(no subject)
in honor of The Journal That Must Not Be Named, some nc-17. it's not pure porn, but it's got its moments. :grin: part one of, so far, four. fic title and song from the indigo girls. i know, i know i'm :gasp: posting porn where underage non-slashers can read it, but you know what? i'm a big fan of "if you don't want to read it, don't." so here goes. "hello, fandom_scruples!!!" :flips off:
blood and fire : percy/oliver nc-17 : chapter 1
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
i have spent nights with matches and knives
leaning over ledges only two flights up
cutting my heart burning my soul
nothing left to hold
nothing left but blood and fire
you have spent nights thinking of me
missing my arms but you needed to leave
leaving my cuts
leaving my burns
hoping i’d learn
but blood and fire are too much
for these restless arms to hold
and my nights of desire
they’re calling you here back to my hold
and i’m calling you
calling you
from ten thousand miles away
won’t you wet my fire with your love babe
i am looking for someone who can take as much as i give
and give back as much as i need
you know and they still have the will to live ah no
cause i am intense, i am in need
i am in pain, i am in love
and i feel forsaken you know
like the things i gave away
Chapter One
Percy rubbed his eyes irritably, casting his quill down onto the desk with a sigh. He had been working for hours, and the words were swimming on the page in front of him, a sure sign that it was time for him to go home. He was still not quite used to his flat being home- he still thought of the Burrow, even with its frenetic lifestyle and overpopulation, as home. Not that he missed it, per se, but sometimes he wished he could wake up to his mother’s voice humming over scones and clotted cream instead of more dry silence and toast.
Running a hand through his curls, he stacked his papers into a neat pile and stood, pulling his thick cloak on, wincing as he stretched his arm for his bag. He checked twice to make sure the protection charm was still in the hidden pocket and locked up his office as quickly as he could. Going outside into the blustery February evening, he looked up at the sky and smiled; it was one of those rare twilights when the moon and the sun faced each other in orange glory as one died and the other flickered to life. The fading sun gilded the skyline, and he passed into Muggle London in that brief glow as the shadows deepened. He felt an impermeable gloom settle around him and he pulled his cloak tighter, grateful for its warmth, though it did nothing to soothe the rawness that abraded his heart.
On his way back to Balsata Row he stopped and bought a container of soup and a loaf of bread. Dinner alone, he thought with a grimace. He was used to it by now, though he could remember a time when it hadn’t been like this. When there had been someone waiting for him at home, someone whose voice he loved waking up to more than his mother’s. When there had been more than three AM staring at his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror as the blood dripped deafening drops into the sink... He shook his head and swallowed. That person hadn’t been around for a long time, he reminded himself, and the blood... well, nobody else knew about that. The grief he kept at bay when facing the outside world threatened to well up again as he put one foot woodenly before the other, and he pushed it down with practiced ease. They all had their hurts and losses these days, and his was hardly the greatest. He dealt with it as he must- the only way he knew how, to cut out the pain in the dead of night when it choked him and he woke thrashing in his bedding, unable to breathe. Out out out, he’d think, watching the bright redness well up around the thin lines he made on his arms, his legs, his stomach... He could always charm the marks off when he needed to, but he never needed to anymore. Nobody saw his skin now to care, and he needed the scars. They were the only reminders he had of what he had done, letting his fear and selfishness ruin his own life... But then, he thought, nobody really knew about that either.
His building was at the end of a long street of similar gray-shingled nonentities. Percy often felt like one of these structures himself; worn, cut, burned, too tired to stand up straight, too damned stubborn to fall down, so nondescript that most people passed him right by. But just as he had looked deeper into this neighborhood to find the perfect home, he had known someone who had looked deeper into him, and found... what? He wasn’t so sure anymore. He had thought it was love, but now the empty corners of the space they had shared laughed at him, the dust gathering on picture frames now facedown on the mantel a testament to the brevity of emotion. The only emotion that lasted, he had found, was pain. And that, these days, he had in spades.
Climbing the creaking staircase to flat number three, he slumped against the doorframe, flinching away as the friction rasped against a new scabbed cut, fumbling for the key. Unable to find it in any of his pockets, he muttered a curse and an alohomora and stumbled inside. It was dark and he lit the lamps with a wave of his wand, slinging his cloak onto the peg and quickly relocking the door. He double-checked the spells that hid him from unfriendly eyes, distracted those who sought out any with red hair and too many freckles. Those bringing malice against Dumbledore’s allies would turn away, realizing they were at the wrong house.
Sighing, Percy turned and faced his flat, full of a mocking emptiness that lived in the space not taken up by cigarette smoke and memories. The entryway led into the main room filled with old furniture and books. One corner served as the kitchen, with a counter dividing it from the rest of the room. Nearest the counter was the skittish table stolen from a rubbish heap and painted. Then, between the fireplace and the door, a couch of similar origins. Closest to the window that faced the street were two chairs, handed down from the Weasley family when they got a new living room set. Between the chairs was a bookcase, and piled on the floor were enough books to keep even the most studious person busy for months. The corner where a broomstick-case had once lived and the half-empty wardrobe bore witness to the missing piece of this man’s life; the empty half.
There had once been two of them there, two young men who lived in fear of their ties being discovered by the wrong people. Two young men who had lived in these three rooms like a palace, making do with noisy pipes and cold water because their laughter drowned out the rattles and they had each other to keep themselves warm. Two young men, vastly different it seemed, and it had taken them more than the seven years they were roommates to discover that really, they were the same. Driven, intense, fueled by passion for what they loved and believed in. Is there a such thing as believing in something too much? Percy wondered idly, tearing at a fingernail with his teeth as he moved across the room.
He collapsed into a chair at the table that teetered precariously with the weight of an empty vase. The chair was none too steady either, but his long legs braced its unevenness and made it support him. He let his breath out in a rush and reached behind him for the whisky decanter he knew would be there. Pouring a thick glass a little more than half full, he downed it in three sips and stood on sturdier feet. Stripping off his jumper and boots, he kicked them against the far wall and rolled up his sleeves, not letting himself ignore the fascinating network of scars that covered his forearms. The newest cuts were still scabbed in brown and purple and red, crossing over the livid red marks still healing from barely a week past, which covered an old layering of frail white lines, sets of parallel threads crossing over and over... his skin was pale to begin with, the soft red hairs barely visible on the back of his arm, and the scars stood out like slats of sunlight on a white wall. Looking at them turned his stomach, but it was supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to be allowed to forget. Remembrance- that was what scars were for. Each set of underscores a testament to a sleepless night, a fight, a bout of unstoppable grief, each with a different cause, a different hurt, a different nightmare. He marked them on his skin so they would not repeat themselves. A silent voice asked him in his dreams when he would realize that every hurt stemmed from the same place... but silent voices are easy to ignore, and Percy cherished his scars too much to give them up. They were all he had left to own.
Mechanically he heated the soup, toasted the bread, lit a fire in the grate and sat on the bare floor, eating his dinner without tasting it. The heat of the soup warmed him a little, but he was still chilled from the inside out. He lit a cigarette when the soup was gone and watched the smoke, trying to discern pictures in the clouds that swirled and rose up to dissipate against the ceiling. He leaned against the couch with his knees drawn up halfway, an old metal coaster serving as his ashtray. The round burn mark on the inside of Percy’s left forearm was the same size as the small glow on the end of his cigarette. He could see the russet mark as his arms rested on his knees. The glowing stick he held in his hand was almost gone. He stared at it meditatively, transferred it to his left hand, and dispassionately stubbed it into his right arm opposite the other burn. At the touch of the flame to his flesh he sucked in a guttural breath, more of a gasp than anything else. He held that breath till he could smell the burning, then he pulled the cigarette off his arm with the crackle of burnt paper and skin. He let his breath out in a slow, sated sigh, and dropped the butt into the coaster. Percy glanced at the red hole in his arm, which was weeping a little watery blood, and then looked away. That one was for the ashtray. The thick glass ashtray he’d gotten from a colleague at the Ministry, with a wide mouth and scalloped edges. He’d still been finding slivers of glass on the floor weeks later, he remembered. He’d stepped on a few, careful to take them out before they infected his feet. Some had cut him deep, and it was then, he remembered, that he had realized what a release there was in the flow of blood. He’d taken up the sliver and let it slice open his finger, had watched the scarlet liquid run down the rivets of his fingerprints, mesmerized. Then it had dripped onto the cuff of his shirt and he’d sucked at his finger, tasting the bittersweet taint as he licked it away. That had been the beginning.
He looked up as the clock chimed eleven and started, wondering where three hours had gone. Cleaning up his dishes, Percy went into the bedroom and stared morosely at the impeccable floor for a moment before getting undressed. Trousers, shirt, undershirt, shorts, socks all went into the hamper, and he stood naked in front of the mirror. It was a sometime ritual of his, the examination of the marks on his body. The cataloguing of his sins, etched indelibly on his body by his own hand. He explored thoroughly tonight, standing close to the full length glass and running his fingers over the barely-tangible bumps that told the story of the past three years of his life. He had started on his left leg, he remembered, and the deepest scar was still there. He hadn’t known how to do it the right way back then, how to bleed off the pain without really injuring himself. There, that scar wider than the rest, three or four inches down from the soft flesh near his hip. That was the first. Then, below it, on top of it, around it, there were many others. They spread in a mural of crosshatches around the outside of his thigh (he had taken Medical Magic with Madam Pomfrey, of course, and knew where not to cut, to avoid the big veins) and up to his flat stomach, the perfect canvas, where the lines spidered across the skin like cracks in fine china. And then his arms, where the burns were, and more scars. He bared his teeth in a ghastly grin. Not bad, Weasley, he thought. You’ve got a collection that would make any warrior proud. A pity you didn’t win any of them, only inflicted them on yourself like the coward you are. Too scared to face the real world, too fucking stupid to hold onto the one good thing you ever had... However did you end up in Gryffindor? They should have put you with the Slytherins, at least then you’d have had an excuse to turn tail and run at the first sign of danger.
Sick of thoughts that would only lead to the kind of despair he wanted so badly to avoid, he finally found his pajamas and put them on. Warm, fluffy flannel, they were too long for him and printed with a vivid red and black tartan that clashed with his hair. He didn’t care, and wore them every night. They were the only thing that warmed him, that and the memory of their giver, whose cheeky grin as he had opened them on Christmas morning was unforgettable.
He went into the bathroom and studied his face in the mirror. He was thinner than he had ever been before, and that was saying something. His curly hair stood up on end from having fingers thrust through it all day, and there were circles under his eyes that rivaled the bruises on his arms and legs. Bruises that overlaid scars that overlaid burns... He could not bring himself to meet his own eyes in the mirror, wanting to avoid the loneliness that ached out of them, clear blue darkened by insomnia and nightmares. He put some salve on the burn, enough to stop any infection, but it would not stop the pain. He looked sidelong at the razor on the edge of the chipped porcelain sink. No, he would not be returning to its comforts so soon. He had to give his newest scars time to heal.
Going back into the bedroom, he looked at the big bed and was daunted by its emptiness. It wasn’t the first time, nor, he knew, would it be the last. Pulling the quilt off, he grabbed his book from the bedside table and flung himself headlong onto the couch in the center of the main room. It faced toward the fire but away from the door, which he hardly liked in his current state of solitary paranoia, but he made sure his wand was close. Flipping the book open and propping his head on his hand, he turned pages till his eyes were burning with tiredness. Carefully laying the aged volume on the floor, he extinguished the lights and curled up on hard cushions with only the quilt and his memories to keep him warm.
In his dream it was morning, the kind of bright shining morning that invites you outside to bask in its warmth. He could feel the sun on his back as he found himself waking in the big bed that filled most of their small bedchamber. His lower body was wrapped in the sheets and he sat up, stretching lazily. He felt surprisingly good for someone who had had the most brutal argument of his life the night before. He let his arms flop out of the stretch down to the soft sheets, skin almost as white as the cotton they rested on. That was one of the things he knew Oliver liked about him- how smooth his skin was, unmarked, unlike his own tanned flesh scored with the evidence of a thousand falls and scrapes and bludgers and brawls. Standing and pulling on his pajama bottoms which lay in a heap on the floor, Percy padded out to the kitchen. It was empty, which surprised him- Oliver usually never went out this early. He felt a twinge thinking of their fight of the night before. He had been harsh, harsher than he’d meant to be. But he was sure his lover would understand- he was concerned for their safety, his work was dangerous now that he was a spy. The last thing he wanted was to come home and find the snake and skull over their flat- he shuddered with deeply placed fear just at the thought. He had barely been old enough to remember the first reign of Voldemort, but he remembered enough of frantic Floo trips to safety at the Ministry and his parents’ sad eyes when another one of their friends had received a black envelope in the post signaling the death of one of their family. He remembered enough to promise himself that that would never, ever happen to him or his loved ones. Stretching again, Percy looked around and for the first time noticed the letter on the table. A tendril of ice wound its way around his stomach and he picked it up with hesitant fingers. It was in Oliver’s hand, as he knew it would be. “Dear Percy,” he read aloud. “I can’t do this in person because if I try, I will fail and end up abandoning what it is I’m trying to do completely. I’ve left- not you, but our flat. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I’ve gone to find a purpose, something to do so you are not the only one fighting this war. I have to do this so you will know I’m serious when I say I would risk anything for you. Whatever it is Dumbledore has me do, when it is done I will be free of guilt. I will be able to face you with a clear conscience, knowing that I am not oblivious, as you accused me last night, to the horrors of war. I will neither be oblivious nor innocent of what darkens your eyes when you say you don’t want to talk about the things you’ve learned in service to Dumbledore and his vision. I don’t care how long it takes, but I will prove myself as brave as he who founded our House. I love you, Percy. I know you won’t want to believe me right now. But someday when you’re past worrying about me, or when the war is over and we are completely free, you will. And if what I do is dangerous enough that it requires my life, know that I will give it gladly so that you can be safe. You know, cariad, that I never had a family to speak of. You have become my family, and I am leaving you to preserve you. I love you. I can’t say it enough. I miss you already and I haven’t even left yet. Until we meet again, I remain yours. Oliver Wood.” He finished reading and stared dumbly at the parchment, unable to comprehend. He set it down on the table, squinting in the bright sun. He turned his head, hardly breathing. Oliver had gone, because of what he’d said. Because of what he’d done. All he’d wanted was to keep him safe, and he’d gone and laid himself at Dumbledore’s feet like a sacrificial lamb. He stuffed one hand into his mouth to keep from making any noise. He had to think. How could he avert this... a small part of him knew it for a dream and shouted for him to wake up. He couldn’t. He watched his dream-self put his free hand on the nearest object and fling it mindlessly at the wall, not feeling the tears on his face. The ashtray, the crystal ashtray that splintered into a million pieces and Percy, standing in bare feet, just looked at the floor in bewilderment. Not understanding anything, he stepped forward onto the shards, heedless of the bloody footprints he was leaving behind. The small shouting part of him held onto his consciousness and pulled him out of the dream, and he could see the red footprints like gruesome graffiti and himself getting smaller and smaller, stumbling into the bathroom like a blind man...
Percy jolted awake; his alarm was going off. One useful Muggle invention, he had always thought, as his own clocks were far too temperamental to be trusted to wake him on time. He rolled off the couch and staggered into the bedroom to slap the clock into silence, rubbing his eyes. The burn on his arm ached, and he felt like he had slept for ten minutes instead of eight hours. He turned on the shower and jumped in, the freezing water making his teeth chatter. Then he was out and standing speculatively in front of his wardrobe, dressing gown of dark blue tied loosely at his waist. It hung off him as it had never been wont to do when he had first owned it. But things were different now than they’d been in his last years at Hogwarts. Unbidden, a memory flashed in front of his eyes.
Their seventh year just before Christmas hols, Percy had been sitting up late in the Gryffindor common room studying when Oliver came in flushed from the cold. He was reading a letter with a smile on his face. Percy watched him cross with half-lidded eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. In truth he had watched Oliver on the sly for a while before that, realizing his strange attraction to his roommate was more than inappropriate, it went against everything he thought he was. What about Penelope? What about Molly’s hope for dozens of grandchildren? What about his image as Head Boy? As an upstanding citizen and employee of the Ministry? He couldn’t reconcile it, but he couldn’t ignore it either. Almost as if sensing his thoughts, Oliver had stopped in the middle of the common room and sauntered over to Percy’s table.
“Up late again, Percy?” he asked lightly, glancing over the books spread out in front of the redhead.
“Well, you know, N.E.W.T.’s aren’t too far off, I want to get moving early...” he cracked his fingers, looking at the ink stains instead of those brown eyes he wanted to lose himself in.
Oliver laughed self-deprecatingly. “I’m going to flunk half mine whether I study or not- it’s just like you to get a head start, though. Good luck, Perce, I’m sure you’ll do fantastically.”
Percy looked up then, startled at the kindness and warmth in the other boy’s voice. “Thanks, Oliver,” he’d stammered, hardly knowing what to say. This was the most words they’d exchanged in one go since the start of term. “Where- that is, what are you doing over the holidays?” he felt an utter fool, and thought his face must be burning.
Oliver started to speak, gesturing with his letter. “Just got an owl from home, get to go back after all-“ and suddenly a gigantic sneeze tore from Percy’s throat, scattering his papers a nd leaving him dazed, lightheaded.
Oliver laughed, a delightfully full and infectious sound. “I think that signals time to sleep,” he said, picking up some of the heavy books on the table despite his roommate’s protests. “You’re going to get sick and then what fun would your holidays be?”
Percy gave a grin which turned into a hilariously grotesque face as he felt another sneeze coming on. Oliver jokingly backed away. “Don’t give it to me, Weasley, whatever it is!”
He laughed, sniffing and wiping his eyes with his free hand. “It wouldn’t even enter your body- I’m willing to bet your immune system’s got Quidditch reflexes too.” Oliver laughed again and Percy’s stomach flip-flopped. He’d just made a joke, and Oliver had laughed. Amazing.
As they walked up to the dormitory, Percy fixed that laugh and face in his mind. Perhaps there was hope for the boring Weasley after all...
A small smile played about Percy’s lips as he dressed for work. He had realized, long after, that that exchange had meant something to Oliver too- it had shown him that Percy was approachable, and it had been the beginning of their friendship. A friendship which quickly grew into unspoken feelings, wanting more, then actually having it... ah, that sweet first kiss under the lazy sun, the smell of summer and grass swirling almost tangibly in the air, the unfamiliar feeling of broad shoulders and short hair under his hands...
Stop that, he told himself fiercely. He steeled himself against dangerous memories and shrugged into his robes, glaring at himself in the mirror. Frowning at the circles under his eyes, he took up his wand and charmed them away, nodding sharply at his new composed appearance. Always on time, never missing a beat, forever overachieving, that was the Percy Weasley that worked at the Ministry of Magic. It was the person he had made himself into, and he could not afford to be anything else.
Work droned. As always, he kept his eyes and ears open when people like Hector Parkinson or Walden Macnair were around, but the Ministry was surprisingly quiet that day. Maybe it was because it was a drizzly Wednesday in February, or maybe everyone was just avoiding him. He snarled silently at the rolls of parchment littering his desk. It wouldn’t surprise him to look up and see his foul mood hanging over him like a specter, growling and slavering. He wrote maniacally, cataloguing reports and penning letters faster than he could ever remember doing. It consumed him, as work was supposed to do. The weather outside matched his mood, and his pace was feverish, like the raindrops that chased each other down the window pane.
Percy put his head in his boss’ door half an hour early and asked if there was anything else to do before he left. Kennington Buckwith, Senior Assistant to Cornelius Fudge, looked up in shock, the tufts of gray hair above each ear standing straight out. He met his eyes, then stared up at the ceiling; Percy thought he might be checking to see if the roof was falling in. His eyes were wary, but he shook his head. “No, Weasley, get going,” he said dazedly. Percy suppressed a weak smile and got out of the building as fast as he could.
He stopped at the same small market that he had the day before; it had just opened up and the woman who ran it reminded him of Madam Hooch. She had the same bright brandy-colored eyes and the same businesslike manner, bustling about getting him the fruit and vegetables he pointed out, handing them to him with a sly grin.
“Anythin’ else, luv?” she asked in her Cockney twang. “Yeh look like yeh c’d use some warmin’ up t’night. How ‘bout a box o’ tea?” Percy shook his head with a smile and ducked out of the shop with a soft farewell. Back on the street, he turned his collar up against the rain and walked with his eyes downcast back to his flat. As he turned the key in the main door, he looked down the street and saw someone standing on the corner, heedless of the rain that poured in a steady stream off the roof above and onto his head. Hands in pockets, the figure was standing completely still, looking down the street. Quickly Percy pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind him, muttering a quick concealment charm as he rushed up the stairs. His heart was racing with fearful paranoia as he entered the flat, and he charmed the doors with extra force, throwing off his cloak and shoes in a pile as he walked quickly into the main room. Putting his groceries down on the counter, he paused and gave a rueful half-smile as he realized what he was going to do.
He had not been too young to remember the last days of Voldemort’s reign, and was not too old now to have forgotten his mother’s ritual. “Around to every window,” he murmured to himself, “touch the locks and the sill, casement and panes, and at every touch say aegis adeo.” There were not very many windows in the flat, but even so by the end of his round it was dark. Sighing, his fear forgotten, he decided to shower before he ate, and went into the bedroom to throw his clothes in the hamper. Refusing to let himself be caught by the mirror, he dashed into the bathroom and turned on the water, jumping in immediately because he knew by now that the quest for hot water was futile. Surprisingly it was actually warm tonight, and he stood under it with his head thrown back, letting it travel down his body, stinging his cuts, alleviating the tension in his tired muscles. He turned and let the spray wet his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, letting his fingers trail down his body, missing-
-the other pair of hands kneading his shoulders as he leaned on his arms against the wall, lukewarm water making his skin slick, Oliver’s fingers like velvet on him-
He shook his head, snatching his hands away and reaching for the shampoo. He lathered it between his hands and raised them to his hair-
-remembering the feel of hands lingering on his back, holding him from behind as he pressed his fingertips into his scalp, gasping as one warm hand went lower and he let his head fall back onto the shoulder that was waiting to support it, a brief moan escaping his lips-
“Gods,” he muttered, cursing his mind for dredging up such thoughts, and his body for reacting to them. He was grateful for the water turning to ice and hoped it would quell his remembered desire, but it would persist-
-as those hands persisted in their quest, and he leaned back into the embrace, relaxed under the warm water and the lean hands that stroked him into a languid contentment. He turned his head for a kiss hotter than the skin beneath Oliver’s hands, gasping as the skillful fingers finished their job and his bones turned to liquid, his eyelids falling shut-
His fingers closed convulsively around his stiff, aching cock, which at that moment was screaming for fulfillment. He gasped, relief coursing through his veins mingled with revulsion- weak! his brain screamed at him, fighting the hand that had grown a mind of its own... he was so pathetic, he berated, loathing his inability to control himself as much even as he welcomed the abrupt scalding thickness on his fingers and the shuddering release of the apprehension in every muscle.
Sickened, he scrubbed his body raw with a sponge that felt like a brick on his sensitive skin and jumped out of the shower, shaking. Drying himself as he went, he dashed into the bedroom and pulled on his pajamas. Exhausted and drained, Percy rolled himself in his quilt and assembled his limbs on the couch. He still felt like he needed a bath, dirty with weakness and surrender. He huddled rolled up in a ball, lonely and shaking, wondering if he would ever be warm again. The floodgates holding back his self-hatred were weakening, and all he could think was he was glad he wasn’t still in the bathroom, near the tempting edge of the razor... Percy you are so disgusting, so weak, you can’t keep control over anything in your life can you, always giving in aren’t you, can’t live with the life you made yourself, more like a grave well you lie in it, that’s all you deserve, you drove him away what right have you to think of him that way, he’s not yours anymore remember, you gave him up sacrificed him to your idiot pride... After almost an hour of mentally whipping himself to shreds, he felt fatigue overtake him. The fire swam before his eyes, vision blurry without his glasses, and the red glow spread to cover the rest of his field of vision, just before his eyelids drooped and he slipped into sleep and another dream of the past.
They sat across from each other at the small table, coffee and bagels between them. He read the morning Prophet and Oliver flipped through Quidditch Monthly Digest on his knee. The sounds of pages and breakfast were drowned out by their silence, which hovered over them like a cloud of locusts, waiting to devour. Oliver had returned two days before, exhausted and drained and aching. Percy had been too torn between relief and resentment to do anything other than let him collapse into bed. He’d slept for over twelve hours, long past when Percy reluctantly climbed into the other side of the bed, falling asleep hugging the edge only to wake up hours later in Oliver’s arms, being kissed within an inch of his life. Drowsy and warm and not alone for the first time in months, he’d wound his arms around Oliver’s neck and pulled him close, offering himself up to the deep well of need and want and love he felt with every touch of Oliver’s hands on his body. The other man had fallen asleep immediately after, sighing deeply as his arms tightened around Percy and he relaxed into slumber. Percy had lain awake for a while, still and silent, arguing with himself until he, too, fell asleep. He woke while the dawn was still seeping in through the cracks around the curtains and disentangled himself from Oliver’s hold, going out to the sofa and wrapping his arms around himself. He’d sat motionless for over an hour, moving only when he heard the bed creak in the other room, getting up to put on the coffee pot. The night had protected them from the harsh realities that lurked in daylight, but it had passed too soon, and now he was sitting at that table again, waiting for Oliver to say goodbye. He finished his breakfast and waited for Oliver to meet his eyes before he spoke. “I shouldn’t have let it happen.” The brown eyes turned quizzical, and he elaborated. “Last night. I should have just slept on the couch... I’m sorry. I should have known it wouldn’t be possible to just sleep. I guess I was just hoping you were going to tell me you were staying before you fucked me. Even if it was a lie.” He knew his words were blunt, harsh, and they were only there to fill the space of the words he should be saying. But those were hard words- I love you, and goodbye, and never. His nonchalance wavered, and he swallowed. Oliver stared, a little surprised, then flattened his mouth into a line and nodded. “I see,” he said quietly. Taking his dishes and Percy’s, he got up and went to the sink and started washing them. Percy sat where he was, at once living the dream and watching it from the outside. The part of him that watched followed Oliver to the sink, watched the shaking hands that surreptitiously brushed at downcast eyes before turning off the tap and returning to the table. “Perce-“ he began, but dream-Percy stood shaking his head. “No. You want to help Dumbledore, I understand and respect that. More than that, I support it, and you know I do. I’m doing it myself, in my own way. But why this way? Why throw away your life like this? I can understand Malfoy wanting to do it- he’s got nothing to live for. Sadly, I can say the same about Harry. All they have left is this war, Oliver, but you-“ his voice broke with the tears that choked him. He swallowed again, but the tears wouldn’t go away. They filled his eyes to brimming and spilled over as he threw the Prophet down on the table so Oliver could read the headline. THIRTY DEAD IN RESCUE MISSION: DEATH EATER SPIES SUSPECTED WITHIN MINISTRY. “I don’t want you to end like this,” he said quietly, wiping his eyes. “Me neither,” Oliver replied quietly. “But fear of a possible end is no reason not to try. I have to do this, Percy- Harry and Draco need me. I don’t expect you to understand. But if I live through it-“ Percy cut him off, tears choking his voice. “No. Oliver... I can’t live through this. I can’t live here constantly thinking about whether you’re dead or alive or captured or tortured or... no. I can’t do it. If-“ he took a shaky breath- “if you leave today... don’t come back. Once you walk away from me you might as well be dead. You can’t expect me to- to-“ he couldn’t finish. “To wait for me?” Oliver’s voice was harsh with his own sudden grief. Percy nodded miserably, eyes the color of rainclouds. “Fine,” he rasped. “Then consider me dead, Percy Weasley. And if you do read about my death in the papers, don’t wonder if I died thinking of you. I won’t have.” He turned and stalked out of the flat, out of Percy’s life, and there was no ashtray to throw this time, only himself to hurt, only his own flesh to claw at with frantic fingernails, only his own hoarse sobs echoing in the empty rooms-
His eyes snapped open at the click of the door-handle turning. A quiet voice was quickly and effectively testing and dismantling his spells one by one. His heart jumped in his chest, so loud he was sure the intruder would hear it, and he carefully slid his wand out from between the cushions, not breathing. The last spell was removed, and he let out his breath slowly, prepared for the worst. The prowler seemed to be alone for the moment, a small kindness for which Percy was thankful. He listened to the person tiptoe into the main room, and was about to leap up, a hex ready on his tongue, when the intruder tripped over a misplaced boot and swore.
“Bloody fucking hell, Perce, the one time you forget to put your shoes away...” came the fervent whisper, Scottish accent clear even in the low tones of the speaker’s voice. Percy’s eyes widened and the wand dropped from his nerveless fingers. He sat up slowly, unwilling to turn and look, afraid he was still dreaming.
The word was out of his mouth before he realised he’d spoken, low and urgent. “Oliver?!”
tbc...
:wibbles: hope it pleases, preciouses. not even sure it deserves to get me on the blacklist with all the amazing smut that's gotten others on there, but whatever. anything to damn the man, even if the man is a bunch of half-literate swedish trolls. :dusts off hands: off to ice cream now.
love! _ems
blood and fire : percy/oliver nc-17 : chapter 1
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
i have spent nights with matches and knives
leaning over ledges only two flights up
cutting my heart burning my soul
nothing left to hold
nothing left but blood and fire
you have spent nights thinking of me
missing my arms but you needed to leave
leaving my cuts
leaving my burns
hoping i’d learn
but blood and fire are too much
for these restless arms to hold
and my nights of desire
they’re calling you here back to my hold
and i’m calling you
calling you
from ten thousand miles away
won’t you wet my fire with your love babe
i am looking for someone who can take as much as i give
and give back as much as i need
you know and they still have the will to live ah no
cause i am intense, i am in need
i am in pain, i am in love
and i feel forsaken you know
like the things i gave away
Chapter One
Percy rubbed his eyes irritably, casting his quill down onto the desk with a sigh. He had been working for hours, and the words were swimming on the page in front of him, a sure sign that it was time for him to go home. He was still not quite used to his flat being home- he still thought of the Burrow, even with its frenetic lifestyle and overpopulation, as home. Not that he missed it, per se, but sometimes he wished he could wake up to his mother’s voice humming over scones and clotted cream instead of more dry silence and toast.
Running a hand through his curls, he stacked his papers into a neat pile and stood, pulling his thick cloak on, wincing as he stretched his arm for his bag. He checked twice to make sure the protection charm was still in the hidden pocket and locked up his office as quickly as he could. Going outside into the blustery February evening, he looked up at the sky and smiled; it was one of those rare twilights when the moon and the sun faced each other in orange glory as one died and the other flickered to life. The fading sun gilded the skyline, and he passed into Muggle London in that brief glow as the shadows deepened. He felt an impermeable gloom settle around him and he pulled his cloak tighter, grateful for its warmth, though it did nothing to soothe the rawness that abraded his heart.
On his way back to Balsata Row he stopped and bought a container of soup and a loaf of bread. Dinner alone, he thought with a grimace. He was used to it by now, though he could remember a time when it hadn’t been like this. When there had been someone waiting for him at home, someone whose voice he loved waking up to more than his mother’s. When there had been more than three AM staring at his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror as the blood dripped deafening drops into the sink... He shook his head and swallowed. That person hadn’t been around for a long time, he reminded himself, and the blood... well, nobody else knew about that. The grief he kept at bay when facing the outside world threatened to well up again as he put one foot woodenly before the other, and he pushed it down with practiced ease. They all had their hurts and losses these days, and his was hardly the greatest. He dealt with it as he must- the only way he knew how, to cut out the pain in the dead of night when it choked him and he woke thrashing in his bedding, unable to breathe. Out out out, he’d think, watching the bright redness well up around the thin lines he made on his arms, his legs, his stomach... He could always charm the marks off when he needed to, but he never needed to anymore. Nobody saw his skin now to care, and he needed the scars. They were the only reminders he had of what he had done, letting his fear and selfishness ruin his own life... But then, he thought, nobody really knew about that either.
His building was at the end of a long street of similar gray-shingled nonentities. Percy often felt like one of these structures himself; worn, cut, burned, too tired to stand up straight, too damned stubborn to fall down, so nondescript that most people passed him right by. But just as he had looked deeper into this neighborhood to find the perfect home, he had known someone who had looked deeper into him, and found... what? He wasn’t so sure anymore. He had thought it was love, but now the empty corners of the space they had shared laughed at him, the dust gathering on picture frames now facedown on the mantel a testament to the brevity of emotion. The only emotion that lasted, he had found, was pain. And that, these days, he had in spades.
Climbing the creaking staircase to flat number three, he slumped against the doorframe, flinching away as the friction rasped against a new scabbed cut, fumbling for the key. Unable to find it in any of his pockets, he muttered a curse and an alohomora and stumbled inside. It was dark and he lit the lamps with a wave of his wand, slinging his cloak onto the peg and quickly relocking the door. He double-checked the spells that hid him from unfriendly eyes, distracted those who sought out any with red hair and too many freckles. Those bringing malice against Dumbledore’s allies would turn away, realizing they were at the wrong house.
Sighing, Percy turned and faced his flat, full of a mocking emptiness that lived in the space not taken up by cigarette smoke and memories. The entryway led into the main room filled with old furniture and books. One corner served as the kitchen, with a counter dividing it from the rest of the room. Nearest the counter was the skittish table stolen from a rubbish heap and painted. Then, between the fireplace and the door, a couch of similar origins. Closest to the window that faced the street were two chairs, handed down from the Weasley family when they got a new living room set. Between the chairs was a bookcase, and piled on the floor were enough books to keep even the most studious person busy for months. The corner where a broomstick-case had once lived and the half-empty wardrobe bore witness to the missing piece of this man’s life; the empty half.
There had once been two of them there, two young men who lived in fear of their ties being discovered by the wrong people. Two young men who had lived in these three rooms like a palace, making do with noisy pipes and cold water because their laughter drowned out the rattles and they had each other to keep themselves warm. Two young men, vastly different it seemed, and it had taken them more than the seven years they were roommates to discover that really, they were the same. Driven, intense, fueled by passion for what they loved and believed in. Is there a such thing as believing in something too much? Percy wondered idly, tearing at a fingernail with his teeth as he moved across the room.
He collapsed into a chair at the table that teetered precariously with the weight of an empty vase. The chair was none too steady either, but his long legs braced its unevenness and made it support him. He let his breath out in a rush and reached behind him for the whisky decanter he knew would be there. Pouring a thick glass a little more than half full, he downed it in three sips and stood on sturdier feet. Stripping off his jumper and boots, he kicked them against the far wall and rolled up his sleeves, not letting himself ignore the fascinating network of scars that covered his forearms. The newest cuts were still scabbed in brown and purple and red, crossing over the livid red marks still healing from barely a week past, which covered an old layering of frail white lines, sets of parallel threads crossing over and over... his skin was pale to begin with, the soft red hairs barely visible on the back of his arm, and the scars stood out like slats of sunlight on a white wall. Looking at them turned his stomach, but it was supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to be allowed to forget. Remembrance- that was what scars were for. Each set of underscores a testament to a sleepless night, a fight, a bout of unstoppable grief, each with a different cause, a different hurt, a different nightmare. He marked them on his skin so they would not repeat themselves. A silent voice asked him in his dreams when he would realize that every hurt stemmed from the same place... but silent voices are easy to ignore, and Percy cherished his scars too much to give them up. They were all he had left to own.
Mechanically he heated the soup, toasted the bread, lit a fire in the grate and sat on the bare floor, eating his dinner without tasting it. The heat of the soup warmed him a little, but he was still chilled from the inside out. He lit a cigarette when the soup was gone and watched the smoke, trying to discern pictures in the clouds that swirled and rose up to dissipate against the ceiling. He leaned against the couch with his knees drawn up halfway, an old metal coaster serving as his ashtray. The round burn mark on the inside of Percy’s left forearm was the same size as the small glow on the end of his cigarette. He could see the russet mark as his arms rested on his knees. The glowing stick he held in his hand was almost gone. He stared at it meditatively, transferred it to his left hand, and dispassionately stubbed it into his right arm opposite the other burn. At the touch of the flame to his flesh he sucked in a guttural breath, more of a gasp than anything else. He held that breath till he could smell the burning, then he pulled the cigarette off his arm with the crackle of burnt paper and skin. He let his breath out in a slow, sated sigh, and dropped the butt into the coaster. Percy glanced at the red hole in his arm, which was weeping a little watery blood, and then looked away. That one was for the ashtray. The thick glass ashtray he’d gotten from a colleague at the Ministry, with a wide mouth and scalloped edges. He’d still been finding slivers of glass on the floor weeks later, he remembered. He’d stepped on a few, careful to take them out before they infected his feet. Some had cut him deep, and it was then, he remembered, that he had realized what a release there was in the flow of blood. He’d taken up the sliver and let it slice open his finger, had watched the scarlet liquid run down the rivets of his fingerprints, mesmerized. Then it had dripped onto the cuff of his shirt and he’d sucked at his finger, tasting the bittersweet taint as he licked it away. That had been the beginning.
He looked up as the clock chimed eleven and started, wondering where three hours had gone. Cleaning up his dishes, Percy went into the bedroom and stared morosely at the impeccable floor for a moment before getting undressed. Trousers, shirt, undershirt, shorts, socks all went into the hamper, and he stood naked in front of the mirror. It was a sometime ritual of his, the examination of the marks on his body. The cataloguing of his sins, etched indelibly on his body by his own hand. He explored thoroughly tonight, standing close to the full length glass and running his fingers over the barely-tangible bumps that told the story of the past three years of his life. He had started on his left leg, he remembered, and the deepest scar was still there. He hadn’t known how to do it the right way back then, how to bleed off the pain without really injuring himself. There, that scar wider than the rest, three or four inches down from the soft flesh near his hip. That was the first. Then, below it, on top of it, around it, there were many others. They spread in a mural of crosshatches around the outside of his thigh (he had taken Medical Magic with Madam Pomfrey, of course, and knew where not to cut, to avoid the big veins) and up to his flat stomach, the perfect canvas, where the lines spidered across the skin like cracks in fine china. And then his arms, where the burns were, and more scars. He bared his teeth in a ghastly grin. Not bad, Weasley, he thought. You’ve got a collection that would make any warrior proud. A pity you didn’t win any of them, only inflicted them on yourself like the coward you are. Too scared to face the real world, too fucking stupid to hold onto the one good thing you ever had... However did you end up in Gryffindor? They should have put you with the Slytherins, at least then you’d have had an excuse to turn tail and run at the first sign of danger.
Sick of thoughts that would only lead to the kind of despair he wanted so badly to avoid, he finally found his pajamas and put them on. Warm, fluffy flannel, they were too long for him and printed with a vivid red and black tartan that clashed with his hair. He didn’t care, and wore them every night. They were the only thing that warmed him, that and the memory of their giver, whose cheeky grin as he had opened them on Christmas morning was unforgettable.
He went into the bathroom and studied his face in the mirror. He was thinner than he had ever been before, and that was saying something. His curly hair stood up on end from having fingers thrust through it all day, and there were circles under his eyes that rivaled the bruises on his arms and legs. Bruises that overlaid scars that overlaid burns... He could not bring himself to meet his own eyes in the mirror, wanting to avoid the loneliness that ached out of them, clear blue darkened by insomnia and nightmares. He put some salve on the burn, enough to stop any infection, but it would not stop the pain. He looked sidelong at the razor on the edge of the chipped porcelain sink. No, he would not be returning to its comforts so soon. He had to give his newest scars time to heal.
Going back into the bedroom, he looked at the big bed and was daunted by its emptiness. It wasn’t the first time, nor, he knew, would it be the last. Pulling the quilt off, he grabbed his book from the bedside table and flung himself headlong onto the couch in the center of the main room. It faced toward the fire but away from the door, which he hardly liked in his current state of solitary paranoia, but he made sure his wand was close. Flipping the book open and propping his head on his hand, he turned pages till his eyes were burning with tiredness. Carefully laying the aged volume on the floor, he extinguished the lights and curled up on hard cushions with only the quilt and his memories to keep him warm.
In his dream it was morning, the kind of bright shining morning that invites you outside to bask in its warmth. He could feel the sun on his back as he found himself waking in the big bed that filled most of their small bedchamber. His lower body was wrapped in the sheets and he sat up, stretching lazily. He felt surprisingly good for someone who had had the most brutal argument of his life the night before. He let his arms flop out of the stretch down to the soft sheets, skin almost as white as the cotton they rested on. That was one of the things he knew Oliver liked about him- how smooth his skin was, unmarked, unlike his own tanned flesh scored with the evidence of a thousand falls and scrapes and bludgers and brawls. Standing and pulling on his pajama bottoms which lay in a heap on the floor, Percy padded out to the kitchen. It was empty, which surprised him- Oliver usually never went out this early. He felt a twinge thinking of their fight of the night before. He had been harsh, harsher than he’d meant to be. But he was sure his lover would understand- he was concerned for their safety, his work was dangerous now that he was a spy. The last thing he wanted was to come home and find the snake and skull over their flat- he shuddered with deeply placed fear just at the thought. He had barely been old enough to remember the first reign of Voldemort, but he remembered enough of frantic Floo trips to safety at the Ministry and his parents’ sad eyes when another one of their friends had received a black envelope in the post signaling the death of one of their family. He remembered enough to promise himself that that would never, ever happen to him or his loved ones. Stretching again, Percy looked around and for the first time noticed the letter on the table. A tendril of ice wound its way around his stomach and he picked it up with hesitant fingers. It was in Oliver’s hand, as he knew it would be. “Dear Percy,” he read aloud. “I can’t do this in person because if I try, I will fail and end up abandoning what it is I’m trying to do completely. I’ve left- not you, but our flat. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I’ve gone to find a purpose, something to do so you are not the only one fighting this war. I have to do this so you will know I’m serious when I say I would risk anything for you. Whatever it is Dumbledore has me do, when it is done I will be free of guilt. I will be able to face you with a clear conscience, knowing that I am not oblivious, as you accused me last night, to the horrors of war. I will neither be oblivious nor innocent of what darkens your eyes when you say you don’t want to talk about the things you’ve learned in service to Dumbledore and his vision. I don’t care how long it takes, but I will prove myself as brave as he who founded our House. I love you, Percy. I know you won’t want to believe me right now. But someday when you’re past worrying about me, or when the war is over and we are completely free, you will. And if what I do is dangerous enough that it requires my life, know that I will give it gladly so that you can be safe. You know, cariad, that I never had a family to speak of. You have become my family, and I am leaving you to preserve you. I love you. I can’t say it enough. I miss you already and I haven’t even left yet. Until we meet again, I remain yours. Oliver Wood.” He finished reading and stared dumbly at the parchment, unable to comprehend. He set it down on the table, squinting in the bright sun. He turned his head, hardly breathing. Oliver had gone, because of what he’d said. Because of what he’d done. All he’d wanted was to keep him safe, and he’d gone and laid himself at Dumbledore’s feet like a sacrificial lamb. He stuffed one hand into his mouth to keep from making any noise. He had to think. How could he avert this... a small part of him knew it for a dream and shouted for him to wake up. He couldn’t. He watched his dream-self put his free hand on the nearest object and fling it mindlessly at the wall, not feeling the tears on his face. The ashtray, the crystal ashtray that splintered into a million pieces and Percy, standing in bare feet, just looked at the floor in bewilderment. Not understanding anything, he stepped forward onto the shards, heedless of the bloody footprints he was leaving behind. The small shouting part of him held onto his consciousness and pulled him out of the dream, and he could see the red footprints like gruesome graffiti and himself getting smaller and smaller, stumbling into the bathroom like a blind man...
Percy jolted awake; his alarm was going off. One useful Muggle invention, he had always thought, as his own clocks were far too temperamental to be trusted to wake him on time. He rolled off the couch and staggered into the bedroom to slap the clock into silence, rubbing his eyes. The burn on his arm ached, and he felt like he had slept for ten minutes instead of eight hours. He turned on the shower and jumped in, the freezing water making his teeth chatter. Then he was out and standing speculatively in front of his wardrobe, dressing gown of dark blue tied loosely at his waist. It hung off him as it had never been wont to do when he had first owned it. But things were different now than they’d been in his last years at Hogwarts. Unbidden, a memory flashed in front of his eyes.
Their seventh year just before Christmas hols, Percy had been sitting up late in the Gryffindor common room studying when Oliver came in flushed from the cold. He was reading a letter with a smile on his face. Percy watched him cross with half-lidded eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. In truth he had watched Oliver on the sly for a while before that, realizing his strange attraction to his roommate was more than inappropriate, it went against everything he thought he was. What about Penelope? What about Molly’s hope for dozens of grandchildren? What about his image as Head Boy? As an upstanding citizen and employee of the Ministry? He couldn’t reconcile it, but he couldn’t ignore it either. Almost as if sensing his thoughts, Oliver had stopped in the middle of the common room and sauntered over to Percy’s table.
“Up late again, Percy?” he asked lightly, glancing over the books spread out in front of the redhead.
“Well, you know, N.E.W.T.’s aren’t too far off, I want to get moving early...” he cracked his fingers, looking at the ink stains instead of those brown eyes he wanted to lose himself in.
Oliver laughed self-deprecatingly. “I’m going to flunk half mine whether I study or not- it’s just like you to get a head start, though. Good luck, Perce, I’m sure you’ll do fantastically.”
Percy looked up then, startled at the kindness and warmth in the other boy’s voice. “Thanks, Oliver,” he’d stammered, hardly knowing what to say. This was the most words they’d exchanged in one go since the start of term. “Where- that is, what are you doing over the holidays?” he felt an utter fool, and thought his face must be burning.
Oliver started to speak, gesturing with his letter. “Just got an owl from home, get to go back after all-“ and suddenly a gigantic sneeze tore from Percy’s throat, scattering his papers a nd leaving him dazed, lightheaded.
Oliver laughed, a delightfully full and infectious sound. “I think that signals time to sleep,” he said, picking up some of the heavy books on the table despite his roommate’s protests. “You’re going to get sick and then what fun would your holidays be?”
Percy gave a grin which turned into a hilariously grotesque face as he felt another sneeze coming on. Oliver jokingly backed away. “Don’t give it to me, Weasley, whatever it is!”
He laughed, sniffing and wiping his eyes with his free hand. “It wouldn’t even enter your body- I’m willing to bet your immune system’s got Quidditch reflexes too.” Oliver laughed again and Percy’s stomach flip-flopped. He’d just made a joke, and Oliver had laughed. Amazing.
As they walked up to the dormitory, Percy fixed that laugh and face in his mind. Perhaps there was hope for the boring Weasley after all...
A small smile played about Percy’s lips as he dressed for work. He had realized, long after, that that exchange had meant something to Oliver too- it had shown him that Percy was approachable, and it had been the beginning of their friendship. A friendship which quickly grew into unspoken feelings, wanting more, then actually having it... ah, that sweet first kiss under the lazy sun, the smell of summer and grass swirling almost tangibly in the air, the unfamiliar feeling of broad shoulders and short hair under his hands...
Stop that, he told himself fiercely. He steeled himself against dangerous memories and shrugged into his robes, glaring at himself in the mirror. Frowning at the circles under his eyes, he took up his wand and charmed them away, nodding sharply at his new composed appearance. Always on time, never missing a beat, forever overachieving, that was the Percy Weasley that worked at the Ministry of Magic. It was the person he had made himself into, and he could not afford to be anything else.
Work droned. As always, he kept his eyes and ears open when people like Hector Parkinson or Walden Macnair were around, but the Ministry was surprisingly quiet that day. Maybe it was because it was a drizzly Wednesday in February, or maybe everyone was just avoiding him. He snarled silently at the rolls of parchment littering his desk. It wouldn’t surprise him to look up and see his foul mood hanging over him like a specter, growling and slavering. He wrote maniacally, cataloguing reports and penning letters faster than he could ever remember doing. It consumed him, as work was supposed to do. The weather outside matched his mood, and his pace was feverish, like the raindrops that chased each other down the window pane.
Percy put his head in his boss’ door half an hour early and asked if there was anything else to do before he left. Kennington Buckwith, Senior Assistant to Cornelius Fudge, looked up in shock, the tufts of gray hair above each ear standing straight out. He met his eyes, then stared up at the ceiling; Percy thought he might be checking to see if the roof was falling in. His eyes were wary, but he shook his head. “No, Weasley, get going,” he said dazedly. Percy suppressed a weak smile and got out of the building as fast as he could.
He stopped at the same small market that he had the day before; it had just opened up and the woman who ran it reminded him of Madam Hooch. She had the same bright brandy-colored eyes and the same businesslike manner, bustling about getting him the fruit and vegetables he pointed out, handing them to him with a sly grin.
“Anythin’ else, luv?” she asked in her Cockney twang. “Yeh look like yeh c’d use some warmin’ up t’night. How ‘bout a box o’ tea?” Percy shook his head with a smile and ducked out of the shop with a soft farewell. Back on the street, he turned his collar up against the rain and walked with his eyes downcast back to his flat. As he turned the key in the main door, he looked down the street and saw someone standing on the corner, heedless of the rain that poured in a steady stream off the roof above and onto his head. Hands in pockets, the figure was standing completely still, looking down the street. Quickly Percy pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind him, muttering a quick concealment charm as he rushed up the stairs. His heart was racing with fearful paranoia as he entered the flat, and he charmed the doors with extra force, throwing off his cloak and shoes in a pile as he walked quickly into the main room. Putting his groceries down on the counter, he paused and gave a rueful half-smile as he realized what he was going to do.
He had not been too young to remember the last days of Voldemort’s reign, and was not too old now to have forgotten his mother’s ritual. “Around to every window,” he murmured to himself, “touch the locks and the sill, casement and panes, and at every touch say aegis adeo.” There were not very many windows in the flat, but even so by the end of his round it was dark. Sighing, his fear forgotten, he decided to shower before he ate, and went into the bedroom to throw his clothes in the hamper. Refusing to let himself be caught by the mirror, he dashed into the bathroom and turned on the water, jumping in immediately because he knew by now that the quest for hot water was futile. Surprisingly it was actually warm tonight, and he stood under it with his head thrown back, letting it travel down his body, stinging his cuts, alleviating the tension in his tired muscles. He turned and let the spray wet his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, letting his fingers trail down his body, missing-
-the other pair of hands kneading his shoulders as he leaned on his arms against the wall, lukewarm water making his skin slick, Oliver’s fingers like velvet on him-
He shook his head, snatching his hands away and reaching for the shampoo. He lathered it between his hands and raised them to his hair-
-remembering the feel of hands lingering on his back, holding him from behind as he pressed his fingertips into his scalp, gasping as one warm hand went lower and he let his head fall back onto the shoulder that was waiting to support it, a brief moan escaping his lips-
“Gods,” he muttered, cursing his mind for dredging up such thoughts, and his body for reacting to them. He was grateful for the water turning to ice and hoped it would quell his remembered desire, but it would persist-
-as those hands persisted in their quest, and he leaned back into the embrace, relaxed under the warm water and the lean hands that stroked him into a languid contentment. He turned his head for a kiss hotter than the skin beneath Oliver’s hands, gasping as the skillful fingers finished their job and his bones turned to liquid, his eyelids falling shut-
His fingers closed convulsively around his stiff, aching cock, which at that moment was screaming for fulfillment. He gasped, relief coursing through his veins mingled with revulsion- weak! his brain screamed at him, fighting the hand that had grown a mind of its own... he was so pathetic, he berated, loathing his inability to control himself as much even as he welcomed the abrupt scalding thickness on his fingers and the shuddering release of the apprehension in every muscle.
Sickened, he scrubbed his body raw with a sponge that felt like a brick on his sensitive skin and jumped out of the shower, shaking. Drying himself as he went, he dashed into the bedroom and pulled on his pajamas. Exhausted and drained, Percy rolled himself in his quilt and assembled his limbs on the couch. He still felt like he needed a bath, dirty with weakness and surrender. He huddled rolled up in a ball, lonely and shaking, wondering if he would ever be warm again. The floodgates holding back his self-hatred were weakening, and all he could think was he was glad he wasn’t still in the bathroom, near the tempting edge of the razor... Percy you are so disgusting, so weak, you can’t keep control over anything in your life can you, always giving in aren’t you, can’t live with the life you made yourself, more like a grave well you lie in it, that’s all you deserve, you drove him away what right have you to think of him that way, he’s not yours anymore remember, you gave him up sacrificed him to your idiot pride... After almost an hour of mentally whipping himself to shreds, he felt fatigue overtake him. The fire swam before his eyes, vision blurry without his glasses, and the red glow spread to cover the rest of his field of vision, just before his eyelids drooped and he slipped into sleep and another dream of the past.
They sat across from each other at the small table, coffee and bagels between them. He read the morning Prophet and Oliver flipped through Quidditch Monthly Digest on his knee. The sounds of pages and breakfast were drowned out by their silence, which hovered over them like a cloud of locusts, waiting to devour. Oliver had returned two days before, exhausted and drained and aching. Percy had been too torn between relief and resentment to do anything other than let him collapse into bed. He’d slept for over twelve hours, long past when Percy reluctantly climbed into the other side of the bed, falling asleep hugging the edge only to wake up hours later in Oliver’s arms, being kissed within an inch of his life. Drowsy and warm and not alone for the first time in months, he’d wound his arms around Oliver’s neck and pulled him close, offering himself up to the deep well of need and want and love he felt with every touch of Oliver’s hands on his body. The other man had fallen asleep immediately after, sighing deeply as his arms tightened around Percy and he relaxed into slumber. Percy had lain awake for a while, still and silent, arguing with himself until he, too, fell asleep. He woke while the dawn was still seeping in through the cracks around the curtains and disentangled himself from Oliver’s hold, going out to the sofa and wrapping his arms around himself. He’d sat motionless for over an hour, moving only when he heard the bed creak in the other room, getting up to put on the coffee pot. The night had protected them from the harsh realities that lurked in daylight, but it had passed too soon, and now he was sitting at that table again, waiting for Oliver to say goodbye. He finished his breakfast and waited for Oliver to meet his eyes before he spoke. “I shouldn’t have let it happen.” The brown eyes turned quizzical, and he elaborated. “Last night. I should have just slept on the couch... I’m sorry. I should have known it wouldn’t be possible to just sleep. I guess I was just hoping you were going to tell me you were staying before you fucked me. Even if it was a lie.” He knew his words were blunt, harsh, and they were only there to fill the space of the words he should be saying. But those were hard words- I love you, and goodbye, and never. His nonchalance wavered, and he swallowed. Oliver stared, a little surprised, then flattened his mouth into a line and nodded. “I see,” he said quietly. Taking his dishes and Percy’s, he got up and went to the sink and started washing them. Percy sat where he was, at once living the dream and watching it from the outside. The part of him that watched followed Oliver to the sink, watched the shaking hands that surreptitiously brushed at downcast eyes before turning off the tap and returning to the table. “Perce-“ he began, but dream-Percy stood shaking his head. “No. You want to help Dumbledore, I understand and respect that. More than that, I support it, and you know I do. I’m doing it myself, in my own way. But why this way? Why throw away your life like this? I can understand Malfoy wanting to do it- he’s got nothing to live for. Sadly, I can say the same about Harry. All they have left is this war, Oliver, but you-“ his voice broke with the tears that choked him. He swallowed again, but the tears wouldn’t go away. They filled his eyes to brimming and spilled over as he threw the Prophet down on the table so Oliver could read the headline. THIRTY DEAD IN RESCUE MISSION: DEATH EATER SPIES SUSPECTED WITHIN MINISTRY. “I don’t want you to end like this,” he said quietly, wiping his eyes. “Me neither,” Oliver replied quietly. “But fear of a possible end is no reason not to try. I have to do this, Percy- Harry and Draco need me. I don’t expect you to understand. But if I live through it-“ Percy cut him off, tears choking his voice. “No. Oliver... I can’t live through this. I can’t live here constantly thinking about whether you’re dead or alive or captured or tortured or... no. I can’t do it. If-“ he took a shaky breath- “if you leave today... don’t come back. Once you walk away from me you might as well be dead. You can’t expect me to- to-“ he couldn’t finish. “To wait for me?” Oliver’s voice was harsh with his own sudden grief. Percy nodded miserably, eyes the color of rainclouds. “Fine,” he rasped. “Then consider me dead, Percy Weasley. And if you do read about my death in the papers, don’t wonder if I died thinking of you. I won’t have.” He turned and stalked out of the flat, out of Percy’s life, and there was no ashtray to throw this time, only himself to hurt, only his own flesh to claw at with frantic fingernails, only his own hoarse sobs echoing in the empty rooms-
His eyes snapped open at the click of the door-handle turning. A quiet voice was quickly and effectively testing and dismantling his spells one by one. His heart jumped in his chest, so loud he was sure the intruder would hear it, and he carefully slid his wand out from between the cushions, not breathing. The last spell was removed, and he let out his breath slowly, prepared for the worst. The prowler seemed to be alone for the moment, a small kindness for which Percy was thankful. He listened to the person tiptoe into the main room, and was about to leap up, a hex ready on his tongue, when the intruder tripped over a misplaced boot and swore.
“Bloody fucking hell, Perce, the one time you forget to put your shoes away...” came the fervent whisper, Scottish accent clear even in the low tones of the speaker’s voice. Percy’s eyes widened and the wand dropped from his nerveless fingers. He sat up slowly, unwilling to turn and look, afraid he was still dreaming.
The word was out of his mouth before he realised he’d spoken, low and urgent. “Oliver?!”
tbc...
:wibbles: hope it pleases, preciouses. not even sure it deserves to get me on the blacklist with all the amazing smut that's gotten others on there, but whatever. anything to damn the man, even if the man is a bunch of half-literate swedish trolls. :dusts off hands: off to ice cream now.
love! _ems