Summary: Marcus stops in for a short visit with Oliver, but
it doesn't turn out as Oliver had expected.
The letters
had been going back and forth like this for days now. But as the zero hour
approached, they came more quickly and more frequently. Oliver tried every
trick he knew of, but the man was more stubborn than Oliver was tricky. In the
end, he was just about to resort to begging when he got the letter saying that
Marcus had finally given in and would be arriving as soon as the coast was
clear.
Oliver
spent a very tense three minutes and three quarters pacing back and forth across
his efficiency loft. He was nearly ready to send another owl back when Marcus
suddenly appeared before him. They started silently at each other for a little
while, then it was Oliver who spoke first. "I wasn't
sure you were going to show after all."
"Said I
would, didn't I?" replied Marcus Flint, looking as though it pained him to be
doing this, looking like he'd never done this before. The truth of the matter
was that they went through this a few times a year. They met up every time
Marcus' team playing nearby and Oliver was lucky enough to be home, but only
when the two conditions were met and
their Quidditch teams were not playing each other. It wasn't as convenient an
arrangement as they'd had back in Hogwarts, but it was generally safer and just
as heated. "It took me a while to get away. I had to pack light so they
wouldn't suspect."
Oliver
smiled. Oliver was proudly out to his teammates, who had been nothing but
supportive and accepting. But Marcus had felt that admitting who he was would
be the death of him, not just the death of his career. Of course, a hundred
owls in a few days was probably more suspicious than a
well-packed piece of luggage, so if he truly wanted to hide he should have just
given in immediately to Oliver's request. But Marcus didn't see it that way.
His way was always to fight. "Right," said Oliver. "Can't let them think you're
a queer."
Marcus
glared at him, fists clenched. "I am not
some pathetic pansy," he said, enunciating so that he was practically spitting
out his P's.
"Aye, of
course you're not," said Oliver, quite quickly. "You're a tough-guy chaser who
simply likes to have his cock up a bloke's arse every so often."
"Right,"
Marcus said, teeth clenched. "I'll do you for that!" He charged forward and
grabbed Oliver. Instead of a hard punch, however, he administered a strong
kiss. Oliver pretended to struggle but Marcus held him there, his grip so tight
on Oliver's arms that it cut into Oliver's circulation. Marcus' kiss went from
murderously strong to heavy and from heavy to sloppy. His mouth devoured
Oliver's hungrily, and he bit down on Oliver's lip so hard that he drew blood. He
pulled back roughly, staring blankly at Oliver for a moment. But then, at
seeing that Oliver had liked it, he burst into a prideful and slightly-crooked
grin.
"I missed
you," Oliver breathed out, resisting the urge to draw a forearm across his
mouth to dry it.
"Yeah,"
Marcus replied, hiding his reaction behind a flat tone and dark eyes. Even
though Marcus didn't like showing it, Oliver knew their attraction to each
other was mutual... and almost irresistible.
"I'm glad
you're here."
"Yeah," he
repeated.
Oliver
moved forward, mouth dropping open for another kiss, hands immediately moving
to the fly of Marcus' trousers. He knew what the man wanted and sunk to his
knees to provide it.
But then
Marcus coughed and pulled away. "Have you started dinner yet?"
Oliver looked
up, blinking with confusion. "You've been here for ten minutes and you haven't
fucked me yet. And now you're asking about food? What's wrong?"
"I'm
hungry," Marcus said. "Dinner?"
"I was
going to make pasta, but I haven't started it yet."
"Sounds
good," said Marcus automatically. He looked distracted and Oliver wondered if
he would have said the same thing if Oliver had declared that dinner would be
monkey brains and sauerkraut. Then again, Marcus would probably end up liking
monkey brains.
Sighing to
himself, Oliver headed to the kitchen, reminding himself that at least Marcus
was there. The long-awaited sexual encounters could wait another hour or two. Or
maybe Marcus just wanted to see him cook like he had last time: wearing only a
skimpy white apron.
Oliver
served up two bowls of steaming noodles and sauce thirty-eight minutes later,
having not been jumped by a certain man yet. A minute later, the garlic bread
was served and still no sex. There was a considerable amount of dinner
conversation, which was equally strange as a lack of sexual intercourse. Two
bowls of ice cream- each- later, and Marcus stood up. He avoided Oliver's eyes
and glanced at the door. "Think I'm going to go out for a walk."
Oliver
reached his limit of curiosity. "Hold it. You're going out? You're leaving my
flat?" In all the times Marcus had visited him, not once had Marcus left. No
matter how much Oliver tried to convince Marcus to go somewhere, Marcus was too
scared he might bump into someone who recognized him, like any of a dozen guys
from Oliver's Quidditch team who all lived in the same general vicinity. "What
is up with you tonight?"
"What the
fuck do you care? I'm going out for a fag."
"But you
don't smoke," Oliver pointed out.
That fact
apparently did not mater because Marcus grabbed his jacket and headed out,
leaving Oliver to take out his frustrations on the dinner dishes. After being
cleaned and dried the muggle way, the dishes had never looked better but Oliver
was still confused. Confused and tired.
He showered
and hit the bed, and minutes later Marcus walked in. Oliver kicked the covers
down and stretched out, trying to make himself look attractive
and irresistible. Maybe Marcus was just playing hard to get. Maybe, for once,
the chaser wanted to be chased. But if there was one place a chaser always
ended up, it was at the goals. And Oliver had a fantastic hoop just waiting for
Marcus to score with it. All Quidditch analogies aside, "Hey.
Where have you been?"
Oliver
received no reply as Marcus walked over and slowly removed his jacket. Oliver
expected to find Marcus reeking of alcohol or cum or maybe both. Instead, even
from a few feet away, he caught a whiff of a much different scent. It was an
intoxicatingly strong cherry smell, which made him recoil slightly out of
instinct. It definitely wasn't a typical Marcus smell, but he was willing to
put up with it. "It's not too late if..." Oliver rolled over in bed, and paused
at the sight.
Marcus
turned around quickly, his back to Oliver. He was standing beside the bed, in
the moonlight, stripping off his clothes. Clichéd as it was, that sight had
always taken Oliver's breath away, and his walking in on a similar situation a
few years back in the Quidditch locker rooms was the whole reason they were
where they were now... wherever that was. Oliver couldn't help but notice a
certain article of clothing, and went weak at the sight. "I can't believe you
wore those again," he whispered.
Marcus
climbed into bed and yanked the covers up over them, though not before checking
Oliver's body out first in return. Oliver reached over and slid his hand over
the waistband of the ratty pair of black satin boxers. They were far too old
for them to still be in his rotation, but Oliver couldn't keep his hands off
them and Markus usually milked that for all it was worth. Oliver especially
liked one tear in the front, which made easy access to Marcus' cock even
easier. Oliver rubbed himself against Marcus' side now, folding, teasing. Until,
"Knock it off," said Marcus roughly. "I'm beat. I just want to sleep tonight."
"What's
wrong with you tonight?"
"Nothing." Marcus coughed and rolled over so his back was to
Oliver. "Just had a tough game yesterday. Want me to tell you what those are
like?"
"Very funny, you prat. I work damn
hard at my job too. And I don't have to remind you who won the Quidditch Cup
our seventh year, do I?"
"But I won
it years before you did."
"You also
did seventh year before I did." Marcus' shoulders tightened. Insults weren't
exactly out of the ordinary, but Oliver rarely wanted to go this far.
"I need to
rest."
Oliver
looked at Marcus from behind and resisted the urge to run his fingers along the
waistband of those boxers. But if Marcus really wanted to sleep, it would have
to wait until tomorrow morning. Oliver sighed again, but scooted forward,
spooning Marcus. "How about a backrub, at least? Could
you stand that?"
Chuckling,
"Can't keep your hands off me, can you?"
"Ye've no idea," Oliver whispered back. He put his hands on
Marcus' shoulders and gave a good, hard rub. Marcus exhaled slowly, sounding pleased.
But he fell asleep a few minutes later, before Oliver could try any more moves.
Oliver snuggled into Marcus' back, overwhelmed by the sickeningly strong cherry
scent he still couldn't quite identify.
The smell
was gone when Oliver woke in the morning but, then again, so was Marcus. Oliver
stretched out over the empty space in his bed, then
lifted his head, looking around. At first, he was worried Marcus had gone out
again. Maybe the guy had another fling in the area. Maybe he was tired of
Oliver. Maybe...
The sound
of a flushing toilet put Oliver slightly at ease, but then the sound that
followed made him freeze. He jumped out of bed, pulling on his maroon bathrobe
in the process, and went straight for the bathroom. "Marcus?" he simultaneously
called and knocked on the door. When he received no response, he called out in
warning, "I'm coming in!"
There was
Marcus, fully dressed and sitting on the lid of the toilet seat, bent over with
a fist to his mouth. He was shaking with harsh, moist coughs, which seemed to
fill every inch of him. And before they seemed to be done, he gave a strong,
equally wet sneeze. "herschahhhh!"
He looked up and grimaced as he met Oliver's eyes. He sniffed hard and cleared
his throat, getting ready for the third degree.
And Oliver
was ready to bring it. Sort of. His accent was
starting to get stronger, a sure sign that he was nervous or worried. "Are you
sick?"
Marcus
glared at him.
Oliver
nodded. "All right. Sure, that was a stupid question. Ye
sound like you're about to keel over and you look like death warmed over.
Obviously you're sick. So let me get you some Pepper-up."
"I don't
want it," Marcus insisted, his voice rough. He coughed again. "I hate the way
it tastes and the steam's uncomfortable and I'm not that sick anyway. I can
handle this without it."
"Ah, have
you taken a look at yerself lately?"
"hah-hah-ERShuhh!"
Oliver
shifted his weight and started untying his bathrobe. "That's it. I'm going to
get dressed and pop down to the pharmacist to get you some right now."
Marcus shook
his head. "Don't bother. It won't do any good."
"Course it
will. I'll admit it doesn't taste great and it makes you hot, but it does make
you feel better and right now it-"
"It's got
to be taken at the beginnings of a... a cold," Marcus said. He lifted his fist to
his mouth again. "hehrChahhh! Snfff! And I've
had this one for going on two days now."
"What?" Oliver
couldn't believe it.
Slow, angry
and loud, as though talking to someone who only understood a few words of
English, Marcus repeated himself. "Iiiiiii'vvvve... hhhaaaaadddd... tttthhhhiiiiissss-"
Oliver
waved a hand back and forth, motioning for him to stop. "Okay, I get it. I
didn't mean it as a question, I just meant... two days?"
Marcus'
nose twitched and he frowned more. "huh... huhKChushhhh! Snff!" He shook his
head and rubbed the back of his hand against his nose. "Mate, have you got a... snffff handkerchief or something? Sniff!"
Oliver
darted out of the bathroom to find one. It had been a long time since Oliver
was last sick, thanks to the preventative potions his team doctor pushed on
them all. But he was sure he had a few handkerchiefs somewhere. Thankfully, he
found one at the back of his sock drawer.
Though the
man wasn't going to say so, Marcus looked grateful for it. He snuffled into it
and coughed some more. Then he stood up and leaned against the wall of the
bathroom, facing Oliver now.
"So this
cold," Oliver said. "You taking anything for it?"
Marcus
shrugged and nodded at the same time. "Got pretty unbearable
last night. So I went and got some crappy muggle cold medicine."
That
certainly explained the cherry smell. Oliver smirked at the thought of Marcus
rejecting magical treatments only to rely on something muggle-made.
But the
smirk earned Oliver another hard glare.
"All
right," said Oliver. "If you've had this thing for that long, why is this the first I've heard about it?"
Yet another glare, this one dark and piercing.
Oliver
nodded. "Right. Another stupid question.
So here's a good one: what can I do to make you feel better? Can I get y'something- food, drink?"
Marcus
shook his head. "Not food but... I'd like to get out of these trousers, but I
didn't pack much. Sniff! Do you have
a pair of sweatpants or something?"
Oliver
definitely had some. He went back out to his dresser, and Marcus followed,
losing his clothes along the way.
Marcus quickly
changed into the grey sweatpants and black sweatshirt Oliver handed him,
sighing at the warmth and comfort. "hehh-Ershuhh! Sniff! You know how nice it is when
you're sick just to be able to bum around and take it easy?"
"I'll put
on a movie and make something warm to drink, okay?"
Marcus was
okay with that. He took a spot on the couch, pounding his heels down on the
coffee table in front of the couch. He grabbed a couch cushion and stuck it
behind his head, against the back of the couch, and bent an arm, holding the
cushion in place. Oliver came over a few minutes later. He put an action movie
in the video player and settled down on the couch beside Marcus.
Knowing
that Marcus hated tea, Oliver had loaded it down with sugar and was pleasantly
surprised when Marcus drank the whole thing. And he was equally pleased when
Marcus unbent his arm and instead wrapped it around
Oliver, pulling him close like a cuddle toy. This wasn't exactly what he'd been
craving from Marcus' visit, but it wasn't bad. It would still be something to
remember. And if this was the way they'd be spending the next few days with
Marcus and his cold, Oliver thought he would certainly be able to handle it.
*
Oliver
sighed, rubbing his hand up and down the back of Marcus' head. "I wish you
could stay longer. I'm going to miss you." Marcus nodded with a similar
sentiment and picked up his bag, which Oliver immediately took from him. "Wouldn't
it just figure that as soon as you start getting better, you have to leave?"
Oliver said, packing up Marcus' bag for him. It was a quick chore as the man
really hadn't brought much with him.
"Next time,
I won't be such an arsehole about that Pepper-Up
stuff," Marcus promised as he changed back into the pair of pants and
loose-fitting shirt he'd worn on his arrival.
"Next
time," Oliver laughed, heading to the bathroom, "I hope you won't be sick at
all." He sorted through the mess of clothes on the floor of the bathroom,
picking out the few pieces which he knew to be Marcus'. Then he turned to the
sink and paused. He cocked his head then glanced into the bag. "Oy, did you already get your toothbrush?"
"Nah," came the call. Oliver poked his head back out again, looking
puzzled. "Didn't bring one. Been
using yours all week."
Oliver
groaned and dropped the bag in his hand. "Marcus! You're sick! And you don't
use someone else's toothbrush anyway. Now I'm going to get sick, too."
Marcus
shrugged unapologetically, then grinned his grin again
at Olly. "Well then, guess you'll have something more to remember me by, won't
you?"