Scotch. Double. No ice.

He didn't ask for the drink, he simply sat down and it was handed to him. "Cheers," he said calmly, tipping the glass slightly as he held it aloft and drinking it dry.

He put down the now-emptied glass and motioned that he didn't want a refill. He didn't. He came here to sit back and watch the couples, and that was all he wanted to do now that he'd had some liquor in him.

He wanted to watch them.

He wanted someone to put their hands on his hips and sway with him to the music. He wanted someone to stroke his hair lovingly. He wanted someone to laugh at his jokes then kiss away his smile. He wanted someone to shove him against the wall and snog him rotten-

He dropped some change on the countertop and left. He didn't want to watch anymore.

Rushing water always comforted him. Since he was a child, it was a refuge to hide in, just stay in the shower and let the water flow over him, a safe place where there would be no teasing from his older, much more popular brothers and no pressure from his parents to exploit his talents. Just lean against the wall and let it cascade.

Puberty had bought along with it masturbation, and the safe haven became the place for his dreams to flourish. He would often close his eyes from the water, lean against the wall, and let the thoughts go, and finish as soon as his mind played up the words- Those words!- he craved to hear.

He wondered what it sounded like to be told instead of over-hearing.

He spent a good twenty minutes at it, silent aside from the usual moans and pants, using only light touches from his right hand and pressing against the wall behind him in desperation with his left. He vividly imagined his lover's touch, his voice, and finally those three words...

Spent. But not exhausted. He cleaned himself off and finished the shower, walking out of the WC with a towel over his shoulders and a pair of loose red pyjama pants that threatened tauntingly to fall off his hips at any second.

If his lover came that night- And it wouldn't have been unlikely- they wouldn't be on long enough for the threat to have merit.

He sat on the bed with a sigh and towelled his hair dry, then glanced hopefully at the mirror. It gave a whistle, naturally, but the previous owner had enchanted it to flatter her as she'd been very vain, and the damn thing found everyone attractive. In truth, he was not much to look at all- Passably attractive or good-looking from afar were his best options, although crueller students at school would tease him, claiming he was handsome and then laughing it off.

His lover was gorgeous, though, and he would've felt jealous if he didn't feel proud.

He knew, however, it was his looks that kept them from being together- His lover had far-straying eyes and a weakness for beauty, in both genders, and it was mostly aesthetic that stopped "them."

He glanced at the mirror again, and then the clock by his bed. His lover wouldn't come that night.

He bought a new mirror the next day- A Muggle one.

In his fantasies, his lover would be the most perfect creature on Earth. But in his dreams, there was no falsehood.

You're one of my favourites, his lover would whisper, in the rare times he'd talk at all, as his hands tightened on their grip, right above his hipbones, and he thrust in deeper, making him groan in intense delight. It's almost like flying- Not like on a broom, but freely, truly, like it's just me in the air- when I'm with you.

He hated flying. Oh, how he hated flying. He was terrified of heights, and his brothers would bully him into playing with them, races and Quad Pod and, oh, Quidditch, he hated that the most...

But he just tightened his grip on his lover's wrists and let the other man slide into him.

This was sex, for them. He would stay still, legs spread, and his lover would claim him. No caress, no movement, just the act.

He hated it.

He hated that he loved it.

In his fantasies, there would be long sessions of simply touching, so many lies. He'd never truly run his fingers in his lover's hair or been rightfully snogged. In his dreams, their lives were perfect.

He wouldn't need a Quidditch Cup victory to touch his lover's cock for a few fleeting seconds, or a fantasy to wonder how it would feel to be touched.

He wouldn't need to cry himself to sleep as he was doing now.

He wouldn't need to come in the shower as he heard words he craved so much to hear said, by anybody, but only heard once as his lover said it casually to his mother once in fourth year.

And yet, he kept coming back, sleeping in their flat of infidelity, waiting for the one man who'd ever considered touching him, who would accept him.

He fell asleep and dreamed the reality, and the fantasies he craved made it so much more bitter.

His lover apparated in the apartment with a crack that man him drop the cup of tea he'd made after getting out of the shower, to calm his nerves before he went to sleep after a hard day at work. He threw the towel across his shoulders on the floor and ran to him.

His lover didn't embrace him, or kiss him, just looped his thumbs in the loose waistband and tugged them off, shoving him back on the bed.

He did his part- Legs spread, hands on wrists on hips- and said nothing, but simply panted and moaned.

He hated sex, but it was the most wonderful feelings of pleasure and love and hope he'd ever felt in his life, in his life of being forced to do what was expected from him over what he loved, of being in the shadow of his two older and far more perfect brothers, to be taken in his life for talents he wish he'd never had because they made people hate him and normalcy, complacency, was so much better...

Of being as trivial in real life as he was in his own mind.

His lover pulled out after he came, and he grinned at him sheepishly. He never came unless he was imagining the words.

He would never have the other's talents, or his success, or his success with lovers.

His lover kissed his cheek, pointedly ignoring his erection but he was used to that after so long. His body was screaming for contact, for some sort of completion from its conqueror, but he had learned, mentally, not to expect that.

"Sometime next week, Ollie?" he whispered. He nodded.

"Yes, Perce, of course." His voice was weak, and he'd learned long before that it always would be.

He watched silently, legs still spread, as his lover redressed, then vanished. He leaned his head back and let his fantasies play, and came at the words.

"I love you, Oliver." He bit back a cry, the words never said aloud but so clear in his mind.

Next week.

If Oliver were honest with himself, he'd fallen for Percy when he was eleven. Percy was the oldest in their year, and therefore a bit taller, a bit stronger, and a bit smarter than the rest of them. And Oliver was the third son, a half-blood whose Muggle father was obsessed with all of his boys succeeding at Sport where he could not and his mother being distant when she managed to be home. His brothers were no better- Why should they stick up for him, when he was just there to tend the rings and if he would please stop crying when they sent him in air, that would be lovely.

No, Oliver Wood had had nobody to stand up for him. Except Percival Ignatius Weasley.

Percy, who knew what it was like to have perfect brothers and exploited fears.

Percy, who slept next to him and would crawl into his bed whenever he had nightmares to comfort him.

Percy, who made playing Quidditch worth it because of how he'd go on about how talented Oliver was, and making Percy happy seemed the best thing in the world for eleven-year-old Oliver and a more-than-good-enough reason for him to stay on the team after he'd won the reserve position his brothers had made him try out for (and were depressed he'd missed the main, but Charlie Weasley confessed he just couldn't bring on a first-year no matter how exceptionally talented he was).

If he had to think about it, it was a Potions class in October.

Oliver was good at Potions. And ace at Charms. Most people didn't know that- Who cared if you got nine OWLs when you could play like he could?-, but Percy did, and Percy wanted top marks, so he'd partner with Oliver in class. Except that particular day, Professor Snape had rearranged partners to put good students with bad ones and hopefully somebody'd learn something of merit. Oliver suspected he really just wanted to split up everyone who was friends.

He ended up with Patrick Vance from Slytherin. Patrick was possibly the worst student in their class, so he had him prep the ingredients while he actually worked on the potion. The mistake was giving him the knife to cut the sprouts, because one moment Oliver was explaining how they'd need to be cut finely and the next he was gripping his side in a phantom pain, and Percy had his wand out and a Bat-Bogey hex on Patrick before Oliver could realise the pain was actually from where Patrick had stabbed him in the left kidney.

Once he felt the blood pool over his fingers and watched Patrick fall to the ground, Oliver knew he was in love with the other boy.

In the world there was nothing worse than flying, because it was high speeds and heights and hazardous projection all at once, but it was ironically his greatest talent, and his brothers exploited it, and his parents demanded it.

Percy loved it when he flew, so he kept at it.

He may be the only Quidditch player in history to be glad he was spared his first game by being knocked unconscious ten minutes in, during the Gryffindor-Slytherin Match his second year.

If he were truly honest, he might have subconsciously headed towards the bludger's path, just to get down.

He doesn't ever care about the game. When he remembers that day, he remembers waking up to Ian and Mickey yelling at him in the Hospital Wing for falling off his broom and not dodging, and the Howler from his mother, and the franticly written angry letter from his father, and that Percy said "I'd always expected you'd be better than that, the way your brothers go on about you."

He never let himself get hit again. And he was determined not to lose.

Third year puberty came, and with it the happy realisation that he was attracted to boys, and that he wanted Percy in ways he'd never thought of before.

It was fourth year when Percy finally noticed the way he looked at him (or, depending on how badly he wanted him at the moment, didn't look at him), and about halfway through it, Percy decided to do something about that.

Oliver had been sleeping, dreaming of the most basic of sexual acts- He was never very demanding, and never will be, only wanting simple acts of kindness and mutual lust, and only craving to please Percy no matter what. He woke up to Percy climbing in next to him, and a short chaste kiss that even as a soft peck on the lips left him hungry for more of the boy, and Percy's fingers tugging down his pyjama pants and boxers.

"Percy-" he started, but was interrupted by a finger across his lips.

"Rule one. You never talk. Got that? Say yes."

"Yes."

"Rule two. Don't touch me. Rule three. This is secret. Now, do you want it?"

"Yes," he whispered, nearly a gasp. With that, Percy put his hands on Oliver's hips to keep him from moving around and slid inside him.

It hurt and he wanted to be held and he wanted to tell him that he was hurting and he wanted the other boy to touch him just a little bit, but he was with Percy and to Oliver, this was all that mattered. Percy slid out of him when he came, and Oliver licked his lips at the site and the anticipation of what Percy'd do for his own orgasm, but instead, Percy slipped back into his clothes and left Oliver there.

Oliver wanted to call him back, but if he had, he knew he'd lose Percy.

By the middle of fifth year Percy'd taken him at least once every two weeks, and Oliver had become used to the other boy enough to not be hurt by the act.

At least, not physically. But the pain didn't matter. Because at least once every two weeks, he belonged to Percy.

Penelope was certainly not the first. She wasn't even the only other one while Percy dated her. Oliver didn't know why he wasn't good enough, but by fifth year, he was determined that if he could only win, then his looks and his concerns with his family wouldn't matter any.

Fifth year, Ian had been gone for three months, and Michael for three years, but Oliver still played even though he hated it, because if he could just win, Percy'd notice him.

And that was all that mattered.

Seventh year, Percy caved a little. "We're not going to be together much longer," he whispered one night. Oliver hated that fact.

"You can still come. I mean, I'd like it, if you visited once in a while. Just to- I don't even care, just come see me."

"Don't talk, Oliver. Don't ever talk." Percy kissed him, another of their usual chaste and quick kisses that were all Oliver knew and therefore what he truly craved, and suddenly, Percy's hand was on his neck and Oliver felt something wet slide against his lip. He tried to ask Percy what was happening, but instead felt Percy's tongue slide in, a quick glide beneath his, one along the side, and out again.

Oliver dreamt about it for weeks.

When he finally got a Quidditch Cup victory, he got with it a marginal respect from his parents, a bit less but still enough from his brothers, and what he prized most of all, the chance to finally touch Percy.

It was for a few fleeting seconds, and nowhere near the intensity he'd hoped to show the boy he could promise him, but it still was enough to make him pant hungrily and beg Percy to take him that night. He didn't, but Oliver stayed up all night hoping anyway.

He spent the World Cup wondering why people would look at him. He'd been asked out by some of the Beauxbaton girls, and had to explain his preference because it was easier to come out to strangers than to ask them why they had to mock him by telling him how attractive he supposedly was.

He met Harry, Hermione and Ron, and, to keep up the charade that he'd always loved Quidditch, he wasted no time at all telling them he'd joined Puddlemere United (Because his brother Ian was one of their Chasers, and as such demanded he be on the team, and Oliver still couldn't stand up to Ian even now that they were both adults, and also to explain the blue and yellow sweater with the logo Ron just had to recognise and point out as a Puddlemere's training logo), and he casually introduced the three of them to his parents, because he wanted his mother to see how he'd known the famous Harry Potter.

He went to their tents, and he found Percy again. He wanted to tell Percy how much he missed him, how much he wanted them to be together-

He settled for throwing his head back on the tree he'd been shoved against and gasping when Percy promised that they'd go back to their old rotation of once every two weeks.

And here he was, lying in the apartment they rented just for that, wishing Percy would just once spend the night with him, or snog him, or anything, so long as it wasn't just leaving him stranded.

When he heard the crack that night, he smiled. "Percy..."

"Rule one, Oliver."

Oliver sat up, swallowing. "No, Percy, please, just let me talk for a bit. For the first time in six years, I'm just going to ask you something."

Percy sighed, and sat down on the bed next to him. "Alright."

"...Don't you ever want more from me?"

Percy's eyes narrowed. "Like what?"

"Like..." Whatever bravery Gryffindors were supposed to have failed him like always, and Oliver lied back and let habit take over. "I don't know what I'm saying, Perce."

Oliver knew then that if Percy had just touched him that night, he'd have quit the team and gone into charmwriting, which was what he'd always wanted to do, and he'd have told his family to just leave him alone, and he'd have told Percy everything he felt.

Instead, he just let the other man use him again. It was the first time he realised what they really had wasn't for his benefit but for Percy to have an easy lay. It dawned on him almost immediately after Percy stripped, and for the first time in his life, despite the physical pain of the early times, Oliver cried while they fucked.

Percy didn't even seem to notice. And Oliver knew then, he'd be back in two weeks, and he'd still be there, waiting, begging...

'Why can't you just love me back, even a little bit?' he thought as he felt the familiar emptiness of Percy leaving him alone for another night.

He stumbled on the bar by accident.

He'd just turned twenty-one, and been promoted to the main team of Puddlemere, and all he wanted for his birthday and celebration was to get drunk.

And Percy, but he always wanted Percy, so it wasn't so special.

So he found a bar, because it was open, and would've left it before he'd settled down for drinks if he'd realised all the patrons were male and that there was a reason for that.

"Scotch. Double. No ice," he ordered, and he sat there, nursing his drink and sobbing with his hand on his forehead while he turned down offers from other patrons and wished they'd stop mocking him.

He threw the money down on the countertop when he got sick of drinking in public and watching men happily snog each other and dance and hearing the couples be casually in love.

"Happy birthday, Oliver," he said bitterly as he stood up. "Many happy bloody returns."

"Alright, Fred, just spill it."

Fred kicked the chair across from him angrily. "Sit down, Percy, we've a long story to discuss."

Percy sat down in the chair, and Fred ordered him a cup of lemon tea.

"You'll never guess who keeps coming into our store, buying mild versions of our WonderWitch patented daydreams."

"Every sixteen year old girl in Wizarding London," Percy mocked.

"Oliver bloody Wood."

"Close enough."

Fred gave his brother a look that was partially confused, part suspecting, and mostly angry. "Now, Percy, do you really think George and I don't know he's in love with you? And that, despite being in love with him, you treat him like he's worth less than shite?"

Percy laughed. "I'm not in love with him."

"But you used to shag him."

"I still do, Fred, not that it's your concern."

"And how does that go, exactly? He never seems to want anything extreme. In fact, he gets offended when we offer him anything more than the most mild of our stock. So I'm thinking you treat someone who I consider a very dear friend badly because you're jealous of him."

Percy bristled. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Please. Have you taken two looks at him? I'm completely straight and I'd shag the boy rotten. George isn't allowed to deal with him, the boy's buying porn in our store and you know George is almost as bisexual as you are. But he never looks happy when he buys anything. He looks like he's betraying you. And I want to know what you do."

"We shag. That's all."

"Do you hurt him, Percy?"

Percy's eyes widened. "First off, that's a very strong accusation, and I'm shocked you'd ask me so vehemently. Secondly, no, I do not. I don't even touch him."

Fred sat back, gaping. "You don't... What?"

"Like I said, we shag. Clean and simple. I don't touch him, I don't talk to him. And if you want to know the truth, it's because I don't want to know what I'd do if I did. Like you said, he's gorgeous. Well, I don't want to fall in love with him. I like having it like this. I start to want more from him, it'll get worse on me. It's convenient is all. And if he talks to me, starts begging me to shag him with that bloody voice, do you really think I'd be able to leave when I'm done? I don't care how much I hurt him, Fred- He's there because he's good at what's he's there for. Bugger me if I'm going to let myself fall more for him than I already have."

Fred shook his head. "No wonder we hated you, Percy."

"Well, I never cared about that, either."

"You never cared about anything."

Percy didn't say anything at all.

center /center

Oliver waited every night, even though it was usually just once every two weeks. Percy may have wanted it sooner.

After a month, he started getting scared that Percy had found someone better.

After two, he knew he had.

After three, he wanted to give up. He didn't. He kept playing Quidditch, kept winning, kept waiting.

Percy didn't come back.