M/O fic: Broken Road
Broken Road
-
I don't know if I can say
I've lived through everything
but I've walked this earth alone
with bare feet broken in the snow
-
Two words brought an end to everything he was, everything he knew. Two simple words snarled from his split and bleeding lips in anger. Two damned words erased almost everything that was human in him.
“Avada Kedavra…”
The green light emitted from the tip of his wand was blinding as it engulfed the clearing he stood in. His eyes stung as he struggled to keep them open in the face of the brightness. He needed to see this; even if the light rendered him blind afterwards it would be worth it.
The human silhouette on the business end of the spell crumbled before his eyes. The sound of the body falling to the ground was almost too faint to hear under the ear-splitting howl of the spell, but never the less, his ears heard the soft ‘thud’ against the cold grass. After that, his mind refused to process anything else. The world became mute and crashed to a jarring halt. The green light began to filter away, leaving in its wake the dark silhouettes of the twisted trees and faint light from the over head moon in its place.
He eyed the body lying motionless on the ground a handful of yards away from him. Wisps of green tinted smoke rose from the pile of black robes. The blades of grass under it were seared black, along with several tree trunks and limbs.
His wand held high, he stepped closer and nudged the figure with his foot. The body was still and heavy. Dark, hallowed eyes that held no life stared up at him. He willed himself not to feel any remorse from the act, this man deserved no mercy, even though the man’s eyes were the same shade of green as his or that both of them had a similar curve in their jaw line or the same angles in their faces. Appearances aside, this man was nothing like him and he forced himself to remember that. This man was a monster, a cold-blooded murderer who tortured children and slaughtered innocents. This man was a Death Eater who willingly chose to go against his fellow wizards and deserved no compassion.
But he was once a normal man, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, causing cracks to form in his iron resolve, he was gentle once…
Memories flashed behind his eyes before he could stop them. A younger version of himself sitting on a strong knee while a deep, Irish voice read to him, a pair of strong hands presenting him with his first broomstick…
….a cold face staring at him with such hate-filled eyes. “You are not worthy of my name- of your family name! Not while you choose to soil your lineage by lying with that filthy creature. Not when you let its dirty hands touch you!”
He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it and silence the memory. There’s wetness on his cheek and he knew without looking that several tears had fallen before he blink them away. Waves of hot pain began to radiate through his body, their source covering his right side. The tosser landed a lucky shot; he could remember feeling it only briefly during their fight before forcing himself to counter the curse.
He crouched over the body, holding a hand to his side as his injury protested the movement. His eyes spied a thin flicker of gold and he commanded his fingers to reach and close around it. The face of a small locket tumbled out from under the charred robes, completely untouched by the forbidden curse. The insides of his chest lurched painfully. He never thought he’d see this again. He thought it was lost when-
The unmistakable “crack”, of an apparition spell reached his ears. His head whipped around, looking for the source of the sound. Through the dark forest surrounding him he could see a dozen or so small flickers of light from illuminated wands cautiously weaving between the trees and approaching his position. The Ministry… bollocks, he knew his use of a forbidden curse would be tracked but he didn’t think it would happen that fast.
His fingers tightened around the locket’s chain and pulled until it broke away from the man’s cold neck. His eyes once more moved to the corpse’s face, his emotions becoming harder and harder to keep in check.
“You brought this on yourself, you should have just left him alone,” even though his mind and chest were in emotional turmoil, his voice was cold and the anger behind it even colder.
No truer words were ever spoken. This man- no, this monster, brought about his own end. He was the one who harmed innocents; he was the one who destroyed everything he touched. After what he did, he knew it was only a matter of time until death came for its due, in this case, death was a former Auror who wore a younger face of family resemblance and the need for blood to remedy the wrong.
The locket was hastily shoved into his pocket as he slunk into the dark woods, moving away from the approaching bulbs of light. The leaves swaying in his wake grew still, removing the last traces of his presence from clearing.
-
Dawn was beginning to slink above the horizon when he reached the all too familiar cobblestone street. His feet were acting on memory, slowly taking his wounded and tired body to the one place in all of London he wanted to be; somewhere where he knew he’d be safe.
The weight of the locket in his front pocket was both a comfort and a curse. The small object signaled his struggle for the past two years was finally over; he was free. He could began anew if he wished it, settle down and enjoy a life where he didn’t have to stray from human contact or keep looking over his shoulder; a life where he didn’t have a bounty on his head and a ghost following his every step.
A life he could share with the man he loved… if the man he loved would have him back.
His eyes moved to the wrist of his right hand, where a simple strip of red cloth was tied; its presence assuring him his fears were unnecessary. It had sat on his arm for two and a half years, reminding him that no matter what happened, no matter what deplorable act he committed, he always had a safe place to return to, always had a place where he was wanted.
His feet came to a slow stop. He didn’t have to look away from his arm to know where he was; six buildings to the west, five to the south, stop after five more. For once he felt confident enough to remain idle in the middle of the street and gaze at the face of the building. The small loft squished between two small clothing shops felt like a beacon, radiating imaginary light and willing him to come closer. The curtains were drawn around the one window facing the street. Flint always hated their checkered coloring- they were too damn bright in the morning and who needed that headache when they stumbled out of bed, half asleep- but found the stupid things almost inviting.
The wound on his side throbbed once more, reminding him of his injury. His feet moved forward on their own accord once again, climbing the stairs between the shops and stopping at the wooden door hidden at the end of the open hall. His hand readied its self to knock, but he decided against it. It was early and he was about to fall flat on his face from exhaustion, he wasn’t going to wait for Wood’s slow moving arse to get outa bed.
The door unlocked its self with a light twitch of his wand. He made a mental note to grumble to Wood about his daftness in not placing any protective wards as he shut it behind him. The flat was quiet and devoid of the slowly approaching sunlight. He kept his footsteps quiet as he moved to the direction of the tattered couch Wood kept in the sitting room; the one he’d woken up countless times on after the nights he had stumbled back wounded, bleeding and close to death.
The springs groaned under his weight as he sat down. His side was throbbing hard enough to rattle his teeth to their very core. He drew in a dry hiss as he probed along the wound with a finger. Unlike most curses flung his way, this one didn’t leave a smoldering, burnt patch of flesh. Instead there was a long, thin gash along his side, starting a hair under his left pectoral and ending near his hipbone. His shirt and trousers were soaked with blood and sticking to his skin in dry, cakey flakes.
Bollocks, just once he would like to walk into Wood’s flat without being wounded or a breath from death’s grasp, bloody hell, just once…
“Still not dead I see.”
The soft brogue was music to his ears.
“M’ nearly there Wood,” his voice was low and broken as he spoke, “You should rejoice.”
His ears tracked Oliver’s footsteps as they rounded the couch. The Keeper stood before him, eyes half lidded with sleep and his short hair bed matted. Flint felt his throat become tight. Merlin, Oliver was a damned gorgeous sight for his weary eyes. His fingers itched with the intent to reach out and pull the other man closer but he resisted it. Aside from the pain the act would cause his side, he didn’t know if Wood would accept his touch or if the Scot’s fist would collide with his jaw for attempting it- he had enough off a headache as it was.
“Bloody hell, Flint,” Wood breathed, eyeing the patches of dry blood on the other man’s shirt.
Flint’s body froze when Wood’s fingers touched his side, gently tracing the length of the wound through the soiled t-shirt.
“Ah fuck me- lay back would ya,” Wood’s hands gently pushed him on his back, relieving pressure from the wound.
He hissed once more as Wood’s fingers worked to pull his shirt over his head. The gash was even a worse sight when it was uncovered.
“Jus’ keep yer hand held here. I’ll be back,” Wood muttered pressing one of Flint’s bloodstained hands against the wound, before moving out of the man’s view.
Flint groaned from the flaring pain in his side and closed his eyes. The shape of the room danced behind his closed eyelids and his head swam in a hazy, stomach turning fog. The feeling of Oliver’s warm hands on his side slowly brought him back to reality. He could feel the tip of the Keeper’s wand touching the wounds on his face, healing them before moving to the wide cut on his side.
The wound wouldn’t close, even after five healing spells were cast on it.
“Shite, what did ya get hit with?”
“Nothing that’ll heal easy,” Flint muttered as he swallowed the bile pooling at the back of his throat, “Jus- just patch it up and do what ya can.”
Wood placed his wand on the battered coffee table with a curse and left the room once more. When he returned, his hands were full of cloth and bottled potions.
“So help me Flint, if you die-”
“M’ not gonna die Wood,” Flint mumbled, half conscious, “M’ a stubborn arse, remember?”
His chest fluttered when he heard Wood’s shaky laugh, “That you are.”
Smiling, Flint allowed his eyes to drift closed. His willed his mind to settle its self into a calm. He was safe and in capable hands. He knew Wood wouldn’t allow him to kick the bucket just yet; after all, if anyone was going to kill Marcus Flint’s sorry arse, it was going to be Oliver Wood and no one else.
Oliver’s hands gently worked on the wound, rinsing the blood away with a potion and spreading a thick paste over the cut to seal it. Flint felt himself lulled into a peaceful slumber by their touch. The man’s fingers ghosted over his flesh gently, awaking memories of happier times when the Keeper’s hands were free to roam over his skin when they wished. Merlin, Wood always had such soft hands, far too soft for a Keeper. Flint missed teasing him about those too soft hands almost as much as he missed feeling them on his skin, missing feeling those firm fingers softly walking across his flesh, touching and caressing with tenderness.
Hands that could hand a quaffle with tremendous skill and yet, make Flint feel so human with their soft touches…
…hands that nervously fisting the bedding under his hands, using it as a small lifeline as he avoided Flint’s eyes.
Flint sat back on his heels, watching the sight of the once confident Keeper curling in on himself and feeling his chest grow tighter from it. He knew they were pushing this. It was too soon and Wood obviously wasn’t ready for this kind of close contact if his downcast eyes and heavy posture against the headboard was anything to go by.
“It’s ok Ol,” Flint whispered.
Wood’s fingers tightened into the blankets. Judging by the lines around the corners of his brown eyes he was angry, but at what Flint can’t tell - Oliver could be angry at Flint for letting a light petting session get to far, angry at himself for his reluctance or at all of the fucked up events that led them both to this point. A year ago, a light touch from either of them usually led to a long rutting session that could be expanded to every square inch of the tiny flat or a nice, slow tumble that had both of them groaning and reeling in pleasure for hours.
But now…
Flint resisted the urge to scratch the back of his neck, knowing the tell would be too noticeable, and settled for flexing his own fingers into a fists. Blimey, he had no blasted clue what to do. Should he say something else? If so, then what? What the bloody hell could a bloke say in this situation other then blame himself for starting it?
He knew he shouldn’t have let one little kiss get this far but Merlin, it had felt so good. After the Keeper’s return from St. Mungo's, Wood had turned into the walking dead, hardly eating, speaking or sleeping and going to great lengths to avoid Flint’s presence in their tiny, shared flat. Flint didn’t blame him for his behavior, he never blamed Oliver for anything that had happened, but that didn’t mean the evasion didn’t hurt like hell.
An hour ago, Wood had allowed him to move close enough to touch, something Flint hadn’t been able to do in months, and of course he had gotten carried away, taken an innocent touch too far, too soon and Oliver had recoiled from him and now, Flint felt like an arse.
“M’ sorry.”
“I don’t want ya to be,” Wood whispered, finally breaking his ten minute long silence, “I want it, bloody hell do I want it bad. But-”
Flint felt his heart move into his throat. He couldn’t take this, this wasn’t his Oliver. This wasn’t the man who he had fallen in love with a year ago. This wasn’t the man who, after a game win, dripping with confidence and made even bolder from countless shots of firewhiskey, would push Flint against the wall of their flat hard enough to bruise and insisted on devouring every inch of Irishmen with his hot mouth.
No, it seemed that Oliver Wood had perished months ago at the hands of a malicious Death Eater and Flint would never get him back.
It wasn’t fair.
Shaking his head, Flint scooted closer, making sure his moments were slow. He saw Wood’s shoulders tense as he raised his arm, but he didn’t let it deter him. His fingers closed around the Keeper’s tightly clenched fist and fumbled until they managed to work their way between the Scot’s strong fingers.
When Wood’s hand closed around his Flint released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.
When Wood’s brown eyes finally lifted to his face, the last of Flint’s resolve crumbled to dust. In its place, his anger grew.
“You’re still wearing it?”
He blinked at Oliver’s question, scatterbrained from his never ceasing train of thought, and followed the Keeper’s gaze down to the strip of cloth tied around his wrist.
“Yeah.”
The Keeper’s face lowered, “I lost mine.”
Flint felt his temper surge and struggled to keep a hold on it. How the bloody hell could Wood blame himself for that?
“You didn’t lose it.” He whispered, voice turning horse.
It was taken, Ollie, there’s a difference. Damn it all, there is a difference!
“He said I stole it,” Wood murmured, lowering his head, “That, something like me didn’t deserve to wear it.”
The look on Wood’s face made his heart clench again and the rage inside his mind burn fiercer.
I’ll get it back Ol, I swear.
Flint let his eyes fall to his hands. Bollocks, maybe he should’ve taken that bloody thing off his arm if all it would do was turn Wood into an even bigger wreck. No. Things were shite right now, but it would be even worse if that waste of fabric wasn’t around his wrist. Oliver would take that as a sign he was no longer wanted. Flint may be an arse, but he’d rather put his wand in his own eye before he tore the stupid rag around his wrist off and Wood knew that.
Flint silenced the raging voice inside of his mind and counted to ten before allowing himself to speak.
“You gave this to me because you knew it’d keep my stupid arse alive,” he says, knowing both the truth and irony behind the words, “An’ it has.”
There wasn’t much of a point to lace words like ‘luck’ and ‘fortune’ with an inanimate object in Flint’s mind, especially one as simple and insignificant as a bit of cloth torn from the hem of a robe, but- even though it annoyed him greatly to admit it- he did seem to have a presence watching over him when he wore it, protecting him from unseen forces with its ‘luck’ and banishing the worst of his fears whenever he looked upon it.
That stupid bit of cloth…
His side is very tender when his mind begins to refocus and his eyes finally open themselves. Groggily, he presses his hand against it and forces himself to sit up. He’s surprised to feel his bloodied trousers had been removed. Then again, Oliver did have skillful fingers.
“Easy,” Wood’s voice soothes and a warm hand is placed over his.
Wood helps move him into an upright position. Flint’s eyes burn from the brightness in the room, forcing him to keep them shut until they struggle to focus. When they open again, a small flicker of gold light immediately grabs their attention. A part of him isn’t surprised to see that the locket had found its way out of his pocket, not in the least. The damned thing was never his to own anyway…
It was never his to own, and yet, he cherished it. That stupid thing meant more to him then almost anything but he could never bring himself to wear it. The few times it had sat around his neck were maddening. The blasted thing was a physical manifestation of all the guilt and feelings he wanted desperately to keep mashed in the depths of his mind and he found himself being crushed under their weight. He couldn’t bear to wear it again.
That’s why he had given it to the only other thing on the entire earth that he cherished, the only person worthy enough to wear it around their neck. He could still remember the warmth in those brown eyes when he present it, trust, pride and love swirling in their depths…and how defeated and hurt they looked when it had been taken away.
Flint closed his eyes and sighed. None of that mattered anymore. He had gotten the damned thing back and punished the monster that had taken the locket - and so much more- from him, from them. None of it mattered anymore. His eyes glanced down at his wrist, needing the assurance of the red cloth’s presence against his skin. It was still there, still resting where he had knotted it.
“How bad is the pain?”
Flint took a deep breath to compose himself, “Just fabulous Wood, I’m in the prime of my life.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” the Keeper snorted.
Flint felt like rolling his eyes; like he hadn’t heard that before. The familiar words brought a small smile to his lips. At times, Wood could be an annoying mother hen and a complete prat the next, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. He missed everything they once had, the closeness, the gentle teasing and name calling, the way Oliver’s mere presence could sooth even his worse fears. Blimey he missed them. He missed having a real home where he felt safe and a warm bed where he was loved.
Fuck, that evil bastard deserved a dozen more deaths from Flint’s hand for all that he had taken from them… and a hundred more for what he had taken from Oliver.
The tightness in Flint’s throat returned from the memory, “I got it back.”
His voice was no louder than a whisper when he spoke but he knew Oliver heard him, loud and clear from the way his shoulders became stiff. The sight turned his stomach and pulled at his heartstrings.
“He’s dead Ollie.”
The soft brown eyes met his own, unsure, pleading for the truth. Flint held their stare and nodded. He wouldn’t lie, not about this. He didn’t care if the admission made him a bigger monster then the one he killed. As long as Wood could sleep at night without fear, it would be worth it. He’d walk through hell to make sure Wood was safe.
Oliver finally dropped his gaze. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“Can ya stand?”
“M’ might need some help.”
“Let’s get you to the bed, less stress on your side.” Wood’s strong arms gently looped under his own, propping him upright.
Flint allowed himself to be pulled upright into the Keeper’s strong arms, welcoming their warmth. He moved into the small bedroom without protest until Wood made an attempt to sit him on the edge of the bed. Instead of letting go, his arms held tight around the keeper’s back, holding him in a tight embrace.
“I got him, Wood. I got him,” He struggled to keep the pleading noses inside of his throat, but they must’ve escaped because Oliver’s arms tightened around his waist.
“You need rest, Flint.”
This time he didn’t fight when he was pushed down to the bed, “He won’t hurt you again.”
Wood’s hands froze on his shoulders for a moment before the Keeper sighed.
“Get some rest, Flint.”
Flint nodded and let his body fall against the soft bedding with a muffled thump. The blankets were so warm and inviting. He missed this stupid, lumpy bed. He used to hate it, he always woke up with pains in his legs and back and he’d lost count how many times he grumbled at Wood to stop being cheap and buy another one, but now, hell, he wouldn’t take a bed lined with silk over the blasted thing.
The only problem was it was missing something.
“You gonna stay with me?”
“I dunno Flint.”
“Come on Ol,” Flint murmured, feigning charm, “I could use a little body warmth.”
“Flint.”
“Please.”
He didn’t beg, not often, only three times in his entire life that he could remember; the first was when he present the locket to Oliver and urged him to take it, to keep the two things Flint cared most about in the world together and safe. The other times were on the same occasion two years ago, when he begged, pleaded and prayed with his entire being that he’d see Wood again and find wherever he had been dragged off to.
Wood dropped his head and sighed, “Fine.”
Flint’s lower lip curved into a slight smile. Fighting his exhaustion, he watched as Wood toed his shoes off and climbed onto the bed with him. A groan vibrated inside of Flint’s throat when the Keeper’s warmth pressed against his bare chest. Merlin, it felt good. Four months, four months since the last time he stumbled inside this tiny flat needing help, four months since the last time he and Wood had slept together, four months since the last time someone had touched him, four months too long.
Oliver settled against his side, hesitantly placing his arm around Flint’s stomach, mindful of his wound. Flint’s hand closed around his, his thumb slightly stroking the back of the Keeper’s hand. Tenderness was a strange feeling to him. If it wasn’t for Wood, he wouldn’t have known what it had felt like. He knew what affection was, his father had shown him some during his childhood on occasion and he had brief flashes of his mother’s kindness before the illness took her when he was young. He had some grasp about what it detailed, what it had felt like, but he never had a real clue about how good it felt when someone supported you, was proud of you, loved you, until the Keeper had become a permanent figure in his life.
If it wasn’t for Wood, Flint doubted there would be anything left in him that could be considered human.
But… if he wasn’t a permanent figure in Oliver’s life, none of this would have happened in the first place. The last two years would have been peaceful for both of them and Oliver would never have been hurt.
That thought hurt more than the pain in his side did.
If he wasn’t in love with Oliver, if that monster didn’t know that he cared about the Keeper more than life its self, then none of this would have happened.
-
(part 2)
-
I don't know if I can say
I've lived through everything
but I've walked this earth alone
with bare feet broken in the snow
-
Two words brought an end to everything he was, everything he knew. Two simple words snarled from his split and bleeding lips in anger. Two damned words erased almost everything that was human in him.
“Avada Kedavra…”
The green light emitted from the tip of his wand was blinding as it engulfed the clearing he stood in. His eyes stung as he struggled to keep them open in the face of the brightness. He needed to see this; even if the light rendered him blind afterwards it would be worth it.
The human silhouette on the business end of the spell crumbled before his eyes. The sound of the body falling to the ground was almost too faint to hear under the ear-splitting howl of the spell, but never the less, his ears heard the soft ‘thud’ against the cold grass. After that, his mind refused to process anything else. The world became mute and crashed to a jarring halt. The green light began to filter away, leaving in its wake the dark silhouettes of the twisted trees and faint light from the over head moon in its place.
He eyed the body lying motionless on the ground a handful of yards away from him. Wisps of green tinted smoke rose from the pile of black robes. The blades of grass under it were seared black, along with several tree trunks and limbs.
His wand held high, he stepped closer and nudged the figure with his foot. The body was still and heavy. Dark, hallowed eyes that held no life stared up at him. He willed himself not to feel any remorse from the act, this man deserved no mercy, even though the man’s eyes were the same shade of green as his or that both of them had a similar curve in their jaw line or the same angles in their faces. Appearances aside, this man was nothing like him and he forced himself to remember that. This man was a monster, a cold-blooded murderer who tortured children and slaughtered innocents. This man was a Death Eater who willingly chose to go against his fellow wizards and deserved no compassion.
But he was once a normal man, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, causing cracks to form in his iron resolve, he was gentle once…
Memories flashed behind his eyes before he could stop them. A younger version of himself sitting on a strong knee while a deep, Irish voice read to him, a pair of strong hands presenting him with his first broomstick…
….a cold face staring at him with such hate-filled eyes. “You are not worthy of my name- of your family name! Not while you choose to soil your lineage by lying with that filthy creature. Not when you let its dirty hands touch you!”
He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it and silence the memory. There’s wetness on his cheek and he knew without looking that several tears had fallen before he blink them away. Waves of hot pain began to radiate through his body, their source covering his right side. The tosser landed a lucky shot; he could remember feeling it only briefly during their fight before forcing himself to counter the curse.
He crouched over the body, holding a hand to his side as his injury protested the movement. His eyes spied a thin flicker of gold and he commanded his fingers to reach and close around it. The face of a small locket tumbled out from under the charred robes, completely untouched by the forbidden curse. The insides of his chest lurched painfully. He never thought he’d see this again. He thought it was lost when-
The unmistakable “crack”, of an apparition spell reached his ears. His head whipped around, looking for the source of the sound. Through the dark forest surrounding him he could see a dozen or so small flickers of light from illuminated wands cautiously weaving between the trees and approaching his position. The Ministry… bollocks, he knew his use of a forbidden curse would be tracked but he didn’t think it would happen that fast.
His fingers tightened around the locket’s chain and pulled until it broke away from the man’s cold neck. His eyes once more moved to the corpse’s face, his emotions becoming harder and harder to keep in check.
“You brought this on yourself, you should have just left him alone,” even though his mind and chest were in emotional turmoil, his voice was cold and the anger behind it even colder.
No truer words were ever spoken. This man- no, this monster, brought about his own end. He was the one who harmed innocents; he was the one who destroyed everything he touched. After what he did, he knew it was only a matter of time until death came for its due, in this case, death was a former Auror who wore a younger face of family resemblance and the need for blood to remedy the wrong.
The locket was hastily shoved into his pocket as he slunk into the dark woods, moving away from the approaching bulbs of light. The leaves swaying in his wake grew still, removing the last traces of his presence from clearing.
-
Dawn was beginning to slink above the horizon when he reached the all too familiar cobblestone street. His feet were acting on memory, slowly taking his wounded and tired body to the one place in all of London he wanted to be; somewhere where he knew he’d be safe.
The weight of the locket in his front pocket was both a comfort and a curse. The small object signaled his struggle for the past two years was finally over; he was free. He could began anew if he wished it, settle down and enjoy a life where he didn’t have to stray from human contact or keep looking over his shoulder; a life where he didn’t have a bounty on his head and a ghost following his every step.
A life he could share with the man he loved… if the man he loved would have him back.
His eyes moved to the wrist of his right hand, where a simple strip of red cloth was tied; its presence assuring him his fears were unnecessary. It had sat on his arm for two and a half years, reminding him that no matter what happened, no matter what deplorable act he committed, he always had a safe place to return to, always had a place where he was wanted.
His feet came to a slow stop. He didn’t have to look away from his arm to know where he was; six buildings to the west, five to the south, stop after five more. For once he felt confident enough to remain idle in the middle of the street and gaze at the face of the building. The small loft squished between two small clothing shops felt like a beacon, radiating imaginary light and willing him to come closer. The curtains were drawn around the one window facing the street. Flint always hated their checkered coloring- they were too damn bright in the morning and who needed that headache when they stumbled out of bed, half asleep- but found the stupid things almost inviting.
The wound on his side throbbed once more, reminding him of his injury. His feet moved forward on their own accord once again, climbing the stairs between the shops and stopping at the wooden door hidden at the end of the open hall. His hand readied its self to knock, but he decided against it. It was early and he was about to fall flat on his face from exhaustion, he wasn’t going to wait for Wood’s slow moving arse to get outa bed.
The door unlocked its self with a light twitch of his wand. He made a mental note to grumble to Wood about his daftness in not placing any protective wards as he shut it behind him. The flat was quiet and devoid of the slowly approaching sunlight. He kept his footsteps quiet as he moved to the direction of the tattered couch Wood kept in the sitting room; the one he’d woken up countless times on after the nights he had stumbled back wounded, bleeding and close to death.
The springs groaned under his weight as he sat down. His side was throbbing hard enough to rattle his teeth to their very core. He drew in a dry hiss as he probed along the wound with a finger. Unlike most curses flung his way, this one didn’t leave a smoldering, burnt patch of flesh. Instead there was a long, thin gash along his side, starting a hair under his left pectoral and ending near his hipbone. His shirt and trousers were soaked with blood and sticking to his skin in dry, cakey flakes.
Bollocks, just once he would like to walk into Wood’s flat without being wounded or a breath from death’s grasp, bloody hell, just once…
“Still not dead I see.”
The soft brogue was music to his ears.
“M’ nearly there Wood,” his voice was low and broken as he spoke, “You should rejoice.”
His ears tracked Oliver’s footsteps as they rounded the couch. The Keeper stood before him, eyes half lidded with sleep and his short hair bed matted. Flint felt his throat become tight. Merlin, Oliver was a damned gorgeous sight for his weary eyes. His fingers itched with the intent to reach out and pull the other man closer but he resisted it. Aside from the pain the act would cause his side, he didn’t know if Wood would accept his touch or if the Scot’s fist would collide with his jaw for attempting it- he had enough off a headache as it was.
“Bloody hell, Flint,” Wood breathed, eyeing the patches of dry blood on the other man’s shirt.
Flint’s body froze when Wood’s fingers touched his side, gently tracing the length of the wound through the soiled t-shirt.
“Ah fuck me- lay back would ya,” Wood’s hands gently pushed him on his back, relieving pressure from the wound.
He hissed once more as Wood’s fingers worked to pull his shirt over his head. The gash was even a worse sight when it was uncovered.
“Jus’ keep yer hand held here. I’ll be back,” Wood muttered pressing one of Flint’s bloodstained hands against the wound, before moving out of the man’s view.
Flint groaned from the flaring pain in his side and closed his eyes. The shape of the room danced behind his closed eyelids and his head swam in a hazy, stomach turning fog. The feeling of Oliver’s warm hands on his side slowly brought him back to reality. He could feel the tip of the Keeper’s wand touching the wounds on his face, healing them before moving to the wide cut on his side.
The wound wouldn’t close, even after five healing spells were cast on it.
“Shite, what did ya get hit with?”
“Nothing that’ll heal easy,” Flint muttered as he swallowed the bile pooling at the back of his throat, “Jus- just patch it up and do what ya can.”
Wood placed his wand on the battered coffee table with a curse and left the room once more. When he returned, his hands were full of cloth and bottled potions.
“So help me Flint, if you die-”
“M’ not gonna die Wood,” Flint mumbled, half conscious, “M’ a stubborn arse, remember?”
His chest fluttered when he heard Wood’s shaky laugh, “That you are.”
Smiling, Flint allowed his eyes to drift closed. His willed his mind to settle its self into a calm. He was safe and in capable hands. He knew Wood wouldn’t allow him to kick the bucket just yet; after all, if anyone was going to kill Marcus Flint’s sorry arse, it was going to be Oliver Wood and no one else.
Oliver’s hands gently worked on the wound, rinsing the blood away with a potion and spreading a thick paste over the cut to seal it. Flint felt himself lulled into a peaceful slumber by their touch. The man’s fingers ghosted over his flesh gently, awaking memories of happier times when the Keeper’s hands were free to roam over his skin when they wished. Merlin, Wood always had such soft hands, far too soft for a Keeper. Flint missed teasing him about those too soft hands almost as much as he missed feeling them on his skin, missing feeling those firm fingers softly walking across his flesh, touching and caressing with tenderness.
Hands that could hand a quaffle with tremendous skill and yet, make Flint feel so human with their soft touches…
…hands that nervously fisting the bedding under his hands, using it as a small lifeline as he avoided Flint’s eyes.
Flint sat back on his heels, watching the sight of the once confident Keeper curling in on himself and feeling his chest grow tighter from it. He knew they were pushing this. It was too soon and Wood obviously wasn’t ready for this kind of close contact if his downcast eyes and heavy posture against the headboard was anything to go by.
“It’s ok Ol,” Flint whispered.
Wood’s fingers tightened into the blankets. Judging by the lines around the corners of his brown eyes he was angry, but at what Flint can’t tell - Oliver could be angry at Flint for letting a light petting session get to far, angry at himself for his reluctance or at all of the fucked up events that led them both to this point. A year ago, a light touch from either of them usually led to a long rutting session that could be expanded to every square inch of the tiny flat or a nice, slow tumble that had both of them groaning and reeling in pleasure for hours.
But now…
Flint resisted the urge to scratch the back of his neck, knowing the tell would be too noticeable, and settled for flexing his own fingers into a fists. Blimey, he had no blasted clue what to do. Should he say something else? If so, then what? What the bloody hell could a bloke say in this situation other then blame himself for starting it?
He knew he shouldn’t have let one little kiss get this far but Merlin, it had felt so good. After the Keeper’s return from St. Mungo's, Wood had turned into the walking dead, hardly eating, speaking or sleeping and going to great lengths to avoid Flint’s presence in their tiny, shared flat. Flint didn’t blame him for his behavior, he never blamed Oliver for anything that had happened, but that didn’t mean the evasion didn’t hurt like hell.
An hour ago, Wood had allowed him to move close enough to touch, something Flint hadn’t been able to do in months, and of course he had gotten carried away, taken an innocent touch too far, too soon and Oliver had recoiled from him and now, Flint felt like an arse.
“M’ sorry.”
“I don’t want ya to be,” Wood whispered, finally breaking his ten minute long silence, “I want it, bloody hell do I want it bad. But-”
Flint felt his heart move into his throat. He couldn’t take this, this wasn’t his Oliver. This wasn’t the man who he had fallen in love with a year ago. This wasn’t the man who, after a game win, dripping with confidence and made even bolder from countless shots of firewhiskey, would push Flint against the wall of their flat hard enough to bruise and insisted on devouring every inch of Irishmen with his hot mouth.
No, it seemed that Oliver Wood had perished months ago at the hands of a malicious Death Eater and Flint would never get him back.
It wasn’t fair.
Shaking his head, Flint scooted closer, making sure his moments were slow. He saw Wood’s shoulders tense as he raised his arm, but he didn’t let it deter him. His fingers closed around the Keeper’s tightly clenched fist and fumbled until they managed to work their way between the Scot’s strong fingers.
When Wood’s hand closed around his Flint released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.
When Wood’s brown eyes finally lifted to his face, the last of Flint’s resolve crumbled to dust. In its place, his anger grew.
“You’re still wearing it?”
He blinked at Oliver’s question, scatterbrained from his never ceasing train of thought, and followed the Keeper’s gaze down to the strip of cloth tied around his wrist.
“Yeah.”
The Keeper’s face lowered, “I lost mine.”
Flint felt his temper surge and struggled to keep a hold on it. How the bloody hell could Wood blame himself for that?
“You didn’t lose it.” He whispered, voice turning horse.
It was taken, Ollie, there’s a difference. Damn it all, there is a difference!
“He said I stole it,” Wood murmured, lowering his head, “That, something like me didn’t deserve to wear it.”
The look on Wood’s face made his heart clench again and the rage inside his mind burn fiercer.
I’ll get it back Ol, I swear.
Flint let his eyes fall to his hands. Bollocks, maybe he should’ve taken that bloody thing off his arm if all it would do was turn Wood into an even bigger wreck. No. Things were shite right now, but it would be even worse if that waste of fabric wasn’t around his wrist. Oliver would take that as a sign he was no longer wanted. Flint may be an arse, but he’d rather put his wand in his own eye before he tore the stupid rag around his wrist off and Wood knew that.
Flint silenced the raging voice inside of his mind and counted to ten before allowing himself to speak.
“You gave this to me because you knew it’d keep my stupid arse alive,” he says, knowing both the truth and irony behind the words, “An’ it has.”
There wasn’t much of a point to lace words like ‘luck’ and ‘fortune’ with an inanimate object in Flint’s mind, especially one as simple and insignificant as a bit of cloth torn from the hem of a robe, but- even though it annoyed him greatly to admit it- he did seem to have a presence watching over him when he wore it, protecting him from unseen forces with its ‘luck’ and banishing the worst of his fears whenever he looked upon it.
That stupid bit of cloth…
His side is very tender when his mind begins to refocus and his eyes finally open themselves. Groggily, he presses his hand against it and forces himself to sit up. He’s surprised to feel his bloodied trousers had been removed. Then again, Oliver did have skillful fingers.
“Easy,” Wood’s voice soothes and a warm hand is placed over his.
Wood helps move him into an upright position. Flint’s eyes burn from the brightness in the room, forcing him to keep them shut until they struggle to focus. When they open again, a small flicker of gold light immediately grabs their attention. A part of him isn’t surprised to see that the locket had found its way out of his pocket, not in the least. The damned thing was never his to own anyway…
It was never his to own, and yet, he cherished it. That stupid thing meant more to him then almost anything but he could never bring himself to wear it. The few times it had sat around his neck were maddening. The blasted thing was a physical manifestation of all the guilt and feelings he wanted desperately to keep mashed in the depths of his mind and he found himself being crushed under their weight. He couldn’t bear to wear it again.
That’s why he had given it to the only other thing on the entire earth that he cherished, the only person worthy enough to wear it around their neck. He could still remember the warmth in those brown eyes when he present it, trust, pride and love swirling in their depths…and how defeated and hurt they looked when it had been taken away.
Flint closed his eyes and sighed. None of that mattered anymore. He had gotten the damned thing back and punished the monster that had taken the locket - and so much more- from him, from them. None of it mattered anymore. His eyes glanced down at his wrist, needing the assurance of the red cloth’s presence against his skin. It was still there, still resting where he had knotted it.
“How bad is the pain?”
Flint took a deep breath to compose himself, “Just fabulous Wood, I’m in the prime of my life.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” the Keeper snorted.
Flint felt like rolling his eyes; like he hadn’t heard that before. The familiar words brought a small smile to his lips. At times, Wood could be an annoying mother hen and a complete prat the next, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss it. He missed everything they once had, the closeness, the gentle teasing and name calling, the way Oliver’s mere presence could sooth even his worse fears. Blimey he missed them. He missed having a real home where he felt safe and a warm bed where he was loved.
Fuck, that evil bastard deserved a dozen more deaths from Flint’s hand for all that he had taken from them… and a hundred more for what he had taken from Oliver.
The tightness in Flint’s throat returned from the memory, “I got it back.”
His voice was no louder than a whisper when he spoke but he knew Oliver heard him, loud and clear from the way his shoulders became stiff. The sight turned his stomach and pulled at his heartstrings.
“He’s dead Ollie.”
The soft brown eyes met his own, unsure, pleading for the truth. Flint held their stare and nodded. He wouldn’t lie, not about this. He didn’t care if the admission made him a bigger monster then the one he killed. As long as Wood could sleep at night without fear, it would be worth it. He’d walk through hell to make sure Wood was safe.
Oliver finally dropped his gaze. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“Can ya stand?”
“M’ might need some help.”
“Let’s get you to the bed, less stress on your side.” Wood’s strong arms gently looped under his own, propping him upright.
Flint allowed himself to be pulled upright into the Keeper’s strong arms, welcoming their warmth. He moved into the small bedroom without protest until Wood made an attempt to sit him on the edge of the bed. Instead of letting go, his arms held tight around the keeper’s back, holding him in a tight embrace.
“I got him, Wood. I got him,” He struggled to keep the pleading noses inside of his throat, but they must’ve escaped because Oliver’s arms tightened around his waist.
“You need rest, Flint.”
This time he didn’t fight when he was pushed down to the bed, “He won’t hurt you again.”
Wood’s hands froze on his shoulders for a moment before the Keeper sighed.
“Get some rest, Flint.”
Flint nodded and let his body fall against the soft bedding with a muffled thump. The blankets were so warm and inviting. He missed this stupid, lumpy bed. He used to hate it, he always woke up with pains in his legs and back and he’d lost count how many times he grumbled at Wood to stop being cheap and buy another one, but now, hell, he wouldn’t take a bed lined with silk over the blasted thing.
The only problem was it was missing something.
“You gonna stay with me?”
“I dunno Flint.”
“Come on Ol,” Flint murmured, feigning charm, “I could use a little body warmth.”
“Flint.”
“Please.”
He didn’t beg, not often, only three times in his entire life that he could remember; the first was when he present the locket to Oliver and urged him to take it, to keep the two things Flint cared most about in the world together and safe. The other times were on the same occasion two years ago, when he begged, pleaded and prayed with his entire being that he’d see Wood again and find wherever he had been dragged off to.
Wood dropped his head and sighed, “Fine.”
Flint’s lower lip curved into a slight smile. Fighting his exhaustion, he watched as Wood toed his shoes off and climbed onto the bed with him. A groan vibrated inside of Flint’s throat when the Keeper’s warmth pressed against his bare chest. Merlin, it felt good. Four months, four months since the last time he stumbled inside this tiny flat needing help, four months since the last time he and Wood had slept together, four months since the last time someone had touched him, four months too long.
Oliver settled against his side, hesitantly placing his arm around Flint’s stomach, mindful of his wound. Flint’s hand closed around his, his thumb slightly stroking the back of the Keeper’s hand. Tenderness was a strange feeling to him. If it wasn’t for Wood, he wouldn’t have known what it had felt like. He knew what affection was, his father had shown him some during his childhood on occasion and he had brief flashes of his mother’s kindness before the illness took her when he was young. He had some grasp about what it detailed, what it had felt like, but he never had a real clue about how good it felt when someone supported you, was proud of you, loved you, until the Keeper had become a permanent figure in his life.
If it wasn’t for Wood, Flint doubted there would be anything left in him that could be considered human.
But… if he wasn’t a permanent figure in Oliver’s life, none of this would have happened in the first place. The last two years would have been peaceful for both of them and Oliver would never have been hurt.
That thought hurt more than the pain in his side did.
If he wasn’t in love with Oliver, if that monster didn’t know that he cared about the Keeper more than life its self, then none of this would have happened.
-
(part 2)