FIC: Something To Be Thankful For (Marcus/Oliver - 2699 - PG-13)
Title: Something To Be Thankful For
Author: ANON
Pairing(s): Marcus/Oliver
Prompt: 2016: #45: Oliver/Marcus - Marcus has just been released from his stint in Azkaban and the very first person he comes across while wandering through Diagon is Oliver. Oliver invites him back to his place for Christmas/New Year's celebrations.
Word Count: 2699
Rating: PG-13
Contains (Highlight to view): *Reference to prior sexual encounters, Reference to underage sex, Canon Divergent*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: How could it be that he’d managed to find safety and comfort in one of the most unlikely of places?
Notes: There are so many stories of these two fighting and being rough with each other, and that is what I love about them--but for the holidays, I decided I’d like to write some rare fluff between them. :3 Please enjoy probably one of the most civil moments this pair will ever have, haha!
There was no doubt whatsoever that Christmas was in the air. The streets of Diagon Alley were packed with last minute shoppers, still excitable in their haste, despite it only being one week till the Big Day. As the sun began to set behind the row of shops, their grinning owners stepped outside, one by one, to wave their wands and light the string of lights adorning the awnings and doorways. Families corralled their joyful children, who dashed about enthusiastically, peering with glee in the windows, oblivious to the knowing glances and conspiratorial whispers of their parents. Lovers and friends huddled together for warmth as they passed from store to store, oohing and awwing in much the same way as the kids at the splendor of each carefully-crafted display. The restaurants sprinkled in between had the most amazing smells pouring out their doors, melding with the scent of fresh snow on the horizon, and the whole place was glowing with the peaceful aura customary of the season.
Marcus Flint walked the cobblestones alone, looking much like a lost, dejected puppy amidst all of that holiday cheer. His eyes scanned the decorations around him, but his mind was having difficulty taking it all in. It had been years since he’d seen this much color. Hell, it had been years since he’d had any holidays to celebrate. Passersby mostly ignored him, too wrapped up in their own little worlds to acknowledge the gray-clad, desolate figure trying his best not to invade them.
It had been merely an hour since his release from Azkaban, following a five year sentence. He’d gotten off mostly on good behavior, which probably would’ve shocked anyone who’d known him in his younger years. Why he’d been there, well...He’d run with a bad crowd back in the day, as the saying goes. One of them had asked him to come do a job with them. Turned out that “job” was the breaking in and robbing of a pureblood estate. The old man who still lived there hadn’t been as “deaf and clueless” as his comrades had informed him, and when the Aurors were called, it was Marcus who got stuck with his hands in the air, knees on the plush carpet, and collection of rare artifacts that he’d been in the process of pilfering scattered across the floor around him. It was ruled an armed robbery--which in the wizarding world was any theft committed while in the possession of a wand, which was...pretty much any theft committed in their part of the world at all. He hadn’t even been in on the plan. He’d shown up at the designated meeting place that evening to discover what was really going on, and he hadn’t wanted to make any waves in his group by dissenting, so he’d simply gone along with it. Every single one of those slimeballs had turned on him during the trials, claiming he was the mastermind, in return for the cushy deals they were receiving for aiding the prosecution. Unfortunately, Marcus hadn’t had enough money or legal knowledge to hire a lawyer that could better defend him against such accusations. He’d taken his sentence with surprising stoicism. And because even him being there in the first place had been a misunderstanding, he hadn’t desired to rattle any cages, especially if they were the ones that held several of the Dark Lord’s most powerful former allies. He was just glad that the Ministry had stopped using Dementors after the war; he’d interacted with a few of the remaining prisoners who could remember those times, and he considered himself lucky to have left with even a fraction of his sanity.
Why they’d chosen to release him in Diagon Alley, of all places, he hadn’t the foggiest. He wasn’t due to get his wand back for another couple months, so it wasn’t like he could function properly in normal magical society. He didn’t have a place to live, he couldn’t apparate anywhere to try and find one, and he was fairly sure no one in their right mind would hire him so that he could pay for one, either. He couldn’t even try asking his parents for help, as they’d never really been much of “parents” to begin with. Not even on the day they’d shuffled him roughly inside the cell that was to be his home for the next five years had he felt so utterly doomed. One would think, after everything that had happened in the past decade, that the DMLE would’ve constructed some sort of rehabilitation program, housing for those recently released, something, but no...
His somber footsteps eventually led him to a quaint little cafe at the corner of the next intersection. The name didn’t look familiar, so it must’ve been new since he’d been put away. Pausing for a moment to glance inside, he could see quite a queue in front of the register, as well as a small herd waiting around the end of the long counter, where it appeared beverages were delivered after they’d been made. The occupants were much the same mix of people he’d been wading through outside--couples, children, families and friends alike, smiling and laughing and chatting like they didn’t have a care in the world. There weren’t sufficient enough words to describe how alienated he felt from them, and there was a strong urge within him to reject the very sight of them and turn away. Although, a tea or coffee or something sounded great right now, with how the icy wind outside was trying to freeze his nips off. He wondered if he had anything left in his Gringotts vault to buy one with. But, last time he’d checked (which would’ve been well before his trial, even), he was dirt broke, and he probably should be saving every scrap of coin he had to “start over” and all that, anyway…
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end suddenly, from more than just the cold. The sneaking suspicion that somebody was watching him crept over his skin, and his gaze shifted to find a pair of strikingly familiar eyes staring straight back through the glass. He blinked, processing just who it was he was looking at, and it appeared they were doing the same. Of course, he honestly knew the moment he laid eyes on him. He'd matured, obviously, but otherwise the years hadn't changed him all that much. However, his counterpart looked like he'd just seen a ghost. His brows were knitting together, his jaw slackening slightly. Marcus took a step back from the window, not knowing if he was ready yet to encounter anyone from his past. Then he realized that the other was on the move, excusing himself from the line and making his way towards the exit. The former Slytherin found himself caught, even as he turned on his heel and attempted to scurry away, when he heard the tinkling of the bell above the door and that voice behind him:
“Flint?”
He could’ve just kept walking. It wasn’t as if they were friends, or anything. Although, there was enough history between them to beg strongly to differ, even if no one would’ve caught him admitting that aloud. But despite wanting nothing more than to hide, continue on and lose himself in the crowd, he turned back and replied, “Alright, Wood?”
“Holy shit, I barely even recognized you.” He seemed to falter for a moment, searching for the right words, and even when they did come out, he appeared wary of them. “I thought you were in…?”
“Yeah. Just got out.”
Silence stretched between them for an awkward couple beats as Oliver took in the sight of him, brown eyes roving over the tattered, gray clothing he wore, the scuff marks on his worn boots, his gaunt, stubble-shadowed cheeks, the way he kept his ungloved hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat as he shivered in the cold night air. Of course, Marcus couldn’t help but notice the pristine state of the former Gryffindor’s own clothing, especially the crisp, snuggly-fitted jumper bearing Puddlemere’s signature crest over his left peck. His hair was trimmed more nicely than when they’d been in school, and he could plainly see his body was better toned, as well, even through the layers. He appeared to have done well with himself thus far. And here was Marcus, looking like a bum, for all intensive purposes. It was a mistake to have stayed put, even for this brief exchange. He didn’t need the added embarrassment of his rival and sometimes-lover witnessing him at his most downtrodden. Oliver would probably be on his way to that Weasley bloke’s place after this, to laugh about how miserable Marcus was, when all of them were such pillars of society nowadays. The thought made him scowl as he turned away again.
“Do you want a cuppa?”
Damnit. He paused in his tracks once more and twisted halfway back to Oliver’s anxious face. “Do I what?”
“Tea. Do you want it?” he pronounced clearly, firmly, pointing into the shop window beside them. “Or coffee. I don’t know your preference.”
It actually would’ve been coffee, if he were being honest. As it was, he was so confused as to why Oliver might be asking that all he could say back was: “Why?”
Oliver closed his eyes for a moment and snorted in that way that he used to do whenever he was exasperated by something. Marcus felt an unwelcome smirk tugging at a corner of his mouth. He could easily recall many previous instances when he’d been the cause of that distress. Nice to know some things never changed.
“Don’t worry about the why, just...Do you want one, or not? I doubt they’ll give me my place in line back, but it’s really not as long of a wait as it looks.”
Marcus’s gaze swivelled to linger inside the cafe for another moment. It was freezing as hell out, and he had been thinking of getting one even before Oliver had spotted him...But his train of thought arrived, once again, at the same dilemma he’d been facing earlier: “I don’t think I have any money, though,” he admitted sheepishly, cursing the light blush he could sense creeping across his cheekbones.
“My treat.”
His eyes snapped back to Oliver’s face to discover that he was now smiling. It was a warm gesture, one he’d seen on his features before, but never directed at Marcus himself. And in that split second, he decided to take the offer and followed the other man into the cozy heat of the shop.
***
“I what?!”
“You seriously don’t remember that?”
As the day gradually grew to a close around them, the former classmates continued to wander the streets of Diagon Alley. They’d since finished their respective beverages, but each had left a drop or so in their paper cups, if only to have something to warm their hands just a touch longer. As they’d walked, they’d chatted here and there about a wide variety of subjects, only pausing their conversation whenever they found a shop they wanted to search inside. As to be expected, they’d spent quite some time in Quality Quidditch Supplies, marvelling at the brand new Nimbus they had on display (which Oliver had commented privately that his team hoped their superiors would be purchasing for all of them come next season). And in all that time, the Gryffindor had never once asked him about the trial, his sint in Azkaban, any of it. It was as if they both had simply chosen to pretend the whole affair was just a bad dream.
“No!”
“That Weasley kid--I never remember his name--he had to practically pry you off of me, else you might’ve tried to suck me off in front of the whole party.”
“Oh, now I know you’re making this up! I would’ve never done something like that. I’m very discreet, if you remember.”
“Yeah, but mistletoe and nearly an entire bottle of Ogden’s can make a man do crazy things, sometimes.”
The shops were starting to close up, and the crowds were dwindling, either heading home or into one of the restaurants that were still open. Marcus and his companion had stopped just outside of Flourish and Blotts to toss their now empty cups in the bin there.
“I swear, I don’t remember any of that.”
“Well, you were pretty wasted, I guess…S’why I didn’t try for anything more.”
“Wow, I’m actually shocked. Didn’t picture you the gentlemanly type.”
“Ouch, mate. I do have some standards, alright?”
“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Chuckling, Oliver ran a hand over his face. “Old habits die hard...” Then a light sparkled in his eyes once more as he seemed to catch up. “Wait...you would’ve tried for something ‘more’? Like, if I hadn’t blacked out?”
“Oh, come off it, you know I would’ve.”
“Yes, I do seem to remember plenty of times when you did try for more--”
“Fucking hell, Wood, of all things, could we not talk about that? You were sober those times, besides, and I don’t exactly recall you complaining then, so--”
“I’m not complaining now, either.”
The look Oliver was giving him in that moment suddenly made him uncomfortable. Fiddling with the hem of his coat, he glanced from side to side at the almost deserted street and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He didn’t know what he was going to do now. What had been a surprisingly pleasant evening was going to end, and Oliver was going to head back to what he was positive was some ritzy flat fitting of a professional Quidditch star, and Marcus was going to...Marcus didn’t know what Marcus was going to do. Probably try his best to get at least some sleep in a dark corner of this place, probably somewhere in Knockturn, and then attempt to find employment come morning...There had to be somebody around here that needed seasonal help--and that wasn’t about to be picky over whether or not said help had just been let out of jail.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking…” The tone of Oliver’s voice was what made him look again. “But do you have somewhere to stay?”
Feeling his chest tighten in a way he wasn’t accustomed to, all Marcus could do was shake his head. He had an idea of what Oliver was going to say in answer to that, and he didn’t know if he could handle it.
“I didn’t think so. Do you...want to stay with me, then?”
He’d been right. Goddamnit, he’d been right, and now what could he do? Oliver had no reason whatsoever to offer him something like that, and yet he was. They had no obligation to each other--never had, except for the couple years at Hogwarts they’d spent shagging in secret. Even after graduation, they hadn’t kept in touch. Not that Marcus had expected them to, but still. Everyone had always assumed they despised each other, what with the way they carried on more often than not. Only they had known anything different, even if hadn’t always been the kindest, most gentle relationship either of them had ever had. As far as Marcus was concerned, he’d done absolutely nothing in all the years they’d known each other to make Oliver think sharing his home with him was a good plan. But the look in his eyes also told Marcus that there was no deceit there, no expectations...How could it be that he’d managed to find safety and comfort in one of the most unlikely of places?
“The holiday’s coming up, of course, and I’ll be spending it with my family, but I’m sure no one would mind fixing one more plate. Oh, but my apartment is pretty small, and I only have the one bedroom, so...I mean, it’d either be sleep on the couch, or…”
There was something in that “or” that Marcus could sense immediately. He stared back into Oliver’s expectant eyes, and, much as he might’ve wanted to shy away from any inkling of it, he knew the answer.
“Sure. I’d like that.”
Author: ANON
Pairing(s): Marcus/Oliver
Prompt: 2016: #45: Oliver/Marcus - Marcus has just been released from his stint in Azkaban and the very first person he comes across while wandering through Diagon is Oliver. Oliver invites him back to his place for Christmas/New Year's celebrations.
Word Count: 2699
Rating: PG-13
Contains (Highlight to view): *Reference to prior sexual encounters, Reference to underage sex, Canon Divergent*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: How could it be that he’d managed to find safety and comfort in one of the most unlikely of places?
Notes: There are so many stories of these two fighting and being rough with each other, and that is what I love about them--but for the holidays, I decided I’d like to write some rare fluff between them. :3 Please enjoy probably one of the most civil moments this pair will ever have, haha!
There was no doubt whatsoever that Christmas was in the air. The streets of Diagon Alley were packed with last minute shoppers, still excitable in their haste, despite it only being one week till the Big Day. As the sun began to set behind the row of shops, their grinning owners stepped outside, one by one, to wave their wands and light the string of lights adorning the awnings and doorways. Families corralled their joyful children, who dashed about enthusiastically, peering with glee in the windows, oblivious to the knowing glances and conspiratorial whispers of their parents. Lovers and friends huddled together for warmth as they passed from store to store, oohing and awwing in much the same way as the kids at the splendor of each carefully-crafted display. The restaurants sprinkled in between had the most amazing smells pouring out their doors, melding with the scent of fresh snow on the horizon, and the whole place was glowing with the peaceful aura customary of the season.
Marcus Flint walked the cobblestones alone, looking much like a lost, dejected puppy amidst all of that holiday cheer. His eyes scanned the decorations around him, but his mind was having difficulty taking it all in. It had been years since he’d seen this much color. Hell, it had been years since he’d had any holidays to celebrate. Passersby mostly ignored him, too wrapped up in their own little worlds to acknowledge the gray-clad, desolate figure trying his best not to invade them.
It had been merely an hour since his release from Azkaban, following a five year sentence. He’d gotten off mostly on good behavior, which probably would’ve shocked anyone who’d known him in his younger years. Why he’d been there, well...He’d run with a bad crowd back in the day, as the saying goes. One of them had asked him to come do a job with them. Turned out that “job” was the breaking in and robbing of a pureblood estate. The old man who still lived there hadn’t been as “deaf and clueless” as his comrades had informed him, and when the Aurors were called, it was Marcus who got stuck with his hands in the air, knees on the plush carpet, and collection of rare artifacts that he’d been in the process of pilfering scattered across the floor around him. It was ruled an armed robbery--which in the wizarding world was any theft committed while in the possession of a wand, which was...pretty much any theft committed in their part of the world at all. He hadn’t even been in on the plan. He’d shown up at the designated meeting place that evening to discover what was really going on, and he hadn’t wanted to make any waves in his group by dissenting, so he’d simply gone along with it. Every single one of those slimeballs had turned on him during the trials, claiming he was the mastermind, in return for the cushy deals they were receiving for aiding the prosecution. Unfortunately, Marcus hadn’t had enough money or legal knowledge to hire a lawyer that could better defend him against such accusations. He’d taken his sentence with surprising stoicism. And because even him being there in the first place had been a misunderstanding, he hadn’t desired to rattle any cages, especially if they were the ones that held several of the Dark Lord’s most powerful former allies. He was just glad that the Ministry had stopped using Dementors after the war; he’d interacted with a few of the remaining prisoners who could remember those times, and he considered himself lucky to have left with even a fraction of his sanity.
Why they’d chosen to release him in Diagon Alley, of all places, he hadn’t the foggiest. He wasn’t due to get his wand back for another couple months, so it wasn’t like he could function properly in normal magical society. He didn’t have a place to live, he couldn’t apparate anywhere to try and find one, and he was fairly sure no one in their right mind would hire him so that he could pay for one, either. He couldn’t even try asking his parents for help, as they’d never really been much of “parents” to begin with. Not even on the day they’d shuffled him roughly inside the cell that was to be his home for the next five years had he felt so utterly doomed. One would think, after everything that had happened in the past decade, that the DMLE would’ve constructed some sort of rehabilitation program, housing for those recently released, something, but no...
His somber footsteps eventually led him to a quaint little cafe at the corner of the next intersection. The name didn’t look familiar, so it must’ve been new since he’d been put away. Pausing for a moment to glance inside, he could see quite a queue in front of the register, as well as a small herd waiting around the end of the long counter, where it appeared beverages were delivered after they’d been made. The occupants were much the same mix of people he’d been wading through outside--couples, children, families and friends alike, smiling and laughing and chatting like they didn’t have a care in the world. There weren’t sufficient enough words to describe how alienated he felt from them, and there was a strong urge within him to reject the very sight of them and turn away. Although, a tea or coffee or something sounded great right now, with how the icy wind outside was trying to freeze his nips off. He wondered if he had anything left in his Gringotts vault to buy one with. But, last time he’d checked (which would’ve been well before his trial, even), he was dirt broke, and he probably should be saving every scrap of coin he had to “start over” and all that, anyway…
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end suddenly, from more than just the cold. The sneaking suspicion that somebody was watching him crept over his skin, and his gaze shifted to find a pair of strikingly familiar eyes staring straight back through the glass. He blinked, processing just who it was he was looking at, and it appeared they were doing the same. Of course, he honestly knew the moment he laid eyes on him. He'd matured, obviously, but otherwise the years hadn't changed him all that much. However, his counterpart looked like he'd just seen a ghost. His brows were knitting together, his jaw slackening slightly. Marcus took a step back from the window, not knowing if he was ready yet to encounter anyone from his past. Then he realized that the other was on the move, excusing himself from the line and making his way towards the exit. The former Slytherin found himself caught, even as he turned on his heel and attempted to scurry away, when he heard the tinkling of the bell above the door and that voice behind him:
“Flint?”
He could’ve just kept walking. It wasn’t as if they were friends, or anything. Although, there was enough history between them to beg strongly to differ, even if no one would’ve caught him admitting that aloud. But despite wanting nothing more than to hide, continue on and lose himself in the crowd, he turned back and replied, “Alright, Wood?”
“Holy shit, I barely even recognized you.” He seemed to falter for a moment, searching for the right words, and even when they did come out, he appeared wary of them. “I thought you were in…?”
“Yeah. Just got out.”
Silence stretched between them for an awkward couple beats as Oliver took in the sight of him, brown eyes roving over the tattered, gray clothing he wore, the scuff marks on his worn boots, his gaunt, stubble-shadowed cheeks, the way he kept his ungloved hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat as he shivered in the cold night air. Of course, Marcus couldn’t help but notice the pristine state of the former Gryffindor’s own clothing, especially the crisp, snuggly-fitted jumper bearing Puddlemere’s signature crest over his left peck. His hair was trimmed more nicely than when they’d been in school, and he could plainly see his body was better toned, as well, even through the layers. He appeared to have done well with himself thus far. And here was Marcus, looking like a bum, for all intensive purposes. It was a mistake to have stayed put, even for this brief exchange. He didn’t need the added embarrassment of his rival and sometimes-lover witnessing him at his most downtrodden. Oliver would probably be on his way to that Weasley bloke’s place after this, to laugh about how miserable Marcus was, when all of them were such pillars of society nowadays. The thought made him scowl as he turned away again.
“Do you want a cuppa?”
Damnit. He paused in his tracks once more and twisted halfway back to Oliver’s anxious face. “Do I what?”
“Tea. Do you want it?” he pronounced clearly, firmly, pointing into the shop window beside them. “Or coffee. I don’t know your preference.”
It actually would’ve been coffee, if he were being honest. As it was, he was so confused as to why Oliver might be asking that all he could say back was: “Why?”
Oliver closed his eyes for a moment and snorted in that way that he used to do whenever he was exasperated by something. Marcus felt an unwelcome smirk tugging at a corner of his mouth. He could easily recall many previous instances when he’d been the cause of that distress. Nice to know some things never changed.
“Don’t worry about the why, just...Do you want one, or not? I doubt they’ll give me my place in line back, but it’s really not as long of a wait as it looks.”
Marcus’s gaze swivelled to linger inside the cafe for another moment. It was freezing as hell out, and he had been thinking of getting one even before Oliver had spotted him...But his train of thought arrived, once again, at the same dilemma he’d been facing earlier: “I don’t think I have any money, though,” he admitted sheepishly, cursing the light blush he could sense creeping across his cheekbones.
“My treat.”
His eyes snapped back to Oliver’s face to discover that he was now smiling. It was a warm gesture, one he’d seen on his features before, but never directed at Marcus himself. And in that split second, he decided to take the offer and followed the other man into the cozy heat of the shop.
***
“I what?!”
“You seriously don’t remember that?”
As the day gradually grew to a close around them, the former classmates continued to wander the streets of Diagon Alley. They’d since finished their respective beverages, but each had left a drop or so in their paper cups, if only to have something to warm their hands just a touch longer. As they’d walked, they’d chatted here and there about a wide variety of subjects, only pausing their conversation whenever they found a shop they wanted to search inside. As to be expected, they’d spent quite some time in Quality Quidditch Supplies, marvelling at the brand new Nimbus they had on display (which Oliver had commented privately that his team hoped their superiors would be purchasing for all of them come next season). And in all that time, the Gryffindor had never once asked him about the trial, his sint in Azkaban, any of it. It was as if they both had simply chosen to pretend the whole affair was just a bad dream.
“No!”
“That Weasley kid--I never remember his name--he had to practically pry you off of me, else you might’ve tried to suck me off in front of the whole party.”
“Oh, now I know you’re making this up! I would’ve never done something like that. I’m very discreet, if you remember.”
“Yeah, but mistletoe and nearly an entire bottle of Ogden’s can make a man do crazy things, sometimes.”
The shops were starting to close up, and the crowds were dwindling, either heading home or into one of the restaurants that were still open. Marcus and his companion had stopped just outside of Flourish and Blotts to toss their now empty cups in the bin there.
“I swear, I don’t remember any of that.”
“Well, you were pretty wasted, I guess…S’why I didn’t try for anything more.”
“Wow, I’m actually shocked. Didn’t picture you the gentlemanly type.”
“Ouch, mate. I do have some standards, alright?”
“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Chuckling, Oliver ran a hand over his face. “Old habits die hard...” Then a light sparkled in his eyes once more as he seemed to catch up. “Wait...you would’ve tried for something ‘more’? Like, if I hadn’t blacked out?”
“Oh, come off it, you know I would’ve.”
“Yes, I do seem to remember plenty of times when you did try for more--”
“Fucking hell, Wood, of all things, could we not talk about that? You were sober those times, besides, and I don’t exactly recall you complaining then, so--”
“I’m not complaining now, either.”
The look Oliver was giving him in that moment suddenly made him uncomfortable. Fiddling with the hem of his coat, he glanced from side to side at the almost deserted street and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He didn’t know what he was going to do now. What had been a surprisingly pleasant evening was going to end, and Oliver was going to head back to what he was positive was some ritzy flat fitting of a professional Quidditch star, and Marcus was going to...Marcus didn’t know what Marcus was going to do. Probably try his best to get at least some sleep in a dark corner of this place, probably somewhere in Knockturn, and then attempt to find employment come morning...There had to be somebody around here that needed seasonal help--and that wasn’t about to be picky over whether or not said help had just been let out of jail.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking…” The tone of Oliver’s voice was what made him look again. “But do you have somewhere to stay?”
Feeling his chest tighten in a way he wasn’t accustomed to, all Marcus could do was shake his head. He had an idea of what Oliver was going to say in answer to that, and he didn’t know if he could handle it.
“I didn’t think so. Do you...want to stay with me, then?”
He’d been right. Goddamnit, he’d been right, and now what could he do? Oliver had no reason whatsoever to offer him something like that, and yet he was. They had no obligation to each other--never had, except for the couple years at Hogwarts they’d spent shagging in secret. Even after graduation, they hadn’t kept in touch. Not that Marcus had expected them to, but still. Everyone had always assumed they despised each other, what with the way they carried on more often than not. Only they had known anything different, even if hadn’t always been the kindest, most gentle relationship either of them had ever had. As far as Marcus was concerned, he’d done absolutely nothing in all the years they’d known each other to make Oliver think sharing his home with him was a good plan. But the look in his eyes also told Marcus that there was no deceit there, no expectations...How could it be that he’d managed to find safety and comfort in one of the most unlikely of places?
“The holiday’s coming up, of course, and I’ll be spending it with my family, but I’m sure no one would mind fixing one more plate. Oh, but my apartment is pretty small, and I only have the one bedroom, so...I mean, it’d either be sleep on the couch, or…”
There was something in that “or” that Marcus could sense immediately. He stared back into Oliver’s expectant eyes, and, much as he might’ve wanted to shy away from any inkling of it, he knew the answer.
“Sure. I’d like that.”