The problem with Oliver Wood was that he was an annoying sort of prat. Marcus knew this, of course, had known it for years, but it really became clear when he was walking down the hall and ran into him and knocked his books onto the floor. That wasn’t the principle annoyance, really, except for the fact that Oliver had been there, in the way, but what really bothered Marcus was that he had to fight off the urge to kneel down and help Oliver pick up all of the books.
That just wouldn’t do.
He thought perhaps that he’d developed a crush on Oliver, except that that was insane. Not having a crush, that was normal, even on a boy. But on a Gryffindor? Marcus liked to think he had at least a few standards left to cling to, and that was just too damn much. Also, Oliver was an annoying prat. And his enemy. Or rival, at least, and this was all just absurd.
The question, then, was what to do about it. Acting on it seemed like the thing to do, but for the high humiliation factor. Also, there was the thing with Quidditch. Marcus imagined it would be awkward to play against one’s boyfriend in a match. Especially since they were both captains of their teams. And what would his parents say? A Gryffindor. Really.
Marcus scowled. He didn’t know why he was even thinking about it. Obviously, Oliver would never feel the same way (this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as Marcus felt violently annoyed at the whole situation, and really just wanted to yell at Oliver a lot, and then shag him), so it was pointless to even speculate.
Marcus speculated.
It would probably be nice to kiss Oliver. The Gryffindor seemed like the type to be hesitant and gentle, which had its high points. Marcus imagined that Oliver was a virgin, and so would have no idea what he was doing. That, too, had its charm. He would have to be taught, instructed, and that sounded to Marcus like a lovely way to spend his time. It would be interesting, meeting with him in abandoned corridors late at night and in the locker rooms after practice. Yes, he could definitely have his way with Oliver in the showers. That, he imagined, would be quite enjoyable.
Not that it mattered, Marcus reminded himself. Hopeless crush, right? Stupid, pointless, hopeless crush. It wouldn’t do to forget that.
There was no harm in wondering though, was there?
Of course there was.
Days went by. The crush not only refused to fade, but grew stronger. Marcus kept having inappropriate fantasies that were growing steadily more detailed. He had favorites, by now. There was one that involved Oliver, a large bed, handcuffs, and honey, and-no. Not a productive line of thought.
Marcus found himself doing things like timing his exits from class so that he would bump up against Oliver in doorways, and walk right behind him in the hallway. Oliver seemed to be suspecting something, judging from his continued nervous glances in Marcus’ direction. This only drove Marcus to be more irritating and stalker-like, in the hope that Oliver would eventually snap and start a fight, because, hey, physical contact. Always good.
Upsettingly, Oliver didn’t snap. Instead, he seemed equal parts profoundly annoyed and rather squirrelly, and did little more than glare at Marcus on occasion. Marcus didn’t mind. Oliver had very nice eyes.
Marcus made it a point to always be on the pitch when he knew Oliver would be. He both resented and appreciated the way his heart would beat a little faster whenever Oliver glanced disdainfully at him, and strived to always be around for Oliver to glare at.
Marcus had issues, he realized this. This minor crush had gone on a bit too long. He was starting to consider doing something really stupid, like actually approaching Oliver. Asking him out. Even trying to be friends.
Yes, this definitely had to stop.
It didn’t stop.
Marcus grew more desperate. Oliver grew more oblivious. Marcus channeled his lust into inappropriate rage. Oliver paid attention to very little except Quidditch.
Life went on.
Matches were played, won and lost. The Malfoy brat proved to be an impressive Seeker, at least when they weren’t playing Gryffindor. Which they hadn’t, not since before Marcus developed the unfortunate crush. Marcus was beginning to long for the matches they played, remembering with fondness all the times he tried to break Oliver’s hand under the guise of shaking it. Marcus wondered if it would be unseemly to go for a nice caressing handshake instead next time. He figured it probably would be.
The highlights of his day were more and more often somehow related to Oliver. It was stupid, and getting more so by the minute. He didn’t know why he was wasting his time on a crush that would go so clearly unrequited. For every fantasy he indulged in, Marcus made it a point to remind himself just why it would never happen. Unfortunately, this didn’t work so well as discouragement. Instead, Marcus got caught up in the great forbidden desire aspect of it. It was all quite ridiculous, and Marcus knew that, but it didn’t make a difference.
"This is going to stop," Marcus told himself, and knew that it was a lie.
Soon enough, it was the last match of the year. Gryffindor versus Slytherin, finally, time for all of the practice to pay off.
Marcus could feel his heart pounding as he approached the middle of the field, where Madame Hooch was waiting, and in the distance, Oliver and his team were striding toward them. It seemed like barely a second later that Oliver was standing right in front of him, tall and bright in the sunlight, looking Marcus in the eye and holding out his hand. Tensely, Marcus took Oliver’s hand in his own.
And stared.
And squeezed.