something," and pretended not to be surprised when Percy couldn't.
"Wow," George said, when he finally made it down to the pitch for morning practice. "I mean, shit, wow, Oliver," he said, and Fred whistled.
"You sure got it pretty good, eh?" he said.
"Sure," Oliver said noncommittally, and gestured at one of his game boards, because he was just not going to talk about anything else. "So, I've got this idea," he started, even though Angelina hadn't shown up, and tapped the board for emphasis, "about swarming the Keeper."
"You mean us?" Katie asked, around a yawn.
"Yes," Oliver said, "the Chasers," and launched into it, because it was actually a good idea, if not new and surprising, and it was hard to defend against, and he'd spent most of yesterday scribbling it down on a napkin, so of course he was going to--
"So what happened?" George asked, interrupting him mid-sentence.
"What?" Oliver said, and faltered. "What happened what when?"
"To you," Fred said.
Oliver blinked, and then blinked again. "What happened to me when?"
Fred cleared his throat, and George said, with an apparent amount of difficulty, "We heard, um, that Flint roughed you up some, um, yesterday, um, afternoon."
"What?" said Oliver.
"Just saying," said George.
"Can we not talk about this?" Katie said rather too loudly.
"We do have a practice and all," said Harry.
"Yes," Oliver said, and nodded, and hadn't the faintest idea where he'd left off. "So," he said.
"I'll kill him for you," George offered.
"Gryffindor solidarity and all that," said Fred.
"Quidditch meeting," said Katie.
"Please," Alicia added.
"Thank you," Oliver said, though he didn't even know who he was thanking, or for what. "Er, so, no killing necessary or anything, so, the point is, you want to do it in a formation either like this or like this or like this, and--"
Though in the end, Oliver thought, maybe he wouldn't be entirely against the idea of having Marcus killed.
First-hour mixed magical history was usually some kind of blessing, because it meant sleeping through Binns' droning, and gave Marcus that extra hour of sleep, even though it probably shouldn't, not the second time around.
"Take notes for me," he'd told Pucey, even though he'd known he wouldn't: Pucey didn't even take notes for himself, because, he claimed, he had a memory like a lock box, and could remember anything on first hearing. In some cases, it was fairly helpful that it was a complete lie.
"Fine," Pucey said anyway, and Marcus had meant to fall asleep immediately, really, except Oliver fucking Wood had beaten him to it, and that, Marcus thought, was not something he wanted to miss.
And Marcus was just so fucking screwed, because Oliver was hunched over his desk, cheek resting on his crossed forearms, eyes closed and lashes fluttering, with his lips slightly parted, and he wanted Marcus. It would have been bad enough if Oliver had just said it, because then Marcus would have actually had to think about it, about whether he meant it, or who put him up to it, and if Marcus was going to make them regret it or not. And it would have been just as bad if Oliver had just kissed him, or something, because then Marcus would have had to think about that, too, but at least Marcus wouldn't have really had to deal with it.
Either of those things would have been possible to ignore.
Except Oliver had not only said, "I want you," and not only kissed Marcus, but then he'd also said stupid things like "oh" and "please", and then he'd spread his legs and whispered breathlessly in Marcus' ear, and it wasn't like Marcus could say no.
So really, it was all Oliver's fault, because now Marcus had to do something about it, because fucking Oliver Wood had really put him in far over his head.
Marcus was standing in front of his desk, glaring down at him, when Oliver woke up, thanks to a sharp elbow in the side from Percy.
"What?" Oliver asked blearily.
"You, me, outside, right now," said Marcus, clipping off each word, short and quiet -- so Percy couldn't hear, Oliver imagined.
"Why?" Oliver said.
Marcus made an impatient sort of noise. "So I can hex you seven ways from Sunday," he said irritably. "What the fuck do you think?"
"Oh," said Oliver, and slid out of his seat, reaching for his notes. "But I have a class next hour."
Marcus looked at him. "You had a class this hour, too," he said. "That didn't make you pay attention."
Oliver bit his tongue, because what the fuck did Marcus know, anyway. Marcus hadn't any idea, none, why Oliver didn't pay attention, so Oliver was safe, right. "Right," Oliver said, and conveniently managed not to let himself see the glare Percy sent his way.
"All right, what?" Oliver asked, but Marcus was obviously not going to be so forthcoming with it. He was all-too-calmly waiting for the rush of escaping history students to subside before he pulled Oliver off down the hall and--
"I don't know what it is you think you want, but," was all Marcus said, and Oliver didn't even have a chance to think of an answer before Marcus put a palm against Oliver's stomach and kissed him, open-mouthed and hard.
"I know what I want," said Oliver breathlessly, when Marcus pulled away. If he hadn't known before, he knew it then, because he still wanted Marcus after everything -- everything -- and he was pretty sure that wasn't the way flukes worked.
"What the fuck were you thinking?" Marcus said, and then he was mouthing at Oliver's throat, so Oliver said, "Nothing," even though he'd been thinking how fucking right Marcus' hands had felt on his skin, how much he'd wanted it, how long he'd waited and how long he'd wait just to do it again.
"Yeah," Marcus said, his voice rough. "That's," he said, and pressed his fingers hard into Oliver's hips, "because you're too bloody stupid." And Oliver flinched, and Marcus kissed him, teeth scraping against Oliver's lips. "You should think something," Marcus growled, and all that Oliver thought was that maybe his legs were going to give out, because how many times before had his imagination stupidly carved out these very same sensations?
Instead, he said, "What, about you?", grinding out the words as Marcus carefully worked his mouth along Oliver's jaw. Oliver tipped his head back, hands finding Marcus' shoulders for balance, and Marcus stopped, barking a short sort of laugh.
"No," said Marcus, breath hot and damp against Oliver's throat, and Oliver shuddered. "No, about McGonagall, what the fuck do you think," Marcus said. He snaked one arm around Oliver's waist, pressing closer, and Oliver's smirk died on his lips.
"'Course," Oliver murmured, and hoped his voice wouldn't break over the syllable, as Marcus angled his hips into Oliver's. Oliver could feel the very distinct pressure of Marcus' cock against his, and wondered, and said, "What were you thinking?" because now, Oliver wasn't thinking much of anything, except how badly he needed Marcus to keep touching him.
"What d'you think?" Marcus said, and his mouth met Oliver's, hard and damp, and Oliver whimpered. Marcus pressed his fingers hard against Oliver's spine, and Oliver arched into him, twisting his hips against Marcus'. There was a sort of nervousness curling in Oliver's stomach, under the flare of want, because Marcus had just said that, hadn't he, and it wasn't like he'd lie about it.
Marcus made a frustrated sort of noise, and then he was licking into Oliver's mouth, grinding his cock so hard against Oliver's, that Oliver thought he might come from the friction alone, because fuck. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps against Marcus' mouth, and there was a dizzying spark behind his eyelids. He raked his fingers down Marcus' back, grating against the roughness of Marcus' robes, and Oliver could feel the ghost of a shiver slithering its way down his spine.
Marcus shoved him back abruptly, shoved him right out of the kiss and against the stone, Oliver's shoulders jarring against the wall. He opened his eyes, and looked, and Marcus was looking back, his eyes dark and wild and furious, and hadn't they done this before?
"Please," Oliver whispered, and didn't even know what he was asking. But it didn't even matter, because then Marcus was insinuating a thigh between Oliver's legs, forcing them apart, and clutching desperately at Oliver's sides. Please please oh god please, sing-songed through Oliver's head, and he couldn't think, couldn't even think of a single thing but friction and heat and Marcus.
"Tell me," Marcus hissed, and Oliver tilted his head up, letting Marcus' breath whisper across his lips. "Tell me what you want," Marcus said, and Oliver could feel the movement against his mouth, and this time, Marcus punctuated it with a twitch of his hips, crushing Oliver hard up against him.
"Want you," Oliver said, but it sounded indistinct to his ears, rough and malformed, and he caught Marcus smirk. He slid one arm around Marcus' waist, palm flat against the curve of Marcus' spine, and there was a definite shiver there. Marcus' mouth was hovering a breath from Oliver's, lips barely brushing, and Oliver could feel it, feel everything when his hips bucked, thigh sliding against Marcus' cock.
"Stop," Marcus breathed, but it was more like a moan, vibrating against Oliver.
"I can't," said Oliver, and he fucking couldn't, and reached for Marcus' cock, because suddenly, it was all that really mattered.
Marcus said, "I'm going to come," and it sounded choked and desperate and not, not at all like the Marcus Oliver knew, and still, Oliver still fucking wanted him. He wrapped his hand around Marcus' cock, palm curved against rough fabric.
"Do it," Oliver whispered, and kissed him. Marcus shuddered.
"Don't think I don't know what you're doing," said Percy shortly, after having found Marcus on his way down to the dungeons. He said it in his Head Boy voice, the voice that said, 'that's not permitted,' and, 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to report you,' and, 'twenty points from Slytherin.' It had stopped intimidating Marcus long ago.
"What do you care, anyway?" he asked. "What do you think you're going to do about it?"
Percy spread his hands, and smiled his Head Boy smile, the smile that said, 'I know you know I think you're a fucking idiot, but I'm too considerate to call you on it.' Marcus scowled right back. "Oh, nothing," Percy said. "I just hope you know what you're getting into."
"Excuse me," Marcus said, not a question, a demand. "What the fuck are you talking about, Weasley?"
Percy's smile widened, and oh, how Marcus would have loved to wipe it clean off his face. "You can't honestly be that stupid," Percy said. "Not to have noticed."
"Noticed what?" Marcus asked, and Percy's expression abruptly changed.
"He's obsessed with you," Percy said coldly.
Marcus rolled his eyes. "Sure," he said, disbelievingly. If Oliver really thought about him either way, at all, Marcus was a fucking Hufflepuff.
"Of course, you wouldn't know," said Percy. "Because you don't know him." Like that even mattered.
"I don't even like him," Marcus said, through gritted teeth, and so what if it was a lie. Percy fucking Weasley didn't need to know that. "I hardly see how that's your business," Marcus said.
"Oliver's my business," said Percy importantly.
"Of course he is," Marcus said, and swallowed the flare of jealousy that clenched in his throat. "Because he's a Gryffindor, and you're fucking Head Boy, isn't that right."
"Yes," Percy said mildly.
"Good," Marcus said, and hated that Weasley could get the better of him. "That's fine, but I'm not. So you can fucking stop stalking me."
"I would hardly call it stalking," Percy said.
"You wouldn't." It would be just like Weasley to call it 'watching out for you' or 'just doing my job' or 'making sure you don't do anything stupid' or--
"Just making sure you don't hurt Oliver," said Percy.
"Like you could stop me. And besides, I don't even--"
"Like him, I know. You might try being a little more subtle," Percy said dryly.
Marcus' jaw tightened. "Look, what the fuck do you want from me, Weasley?" he said. Percy looked inordinately pleased with himself.
"Pucey," Marcus said loudly, and then, "Adrian," when he didn't look up. Marcus scowled. "Have him killed or something."
Pucey arched one already too-delicate eyebrow. "Killed?" he repeated flatly.
"It doesn't matter," said Marcus. "Just, anything to make him stop stalking me."
"He's not stalking you," Pucey said.
"He is too," Marcus said. "What the hell do you think he's been doing around here so much?"
Pucey shrugged uncomfortably, and stared down at his open Potions text. "Well," he said, "he is Head Boy --"
"For fuck's sake," Marcus said irritably. "You aren't still on about that, are you?"
"Of course I'm still on about--" Pucey's head snapped up. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing." Marcus very carefully sat down next to Pucey and momentarily pretended to be interested in his homework before he said, "Do me a favour, will you."
Pucey looked up. "No way," he said quickly. "Especially not if it involves killing Weasley."
Marcus rolled his eyes, and kept at bay the half of his mind that badly wanted to hex Pucey. "Not killing him, no."
"Or anything else that will get me expelled," said Pucey seriously.
"Definitely not," Marcus said. "All you need to do is pretend like you like him or something, distract him," and Pucey made very good work of choking on his own tongue.
"So, Wood," Marcus called, knocking against the door for a third time. "If you're in there, I'm not kidding, I have to talk to you." He leaned against the doorframe and waited, and waited, and said, "It's actually important, and about Quidditch, so you might--"
Oliver swung the door open and looked at Marcus sullenly. His eyes were dark and his cheeks flushed, and he didn't look particularly pleased to see Marcus, but fuck did Marcus want him. "What?" Oliver said.
"Nice to see you too," Marcus said brightly.
"You aren't coming in, in case you were wondering."
"Fine," Marcus said, and leaned back against the doorframe. "I can respect a no-Slytherin rule or whatever you've got."
Oliver barely inclined his head. "So what d'you want?"
"We aren't playing you, first game," Marcus said, and when he got no reaction, he said, "Draco's hurt."
"Draco Malfoy-- is hurt," Oliver said flatly, but now his jaw had tightened.
"Yes," Marcus said, and swallowed.
"And you can't get him healed, so you're backing out."
"I wouldn't say backing out. More like postponing."
"And you can't play without him?"
Marcus snorted. "Of course not. He's not--" he paused. Oliver was staring at him in a pre-emptive kind of shock, mouth clenched tightly shut. "He's not expendable," Marcus said, "like, say, you."
"Expendable?" Oliver said loudly. He'd taken one step towards Marcus, and then another, grabbing Marcus by the shirtfront. Marcus was sure this was supposed to be intimidating. "You think I'm expendable?"
Marcus shrugged him off, and Oliver let go far too easily. "What, you think you're not, Wood?" Marcus said, and Oliver flinched.
"You're a real fucking asshole," he said, almost venomously, and Marcus thought that yes, that was probably fair. "That's so fucking like you, too. Wait until the last fucking minute to tell me something like that, something that's fucking important, that I care about, that I've spent months working towards, and then you just go and change it, but why the hell would you care, it's not like it means anything to you, you just want to win, and you don't want to play because it might hurt you and it's all you, isn't it, never mind any--"
"Oliver," Marcus interrupted, uncertainly, and Oliver broke off abruptly. He'd gotten very red and very loud and very breathless, and Marcus breathed in, and then out, and wanted to kiss him. Fuck. "Shut the fuck up," he said.
"Fuck you," said Oliver. "You fucking do this kind of thing just to piss me off, just because you know, you fucking know we've been training to play against you, and then you do this, just because you're afraid to lose against us, again, you fucking coward." He almost spat the last word, and Marcus was sure, definitely sure that was fair, and he deserved it.
"Are you quite finished?" he asked instead, and Oliver just stared at him.
"Yes," said Oliver, but he was still shaking and angry and hot, and Marcus seized him by the sleeve and kissed him. Oliver's mouth was damp and quivering against Marcus' and he wasn't moving, wasn't doing anything, until he abruptly shoved Marcus away. "You don't even like me or anything," he said. "I'm not bloody stupid. If you think you're going to use me or--"
"For fuck's sake, I'm not trying to use you," Marcus said, because that was just fucking ridiculous, and besides, he hadn't even really considered it.
Oliver looked at him uncertainly, and then, "You bastard, you think this is funny, don't you." His eyes were still bright, and his fists clenched tight at his sides, knuckles white from the strain. Marcus swallowed.
"Hardly," he said. "Chasing you around the school to talk to you about Quidditch isn't exactly my idea of fun." But Oliver was still glaring at him, so he added, "You're only going to play Hufflepuff," which seemed to be as good news as any, because really, Hufflepuff--
"You're such an asshole," Oliver said disgustedly, and Marcus barely had time to agree before Oliver kissed him, tongue curling against Marcus'.
Percy caught them on the stairs when they should have been in class, with Pucey in tow, looking very self-important. Oliver abruptly straightened, wiping his mouth hurriedly with the back of his wrist, and Marcus busily pretended that his hand hadn't just been down Oliver's trousers. Pucey smiled at them indulgently.
"Oh," said Percy cheerfully, "there you are," as if he'd been expecting them.
"Um, hi," Oliver said nervously, and Percy's badge winked politely at him. Marcus looked absolutely stricken.
"I'd been looking for you, actually," Percy said. "Heard you weren't in Charms."
"We were--" Oliver started.
"Talking about Quidditch," Marcus interrupted. "Captains meeting."
"Ran late," Oliver said, nodding furiously. "Right into Charms, not our fault."
"I'm sure," said Percy, obviously unconvinced. Pucey simpered revoltingly at Percy's elbow. Marcus eyed him.
"Haven't you got a class to go to?" Marcus said, tilting his chin upward. His fingers were still on the small of Oliver's back, pressing against the curve of his spine, and Oliver shifted uncomfortably. Marcus' shoulder was warm and pressed up against his, and Oliver was still sort of hard and fuck.
"Official prefect business," Pucey said, but he had a distinctly panicked look in his eyes. Spending too much time with Percy, Oliver imagined.
"So long as we're both clear on that," Marcus said.
"We've written permission," Pucey said. "And I don't suppose you've got anyone's permission to go about..." He trailed off and looked at them significantly, and Marcus smiled back nastily. "Permission not to go to class," Pucey said instead.
Oliver felt Marcus' fingers tightening in the fabric of his Quidditch uniform, and shivered. "From Madam Hooch, actually," he said, which was very much not true.
"Then I guess," said Percy, "you can appeal to her about the ten points from Slytherin and Gryffindor each you've just lost." Oliver scowled. "This is just utterly unacceptable, Oliver," Percy said, and Oliver vaguely wondered what Percy found acceptable, anyway. "I would have thought," Percy continued, "that you two -- especially you, Flint -- would care just a little more about missing class, even for Quidditch."
"You would," Marcus said. "So if you're quite done, Weasley, maybe you could shove off and find someone else to harass, while you're out on your 'official prefect business'."
Pucey simpered exasperatedly. "We're not harassing you, Marcus," he said, "we're just--"
"Looking out for us?" Oliver supplied.
"Honestly," Percy said in his prissiest voice. "It's my job to make sure no one's breaking any rules--"
"And we appreciate your efforts," Marcus interrupted, and Oliver was pretty sure he did no such thing, "now fuck off."
"Calm down," Pucey said, in a most unplacating tone, "he's only trying to do his jo--"
"'Stalking Marcus Flint'," Marcus said, jaw clenched, "is not part of Weasley's fucking job description." Pucey held up his hands defensively and shrugged.
"For the last time, I'm not bloody well stalking you," Percy said.
"I should hope not," said Marcus, starting, "because if I catch you at it again I'll break your fucking face in."
"Five points from Slytherin," Percy said airily, at the same time as Pucey shrieked, "Marcus!" and Marcus was apparently showing remarkable self-control. "Look," Percy continued, "I really haven't the time to spend dealing with your empty death threats and hoping they don't extend to Oliver--"
"About time," Oliver muttered, and Percy looked at him disapprovingly. Oliver very carefully didn't look at Marcus.
"Extend to Oliver," Percy said, as if without interruption, "so maybe you could just save me the time and--"
"What the hell," Marcus said cautiously, "does this have to do with Wood?"
"Well, since you very obviously don't like him--"
"Since when do I not--," Marcus started, and abruptly stopped, and Oliver looked at him. Marcus said, "Fine," and got up, "here I am, saving you time." He brushed past Percy and stalked off down the hall, and Oliver stared after him blankly.
"Well," Percy said, after a time, "I'd hate to say I told you so," but Oliver thought there was probably nothing he'd like to say more.
"Yeah," Oliver said finally, and got up, and followed.
Walking away was obviously not something Oliver understood, Marcus figured, because Oliver'd caught up with him before he'd made it even halfway to the dungeons.
"What?" Marcus asked, stopping dead in the middle of the hall, and Oliver promptly dropped his wand. "Oh, for fuck's sake," said Marcus.
Oliver mumbled something vaguely apologetic and plucked it up off the floor. "Hi," he said, finally.
"Yeah, hi," Marcus said. Oliver was frowning at him uncertainly, and oh, it was going to be like this, was it. "What?" he repeated flatly.
"Er," Oliver started, and took an audible breath before he said, "You actually meant that, what you said? To Percy?"
"What, that I'd break his face if he didn't stop stalking me?" asked Marcus.
"No," Oliver said, and then paused. "Well, that too, but more the other thing."
"Can't imagine what that would be," Marcus said all too quickly. Oliver looked at him, and seemed to consider this, but of course Marcus knew what it was -- like it was going to be anything else. And Marcus looked back, and felt his mouth go dry, because of course he knew, and of course Oliver knew he knew, and Oliver was still going to make him say it.
"You actually like me?" Oliver said, in a tentative sort of voice, and Marcus hated himself for wanting to say yes.
"No," he said instead, a sharp lie on his tongue, but it wasn't like Oliver shouldn't have been expecting it. "But then," Marcus said, and Oliver's face fell, "you wouldn't know anything about lying just to tell people what they want to hear, would you."
"No," said Oliver quickly, "I guess not," and Marcus wondered just how fucking stupid Oliver had to be to believe that. Oliver frowned, and Marcus was pretty sure this was the part where he said, "wait," before Oliver turned and walked away and didn't look back, but he was also pretty sure that wasn't going to happen, anyway.
Instead, he touched the back of his knuckles to Oliver's cheek, and Oliver said, "Don't," so Marcus kissed him, very softly and not at all the way he intended, but that, at least, couldn't lie.