drench yourself in sequins & party til it hurts (thieving_gypsy) wrote in weasleys_wood,
drench yourself in sequins & party til it hurts

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FIC: Subjunctive

Title: Subjunctive
Author: B / thieving_gypsy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: How things were, and weren't, and should have been.
Notes: Written for aylaranzz for the first challenge at snail_mail_porn. I've never written (or even read much) Oliver/Percy before, so it was an odd one to suddenly have to think about. But fun. I hope I've not completely missed the mark. ;)

This is how things should have happened - they should have been together.

Percy was always so sure of himself. They both were, really, but Percy was unlike anybody Oliver had ever known. Beneath the blustering there was something else. Determination, masquerading as pompousness. Of course, as a Gryffindor and a sportsman, Oliver took this sort of thing very seriously indeed, although Percy only laughed at him the one time he brought it up in conversation. It had been a cold morning, soon after Christmas, and only a few had yet surfaced for breakfast. They were alone at their end of the table, just a few seats down from the head dais.

"Pass the ketchup," Oliver said.

Percy did, and wrinkled his nose at the lake of sauce that was soon spreading over Oliver's fry. It met the small puddles of grease and made the most interesting patterns. "I thought you sporty types were supposed to eat healthily. Lettuce sandwiches with no crusts, that sort of thing."

"Don' be stupid," Oliver said - almost incoherently - around a massive mouthful of scarlet-coated bacon. "'s freezin' out there. Need m'fuel."

"You're not actually going to practice? In the blizzard?"

"The day the world ends, I'll be up there on my broom getting in some practice between tremors."

"Well, I won't pretend to understand the attraction," Percy said, and Oliver grinned.

"I'm no different to you, Mr Brilliant Prefect. You'd brave a blizzard to keep some snot-nosed little kid from breaking a school rule, wouldn't you?"

Percy snorted and pushed his plate away. "Thank you for completely losing me my appetite and utterly underestimating me," he said, but he was almost smiling and Oliver almost smiled back.

They'd never exactly been friends, but they treasured their occasional brief conversations - not as something secret, but as something that meant nothing and everything all at once.


When it happened, it happened without warning or even much thought. Oliver was out for new game gloves when the snowstorm started. He saw Percy coming the other way up the street, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his worn winter cloak, eyebrows knitted close together behind his snow-streaked glasses.

"You look cold," Oliver said as they drew closer, as if it had only been a day since they last spoke, not years. "What happened to those lovely Weasley jumpers?"

"Do get lost," Percy said, without bothering to look up or even to stop walking.

Oliver said, "Huh." Then he turned after him and grabbed him by the elbow. "You need Firewhiskey," he said. "And so do I."

They dripped melting snow all over the carpet in Oliver's little Crouch End flat, and drank half a bottle of the whiskey before talking started to seem like a good idea. Family trouble. Job trouble. Girl trouble. Self-pity. Soon after that, for reasons unexplainable, it seemed like a fairly good idea to kiss, and then they had quick uncomfortable fumbling sex on the shabby old sofa. Not even that, really. Pressing and rubbing, black wool on blue denim, both sodden fabrics starting to steam in the heat of the blazing fire. Oliver decided, somewhere in the back of his fuzzy mind, that sex while drunk was highly overrated and surprisingly disappointing. And sticky. Very sticky and uncomfortable.

Percy pushed Oliver away roughly and stumbled over the words for a cleaning spell. He was breathing hard and his cheeks were flushed; not from exertion, Oliver thought, but from shame. There was an odd pang of distress in his stomach at that. He calmed it with another gulp of whiskey.

"Won't tell anybody if you don't," he muttered. Percy nodded, once, and left.


That's how it happened. It should have happened differently. With a chance meeting, yes, but with something else too.

"It's been a while," one of them should have said, and the other should have laughed and flung his arm over shoulders and suggested a trip to the pub or one of their houses. Oliver's, simply for the sake of moving the fantasy along, since he had no girlfriend or flatmate, whereas Percy had both.

So, they should have gone to Oliver's flat. The whiskey can stay, but they shouldn't have drunk out of sorrow and depression, or a desire to make conversation flow. Conversation should have been easy. There should have been laughter, and stories, and remembering. Then there should have been silence, and it should have been just as easy as the words. Sometimes words are unnecessary, even for the Percy Weasleys of the world.

They should have kissed a little awkwardly, perhaps sharing an embarrassed little laugh at the problem of figuring out which way each should tilt his head to compensate for Oliver's big nose and Percy's glasses. Of course, the glasses shouldn't have stayed very long; Oliver should have leaned in closer, arranging limbs without having to look what he was doing - the sixth sense of those in deep lust, if not entirely in love? - and removed them, and he should have twisted his fingers in Percy's hair and held him and kissed him and it should have been enough for hours and hours. Kissing without the obligation to continue. Was there anything better?

There should have been. Percy should have made an impatient little noise and shifted on the sofa until Oliver took the wordless hint and lay back against the cushions and pulled Percy with him. That tangle of limbs again - longer, now; less of a tangle, much more intent. Percy's wool-clad thigh between Oliver's, edging up hesitantly to the bulge in his jeans that wasn't all thick denim seam.

"I've never..." Percy should have said, and Oliver should have said, "I have, it's all right, please don't stop," and Percy should have nodded and smiled and pulled back just a little way so he could look at Oliver's face. An odd role-reversal - Oliver's face pin-sharp for Percy, this close, and Percy's a vague blur of pink and orange for Oliver. Perfect vision? Hah. It's all a matter of perspective.

The removal of clothes. Always the trickiest part, the part that's most likely to throw you right out of the mood. Shirts are easy. Of course Percy would be wearing a white shirt under his work robes, which would of course have been removed long before now. A white shirt and a tie, that's what he should have been wearing, and Oliver should have slipped the Windsor loose and started on the buttons, slowly. Not teasing, but because kissing is their top priority, the smooth wet continuous dance of lips and tongue and teeth as the shirt comes off and Oliver's hands move up Percy's back until he shivers. Oliver's muggle t-shirt next, and more kissing. Oliver had always loved kissing. That's how it should have happened. And when he re-manoeuvred them so Percy was sitting up and he'd slipped to his knees on the carpet, it should have continued with a wicked grin and clever fingers and Percy's whispered affirmations and embarrassed pleas. Yes, yes, please yes, I want you, I want your... please. The soggy wool of his suit trousers - more mending-charms and darning than actual suit - would have left his skin all cold and clammy, but none of that would matter, not with the heat of the blazing fire. Oliver should have reassured him with touch. I know you haven't, it doesn't matter, I want to, let me show you - all without speaking a word. The flickering fire would have turned the fine hairs on his legs to flecks of gold, and Oliver should have kissed up the pale skin and wrapped his lips in a warm wet circle around the reddened cock, and... well, you see where this is going.

That isn't what happened. That's just what Oliver hated himself for thinking about, later.


That's how it should have happened. It should have been easy. It should have been right.

Oliver turned his collar up against the rain and the bitter winter night, and walked home alone.


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