I've been thinking about the type of attractive each of the boys is and I can't get it out of my head so here's this:
Draco Malfoy: Devastatingly beautiful. The kind of old world beauty that makes you feel a little wrecked when you look at him. Just sharp enough to catch your attention and just subtle enough to keep you watching.
George Weasley: Hot in the heart of gold, openly soft kind of way. The kind that makes you feel a little more gooey than you'd like to admit when he smiles at you a little too long. Sorta subtle at first, but it creeps up on you. One second he's just cute and the next he's warming every room he walks into.
Fred Weasley: Charminly cocky. Bold to a fault. The kind of hot where you can't tell how much of it is that he's really that hot and how much is confidence. He's definitely attractive all by himself but he also radiates attractiveness from somewhere within him in a way that’s just unfair.
Harry Potter: Dreamy and fantasy like. The kind of attractive that you typically only find in dreams. There's something about him that's always a touch familiar in a hazy way and unfamiliar in almost every other. It’s the kind of look that makes you want to reach out and touch him just to make sure he's real.
Neville Longbottom: Beautiful in the boy next door sort of way. The kind that’s disarming, familiar, and so subtle that makes your chest ache a little bit. He's the soft kind of beautiful that makes you stare without meaning to.
Ron Weasley: Hot in the friend’s sweet older bother way. The kind with a crooked smile, messy hair, and the general feeling that he might be teasing you a little. It’s an easy kind of attractive that you notice immediately and can't ever escape. He just gets hotter the longer you look at him even when he's being goofy. Especially then.
Oliver Wood: Hot in the kind jock from an 80’s movie way. He's so sweet and looks at you like you might solve all his problems if he can just figure out how to ask.
I've been thinking about the type of attractive each of the boys is and I can't get it out of my head so here's this:
Draco Malfoy: Devastatingly beautiful. The kind of old world beauty that makes you feel a little wrecked when you look at him. Just sharp enough to catch your attention and just subtle enough to keep you watching.
George Weasley: Hot in the heart of gold, openly soft kind of way. The kind that makes you feel a little more gooey than you'd like to admit when he smiles at you a little too long. Sorta subtle at first, but it creeps up on you. One second he's just cute and the next he's warming every room he walks into.
Fred Weasley: Charminly cocky. Bold to a fault. The kind of hot where you can't tell how much of it is that he's really that hot and how much is confidence. He's definitely attractive all by himself but he also radiates attractiveness from somewhere within him in a way that’s just unfair.
Harry Potter: Dreamy and fantasy like. The kind of attractive that you typically only find in dreams. There's something about him that's always a touch familiar in a hazy way and unfamiliar in almost every other. It’s the kind of look that makes you want to reach out and touch him just to make sure he's real.
Neville Longbottom: Beautiful in the boy next door sort of way. The kind that’s disarming, familiar, and so subtle that makes your chest ache a little bit. He's the soft kind of beautiful that makes you stare without meaning to.
Ron Weasley: Hot in the friend’s sweet older bother way. The kind with a crooked smile, messy hair, and the general feeling that he might be teasing you a little. It’s an easy kind of attractive that you notice immediately and can't ever escape. He just gets hotter the longer you look at him even when he's being goofy. Especially then.
Oliver Wood: Hot in the kind jock from an 80’s movie way. He's so sweet and looks at you like you might solve all his problems if he can just figure out how to ask.
summary: ever since your first year at Hogwarts you've spent every Christmas break at the castle, and also reluctanctly throwing quaffles at Oliver Wood so he can practice. You don't even like Quidditch, and you don't like each other much either, but it somehow feels like you can't stay away from each other even after spring comes
content: slow burn, reluctant friends to lovers; fake dating ?) kinda; dumber & dumber
an: so the original fic was too long at 27k so I'll have to split it in both parts! the second part will be released next week!
wc: 16k
[part 1] [part 2]
“Are you free?”
The question had been asked in an almost demanding way. You had looked up from your book, slightly annoyed that even in a practically empty dorm during Christmas break you were still being interrupted. To be fair, it's not like you were reading it; you had been thirty minutes on the same page. The boy was standing behind the couch you were sitting on, a quaffle under his arm and eyes fixed on you as he waited for an answer. You sized him up and down, hoping to remember his name by the time you got back to his face.
“Why?”
He threw the quaffle in the air, almost failed to catch it properly, and did his best to play it cool.
“I need someone to throw at me so I can practise”
You pushed yourself onto your elbows and cranked your neck to look out of the tall window behind you. Contrasted to the inside of the cosy Common Room warmly lit and covered in Christmas decorations, the bleak sunlight that barely managed to push its way through the curtains was anything but inviting.
“It’s freezing outside.”
The boy stayed quiet, his eyes drifting to the window for a single second, then back to you.
“So?”
“Do you even know me?”
He fell silent once more, staring at you like he was trying really hard to remember if he did.
“You are the one who almost tripped during the Sorting Hat thing”
That you had done, and after months you had almost started to stop mortifying yourself over it. You laid back down, propping the book back in front of your face so he couldn't see how badly your face was burning.
"I'll pass, I get cold easily"
"Don't you want to invest in the future of the team?"
"You are not even on the team, you are a first year"
"I'll be one in the future"
“There’ll be no future for you if you go outside now. You’ll freeze to death”
All you heard after that was an indignant sigh, the sound of footsteps over the carpet, and the familiar drag of stone over stone of the Common Room door opening and closing. You let your book drop open over your chest once again, eyes on the ceiling and taking in the silence that had settled back on the room after the brief encounter. Far from going back to the comfort you had been submerged in, you felt yourself become restless. You never really understood why, or maybe you did and didn't want to think much about it, but eventually you walked up to your room, left the book over your bed, and grabbed your things.
When you got to the pitch you had believed it to be empty at first. Thinking back on it you could still recall the scent of grass and pure cold, sharp and almost painful as you breathed it in. A dense fog had settled in the early morning and hadn't dissipated yet, and it made your skin feel unpleasantly damp as you walked through it. It wasn’t until you had looked up that you had seen him flying in circles around the arena, his body cutting through the mist and leaving a faint trail behind him. He stopped when he saw you and dived directly in front of you. Despite miscalculating a bit and almost tripping over his own feet, you couldn't deny you were impressed by his flying. You thought he seemed kind of cool.
“Took you long enough” that comment changed your mind, almost making you turn around “We can do drills now, come on”
“Are we allowed to do this?”
“Don’t worry about it”
He got on his broom and lifted himself from the ground with more ease than you’d have thought, given his rough landing. You got on your own, the cold biting at your fingertips that were already numb as they wrapped around the front of your broomstick. Your mind became busy trying to remember the flying lessons you had taken that past semester, these lessons the very few you had gotten a really good grade on so far.
“I don’t know how to play, though” you said as you managed to fly by his side.
“No worries” he handed you the quaffle, which felt lighter than you had expected in your hands “Just throw this to the rings, past me” He flew a few feet ahead of you and stood in front of one of the big hoops that you had never expected to be that big up-close. Holding the quaffle with only one hand threw you a bit off balance, which you were able to recover from after a brief second of panic “You okay?”
“I’m fine” you lied, wondering if he had heard the pathetic cry you had let out a moment ago. If he had he didn’t comment on it, but judging by how he was flying backwards to where had been hovering a moment ago, you could guess he had.
You threw the quaffle forward, the ball barely making it halfway to Oliver before falling down without much speed nor force. You both watched it plunge onto the ground in complete silence.
“You’re really bad at this” he stated matter-of-factly.
You gripped the shaft of the broom tightly, embarrassed.
“I told you! And shut up, I saw you trip over when you landed!”
“That’s--!” Oliver's nostrils flared with a sharp inhale before exhaling deeply and diving down. He brought the quaffle back to you, his fingertips gracing yours for a split second. The wrinkles drawing the scowl on his face softened for a moment, then he cleared his voice “Let’s just go down”
He started going down and you followed suit, thinking that he had given up all together, but he just set his broom on the ground and waited for you.
“Are we done?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.
Oliver shook his head “First I need you to be able to throw a proper quaffle, otherwise you are useless”
“That’s what I said!” and it still annoyed you when he said it.
“So you understand” Oliver measured his steps to stand at a good distance away from you “Try to make it get past me”
You gripped the quaffle with both hands before throwing it again, it barely made it to him, his hands once again catching it with ease.
“Can you throw a little harder?” He passed it to you. You had to admit you refused to throw properly as a form of quiet protest at first, but after being unable to make a good throw even when trying, it started to bother you. It seemed to be getting on his nerves too “Are you taking the piss?” he complained as he gave you back the ball “Come on!”
And at that, with as much strength and frustration as you had, you threw the Quaffle towards him. That one time he caught it with his face. The scowl on your face disappeared the moment you saw him fall backwards with a pained groan. You had run to him, knees digging in the dirt as you knelt by his side as he held his face.
“I’m so sorry!” you cried, hands hovering above his body “Are you alright?”
Oliver let out another prolonged groan, followed for what you thought was a chuckle as he rolled to his side.
“That was a good one” the sight of blood dripping from his nose to his smile made you wince “Throw like that again”
It should have made you feel relieved, just how amused he had sounded at the time, but instead it had scared you greatly. You were sure he had gone insane, and as you dragged him to the Hospital Wing you convinced yourself that it was your fault. Your quaffle had definitely somehow hurt his brain. Eventually you’d come to find out you hadn’t in fact hurt his brain; that’s just how Oliver Wood was, and sadly for you he had just found out that you had a good arm for a chaser.
The next morning you had almost expected him to be waiting for you in the Common Room again, but he wasn’t there. He was however sitting at the table when you entered the Great Hall for breakfast, lazily waving at you, his nose in perfect condition. There was no reason to not sit with him, you thought, given the fact you were the only two people there at the table. It would have been way too rude to not sit with him, and so you took the seat opposite of him.
“When did you get here?”
“An hour ago” he answered “I’m an early riser”
“We are on vacation, you know”
“You might be. I’m busy”
Your eyebrow rose sceptically, but he wasn’t really looking at you. His eyes were set on the open sports section of The Prophet that lay on the table, a wet circle forming where he had accidentally rested his pumpkin juice cup a few minutes ago.
“Good for you”
You looked for the plate of toast, finding it near Oliver. When he saw you reaching for it, he handed it in your direction.
“Will you throw at me today?”
“Why would I?”
Oliver moved the plate out of your reach, the scowl you directed his way matching his.
“Oi, be nice”
“You be nice. I already helped you yesterday”
“You broke my nose”
“It wasn’t broken...” you muttered, still ashamed of the whole situation.
“You owe me. And also, do you have anything better to do?” you didn’t, and it bothered you that he seemed to know that “Come on, we are the only ones here” he pleaded, finally handing you the plate, a few pieces of toast falling onto the table as he did.
“What does it matter if I suck at it? You are not going to get any good practice out of me”
“At least it’ll be some practice. Please, it’ll only be until the end of the break”
You had agreed if only so you could have a quiet breakfast and ease the guilt that had been settling within your chest since the day prior. You hadn’t had it, actually, as he had hurried you to finish so you both could go to the pit and start your first practice of the day.
That first Christmas there had been a few gifts left at the bottom of your bed from your parents, and one of them was given to you by Oliver himself. It was a piece of parchment with a big scribble in the middle of it.
“Thanks” you took a long look at it, rotating it in your hands a few times “What is it?”
Oliver’s pleased smile had faltered a bit.
“My autograph. For when I’m famous”
“A famous what? Idiot?”
“Quidditch player, you-- give it to me!” he demanded but didn’t really attempt to take it from you. Instead, you handed it to him, which seemed to irritate him even further “Don’t give it back!”
“You just told me to!”
“You are going to keep it!” he protested as he ran up the stairs towards his room, face flushed with indignation.
With only a scarce couple of days before classes started again and students came back to the castle, you had finally gone back to using brooms during practice. It had been going alright, with you even starting to enjoy yourself, even if you’d never let him know that, when Oliver had suddenly stilled. Barely a second later he had plunged against you and dragged you to the ground, underneath the bleachers. He put his hand over your mouth, predicting a complaint.
“Come on” he whispered.
He had grabbed your wrist and quietly got you out of the pit with careful steps. Once you had reached the exit, he had urged you to run towards the castle as quickly as you could. In the open field, however, you were easy to spot, and it soon became obvious what you were running away from: Filch.
“Why is he following us?” you asked, slightly panicked.
“Probably because we are not supposed to fly on our own” answered Oliver, a bit out of breath a few steps ahead of you.
“What?” you hurried just so you could hit his shoulder “You said it was allowed!”
“No, I said not to worry.”
A few insults left your mouth, but you were so out of breath he probably couldn’t make out any of them. As you turned a corner, you were both stopped in your tracks by the familiar sight of McGonagall’s feather hat, making you turn around, but not before she had seen you. You both ran and ran through multiple hallways before Oliver tugged you inside the boys' bathroom. You both entered one of the multiple stalls, and he hushed you again, raising his finger to his lips. You slapped it away.
“I know” you whispered angrily “Why did I do this?” you lamented, your head falling down in distress.
The idea of getting in trouble made your stomach twist and turn. You had made sure to be a good student, not a smart one or a talented one, just proper. There wasn’t much you could excel at, after all. Your heads perked up at the sound of the bathroom door opening, followed by the tip-tap of her shoes against marble floor echoing through the room. You closed your eyes and then heard the door of the stall open, but to your surprise it wasn’t by McGonagall’s hand. Oliver had opened the door and gone outside, closing it behind him and leaving you there. You heard a deep sigh and then the stern tone of reproach of your teacher.
“Mr. Wood. I should have known.” She didn’t sound surprised at all.
“I’m sorry, Professor; I just wanted to practise” he apologized “I don’t have anyone to play with, so I decided to fly on my own.”
McGonagall said nothing for a few seconds, and you unconsciously backed down inside the stall. You were sure she must have heard you. With your heart in your throat, you held your breath until you heard her speak again.
“I’ll be taking twenty points from Gryffindor and five supplementary days of detention once classes resume, Mr. Wood”
Your grip on the broomstick tightened, your eyes shutting tightly as you debated. Then you opened the stall door and they both turned to you. A surprised Oliver shook his head slightly at you, and McGonagall didn’t seem surprised to see you.
“It was also my fault, Professor” you said, your voice quiet and obviously scared. Still, you pushed through it “If I hadn’t played with him, he wouldn’t have been outside. We wouldn’t have been”
“That’s not true! I made her come with me”
“Enough” spoke McGonagall, and you both fell silent under her beady stare “That’ll be ten points then. Three days of detention. And no flying lessons for the first week of the semester”
“What?” protested Oliver, and you tugged at his sleeve to shut him up.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Wood? You already practised enough during the break to make up for it”
When classes resumed, you both had to sit quietly in one corner of the inner patio as everyone else practiced their flying. Madame Hooch didn’t look pleased when she found out she would have to sit her best flyer for the first week of the semester and kept stealing glances at you both when she’d give tips, as if saying it louder would make it easier for Oliver to understand. As if she could teach him something he hadn’t already taught himself. You, in the meantime, were quietly picking at the grass.
“I’m sorry you are missing class because of me” he said “Even if it is your fault” You turned to give him an annoyed look “What? I tried to save you.”
That was true, and every passing day made you feel worse that you had yet to thank him for it. You hoped that your stepping in had made it clear to him.
“It’s okay. I don’t even like this class that much.”
Oliver scoffed.
“You are mad. This is the best class.”
“The best class is no class”
Oliver’s eyebrows rose in agreement.
“Touché”
The rest of that school year you had still helped Oliver practice, even if you hadn’t been able to fly around. A few times he had tried to get you to sneak out in the middle of the night to go down to the pit, and of course you had shoved him away and told him to get lost.
“Do you want to get detention again?”
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Maybe for you! Also, you said you’d only make me help you until classes started again.”
Oliver looked away, brows furrowed.
“Fine, whatever.”
The next day rumor went around that he had gotten caught and given two weeks' detention and cost Gryffindor fifty points. Some people were really mad at him, and others found it particularly amusing. You couldn’t help the smile that spread on your face when you said:
“Told you so”
Your second year had started with hopes of a better time. Peace had lasted about five hours, until Oliver had caught up to you in the Common Room. You had entered the room full of students. The plan was to walk up to your room and go to bed, that was until someone grabbed your hand. It was Oliver, who had reached out for you over the couch he was sitting at.
“Oi. What about a “hello”?
You stared at him, then at his two friends who were watching the scene. It made your cheeks turn red. You hadn’t been sure if he’d have wanted to talk to you after you had served your purpose, and you couldn’t decide whether or not you were happy he was.
“Hello”
You wouldn’t tell him that despite your cold response you had looked forward to run into him at the train, which had not happened. You had spotted him at the table, your head turning away when you had seen him look in your direction.
“Try-outs are next week” he said excitedly, his hand squeezing your wrist for a brief second “You coming?”
“For what?”
He looked confused.
“For chaser, duh”
“I have no interest in playing Quidditch, I told you”
“I thought I had changed your mind”
His friends exchanged a confused glance and broke out into poorly concealed chuckles. An unpleasant tingling feeling started to creep up your neck.
“Not at all” you got out of Oliver’s grip “Good luck, though”
He watched you walk away, brows furrowed and lips slanted.
“Yeah, whatever”
Despite the lack of communication between the two of you on your day-to-day life, you had actually dragged yourself to the Gryffindor try-outs. You weren’t sure if you wanted to wish him luck or if you didn’t want him to see you at all. You didn’t have to decide, though, as he saw you on his way to the rings as he flew past the bleachers. He did a double take, and you gave him an awkward smile and a thumbs up, immediately regretting both actions. When the try-outs had finished, he had flown directly to you, ignoring the instructions to go back to the ground and leave the equipment.
“I thought you didn’t care about Quidditch”
You stood up from your seat.
“I don’t”
“Is that so? Then why are you here?” he teased, a knowing smile plastered on his sweaty face.
You gave him a once over “I just wanted to see how stupid you look in that ridiculous outfit”
Oliver’s cocky smile faded away.
“It’s protective gear! Don’t be rude just because you are worried you’ll suck!”
“Unlike you, I know I suck!”
“I didn’t suck!” He took a moment, then he sounded worried “Wait, did I suck? You don’t think I’ll make the team?” You didn’t say anything as you walked away, even when you heard him call out your name, with multiple people looking at the both of you now “Do I suck?!”
“Welcome back”
That was the first thing Oliver had heard when he woke up in the Hospital Wing, recognizing your voice before his vision had even adjusted. His mouth was dry, but he pushed through so he could ask:
“Did we win?”
“Oliver, you’ve been unconscious for a week.”
“So did we win?”
You wanted to stay serious given the circumstances, but you were relieved he seemed to be back to normal.
“You lost,” you said, as softly as you could.
Oliver’s hands moved to bury his face in them, shaking slightly as they hadn’t moved in days.
“It’s all my fault” he mumbled.
“Sort of... without a keeper, the defence was a bit... lacking” that was a very nice way to hide the two hundred points Ravenclaw had scored from them after he had fallen “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you’d have helped much”
You were hoping he’d get mad and throw you one of his familiar sharp looks, but instead he let out a long groan.
“I should have kept a better eye on my blind spots. I’m weak on my left, I know that”
He really was getting worked up right after waking up from a coma. You couldn’t help but crack a smile with a light chuckle. Oliver peeked at you through his fingers, his brows furrowing upon seeing your amused expression.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing, I’m just glad you are fine” You could see Oliver’s face slowly turning red, his eyes darting around the room as if embarrassed. His silence made you nervous, quickly changing your tone “I’m going to miss your silence, though”
“Whatever, what day is it?”
“Tuesday”
Oliver looked out of the window at his side, sunlight cast through the stone floor, reflecting a hundred dust particles that shone under it like distant stars.
“It must be around twelve in the morning”
“It’s four, Oliver” he looked at you out of the corner of his eye “How could I be here if it was twelve on a Tuesd--”
“I got it already!” he protested, and you held back a laugh “That means I got practice today”
He lifted the bedsheets off him, still weak, but with way more strength than you had thought he’d had.
“What are you doing?” You stood up from the chair you’d sat in for the last week, hands in the air as if you were about to tackle him.
”I’ve got practise”
“You need to rest!”
“I’ve already rested for a week, you said!”
“No, you’ve been unconscious for a week! Now you need to rest!”
Madame Pomfrey came to you when she heard the ruckus. She didn’t look very pleased with Oliver.
“He can go” she said with a gesture of the hand.
“What?”
“Thank you”
You stared at Oliver and back at her in shock.
“But-- He just woke up!”
“Oh, he’ll be fine, child” she said without even a look your way as she peeled the bedsheets off the bed Oliver had been resting at with a swift of her wand “I need all the beds after that incident in potions class too”
When you had turned around, you had noticed Oliver was already going through the door of the Hospital Wing. You hurried to follow and catch up to him and continued to follow him down the hallway and towards your Common Room.
“Are you going to keep following me?” he asked, attempting to go faster.
“Maybe I just want to see how you faint again”
He stopped in his tracks, making you trip over your own feet as you did too. He turned slightly towards you, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.
“Was it really, like... embarrassing?”
You caught your breath as you wondered what the best course of action was. It was the first time you had seen him make an expression like that.
“No” you lied “No one was looking at you, so no one noticed” Oliver rolled his eyes and started walking with haste again “I was joking! Everyone saw, okay?”
“That’s worse!” he protested, his voice calling the attention of various students that were passing by in the hallway.
“What do you want me to say?!”
“Nothing! Leave me alone!”
“Fine! I don’t have to look after you now that you are awake anyway!” You stopped, and with one last look at the back of his head, you started walking away in the opposite direction. “I liked you more when you were unconscious!”
Oliver turned around with some unsavoury words to say back, but then noticed you weren’t there.
You had sat on the grass for a while before you had started to become restless. Maybe you had been rude, but it is not like he had been very nice either. You had spent all week checking on him, and this is how he treated you after waking up? And yet your foot kept bouncing as you kept wondering where he was. Well, you knew where he was, but the question was what state he was in. What if he fell from a broom again? What if he got hit by a ball again? With a frustrated groan, you stood up from where you sat and started marching towards the pit where the Gryffindor team was practicing. As you scanned the air, you didn’t find him up there, instead you could see him pouting on the bleachers from all the way down on the ground. When you made your way to him, you noticed his broom lying on the bench, he was wearing full gear except for his headset that rested on his lap. He looked up at you with no sign of hostility before looking down again.
“I’ll take it they didn’t let you play” you said as you sat down next to him.
“They said it is for my own good” he answered in an almost mocking way.
“They are right”
He shook his head disapprovingly “Unbelievable”
You took in a deep breath “I fear the day they make you captain” you sighed.
Oliver’s head snapped towards you, and he blinked a few times as he stared at you.
“You think I’ll make captain?” he asked somewhat coyly.
The sudden shift in tone surprised you, and you looked away before he could notice you were happy he wasn’t mad at you anymore.
“I assumed you’d kill them all if they didn’t”
Oliver’s face broke into a smile, the first one you had seen since he had waved at you before his first Quidditch game.
“I’d let myself play”
“That’s what worries me”
A figure made its way to the both of you, heavy boots making the frail wooden floor shake as they stepped into it.
“Still sulking?” the boy had asked Oliver with an easygoing smile.
“No, sir”
“He is”
You were surprised by how well-mannered Oliver had turned almost immediately, but you couldn’t say you blamed him. For a while you had only seen Charlie Weasley from afar, all you had known about him was what Oliver had said to you after he had made the team. Even if you hadn’t heard about how cool he was a thousand times already, the older boy had a strong presence that was hard to ignore up close.
“You know I can’t let you practise today. Next time, okay?”
“But we don’t have practice until Friday!”
“Is that so?” he taunted. He reached behind his head and let his long red hair cascade down his shoulders before tying it again in a messy ponytail. He called you by your name, which made Oliver frown in confusion “Can you do me a favor? Keep an eye on him a bit longer”
“So you are grounding the both of us?”
Charlie roared with laughter and you chuckled timidly, proud that you had gotten it out of him.
“Just for today, okay?”
Charlie got back on his broom and after he had left, Oliver nudged you on the side, maybe a bit too hard.
“How does he know your name?”
You shrugged, recoiling into yourself after a particular gust of wind kissed every bit of exposed skin “He asked for it”
“When?”
“When I was wait--” you bit your tongue “When I visited you while you were out like a light”
“Oh, okay” he looked forward, eyes following the shapes of is teammates as they crossed the sky in a blur “How often did you visit me?”
Out of the corner of his eye, his gaze discreetly fell to the way you were twisting your hands in search for warmth and maybe something else.
“Just a few”
He had remained strangely quiet until the time you had stood up and gone to study to the library. He refused when you asked him to come along and proceeded to be in a mood the rest of the day, barely touching his food and going to bed without saying much to you or anyone else. You had sat next to him during Transfiguration, hoping that maybe he’d be in a better mood that day, or at least more talkative. Even if he was annoying.
“Do you want to practise later?” you whispered, a bit scared McGonagall would hear.
Oliver didn’t react much, but you noticed the way his eyebrows rose slightly, barely hiding behind his overgrown bangs.
“Why?”
You bit the inside of your cheek. You weren’t sure either.
“Because you couldn’t practice yesterday”
Oliver cracked the faintest of smiles before he looked down at his table again, the smile disappearing.
“Charlie said I shouldn’t force myself until Friday”
“I won’t tell him if you don’t”
You saw the way his eyes turned into crescents, a poorly repressed smile lighting up his face with the same warmth as morning sun. It had been a while since you had gotten on a broom and helped Oliver, even if he sometimes bugged you to do so when no one else entertained him. To be fair, it had been a while since you had got on a broom at all. You were displeased to find out that you had actually missed it and that the activity actually had started to be fun. Charlie Weasley had showed up and called out to you both from the ground, Oliver so shocked he had dropped the Quaffle from up in the air. Charlie caught it effortlessly, his easygoing smile making the tip of your ears feel scalding hot.
“Do you both know how much trouble you could get in for this? ” he asked loud enough for you both to hear him. Despite Oliver disobeying him and Charlie being a prefect, he didn’t seem all that angry.
“Ten points from Gryffindor” you answered.
“And five days detention” added Oliver.
“Come down here” Charlie ordered with a light chuckle. When you both had landed on the ground, he gave you a once-over that made you dizzy and then asked “Do you play?”
“No” said both of you in unison, “she sucks, to be honest” added Oliver.
“We need a seeker on the team. We are at a severe disadvantage just by not having one” explained Charlie, arms crossed across his chest and eyes fixed on you.
“She’s more of a chaser” interjected Oliver “She’s good. Sort of”
“I’m just good at throwing quaffles at you”
Charlie ignored your banter “What about trying it? This Friday”
Oliver answered before you had time to panic at the idea “Yeah!”
“Hold on, I--” you stammered, the idea of having to fly in front of a bunch of people you didn’t know and watching you fail making your stomach turn.
“Just once, please” pleaded Charlie, and you felt heat creep up all the way from your chest up your cheeks at the gentleness of his stare “If you don’t like it, I won’t force you. Promise”
“Yeah, come on!” nudged Oliver “Your broom’s not too bad”
“We have the same broom”
“Yeah, but mine’s better”
Charlie eyed you both with a smile.
“The team chemistry already looks great. So what do you say? See you there?”
You forced yourself to face him again, not being able to hide yourself behind your banter with Oliver any longer. You nodded timidly.
“Yeah, okay”
“Great!” Charlie celebrated, and he gave you a handshake. His hands were warm and calloused, and the blush rose to the tips of your ears “See you guys there. Make sure to give her a hand with the equipment, okay?”
“Yessir!”
The days leading to practice, Oliver had been around you more than usual and even more enthusiastic, if that was even possible. He had cheerfully followed you to the library and pushed Quidditch books under your nose as you tried to finish your Charms paper. By the time Friday rolled around, you both had gotten called out during class at least five times daily, detention looming over your heads if you bickered in class one more time.
“This is going to be great” he had repeated for the twenty-fifth time that day.
“I’m going to suck” you kept repeating yourself, your forehead resting against the wooden table you sat at your Herbology lesson.
“Can you stop saying that?” Oliver groaned, displeased by how down you had been acting since you had agreed to join “I mean yes, you will, but you can train. I’ll train you!”
“That sounds like a threat”
“You might be really good, but you won’t know until you try”
You didn’t think it was possible for Oliver to understand what self-doubt was. He was so overconfident it was almost admirable, if it wasn’t because it was first and foremost incredibly annoying.
“What if I’m not?”
“Then keep trying”
“What if I don’t like it?”
“Impossible!”
Walking into the changing room felt like stepping into a minefield. Everybody was already inside, moving around and chatting with a familiarity that was foreign to you. You didn’t know where your gear was, where you were supposed to sit, or where you were supposed to place your broom. Charlie had come behind you and stopped all actions in the room to introduce you to the team, strange eyes settling on you and making your blood turn cold. All the way through it you were trying to make out if his hand resting on your shoulder was comforting or making your nervousness worse. He had given you a strong pat on the back and told you to get into the provisional uniform, which you thought was ugly and unflattering and smelled like dirty laundry. Charlie didn’t look bad in it, you thought as you stared at him as you put on your gloves. Oliver stood in front of you, blocking the view and taking one of the gloves from your hand.
“Give them to me”
You gave him a look “I know how to put on gloves”
Oliver looked up at you “Yeah? Because you are doing it wrong” Looking down, you noticed you were in fact trying to put your right glove on your left hand “Just relax, okay?” he said, halfway through annoyed and nervous himself.
You swallowed, your mouth dry “Worried that I’ll embarrass you?”
“I’m more embarrassed about the gloves” he joked, finally managing to help you put the gloves on “Seriously, I don’t understand why you have to be so pessimistic. It’s just practice. Just do it”
“Everything alright?” Charlie had approached you both “I’m going to release the snitch after we start practice and time how long it takes you to catch it. Okay? You have all the time in the world, just go after it when you see it”
He made it sound so easy, and you couldn’t help but smile “Yeah, cool”
Oliver’s arms rose in protest.
“That’s what I’ve been saying!”
Practice was a bit more chaotic than you’d have expected it to be. Everybody flew around, at times so close to you it made you lose a bit of balance. In the background you could hear Charlie yelling orders and the occasional whistle of a bludger passing by you at a speed you weren’t sure was even possible. When you had caught sight of the snitch and attempted to catch it, you had in fact got in the way of one, sending your broom and yourself towards the ground with an embarrassing cry. You didn’t have time to be embarrassed however, the world swallowed into a whirlwind of shapes and colors until your body hit the ground with a blunt pain that spread out through your chest and made it hard to breathe. The entire team had nosedived towards you, and you didn’t notice the pain until someone had asked you:
“Are you okay?”
You coughed a few times, the words scratching at your throat and the shock of the impact flooding your lungs.
“My leg” you spoke in a shallow breath.
Oliver had landed on the ground and discarded his broom unceremoniously before he pushed through his teammates to get to you.
“I’ll take her to Pomfrey” he said as he grabbed your hand and slithered his arm behind your back with the other, liftting you from the ground.
“She can’t walk” Charlie said after seeing how your body recoiled at any attempt of setting your right foot on the ground.
Charlie silently took your from oliver’s grip, his fingers reflexively holding onto the loose fabric of your uniform for a second longer before he let Charlie take you into his arms. Oliver trailed behind you two all the way to the Hospital Wing, guilt sewn on his face.
“You two again!” Madame Pomfrey’s small glassy eyes darted between you and Oliver, veiny time-nicked hands placed at her hips.
Charlie had placed you on the bed, your hands grabbing at the coarse cloth of his uniform with the very little ounces of dignity you had left. He walked away with Madame Pomfrey as she scolded him for bringing yet another injured second-year to her quarters, leaving you and Oliver by yourself.
“This seems familiar” you said with a casual smile that took way too much effort.
“It is not funny” said Oliver, surprisingly serious.
He was standing by you, restless fingers toying with the fabric of his cape and not looking at you. For a moment you thought he was mad at you for falling, that maybe he was embarrassed that you hadn’t lasted barely ten minutes on your broom.
“It wasn’t funny when you were here either” you muttered defensively, throat hot with shame. You missed the way his expression softened “At least I’m awake. I saw you drool, that was funny”
The sentence caught Oliver so off guard he actually laughed out loud. Maybe he wasn’t that mad at you.
“I assume you won’t be our seeker” he eventually said, words slipping through his lips in a downcast whisper.
“Do you want me to be? I just embarrassed myself out there. And everybody saw. I mean it’s fun when it’s the two of us” you muttered before looking away “Kind of. At least no one can see how much I suck then”
“I can see how much you suck”
“I am aware of that!”
Charlie clapped his hands as he approached, interrupting your quarrelling. He sported a small sloped smile, the guilt weighting at the corners of his eyes making your heart sink.
“Okay, so Madame Pomfrey is ready to fix your femur, but talking from experience... it is not going to be pleasant” Fear was apparent on your face, and you could see the guilt tugging at Charlie’s features and dragging them into a frown “Do you want to hold my hand?”
A blush crept up your tear-stained face, and no matter how much you liked the idea, you didn’t really want for Charlie to see you in the state you’d be once Pomfrey got her hands on you.
“I think I should hold Oliver’s, I don’t mind hurting his hand”
You forced a laugh, which Charlie reciprocated with a bit of relief. You expected to see Oliver scowling at you when you turned to stare at him, a witty comeback ready at his lips. Instead he had his palm resignedly hanging in the air, ready for you to hold onto it and eyes lost somewhere in the other corner of the room.
“Are you gonna take it or not?” he complained after you’d been gazing at him for a few seconds “I look stupid like this”
You had spent the rest of the day in the Hospital Wing, getting discharged right in time for dinner. Oliver had stayed by your side, and you had been sure Pomfrey had let you go earlier because she couldn’t deal with your bickering any longer. The next day Oliver had been considerate enough to not ask you to practice with him and had even suggested that you both could do something you wanted to do. After pondering for a second, you had told him you wanted to study, which he had a very understandable reaction to.
“It is not like I want to” you complained too “But my grades are not doing great and for some reason you are smart”
“Studying is not that hard, just read the chapters and that’s it”
“I hate people like you”
“What does that mean?”
You had spent that afternoon sitting in the Common Room studying, taking advantage of the fact that most students above your year were on their trip to Hogsmeade. To your surprise Oliver hadn’t complained much during the study session, and you’d come to find out he was pretty much okay with all subjects. Shortly after the clock had struck four, a group of older students had come through the Fat Lady, their animated chatter breaking the comforting silence and irking you almost immediately. Then you saw Charlie, who, after spotting you both, approached with quick step.
“Here” he handed you a colorful bag full of different candy and shiny wrapping paper “I’m sorry about yesterday. Are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t hurt at all.”
You took the bag in your hands, and Oliver didn’t waste any time in taking one of them for himself.
“Oliver tells me you probably won’t be playing with us” He saw your eyes fall down to the ground and immediately tried to ease your guilt “That’s okay, really. You weren’t flying so badly, though, you have good eyes”
Oliver interjected as he unwrapped the candy in his hands. You had forgotten he was sitting right next to you “She got some good reflexes or something”
“I wouldn’t mind trying to play again”
Both Oliver and Charlie had been surprised by your statement, but if they had any opposition to it they hadn’t say. Oliver was ecstatic about the prospects of having a full team, and the idea of seeing Charlie twice a week was enough to make the year pass by in the blink of an eye. That Christmas you didn’t need to stay at Hogwarts, but Oliver said he would be staying over again in a few passing comments. Now that he had made the team, he was allowed to be on the pitch, and he wanted to take advantage of that as much as he could. He hadn’t asked you to stay, not directly at least. He would just repeat how he’d be playing by himself for the upcoming weeks in a loud voice to anyone who wouldn’t ask him if you happened to be around. Little did he know that you had already made up your mind to stay and make him company, even if you wouldn’t admit it to him or even to yourself. There was another reason whoever; the idea that you’d be playing your first official game once Christmas break was over haunted you.
It had been on a slow winter day that you had accompanied Oliver once again on his flying drills. You rested on the grass of the pitch, nightfall falling upon you in shades of violet early in the evening in a sight too beautiful for Oliver and you to not sit and take in. Your gaze fell down at the bleachers, slowly turning around and taking in the sheer enormity of the place.
“This is going to be full of people...”
You felt the familiar pressure on your chest, and you took in a deep, slow breath before your heart started racing all the way up to your throat.
“No one’s going to be looking at you” Oliver interjected, anticipating the mood you were about to get in. Then he fell quiet for a moment “Do you know how many stars there are in the sky?”
“I’m not taking astronomy next year”
“Do you know how many or not?”
Confused at his sudden outburst you turned to him, but he looked away. You shrugged “I don’t know”
“Exactly”
“Are you alright?”
“There are like, a thousand stars in the sky, but you don’t know that because you are never paying attention to them”
Your expression twisted in confusion before you briefly looked up at the sky, now darker and impossibly cold.
“I’m pretty sure there are more than a thousand--”
“What I’m trying to say is” he interrupted with a tad of frustration in his voice. You could tell this was taking a lot of effort from him “Just don’t pay attention to the people. Once you are in the game, you’ll block them out and--”
With a gasp Oliver cut himself out, looking at you for a short moment before looking away again, fingers digging slightly onto the grass.
“...and?”
Oliver bit his bottom teeth, eyes narrowing as if he was debating whether or not he should say whatever it was that was eating at him and making his face turn red.
“Just, look at me and I’ll give you a thumbs up or something if you get nervous. I don’t know”
A soft chilling breeze caressed both of your faces, dragging the smell of winter and freshly cut grass with it. It filled your chest with something familiar, something comforting. Neither of you said anything as you stared at each other for a moment, Oliver’s features so familiar by now you could distinguish them even engulfed in shadows. And after that moment had passed, he stood up with a small grunt and you cleared your throat, strangely overwhelmed.
“You should take astronomy next year” you joked, and you saw Oliver’s jaw ease as his lip stretched into a relieved smile.
Your first game was a loss, not entirely your fault. That was the last game of the season, and the rest of the year passed without much noise.
Things had changed a bit on your third year. The Quidditch team had grown a bit: Charlie had brought in Alicia Spinnet as a reserve as well as his twin younger brothers. The last two had been an addition that while welcome had been chaotic, their energy and the tension they brought were hard to match by anyone else. Luckily for all of you, Charlie had enough experience to keep them in check. You had been watching him scold George after practice as you took off your Quidditch boots. His hair had gotten a bit longer during the summer, and you were sure a few more freckles had blossomed over his sun-kissed skin as well.
The first game of the season had been Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff, and that had been the first win you had experienced. It had been a whirlwind of cheers and hands grabbing at your shoulders and arms being passed around them in celebration. Amidst all of it you had seen Oliver’s smile, wide and happier than you had ever seen it like a beacon through the blur of red and gold. Your eyes had met, and for a single moment it felt like time had stilled and the yellow sun become blinding as Oliver’s smile widened. As you walked back to the locker room, still carried by adrenaline and euphoria, Charlie had approached you and passed his arm around your shoulders, shaking you playfully.
“Well played kid”
He looked down at you with a smile as bright as his hair gleaming under the bright sunlight, and you thanked God that your face was already as flushed as it could be.
“I didn’t catch the snitch”
“Eh, who cares. The other guy caught it at the wrong time, so, it still counts”
Charlie gave you another shake and took off, walking faster to high-five Bailey who was pouring some water over his head. Fred and George Weasley passed by you, turning to you with grins that stretched across their freckled faces.
“You must be so happy” Fred teased, mockery stretching that “so” impossibly thin. They were obviously delighted by the sight of your flustered expression.
You had been looking for a witty comeback when Oliver had spawned next to you, steps heavy and his characteristic scowl drawn on his face.
“Leave her alone!” Oliver said, and you felt yourself wanting to crawl onto the ground.
“You are making it worse!” you hushed him, embarrassed.
His eyes fell to you, now the target of his piercing glare. When had he gotten so tall? “How am I making it worse?”
“I don’t know, it just feels worse” He stared at you for a moment, and then you realized that despite his eyes being set on your face, he wasn’t really looking at you. His lips were pressed in a thin line, gaze scanning your face as if looking for something beyond the surface. Getting nervous under the pressing attention and confused at his serious look, you elbowed him playfully “You do know we won, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Was just thinking about something”
It wasn’t until the animated chatter had died down in the changing room that you had gotten a glimpse of what had been causing Oliver so much turmoil even amidst the celebrations of his first win ever. He had approached Charlie with a stance that while not unusual, had made alarm bells go off in your head.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, shoot”
Charlie had taken off the top part of his uniform, sweater rilling up his torso. The sight distracted you for a few seconds before, to your dismay, Oliver had stood in front of him with a firm stance.
“Why is Alicia on reserve?”
Charlie’s eyebrows sank for a moment before they shoot up again with a casual smile.
“We already have three chasers in the starting roster” he answered plainly.
“But she’s better than Bailey. You should switch them”
While not really loud, it seemed like everybody had been able to tune in into the conversation. The loud chatter had died down slowly, everybody distracted by the conversation taking place at the front of the room. Charlie took a look around the room and breathed in calmly, big arms crossed over his chest.
“Alicia is still learning, and Bailey has been on the team with me since the beginning”
“Then that’s just embarrassing. Four years, and this is as good as he can get?” He protested, “You can’t let sentimentalism get in the way of the Quidditch Cup”
Charlie’s eyes fell on the chaser, whose knuckles cracked in the dead silence of the room. Emeric Bailey was a big guy, bigger than any boy in his year. Or any year for that matter. But Oliver wasn’t one to get scared by that sort of thing. You didn’t know if he was just that brave or if he simply didn’t have any survival instincts.
“You’ve got a problem, Wood?” Bailey stood up, walking menacingly until his tall figure loomed over Oliver who didn’t even flinch. You were by Oliver in only a few steps, not sure of what you were even going to do if the situation were to escalate.
“Yeah” he said to Bailey with a short glance before he turned back to Charlie, his dismissiveness aggravating him “And so should you”
“Emeric” Charlie raised a hand to Bialey, who had gotten dangerously close to Oliver “I understand your concerns, Oliver, but I am the captain” he said with subdued demand.
“Then act like one!”
“Oliver!” You reached for his hand, attempting to make him back up “We just won, can’t you--?”
“Am I wrong?” he turned to the team, his hand escaping your grasp. No one said anything, exchanging awkward glances or staring at the ground under the weight of Oliver’s gaze upon them. He turned to you then, eyes wide and brows furrowed “Am I?”
You took in a sharp breath. Oliver got a bit overwhelming when he got that intense. His eyes searched yours then just as they had done a few minutes before on your way to the changing room, still looking for something you were ignorant to. Oliver turned around with an exasperated groan, bumping Bailey’s shoulder with his on his way out of the room.
Later that night, during dinner, Oliver had sat all the way on the other side of the table, far away from anyone on the Quidditch team. Not like any of them were really looking for him, by then everybody aware of how dangerous it was to get in Oliver’s way when he got in one of his moods. Regardless, you sat next to him.
“I don’t want to talk” he had announced before you had had time sit down on your seat.
“I didn’t say anything yet”
“Yeah, you are good at that”
You sighed deeply, hands dragging across your face.
“What did you want me to say?”
“That I’m right” he said matter-of-factly “You know I am”
“Whether you are or not—”
“I am”
“--you can’t just say something like that in front of everyone! You should have spoken with Charlie in private” Oliver scoffed when you mentioned the name, earning an inquisitive glance from you “What?”
“Of course you are siding with him” he said, voice muffled by his cup of pumpkin juice.
“I’m not siding with him!” you protested, indignant and also confused. It wasn’t like Oliver to doubt Charlie.
“Well, you didn’t side with me either. You just didn’t want Charlie to be mad at you”
“What’s that even supposed to mean?”
“You know he’s too old for you, right? He’s in sixth grade”
Your mouth hung open a few seconds, completely at a loss for words. You nervously looked around, a few students nearby that had their eyes on you turning away immediately. Your first reaction was one of shock, followed by indignation. You made your best effort to feign ignorance and hoped he couldn’t see the scorching-like blush spreading through your cheeks.
“What are you talking about?” you muttered.
“Charlie” You swallowed, so drily it hurt. Oliver hadn’t noticed your feelings for an entire year, and now he was suddenly calling you out on them “Fred said you fancy him”
“Wh--” you stammered “What does that brain for rocks know?”
“Rocks for brains”
“That’s what I’m saying”
“He said you look at him with a dumb look on your face” Oliver explained drily, that ever-present sternness in his voice rumbling underneath it “I told him you are just dumb”
“I-- whatever. That has nothing to do with the Bailey thing” you tried to steer the conversation back to the original conversation, fighting the urge to simply run away.
“Is that why you joined the team? Because you fancy him?”
Your face snapped towards him, so fast that for a split second he worried it might have hurt you.
“Why are you being such a jerk?”
“Uhm, excuse me, guys.” You were both too absorbed in your argument to notice Alicia Spinnet right away, only turning to her when she had poked Oliver’s shoulder “Sorry to... interrupt? But I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to say thank you for saying I’m good before”
Oliver’s anger seemed to dissipate, if only a bit, enough to not bark at Alicia. You handn’t really taken a good look at her on the three times you had seen her during practice, Quidditch gear famously as unflattering as wearing a paper bag over your head. She still wore her light brown hair in a ponytail whose perfect shape you were sure had to be charmed, and you sort of wished you could ask her for it. She had a longish face with soft, refined features and a few freckles peppered through it, a lovely choice of earrings dangling from her ears with a pleasant chime you remember faintly hearing during practice.
“No bother, you are just really good” Alicia smiled “Is this your first year trying?”
“Yes, I had never tried for the team. Charlie recruited me after a mock game in the yard with some friends”
“He seems to do that a lot” Oliver looked your way “At least this time it worked out”
You had had enough. You stood up from your seat so quickly it made some of the cutlery clatter loudly as your body hit the table.
“You suck”
“No, you suck! That’s why we never win!”
“Piss off!”
The day after, Oliver was already sitting on your shared desk during Charms when you walked in. You gave him a short glance and sat next to him without a word, dragging the chair as far away from him as the desk allowed. He had tried to speak to you right when the professor had walked through the door with a cheerful greeting. Oliver’s impatience had allowed him to last for about ten minutes before he leaned towards you.
“You have no right to be mad at me. Because I’m mad at you”
Your hand stilled in the middle of a sentence.
“Why the hell are you mad at me? Are you dumb?”
“You are dumb!” he looked around warily “You lied to me”
“About what?”
“Charlie?”
“That? Thought you were mad about Bailey" Oliver's knee bounced under the table "Also, I never lied to you because you never asked”
He observed your quill drag across your parchment, a few spots of dry ink spotting your fingertips.
“Why are you even mad at me?”
“Why?” You finally turned to him, the hand holding your quill resting on the table with a moderately loud thud that made Oliver retract a bit. You looked around and then lowered your voice “You accused me of siding with Charlie just because-- Because I fancy him”
Oliver’s eyes darted nervously around your features, his jaw twitching in a sign of obvious annoyance. He could tell you were upset, maybe more than you ever had. He couldn’t remember if you had ever stared at him with such a expression, and for split second it worried and upset him. Still, he was too stubborn.
“You did”
“No, I didn’t!”
Professor Filtchwick interrupted the class to give you a stern warning and you apologized, way too upset to feel any sort of mortification. When your classmates’ heads had turned back towards the front of the class Oliver scooted closer, decided to continue the argument: to win it.
“You were supposed to side with me. I am your friend”
“So why don’t you act like it?” you spat, and you could see the words rippling through him “The point isn’t whether Bailey sucks or not. I don’t like how you just said all that in front of everyone. You need to start thinking about other people before you do stuff like that. How do you think Bailey felt?”
“Like a loser, I s’ppose” he tried to defend his stance, but it was obvious by the way his eyes were fixed on the desk and his hands intertwined that your words were getting to him.
“You are impossible” you simply said after a pause that felt particularly long “I guess I’ll just quit the team too”
Oliver’s head snapped up, eyes scanning your face quickly for any sign of truth. You had already brought your attention back to your book.
“What are you talking about?”
“Since I am also a loser who can’t play”
“I never said that”
“Isn’t that what you meant? When you said Charlie recruiting people didn’t work out” Oliver’s mouth opened and closed a few times.
“That’s-- that’s not what I--”
“Oh, so now you feel bad for me? Well, you can keep it” There was no way for Oliver to miss the anger in your mockery, but it didn’t bother him as much as when your voice became smaller and softer when you said “I already know what you think of me”
“Is there anything you two would like to share with the class?” Professor Filtchwick’s voice called from the front of the class, everybody else now silently staring at you.
When he had asked you to change seats you slammed your textbook close and picked up your things, too angry to feel any type of shame.
“With pleasure”
For the next few weeks you had been anything but cold to Oliver. He seemed relieved enough that you were still coming to practice, making multiple attempts to start small conversations with you as if testing the waters.
“You are going fast today”
It wasn’t just you, though. The whole team felt a bit on edge since that confrontation in the changing room, and Charlie’s easygoing charisma was stalling. Bailey became a bit more aggressive during practice, throwing directly at Oliver, who on more than one occasion had lost his temper.
“Oi, watch it!”
“My bad, mate. I’m just really bad at this”
“Guys, come on”
Charlie looked stressed out of his mind. You wished you could say something to him, but there was nothing you could say that would cheer him up. To your surprise, he had been the one to approach you a few days later during your first Hogsmeade trip. At first you had opted not to go, but the day before the trip, as McGonagall had reminded you of the time and place to meet, Oliver had looked over his shoulder at you. He had been doing that a lot since you had changed seats in every class, not like you hadn’t yourself. You had never noticed how you both had naturally come to sit together during every subject, and now that you weren’t the room seemed colder somehow.
“Can I talk to you?” Charlie had asked as he matched your pace down the pebbled road. He had jogged towards you amidst the sea of students, hands buried deeply in the pockets of his jacket and Gryffindor scarf tightly tied around his neck. Your heart almost leapt out of your chest when he had spawned next to you. He had taken your stunned silence as an affirmative, when in reality you were captivated by the way the snowflakes rested on his hair, catching the light and making them sparkle like diamonds “I was wondering if you could talk to Oliver”
The mention of his name immediately grounded you to reality, the change in your expression not going unnoticed by him.
“I’m not currently talking to him”
“I’m aware. Didn’t want to pry”
“It’s whatever” you shrugged, knowing you couldn’t speak to him about it anyway. Deep down the fact he cared enough to ask was enough for you “What do you want to talk about?”
“About the team. I need him to start focusing on teamwork. We both know he’s not the most... people-sensitive”
“I’m aware. The worst thing is that he doesn’t say these things with malice, he’s just dumb” Charlie had wanted to laugh at that, but he had judged that you were too upset for that to be appropriate “What do you want me to do about it?”
To this he simply shrugged “He listens to you. And you are good with people”
“I’m really not”
“Well, you are better than him. I need someone to keep him in check next year” You had thought about telling him you were planning on quitting, but maybe it wasn’t the best time. Also, you didn’t want to make him sad “Can’t have a captain that doesn’t get along with his team.”
Your heels dig into the ground, stopping you in place like someone had hexed you. A group of fifth years had to walk around you, and Charlie turned around with a knowing smile.
“You are making Oliver captain?”
“Yeah. Should I not?”
You remained silent for a few seconds, for the first time in your life able to hold eye contact with Charlie without feeling your whole body burn up.
“Why?” you finally asked.
“Who else?” He noticed the small smile that you were trying to fight, even if you hated yourself for it. He started walking again “Do me a favour, don’t tell him about it. Just keep an eye on him” he stopped, then turned to you “When he apologises for whatever it is he did to you, that is”
He had then gone inside The Three Broomsticks to meet with his friends, and you had waved him goodbye as you made your way to Honeydukes. The number of students you could see through the window was a tad overwhelming, but you still went inside, not wanting to miss the opportunity to get a few sweets for yourself. At least you knew you wouldn’t run into Oliver there, since he disliked them so vehemently. The door opened with a chime, and after barely taking three steps inside, the sound resonated through the store again.
“What were you talking about with Charlie out there?”
You turned around with a fright, Oliver’s voice so close it had almost felt like he had spoken inside of your mind. He was just way too close. His cheeks and nose were red and bitten by the cold, and he was wearing the trapper hat you had told him multiple times was too big on him. ‘It’ll grow’ he had said, refusing to use a charm to make it fit out of sheer stubbornness. He watched your eyes scan him with familiarity, and he knew you were biting down at least three insults to throw at him.
“Nothing”
You attempted to continue browsing through the store, but he followed behind you. Your silence made him nervous.
“Were you talking about me?”
“Maybe”
You squeezed yourself through a group of older students that didn’t make any effort to let you pass. Oliver pushed through them, earning a few groans.
“Am-- am I getting kicked out, or?”
It was then when the Weasley twins had run into you.
“Look at this” said Fred before he swallowed a candy that made fireworks come out of his ears “Cool, isn’t it?”
“You have to pay for that” you scolded him.
“Come on, loosen up!” he said, still smiling, pushing you playfully.
“Watch it, Weasley,” Oliver warned, standing by your side.
The twins walked away snickering after giving you both a quick glance.
Wait.
You pushed through the crowd, leaving a confused Oliver behind and unable to follow you. When you had reached the twins, they were about to disappear behind a more empty corner of the store. You grabbed onto one of their sleeves, making him turn towards you.
“What are you two doing here?”
“Oh, you noticed?”
They didn’t seem alarmed. If anything, they looked proud.
“You can’t be here! You’ll get in trouble”
“So...” they exchanged a confused look “Don’t tell on us?”
“I don’t need to! You are in the open”
“No one noticed” said Fred.
“Or they won’t tell” added George.
“How did you even get here?”
“That’s a secret we can’t tell”
“What about Oliver?” you asked.
“What about him?”
“He also saw you”
“Yeah... let’s just say we are not concerned about his deduction skills. So don’t tell him either!”
“Whatever, I don’t care”
“Come on, at least care a little! It’s boring otherwise” protested George “Don’t tell Charlie though”
Fred dramatically put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“We mustn’t, remember?”
“Oh” exclaimed George, matching the level of ridiculousness Fred had set up “True, I’m sorry”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. We are not allowed to mention Charlie to you. Wood’s orders”
You bit your tongue, and not standing their mocking smiles any longer, you simply walked away. Oliver found you again among the sea of students and made his way to you, helped by the width his shoulders had acquired during the previous summer. His hand grabbed onto your arm immediately, as if worried you’d just disappear again.
“Where did you go?”
“Never mind”
He let go of your arm when you had yanked it maybe a bit harder than you had wanted. It hadn’t hurt him necessarily, at least not anywhere visible. You started to push through students again and towards the door with Oliver never losing sight of you until you pushed the wooden door that opened with the familiar chime. The contrast of the warmth indoors and the coldness of the outside made you shudder and you uselessly braced yourself against it.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? I see you talking to Charlie and now the twins?”
You closed your eyes tightly. After all he had said and done, this was what worried him?
“You are not getting kicked out of the team, stupid” you said, and despite how annoyed he was by the insult, you could see relief wash over his face “He’s going to make you captain”
The ever-present scowl on his face vanished and gave place to a blank expression. His lashes fluttered a few times as he walked towards you in some sort of trance.
“What?”
“But he can’t do it unless you stop acting like a total dickhead”
The insult knocked some sense into him “Did he call me a dickhead?”
“No, I am calling you a dickhead. Everyone else thinks you are one too, though”
“Do they? Why?”
“Because you act like one! How can you not know?”
“Well-- Can’t I be honest?”
“You can, but you can also be nicer about it. If you continue to be like this next year, people are going to quit the team because of you!”
Oliver’s lips pursed into a thin line and his brow creased a bit.
“Like you?”
The way he had asked you had managed to disarm you a bit. It hadn’t been a tone of reproach but an honest question that seemed heavy on his lips. His eyes stole a glance at you before going back to the ground where snow piled at your feet. He knew your feet and hands were going to be frozen by the time the trip was over.
“I’m not quitting yet” you muttered.
A small flash of relief gleamed through Oliver’s eyes before his brows pressed on them again.
“Because of Charlie”
You gritted your teeth, sighing deeply.
“Actually? Yeah. Because he’s a good captain, and I don’t want to let him down”
“Because you fancy him” he said through his teeth, so low you weren’t sure you were meant to hear it. He didn’t even seem to want to say it, the words leaving his mouth like they were straining him.
“You know what? Why don’t you think about why I want to quit first? The only reason why I want to quit is because of you!” You walked forward and pushed his shoulder; he barely moved, yet he winced “You always have something mean to say about my flying even though you were the one who made me play!”
Oliver brought his hand where you had pushed him, even though it didn’t hurt him much. His eyes said otherwise.
“I didn’t know it bothered you that much” he said. Far from trying to defend himself, he seemed actually puzzled “What I said”
“Of course it does! And now you accuse me of-- of what? Playing because of Charlie? Because I like him? Okay, I do! You are still the reason why I play so what does that even matter?”
Oliver stayed in stunned silence, his slightly wide eyes boring into yours as he saw you catch your breath. Your hair, shaken by the wind, rested unceremoniously over your flushed face. Your lips, dry and your scarf resting undone almost halfway to the snowed ground. The snow. Just how cold--
“I’m sorry”
Now that you weren’t expecting. Your breathing that had accelerated significantly started heaving on your chest, and your frostbitten fingers that had balled into fists had started to hurt. It wasn’t usual for Oliver to apologize; you were sure you had never heard him do it before. It was obvious to you he actually meant it too, the way his gaze searched into yours for any sign of forgiveness, making the anger quickly dissipate.
“People are staring. Let’s go”
You tugged at his sleeve and started pulling him down the street. For a while you just held onto him, hoping that it’d be enough to let him know it was okay now. Oliver and you were really good at fighting with each other, but you had never had to properly make amends. Eventually you let go, the both of you walking around the street without a destination, arms bumping into each other.
“How am I supposed to know what to say?” he finally asked “To people and stuff”
“I don’t know, Oliver...” You fell silent for a while “Remember when you taught me to throw during first year? You were nice. Sort of”
“Even though you sucked”
“Even though I sucked, yes, exactly” you tried not to smile, but he caught onto it, his shoulders lowering a bit “So what about next time you feel like being brutally honest you think you are talking to first-year-me?”
He took a quick glance at you.
“That might work”
Your last game of the year had been against Slytherin and took place during mid-May. To say that you had been floored would be putting it kindly. Charlie had to say his goodbyes to the team in the changing room and also announced that Oliver would be the captain next year. Oliver had walked up to the front of the room, and despite his imposing presence and perfect stance, you could tell he was nervous, if even just a bit.
“I’ll do my best. I hope some of you can help me be a better captain. I can’t wait to play with you next year. All of you”
Despite how hard you had tried to keep it together, you had found yourself quietly tearing up. You hadn’t wanted to attach yourself much to the team, and in a way you definitely didn’t care as much as other members did, but you had never slacked off. It still made you feel terrible, the loss, and the fact that those people would be having such a hard time now. Did not being as hurt make you a bad person? You certainly seemed to think so, and after one tear fell down, you couldn’t contain the rest. Oliver sat next to you, his weight making the old bench creak loudly.
“I’m sorry” you found yourself saying, voice cracked.
Oliver’s hands halted as he untied his boot, and out of the corner of your eye you saw him looking at you.
“It's not your fault”
You nodded, your throat closing so as to not let a loud cry come out. You inhaled deeply, feeling yourself suffocate.
“I tried hard” you whimpered, and brought your hand up to rub at the bottom of your nose.
Besides you, Oliver felt himself smile.
“I never thought you’d get to care so much about Quidditch” you hid your face behind your hands and finally let out a sob “It’s creepy how happy it makes me to see you cry”
Oliver scooted closer to you and passed his arm over your shoulders, shaking you playfully.
“It was fun” you said behind your hands, your breathing still uneven.
“Yeah, it was...” You felt Oliver’s thumb drawing small circles over your shoulder, and under the circumstances you found it surprisingly soothing “What about you stay a bit longer? Until we find someone”
Fourth year rolled around, and it started with a bang. Oliver had made it very clear that he wanted Alicia Spinnet to be part of the team right away, and alongside her had come Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell. Of course, the main star had been none other than Harry Potter, who you’d been more than okay with giving your position to. The team seemed to finally make a bit more sense, and you hated to admit that maybe Oliver’s scouting senses were better than Charlie’s had been. The air around Oliver had shifted somehow, even if he was still the same blunt, big-headed idiot.
He would still orbitate during meals, however there were at least three other people between you two at any given time. The free time you both had spent practicing and letting Oliver chew your ear off about quidditch was now exchanged for watching Gryffindor’s practice from the bleachers. Now as an outsider looking in, it was evident Oliver had changed, the same way a painting can only truly be appreciated when you take a few steps back to observe in its entirety. His stance was taller and if you hadn’t known him so well, ‘imposing’ would have been another way to describe the way he soared through the pitch. His boyish features had hardened, long locks of dark hair framing the sharp edges that now matched the harshness behind his eyes.
You had returned to the common room after a solo study session at the library, the contrast of the silence you’d grown accustomed to against the lively air within the Gryffindor quarters a bit jarring at first. You glanced around the room on your way to your dorm, catching sight of Oliver and Alicia sitting on the couch, a few open notebooks open in the small space between their bodies. You recognized them as Oliver’s game plans; it had been a while since he had asked you for your take on them. Granted, you never really had anything to say, your knowledge on quidditch years behind anything that would be useful to Oliver. You had slowed your walk to the stone staircase, wishing in the back of your mind that he’d catch a glimpse of you and lift his head to call out to you, but he didn’t.
On Wednesday after class Oliver had asked you if you wanted to go with him to Spinwitches during the Hogsmeade trip, and you had had to suppress the genuine surprise it had caused you. Once you were there, though, you realized the whole Quidditch team was coming with. You were walking a few steps behind, watching the way Alicia kept bumping into Oliver’s side as they talked animatedly about something you had no interest in. Your eyes fixated on the way your shoes dug into the soft snow, your skirt swayed by the wind that caressed your legs and chilled them to the bone. You had started to regret wearing it, but that didn’t have much to do with the cold. You heard Alicia laugh and watched her as she bumped her fist against Oliver’s shoulder, the hit surely softened by his padded jacket. The sight made anger seethe in your stomach, not really sure what about it annoyed you so much. Or maybe you did.
Maybe you had started to suspect it.
The store was the same as when you had visited last time. It had become a habit that every Hogsmeade visit Oliver would drag you inside by the scarf. You had complained and whined every single time, but now as he didn’t spare a single look your way to make sure you were coming with, you found yourself missing it.
“Why are you in such a mood?”
You snapped out of it when Oliver had asked you that. You had been browsing the store for ten minutes on your own, much like everyone else, before he had come at you with an attitude.
“What? I’m not”
You had in fact been in a sour mood, but you had done a good job of hiding it. Or so you had thought at the time.
“You’ve been quiet all day... just tagging along and stuff”
“When haven’t I been doing that?” you asked, a bit more defensive than you had wanted “It’s not like you need my opinion for the broom thing. You’ve already decided on it”
Your finger pointed at the broom in his hand, but your eyes betrayed you for a short second as they flickered past him to where Alicia and Angelina were snickering in a corner.
“I could still get your input”
You stared at the broom, then shrugged.
“Yeah, I like it”
“And you wonder why I don’t care about your input”
You felt your jaw tense, a strange feeling coming over you: it was guilt, embarrassment and remorse all mixed into a sour taste in your mouth.
“Maybe I’m in a mood, you are right” you admitted “I’ll cool off. See you later”
You had to stop yourself from wishing he had followed you when you had pushed the heavy wooden door and walked into the busy street. Why did you have to ruin a nice day with your sulking? Why did you have to find fault with your friend enjoying others’ company? Was this the kind of person you wanted to become, or were you just unable to keep your own selfish feelings in check?
For a while you walked around, finally settling on a stone bench on the side of a particularly busy road. The lullaby of animated chatter and the pleasant sound of footsteps burying in the snow comforting enough to calm your accelerated heartbeat, your eyes closing as you basked in the pale winter sun. You took in a deep breath and exhaled, the sharp scent of pure cold filling your lungs. You could stay there for a while, you though. By yourself but not completely alone, that seemed pleasant enough. Your head would turn from time to time, as if you were expecting to see someone. Someone that might have been looking for you. No one like that showed up, though, and you tried not to feel too bad about that. Things might have started to change, and you’d have to be okay with that. Oliver would be busy from then on. Despite his hard-to-deal-with temperament, the truth was he had always been easy to like; after all, you wouldn’t have stuck by his side had it been any other way. You had had your time, but it was time to let him go--
“What do you think you are doing?”
Your eyes fluttered open, your reverie interrupted. A confused Oliver was looming over you, brows furrowed and staring at you like you had lost your mind. He was still holding his broom in his hand, now wrapped in a protective case.
“...Thinking?”
“Hope it's about funeral arrangements because you are going to freeze your arse to death” after a short beat, you snorted out a laugh. His gaze lowered to your exposed legs and the way your skirt rilled up slightly as you sat on the bench, his cheeks burning up despite the crisp wind whistling past you “Don’t laugh! Get up!”
“What?”
“All this cooling off nonsense. Whatever” He grabbed your arm and made you stand up. He stared at you like you had spawned horns “You’ve been acting weird all day”
“Yeah, I guess”
“What’s wrong?”
It’s not like you could tell him you missed him. Even as he stood in front of you, cheeks and nosetip bitten by the cold, tousled hair and chapped lips. Even if you could reach your hand and brush your numb fingertips against his skin, pleading for warmth. Still, you missed him.
“I like being your friend”
The words escaped your lips, the sound of your own voice startling you as they rang through the both of you. Immediately after they had been spoken you had felt nausea and embarrassment clog at the back of your throat. You weren’t unfamiliar with this sort of feeling, the overwhelming brief instances of fondness and need to tell him such things something you were used to. However you had always been able to keep them buried down. Oliver’s expression didn’t change much, but for a small fraction of a second there was something there you hadn’t quite seen before.
“Me too” then it was gone again “What’s going on?”
You shrugged, his sympathetic stare making the regret easier to swallow.
“I’m not sure” you admitted, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips “I don’t want to mess up the outing, though. You should go back to the group, I’m going to go have a walk”
“If you want a walk, we can have a walk. I’m not leaving you alone here”
He wouldn’t tell you, and he probably wouldn’t know himself; but he would never leave you by yourself when it was so cold, and you were so alone and looking so pretty on your short skirt and your lumpy mascara.
You both had spent only an hour longer around Hogsmeade, Oliver growing tired of dragging his broom around, when you had both taken one of the first carriages back. By the time you were back, the mood in the Common Room was strangely subdued. There were a few first years doing their homework on the big table, a small group by the windowsill and some sparce students reading in the couch. Oliver and you had opted for sitting on the carpet near the fire. Well, he had insisted in you sitting by the fire while he would keep you company admiring his new broom. For a while you both sat in silence amidst the animated chatter of the room, exchanging a few looks from time to time. It felt strangely calming, warmth coming back to you by the time the Common Room opened followed by the ruckus of the third years and up coming back. Oliver and you exchanged a knowing look, as if you both had been thinking the same thing. It wasn't long until a few people joined you, whatever spell had fallen upon you two broken.
The morning students were appointed to leave the Castle for Christmas break, something had soured the taste of pumpkin pie in your mouth before you could even swallow it.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
You didn’t even know how you had managed to pick on it. Her voice hadn’t been loud, if anything, she had been so quiet you were surprised even Oliver had heard her. He had been sitting a bit away from you on the other side of the table, and yet you somehow had hear her clear as day.
“Sure”
You had subtly looked up, enough to see Alicia nervously brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Could we go somewhere else?”
You felt your stomach drop, the pumpkin pie you had stopped chewing seemed almost suffocating to swallow. You made the mistake of locking eyes with Fred Weasley, who for some reason you wanted to pretend you couldn’t understand, was already staring at you. Oliver stood up from his seat and followed Alicia until they were out of the room. You saw Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell exchanging knowing smiles, and you let your fork hit the table. Fred Weasley sat next to you, his back against the table, taking way more space than he needed.
“Are you goign to stay here?” he asked quietly, the familiar irking hint of mockery still noticeable in his voice.
“Your sweater is touching my food”
“I’d go, personally” he awaited for an answer, but when you said nothing he added “Do you want me to go?” Your face twisted a bit, and Fred’s face lit up as if that was the answer he had been waiting “I’ll go then”
He stood up, and when you protested that just made him start running. Embarrassed but desperate enough, you ran after him, only being able to keep up with him as you caught glimpses of bright red hair before he turned the tall corners of the castle. You finally caught up to him, pressed against a wall as he caught his breath. He brought a finger to his lips as you approached him, and then you started getting nervous again. Fred peeked his head around the corner, and with a bit of fear you stood by his side.
That’s when you became able to hear the small murmur of voices conversing nearby, even if you couldn’t understand what they were saying. You tried to take a look too, but sensing that you might get caught, Fred placed his arm in front of you. He stood away from the corner, bringing you close to him and towards the edge of the corner so you could look without being seen, his head poking above yours with ease. When you got a clear view, all you saw was Alicia’s heels hitting the ground again, her lips parting from Oliver’s. The sight made you take a step back, your back hitting Fred’s chest and making him backtrack as well. Fred’s hands held onto your shoulders and dragged you a few steps back as he rested against the wall. A few seconds later Alicia ran down the hall and past you, a big smile on her face and unaware of your presence. Oliver would pass a bit later, seemingly unfazed and missing both of you on his way back as well.
whenever i feel super motivated to write, i literally have no idea what to write, but when i have a writers block i have so many ideas then i just forget them all once i feel motivated again
hello i hope you're having a great day! my name is leo and i'm currently struggling to stay afloat. can you share my pinned post? i would appreciate any help and thank you 🙏
Good day to you too! I hope you are doing well as well!
Tags: Angst, Pining, Yearning, Sexual Content, Bittersweet Ending
—
The first time he meets her he is already King. Too young. Untried. Scared of scrutiny. Marked by God’s venerated sign. Hiding his right hand beneath the left. Wishing the cuff would swallow his shame entirely. She knows he is a leper. He knows he is undeserving. He is also lonely.
The second time he meets her, he makes her laugh. He has never made another person laugh before, except perhaps his sister, Sybilla, who does not really count. Sibylla is also never there anymore. Not since his father had sent her to Bethany. Not since his mother had returned to his life like the moon sweeping into the night sky. He is still King and his father is still dead and his mother is not the same as she used to be. Agnes does not laugh because he is funny, but because she needs him to know that he is doing something right, because secretly she pities him. (She must pity him, he thinks.) This girl, though, laughs with genuine amusement and not because of his birthright or circumstance. It is intoxicating. And he knows it is a dangerous thing. To crave someone.
The third time he meets her he is coming home. Victory, sweet as water on a parched throat, is his. She is as bright as the banners that welcome his return to the citadel, as sweet and luscious as the dates that hang, ripe for the picking, in the gardens. The Sepulcher is round, beaming as the hot sun hammers against its dome, blinding for a second as he catches sight of her. They say that the world ended and began here, in the Holy Land of Jerusalem. He knows without a doubt, in this moment, that his world is beginning again.
There are many moments soonafter. A glance, here and there. Conversations, rare as ice in wooden boxes, brief as winter light, gone before they are really caught. Laughter like Holy Relics that could change everything if only they were allowed to exist in the open. Matthew, only the most sentimental of all the Apostles, comes to him in the form of the written word. Ask. Seek. Knock. He cannot. But he is content to watch her as she walks. And if she were to look at him in return, perhaps she would find him wanting. Sometimes she does look at him, but there is no knowing what she sees when she does.
Now he is a man, masked and concealed, walking with a borrowed dignity.
Most things that belong to him are borrowed.
Even time itself, loaned like silver pieces to a pauper, is spent before it is truly owned. His crown, coveted by those who count the moments from here and when his body inevitably betrays him. The robes he wears are weighted with gold and jewels and promises made by a stronger man. A younger man that sickness had yet to ruin. Even this city, built upon a thousand graves and a thousand prayers and pledges is not his to command, only to tend for a short while. His body is a temporary vessel. Sibylla knows this. Sibylla awaits his inevitable failure, inheriting problems he has not created but has failed to solve.
The woman of his prayers, most importantly, is not his either.
He wonders if it is selfish that he does not want to let her go. That these moments, and every single moment that is theirs and theirs alone, will slip through his fingers like water through a sieve. But today, Baldwin watches as her father gives her away. His eyes do not leave her face, hoping, perhaps, that if he is lucky, she will turn to him, just so. A small turn of the head, a quick glance. Me. Me. Look at me. Look at me like you did, all those times before in my dreams.
She does not, though. She is beaming at her new husband with that smile he knows she has practiced time and time again. Reserved for this very moment of utmost importance. And then, suddenly, it is over and the agony begins. This, Baldwin knows, is his. This certainty neither borrowed nor stolen. This, he can claim as his own. This loss of her, complete and irreversible, is his for keeping.
The King of Jerusalem sits idly at the table. He does not eat or drink, he rarely does. And current circumstances make it near impossible to do so. The mask, though convenient for others to gaze upon something that is not so hideous as his gnarled countenance, also makes it quite difficult to engage in otherwise normal activities. His food is typically brought to his chambers, his goblets emptied in private. He has to endure, among other things, the constant chatter of visiting nobles and squires and the occasional eager knight. The courtyard is full of merriment and the King is alone.
Baldwin does not like to engage in merriment. Weddings. Christenings. Occasions that mark life in the normal world. A world that is not his. A world that belongs to the unafflicted, unblessed, and unmarked. He laughs at the idea of it. That he is heralded as some kind of holy figure. That his leprosy is an act of God, a mark of reverence, a sign of his piety. Sometimes, he feels the same, in his better moments. Perhaps, that was the delusion speaking, to cope for better or worse with his circumstances.
There is still food and drink in front of him. Some pheasant died to be decorative, to not be consumed, to merely represent that the King too is celebrating like the rest of them. He chuckles slightly, morbidly, at the thought of it. Another sacrifice made for show. Another animal that perished at the altar of presentation. He did not want to present himself tonight. The Lordling, he was told, would understand. The Lady, they said, would not mind. And it irked him to think that she would not mind. He should be there, he insisted. It would be an insult not to, Sybilla agreed.
After all, the match had been his to arrange.
He excuses himself from the table. Among the throngs of revellers already dancing and clapping and laughing and drinking, he is just some faceless nobleman with a metal mask. (Although, there aren’t too many of those in this kindly kingdom of thirty-thousand odd souls.) He does not stay in the great hall, he walks towards the chemin de ronde where there is no one but a patrolling guard or two. There is a moon tonight. Almost full. It has a taste for him, he feels. The moon in its lonely, beguiling light makes everything appear softer than it is.
And then, the rustling of curtains. Time passes too quickly when one is left to his own thoughts. And he has long grown used to his own company. He turns, sensing that someone is there. He is right. There she is. As though he has willed her to come just by his sobrieties alone. He is not surprised. But he is unprepared.
“Quite a ceremony, wasn’t it?”
Her voice is like the hearth of the first fire after Winter. Baldwin adjusts his posture, allowing his body to relax. He leans against his cane of ivory and silver.
“Yes.” He says, “The guests seemed to enjoy it, and the groom looked pleased.” His words are measured, and his lips are numb as the vowels and consonants are pronounced. He knows with the numbness that he is alive. He isn’t sure if he’s happy to be. “I must offer my congratulations, Mademoiselle. You make a handsome pair.”
“Madame,” She corrects with a grin. “It is Madame now, Your Grace. I am now married, or did you forget to watch?” She is still grinning, cheeks flushed like the wine she must have been drinking with her husband. Her new husband who is not him, he reminds himself with not much effort. He notices how her eyes follow the path of the moonlit clouds. “You must do your best not to forget. You arranged it, after all.”
He smiles beneath the silver linings. “I am unlikely to forget anything about today, My Lady. It was a beautiful ceremony.”
Her eyes find his, “It is rare to find the King of Jerusalem in attendance of such events, let alone with such kind words of congratulations.”
“I will admit, it was a very small incentive that brought me here, but it is enough to have done it.”
She laughs at this. It is a quiet laugh, meant for them alone. “Baldwin, you are a strange man. A strange king.”
“I take that as a compliment.” The familiarity is more than welcome. But the strain of holding himself up is not. He shifts slightly, leaning a little more on the cane to take the weight off his leg.
“Come back inside. We should sit. It is much too cold out here. You should not have to endure it.”
“Please. I have been sitting for hours. My physicians have encouraged me to move about. I am only being obedient.”
“Pffft. You have never been obedient.” She challenges him with a knowing look. “Though, I suppose if the King’s own physicians insist on it, you must do as you’re told. What do they recommend for a happy king these days?”
He lets out a quiet laugh, which is mostly air. “Food. Wine. Company. The usual things, I imagine. None of which I am inclined to indulge in.” He sighs. “I find that in matters of pleasure, I am quite the ascetic.”
“I am sure there are things that can please even a dreary creature such as yourself.”
He laughs. “Dreary? Madame, you wound me. I might be strange, but I am far from dreary.”
“Oh? And sulking alone on my wedding day of all days? Pray, what would you call such behavior?”
“Contemplative. Kings must be contemplative.”
She rolls her eyes, a gesture he finds unaccountably charming. “Dreary. Contemplative and lonely. You are not a philosopher, Baldwin. You are a King. So, come and be King. Dine with us. Drink with us. The physician said you need company, did he not? Here I am. Keeping you company. This is medicinal.”
He knows he is meant to laugh, but the sound catches in his throat. Her company, warm and real, burns him with a pain deeper than the Leprosy ever could. He looks at her hand, at the sleeve of her best bliaut, the fabric a rich blue, inviting and soft to the touch (in his mind he imagines it to be as soft as it seems). And in these thoughts he has already rolled the cuff, and places his own lips upon her wrist, inhaling her, tasting her, pressing her skin to his cheek. Here, in the comfort of his fantasies, she never turns away, never pulls her hand from his.
He can see it, vividly like daylight. The shape of her bare skin. She is clean. Smooth. Soft. Unblemished. Unscathed. Unmarked. Nothing at all like the raw, nerve-riddled patchwork that is hidden beneath his own gloves and bandages. The disease is slowly, deliberately, devouring him. Piece by piece. Year by year. It is patient. He is not.
She looks at him expectantly. He must answer. He must speak.
“I appreciate the company, Madame. Truly, I do. More than I can say.”
“You say very little. Even less than usual. And I must once again declare that you, your highness, are dreadfully dreary tonight.” She taps a finger against her chin, feigning great thought. “I have a cure. For such melancholy. A tonic which has never failed me.”
“Indeed? Do tell. I am willing to try anything once.”
She smiles. “Da—”
“Except for dancing, I am afraid. Even your strongest of wines could not coax me onto the dais.” He interrupts, knowing her prescription before she has a chance to give it. Her brows furrow, and she bursts into laughter.
“A man of limitations, then?” she teases.
He gestures to his cane. “Only a few. God, with His infinite wisdom, has seen fit to burden me with a small number of earthly restraints. Dancing, as you have correctly surmised, is chief among them. A pity, I think. I would have liked to have danced with you.”
“Oh? Is that all you would have liked to do?”
She is smiling still. His heart staggers, a horse missing a step.
“I would have liked many things.” He says. He wonders if she can hear the aching in his voice. Do not say it. He tells himself. Do not commandeer this conversation into a confession of longing. Not tonight. Not on her wedding night. That is not for you. Nothing is for you. Even this moment is stolen. The color on her cheeks embezzled from a man who, by all rights, owns them now. Do not take another thing. Not even another look. Not even another word. “It is not a productive line of thought to follow.” He says, as much for his own benefit as for hers.
She tilts her head. “If you will not dance with me, the least you can do is entertain me with conversation. That costs you nothing.”
But the cost was everything. Every breath he took in her presence was a tribute paid to a new and terrible god. A god of wanting. A god of impossibility. A cruel and silent deity who reveled in the misery of its sole worshipper.
He swallows.
“Very well. What shall we speak of? The weather? The quality of the wine? The political implications of your union? I am at your disposal.”
She laughs again, the sound a sweet agony. He wants to bottle it and keep it as it is. He wants to wear it around his neck, and drink from it when the nights are long and cold and utterly empty. To quench an impossible thirst, with a sound he can never truly possess.
“Let us not speak of politics. Or weather. Or wine. They are too dreary for you tonight. Let us speak of impossibilities. Of braver subjects than these.”
“You, madame, are far braver than I am.”
“And if you, My Lord, were braver?”
He swallows. His mind wanders. His blue eyes find hers as his tongue wets his lips. He does not tell her. It is improper to answer with the truth in these situations. And the truth is dangerous. The will of God, his sanctification, his duties to the Crown, all of them rendered asunder by the thought of another man’s hands on her skin.
The truth is, if he were a braver man, even for a moment, he would ruin her.
He would have asked her what she thinks of him. If she finds him wanting, if she wants him at all. He would ask if she thinks of him when she is with others, the way he thinks of her in the darkness of his rooms, when he is holding himself in his hands and spilling his grief and longing into the linen. He would ask her if she finds him handsome, a foolish thing to ask of a girl who can only now remember his unravaged face in memories and in manuscripts that are more carricature than likeness.
He would have asked her to take her hair down. To let it fall, heavy and soft, across her shoulders. He would ask if he might touch it, just once, with a bare and ungloved finger. And she would say yes. (For even in his most sinful thoughts, he could never afflict her with his bare skin without her explicit permission. Not in his fantasies. He is not that cruel.) He would take her veil and wrap it around his own wrist. It would smell like her, he is certain, and he would inhale it until he is light-headed.
Baldwin has imagined her lips, plump and red like pomegranate seeds, wet and glistening and—his mind is a traitor, betraying again and again. He should not continue. It is a terrible, awful, sacrilegious thought. But the thought grows and grows the more he looks at her. And God, she is looking at him in return.
If he were a braver man, he would kiss her with the way her lips are parting now. Expectantly like the blooming of a rose, like she knows his own thoughts are wicked and trespassing and sinful. Her skirts, her finest bliaut, not rolled up tenderly but bunched roughly in his fist, his other hand holding her face still as he ravages her mouth. He would slide his fingers into the silk-smooth tresses of her hair and hold her to him. She is so close to him now, so close he can smell the salty sweat beneath the oils that anointed her skin, her skin, gleaming in the torchlight. (Did they not stone lesser men for this? The wanton thought springs unbidden. The body of a leper is a tomb, his soul already consigned to the grave. What is one more blasphemy on a ledger already overflowing?)
And if he were already damned, already adulterous in his mind (Matthew, sweet Matthew, most sentimental Matthew, has said that every single one who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart, so he is already guilty, already a sinner), then he would strip her of all the silks and the blues and the golds, and let the moonlight bathe her skin for him and him alone. Take her right then and there on the chemin de ronde, pressed against the stone, with only the moon and the stars and the judgmental gaze of Heaven to bear witness.
He imagines the sound she would make, a small, surprised gasp, and then the yielding, the soft surrender as her hands clutched at his shoulders, at the embroidered collar of his tunic. She is tight. She is wet like dew on a petal. He knows this. He just knows. He has dreamed it so many times it has the texture of memory. He moves within her, a slow, deliberate rhythm that has nothing to do with the frantic, solitary rutting of the nights he lived alone, in the dark, tormented by her absence. He thinks of the way her hair would tumble over her breasts, the way her back would arch, the way she would moan his name.
This is the braver man. The one who asks for nothing and takes everything. The one who hears the beating of her own heart against his own chest and listens for a moment for God to strike him down. For lightning to course from the Heavens. For a clap of thunder. But there is nothing. The crickets still chirp. The moon still shines. The wind still blows.
His eyes in the present search hers, perhaps for permission, perhaps for condemnation. He finds only curiosity, and it is a crueler judgment than any punishment Hell could devise.
“If I were braver, I would not be here, My Lady.”
“Where would you be?”
“Somewhere else.” He answers, reluctantly. Somewhere with her pressed against him. Somewhere with her breathing hitched and his name upon her lips, a plea. Somewhere that does not exist, and never would. “Anywhere that is not here, watching you belong to another.”
Her breath catches, just for a moment, and he knows he has gone too far. He has said too much, and the fragile peace between them—if it ever was peace and not agony—shatters into a thousand pieces. He has laid himself bare, and now he must wait for the wound to be salted.
“But you are a King. And Kings cannot be anywhere else but here.”
Her words are not a rejection, but a confirmation. A statement of fact, as immutable as the laws of God and the turning of the heavens. He is King, and she is married, and the world is what it is.
“It is not the king’s heart that speaks tonight, but the man’s. And even this man is a coward, for he will not act upon his words.”
She is silent for a long moment, her gaze falling to the ground, her hand resting on the stone parapet. “If I were as brave as you believe me to be, I would have told you the truth long ago.”
The words hang in the air between them, a challenge and a concession. He wants to demand that she speak it, whatever it is, that she release him from this purgatory of his own making.
“And what truth is that?” His voice comes out quieter than the pounding of his heart.
She looks up then, her eyes meeting his, and the look in them is raw, stripped bare of any pretense. He sees it, then. The same longing, the same impossibility.
“That I would have liked it too,” she says. “To be anywhere else with you.”
The confession is a lance through his side, a final, fatal blow. He wants to reach for her, to take her face in his hands and feel her skin against his, even if it is just this once. He wants to pull the mask from his face and let her see the rot beneath, and see if the look in her eyes would remain. He wants to be a man, not a king, not a holy symbol, not a vessel for the hopes of a kingdom.
Not this. This creature breathing on borrowed time. Stealing glances and wanting looks from a woman he arranged to be married to someone else. Someone healthier. Someone whole. Someone who can be with her for the rest of her life. Someone who is not him.
He says none of this. He only looks at her, and the silence that stretches between them is filled with all the words they cannot say, all the futures they cannot have, all the worlds that are not this one. The revelry from the great hall drifts up to them, catches them and collects the debts that are due. It is the sound of another man’s celebration. Another life. Another world. And yet, here they are. In this one. Together. And apart.
“That,” he says finally, the words slow and measured, each syllable a monument to his self-control, “is the truth of two cowards, then.”
“Perhaps.” She does not deny it. “Or perhaps it is the only truth that matters.” Her hand, so close to his on the stone, trembles. He can see the faint outline of her ring, a thin band of gold glinting in the moonlight. A brand. A cage. A promise he himself brokered.
He cannot look at it. He looks at her face instead, at the soft curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips. He memorizes every detail, every flicker of expression. He will keep this moment, this stolen, impossible moment, and he will take it out in the long, silent nights of his future. He will hold it close to him, when the nights are more unbearable than they already are. This is all he can have. This memory, flawed and fleeting, will have to be enough.
(It will never be enough.)
“You should return to your husband,” he says, the words a defeat. He hears it in his own voice. The surrender. The breaking.
Her expression shifts, the raw vulnerability shuttered behind a mask of her own making. A lady’s composure. A wife’s duty. Their time is over. The moment has passed.
“I should,” she agrees, her voice steady now, cool and distant as the stars. “He will be wondering where I am.” A statement that requires no reply. She turns, a graceful pivot that sets her skirts swirling around her like the dark waters of the Jordan.
He watches her go. She does not look back. She walks away from him, a straight-backed silhouette against the glow of the hall. He watches until she disappears back into the warmth and the noise and the life that is hers now. A life that does not include him. A life that never could.
He remains on the parapet long after she is gone. His mind pulses with the thought of her.
Her, her, forever her.
Always, and ever, her.
Her.
He does not tell her. This thought, this secret, is his to keep.
✎Note✐ reader is a female in this. This is not the actual historical figure but the figure from 'Koh'. Either this chapter sucks or good I can't decide ┐(￣ー￣)┌
Everything felt off from the beginning, usually by now kasim's shouting would be heard from a mile, yelling at someone who's probably ismat, or by now safiye would be by your side from the moment you woke up, yet she is nowhere to be seen since last night when you asked her to bring a bunch of history books, you thought she probably got busy with something else at that moment and went on with your evening
everything is eerily calm. those who woke you up and served you breakfast are new faces that you had never seen before.. About that, where are the others? By now at least one of them should be here and the palace..
It's unusually quiet
Considering how most people don't know about the death of the sultan and the majority of the servants and the harem lived on as normal with life's normal chaos but today the silence is deafening
And not only that but the same women who served you breakfast are refusing to let you out of your quarters
In other words, you're stuck and you can't reach anyone whom you trust and you don't know what's happening and why. You can't just stay here and wait for an explanation that's probably not coming because from what you're seeing whatever is happening is definitely not in your favor
When safiye opened her eyes she woke up to a terrible headache, Only when she tried to stand up from the cold floor she noticed that her hands are tied by a cloth.. Her eyes wander around the small room, the only source of light is from a torch attached to the stone wall
‘..it must be some laundry room..’ she thought, her eyes taking in the fabric thrown everywhere. what even brought her here?! The last thing she remembers is talking to afifa before parting ways to get some books you asked for from the library, then out of nowhere someone hit her in the head hard then she woke up here
All she recalls from the conversation she had was afifa asking her about the reason behind her loyalty to you, of course everyone has a reason or purpose behind everything they do, most of them do what they're told simply because it's their job and because it's smart to win royal favor
Yes, they were loyal because it came with benefits and yes it was not blind loyalty where they would follow you blindly without thinking but at least they do their job with conscience, to her it a bit more than that
Safiye used to serve you, or the original owner to be more accurate, way before all this mess happened, way before you got shipped away to the stinky franks
It wasn't friendship between you two, not really. It was a normal master and servant relationship but just add the fact that she admired you from afar. you were always someone she admired, partly because of how you hold yourself and prioritize your younger siblings and the stability of the realm above your personal desires
She remembers clearly when the Sultan, your father had died and his heir was still a boy and the throne was going to pass over your brother to one of your uncles, possibly creating a civil war between them over the throne
you not wanting your brother to get disinherited and the realm to get ripped apart you went above and beyond to secure your brother's position, even marrying a king rumored to be a leper to gain support for your brother's rule
Historians will overlook it but if it wasn't for the eldest daughter of Nur al-Din Zengi, the entire zengid dynasty wouldn't have lasted as long as it did
To her, you are what it means to put duty and honor above everything else
Now, how to get out of this room? Thankfully whoever tied her up did a terrible job
You stuffed the pouch bag full with gold coins, knowing you can't carry more than this unless you want to drag a chest while trying to sneak out unnoticed. Oh and don't forget to take a dagger, for safety measures yk
Trying to sneak out a palace when you barely know how to get back to your own room is not easy especially when you don't know whether to turn left or right. You stood there like a deer caught in headlights, when you turned to the left hall someone grabbed your arm making your heart stop
‘have I been caught already?..’
It was the same cariye who served you breakfast this morning, when you reach for the pouch in hopes that gold would buy her silence because who doesn't love money? she pulls you into the right Hall without a word, you don't know whether to yell for help or run away from her but you barely know where you are to begin with
After what felt like hours from going in and out of rooms and walking through different halls but was thirty minutes really, you two reached a servant's door. According to the woman named hatice, imad's spies took over the palace and that he is marching into the capital, Everything you planned is going south and your fears are becoming reality
She said only a few of the loyal staff managed to slip away from being thrown into the dungeons, those who knew the palace by heart knew how to escape, and that kasim and the others were one of those people. When you began to ask more questions she told you not to worry about all that, there's a carriage waiting outside to take you away
When you two were finally outside and heading to wherever that supposed carriage is you stop moving, taking a glance at the rocks on the side of the road before you could rethink your plan you grabbed one heavy looking rock, bashing her head causing the girl to fall
While you aren't a supporter of violence but you aren't just going to stand still while getting kidnapped or whatever she intended to do with you, besides you didn't hit that hard to cause a death but probably a concussion?..
Not your problem anymore
You kept running until you reached the market, seeing a crowd of people made the tension in you start to ease, for once you're grateful to be in a place full of humans..
You collected yourself and decided that sticking to the original plan or whatever is left of it is the only thing you could do now, the money you have is enough to get you out of here but you're not sure what comes afterwards because a pouch even if filled with gold won't last long and it's definitely way less than your original budget but beggers can't be choosers
Top priority now is leaving this place for once and for all, once your feet land on al-andalus everything will be easier, no one will be chasing after you and you won't need to constantly check over your shoulder
Now, where is the way to the dock and how much is the entry?
Back in Jerusalem the gentle weather was suitable for princess sibylla to take a walk in the gardens alongside her son, these moments where the only time where she would have her guard down, for it was just mother and son. The young prince let go of his mother's hand to wonder between the bushes of flowers, probably looking to pick some for his mother
She stands still watching him move, for mere seconds she is quiet before looking at the lady behind her, one of her ladies in waiting who were informed not to disturb her right now “it better be worth it” her voice stays calm, not wanting to draw attention from the boy “everything is going according to plan. if God wills it, nothing will go wrong.”
sibylla doesn't respond for a moment, her eyes drift back to her son before returning to the woman standing on front of her “you came to tell me that? You should know better than to waste my time unless you have important news” despite the harsh words, her tone lacked the usual venom, luckily for the girl she was in a pleasant mood
“but... Are you not worried that something might go wrong? The queen doesn't seem as foolish as we thought before, could she have realized the trap?” sibylla only hums in response to her concern, dismissing it without much thought “the girl is clever, but not as clever as she thinks herself to be. I do admit that she did surprise me in the past but worry not, I am two steps ahead this time.”
Before the lady could ask another question she just turns her back, clearly signing that this conversation is over “if things do as planned... She should be boarding a ship by now” is the last thing she speaks to the dumbfounded woman, clearly surprised by her non caring answer
When you caught a glimpse of the ships you physically relaxed, not because the nightmare is over yet but because at least one thing is going your way. Now all what is left for you to find a decent one to board on, preferably a merchant ship, those are much safer bets. As long as the price is reasonable although you are positive that traveling from aleppo to al andalus to sicily is going to bleed you dry
‘sicily... I am coming!’
After going around asking different masters of ships if you could tag along, some refused others weren't even heading to al andalus so no wonder you were over the moon when you finally found a ship despite the price being higher than what you had hoped for, okay way higher, but after an hour and half of looking and asking around you'll take what you can and cut your losses
Seeing others already boarding the ship you relax, at least you're not alone. To try and focus on the positive side instead of going back to everything that went downhill you decided to take a walk through the ship so when you walked down the stairs to see the hold what they keep beneath the deck, you had expected to see a lot of things, rats even
but definitely you had not expected to see guy of lusignan
That definitely was NOT on your to-do list
He didn't say a word, letting the silence stretch but his smug face says it, this was planned from the moment you woke up today to the cariye who led you outside the palace but what does sibylla gain out of this?..
“attempting to flee, my queen? I'm afraid I cannot allow this treason to happen" He speaks with scorn, not trying to hide it even slightly
Ah, treason.
A queen fleeing the kingdom is grounds for high treason, and you with your things packed and boarding a ship is very much fleeing
Did sibylla know from the beginning that you are planning on an escape? How? Did someone betray you? If so how much does sibylla know
Why does God hate you?
Why can't one fucking thing go as planned?!
Taking in your fear despite you trying to hide it he smirks, knowing he got you exactly cornered “tsk, tsk.. Princess sibylla had heard of the news of your cousin marching to the capital and wanted to make sure you come back safe and sound we just never knew that you would attempt to betray the trust of our gracious king.”
Your eyes dart around, there's a very high chance that the fellow passengers you saw are his men, screaming for help would be useless and he knows. Great you paid 50 gold coins for it to be a trap, may the ship master choke on the gold
“will your grace rather attempt another flee and be tied up or walk on your own back with us to jerusalem to answer for your crimes?”
Tags: Angst, Pining, Yearning, Sexual Content, Bittersweet Ending
—
The first time he meets her he is already King. Too young. Untried. Scared of scrutiny. Marked by God’s venerated sign. Hiding his right hand beneath the left. Wishing the cuff would swallow his shame entirely. She knows he is a leper. He knows he is undeserving. He is also lonely.
The second time he meets her, he makes her laugh. He has never made another person laugh before, except perhaps his sister, Sybilla, who does not really count. Sibylla is also never there anymore. Not since his father had sent her to Bethany. Not since his mother had returned to his life like the moon sweeping into the night sky. He is still King and his father is still dead and his mother is not the same as she used to be. Agnes does not laugh because he is funny, but because she needs him to know that he is doing something right, because secretly she pities him. (She must pity him, he thinks.) This girl, though, laughs with genuine amusement and not because of his birthright or circumstance. It is intoxicating. And he knows it is a dangerous thing. To crave someone.
The third time he meets her he is coming home. Victory, sweet as water on a parched throat, is his. She is as bright as the banners that welcome his return to the citadel, as sweet and luscious as the dates that hang, ripe for the picking, in the gardens. The Sepulcher is round, beaming as the hot sun hammers against its dome, blinding for a second as he catches sight of her. They say that the world ended and began here, in the Holy Land of Jerusalem. He knows without a doubt, in this moment, that his world is beginning again.
There are many moments soonafter. A glance, here and there. Conversations, rare as ice in wooden boxes, brief as winter light, gone before they are really caught. Laughter like Holy Relics that could change everything if only they were allowed to exist in the open. Matthew, only the most sentimental of all the Apostles, comes to him in the form of the written word. Ask. Seek. Knock. He cannot. But he is content to watch her as she walks. And if she were to look at him in return, perhaps she would find him wanting. Sometimes she does look at him, but there is no knowing what she sees when she does.
Now he is a man, masked and concealed, walking with a borrowed dignity.
Most things that belong to him are borrowed.
Even time itself, loaned like silver pieces to a pauper, is spent before it is truly owned. His crown, coveted by those who count the moments from here and when his body inevitably betrays him. The robes he wears are weighted with gold and jewels and promises made by a stronger man. A younger man that sickness had yet to ruin. Even this city, built upon a thousand graves and a thousand prayers and pledges is not his to command, only to tend for a short while. His body is a temporary vessel. Sibylla knows this. Sibylla awaits his inevitable failure, inheriting problems he has not created but has failed to solve.
The woman of his prayers, most importantly, is not his either.
He wonders if it is selfish that he does not want to let her go. That these moments, and every single moment that is theirs and theirs alone, will slip through his fingers like water through a sieve. But today, Baldwin watches as her father gives her away. His eyes do not leave her face, hoping, perhaps, that if he is lucky, she will turn to him, just so. A small turn of the head, a quick glance. Me. Me. Look at me. Look at me like you did, all those times before in my dreams.
She does not, though. She is beaming at her new husband with that smile he knows she has practiced time and time again. Reserved for this very moment of utmost importance. And then, suddenly, it is over and the agony begins. This, Baldwin knows, is his. This certainty neither borrowed nor stolen. This, he can claim as his own. This loss of her, complete and irreversible, is his for keeping.
The King of Jerusalem sits idly at the table. He does not eat or drink, he rarely does. And current circumstances make it near impossible to do so. The mask, though convenient for others to gaze upon something that is not so hideous as his gnarled countenance, also makes it quite difficult to engage in otherwise normal activities. His food is typically brought to his chambers, his goblets emptied in private. He has to endure, among other things, the constant chatter of visiting nobles and squires and the occasional eager knight. The courtyard is full of merriment and the King is alone.
Baldwin does not like to engage in merriment. Weddings. Christenings. Occasions that mark life in the normal world. A world that is not his. A world that belongs to the unafflicted, unblessed, and unmarked. He laughs at the idea of it. That he is heralded as some kind of holy figure. That his leprosy is an act of God, a mark of reverence, a sign of his piety. Sometimes, he feels the same, in his better moments. Perhaps, that was the delusion speaking, to cope for better or worse with his circumstances.
There is still food and drink in front of him. Some pheasant died to be decorative, to not be consumed, to merely represent that the King too is celebrating like the rest of them. He chuckles slightly, morbidly, at the thought of it. Another sacrifice made for show. Another animal that perished at the altar of presentation. He did not want to present himself tonight. The Lordling, he was told, would understand. The Lady, they said, would not mind. And it irked him to think that she would not mind. He should be there, he insisted. It would be an insult not to, Sybilla agreed.
After all, the match had been his to arrange.
He excuses himself from the table. Among the throngs of revellers already dancing and clapping and laughing and drinking, he is just some faceless nobleman with a metal mask. (Although, there aren’t too many of those in this kindly kingdom of thirty-thousand odd souls.) He does not stay in the great hall, he walks towards the chemin de ronde where there is no one but a patrolling guard or two. There is a moon tonight. Almost full. It has a taste for him, he feels. The moon in its lonely, beguiling light makes everything appear softer than it is.
And then, the rustling of curtains. Time passes too quickly when one is left to his own thoughts. And he has long grown used to his own company. He turns, sensing that someone is there. He is right. There she is. As though he has willed her to come just by his sobrieties alone. He is not surprised. But he is unprepared.
“Quite a ceremony, wasn’t it?”
Her voice is like the hearth of the first fire after Winter. Baldwin adjusts his posture, allowing his body to relax. He leans against his cane of ivory and silver.
“Yes.” He says, “The guests seemed to enjoy it, and the groom looked pleased.” His words are measured, and his lips are numb as the vowels and consonants are pronounced. He knows with the numbness that he is alive. He isn’t sure if he’s happy to be. “I must offer my congratulations, Mademoiselle. You make a handsome pair.”
“Madame,” She corrects with a grin. “It is Madame now, Your Grace. I am now married, or did you forget to watch?” She is still grinning, cheeks flushed like the wine she must have been drinking with her husband. Her new husband who is not him, he reminds himself with not much effort. He notices how her eyes follow the path of the moonlit clouds. “You must do your best not to forget. You arranged it, after all.”
He smiles beneath the silver linings. “I am unlikely to forget anything about today, My Lady. It was a beautiful ceremony.”
Her eyes find his, “It is rare to find the King of Jerusalem in attendance of such events, let alone with such kind words of congratulations.”
“I will admit, it was a very small incentive that brought me here, but it is enough to have done it.”
She laughs at this. It is a quiet laugh, meant for them alone. “Baldwin, you are a strange man. A strange king.”
“I take that as a compliment.” The familiarity is more than welcome. But the strain of holding himself up is not. He shifts slightly, leaning a little more on the cane to take the weight off his leg.
“Come back inside. We should sit. It is much too cold out here. You should not have to endure it.”
“Please. I have been sitting for hours. My physicians have encouraged me to move about. I am only being obedient.”
“Pffft. You have never been obedient.” She challenges him with a knowing look. “Though, I suppose if the King’s own physicians insist on it, you must do as you’re told. What do they recommend for a happy king these days?”
He lets out a quiet laugh, which is mostly air. “Food. Wine. Company. The usual things, I imagine. None of which I am inclined to indulge in.” He sighs. “I find that in matters of pleasure, I am quite the ascetic.”
“I am sure there are things that can please even a dreary creature such as yourself.”
He laughs. “Dreary? Madame, you wound me. I might be strange, but I am far from dreary.”
“Oh? And sulking alone on my wedding day of all days? Pray, what would you call such behavior?”
“Contemplative. Kings must be contemplative.”
She rolls her eyes, a gesture he finds unaccountably charming. “Dreary. Contemplative and lonely. You are not a philosopher, Baldwin. You are a King. So, come and be King. Dine with us. Drink with us. The physician said you need company, did he not? Here I am. Keeping you company. This is medicinal.”
He knows he is meant to laugh, but the sound catches in his throat. Her company, warm and real, burns him with a pain deeper than the Leprosy ever could. He looks at her hand, at the sleeve of her best bliaut, the fabric a rich blue, inviting and soft to the touch (in his mind he imagines it to be as soft as it seems). And in these thoughts he has already rolled the cuff, and places his own lips upon her wrist, inhaling her, tasting her, pressing her skin to his cheek. Here, in the comfort of his fantasies, she never turns away, never pulls her hand from his.
He can see it, vividly like daylight. The shape of her bare skin. She is clean. Smooth. Soft. Unblemished. Unscathed. Unmarked. Nothing at all like the raw, nerve-riddled patchwork that is hidden beneath his own gloves and bandages. The disease is slowly, deliberately, devouring him. Piece by piece. Year by year. It is patient. He is not.
She looks at him expectantly. He must answer. He must speak.
“I appreciate the company, Madame. Truly, I do. More than I can say.”
“You say very little. Even less than usual. And I must once again declare that you, your highness, are dreadfully dreary tonight.” She taps a finger against her chin, feigning great thought. “I have a cure. For such melancholy. A tonic which has never failed me.”
“Indeed? Do tell. I am willing to try anything once.”
She smiles. “Da—”
“Except for dancing, I am afraid. Even your strongest of wines could not coax me onto the dais.” He interrupts, knowing her prescription before she has a chance to give it. Her brows furrow, and she bursts into laughter.
“A man of limitations, then?” she teases.
He gestures to his cane. “Only a few. God, with His infinite wisdom, has seen fit to burden me with a small number of earthly restraints. Dancing, as you have correctly surmised, is chief among them. A pity, I think. I would have liked to have danced with you.”
“Oh? Is that all you would have liked to do?”
She is smiling still. His heart staggers, a horse missing a step.
“I would have liked many things.” He says. He wonders if she can hear the aching in his voice. Do not say it. He tells himself. Do not commandeer this conversation into a confession of longing. Not tonight. Not on her wedding night. That is not for you. Nothing is for you. Even this moment is stolen. The color on her cheeks embezzled from a man who, by all rights, owns them now. Do not take another thing. Not even another look. Not even another word. “It is not a productive line of thought to follow.” He says, as much for his own benefit as for hers.
She tilts her head. “If you will not dance with me, the least you can do is entertain me with conversation. That costs you nothing.”
But the cost was everything. Every breath he took in her presence was a tribute paid to a new and terrible god. A god of wanting. A god of impossibility. A cruel and silent deity who reveled in the misery of its sole worshipper.
He swallows.
“Very well. What shall we speak of? The weather? The quality of the wine? The political implications of your union? I am at your disposal.”
She laughs again, the sound a sweet agony. He wants to bottle it and keep it as it is. He wants to wear it around his neck, and drink from it when the nights are long and cold and utterly empty. To quench an impossible thirst, with a sound he can never truly possess.
“Let us not speak of politics. Or weather. Or wine. They are too dreary for you tonight. Let us speak of impossibilities. Of braver subjects than these.”
“You, madame, are far braver than I am.”
“And if you, My Lord, were braver?”
He swallows. His mind wanders. His blue eyes find hers as his tongue wets his lips. He does not tell her. It is improper to answer with the truth in these situations. And the truth is dangerous. The will of God, his sanctification, his duties to the Crown, all of them rendered asunder by the thought of another man’s hands on her skin.
The truth is, if he were a braver man, even for a moment, he would ruin her.
He would have asked her what she thinks of him. If she finds him wanting, if she wants him at all. He would ask if she thinks of him when she is with others, the way he thinks of her in the darkness of his rooms, when he is holding himself in his hands and spilling his grief and longing into the linen. He would ask her if she finds him handsome, a foolish thing to ask of a girl who can only now remember his unravaged face in memories and in manuscripts that are more carricature than likeness.
He would have asked her to take her hair down. To let it fall, heavy and soft, across her shoulders. He would ask if he might touch it, just once, with a bare and ungloved finger. And she would say yes. (For even in his most sinful thoughts, he could never afflict her with his bare skin without her explicit permission. Not in his fantasies. He is not that cruel.) He would take her veil and wrap it around his own wrist. It would smell like her, he is certain, and he would inhale it until he is light-headed.
Baldwin has imagined her lips, plump and red like pomegranate seeds, wet and glistening and—his mind is a traitor, betraying again and again. He should not continue. It is a terrible, awful, sacrilegious thought. But the thought grows and grows the more he looks at her. And God, she is looking at him in return.
If he were a braver man, he would kiss her with the way her lips are parting now. Expectantly like the blooming of a rose, like she knows his own thoughts are wicked and trespassing and sinful. Her skirts, her finest bliaut, not rolled up tenderly but bunched roughly in his fist, his other hand holding her face still as he ravages her mouth. He would slide his fingers into the silk-smooth tresses of her hair and hold her to him. She is so close to him now, so close he can smell the salty sweat beneath the oils that anointed her skin, her skin, gleaming in the torchlight. (Did they not stone lesser men for this? The wanton thought springs unbidden. The body of a leper is a tomb, his soul already consigned to the grave. What is one more blasphemy on a ledger already overflowing?)
And if he were already damned, already adulterous in his mind (Matthew, sweet Matthew, most sentimental Matthew, has said that every single one who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart, so he is already guilty, already a sinner), then he would strip her of all the silks and the blues and the golds, and let the moonlight bathe her skin for him and him alone. Take her right then and there on the chemin de ronde, pressed against the stone, with only the moon and the stars and the judgmental gaze of Heaven to bear witness.
He imagines the sound she would make, a small, surprised gasp, and then the yielding, the soft surrender as her hands clutched at his shoulders, at the embroidered collar of his tunic. She is tight. She is wet like dew on a petal. He knows this. He just knows. He has dreamed it so many times it has the texture of memory. He moves within her, a slow, deliberate rhythm that has nothing to do with the frantic, solitary rutting of the nights he lived alone, in the dark, tormented by her absence. He thinks of the way her hair would tumble over her breasts, the way her back would arch, the way she would moan his name.
This is the braver man. The one who asks for nothing and takes everything. The one who hears the beating of her own heart against his own chest and listens for a moment for God to strike him down. For lightning to course from the Heavens. For a clap of thunder. But there is nothing. The crickets still chirp. The moon still shines. The wind still blows.
His eyes in the present search hers, perhaps for permission, perhaps for condemnation. He finds only curiosity, and it is a crueler judgment than any punishment Hell could devise.
“If I were braver, I would not be here, My Lady.”
“Where would you be?”
“Somewhere else.” He answers, reluctantly. Somewhere with her pressed against him. Somewhere with her breathing hitched and his name upon her lips, a plea. Somewhere that does not exist, and never would. “Anywhere that is not here, watching you belong to another.”
Her breath catches, just for a moment, and he knows he has gone too far. He has said too much, and the fragile peace between them—if it ever was peace and not agony—shatters into a thousand pieces. He has laid himself bare, and now he must wait for the wound to be salted.
“But you are a King. And Kings cannot be anywhere else but here.”
Her words are not a rejection, but a confirmation. A statement of fact, as immutable as the laws of God and the turning of the heavens. He is King, and she is married, and the world is what it is.
“It is not the king’s heart that speaks tonight, but the man’s. And even this man is a coward, for he will not act upon his words.”
She is silent for a long moment, her gaze falling to the ground, her hand resting on the stone parapet. “If I were as brave as you believe me to be, I would have told you the truth long ago.”
The words hang in the air between them, a challenge and a concession. He wants to demand that she speak it, whatever it is, that she release him from this purgatory of his own making.
“And what truth is that?” His voice comes out quieter than the pounding of his heart.
She looks up then, her eyes meeting his, and the look in them is raw, stripped bare of any pretense. He sees it, then. The same longing, the same impossibility.
“That I would have liked it too,” she says. “To be anywhere else with you.”
The confession is a lance through his side, a final, fatal blow. He wants to reach for her, to take her face in his hands and feel her skin against his, even if it is just this once. He wants to pull the mask from his face and let her see the rot beneath, and see if the look in her eyes would remain. He wants to be a man, not a king, not a holy symbol, not a vessel for the hopes of a kingdom.
Not this. This creature breathing on borrowed time. Stealing glances and wanting looks from a woman he arranged to be married to someone else. Someone healthier. Someone whole. Someone who can be with her for the rest of her life. Someone who is not him.
He says none of this. He only looks at her, and the silence that stretches between them is filled with all the words they cannot say, all the futures they cannot have, all the worlds that are not this one. The revelry from the great hall drifts up to them, catches them and collects the debts that are due. It is the sound of another man’s celebration. Another life. Another world. And yet, here they are. In this one. Together. And apart.
“That,” he says finally, the words slow and measured, each syllable a monument to his self-control, “is the truth of two cowards, then.”
“Perhaps.” She does not deny it. “Or perhaps it is the only truth that matters.” Her hand, so close to his on the stone, trembles. He can see the faint outline of her ring, a thin band of gold glinting in the moonlight. A brand. A cage. A promise he himself brokered.
He cannot look at it. He looks at her face instead, at the soft curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips. He memorizes every detail, every flicker of expression. He will keep this moment, this stolen, impossible moment, and he will take it out in the long, silent nights of his future. He will hold it close to him, when the nights are more unbearable than they already are. This is all he can have. This memory, flawed and fleeting, will have to be enough.
(It will never be enough.)
“You should return to your husband,” he says, the words a defeat. He hears it in his own voice. The surrender. The breaking.
Her expression shifts, the raw vulnerability shuttered behind a mask of her own making. A lady’s composure. A wife’s duty. Their time is over. The moment has passed.
“I should,” she agrees, her voice steady now, cool and distant as the stars. “He will be wondering where I am.” A statement that requires no reply. She turns, a graceful pivot that sets her skirts swirling around her like the dark waters of the Jordan.
He watches her go. She does not look back. She walks away from him, a straight-backed silhouette against the glow of the hall. He watches until she disappears back into the warmth and the noise and the life that is hers now. A life that does not include him. A life that never could.
He remains on the parapet long after she is gone. His mind pulses with the thought of her.
Her, her, forever her.
Always, and ever, her.
Her.
He does not tell her. This thought, this secret, is his to keep.
⚠Warnings⚠ historically inaccurate mentions of death, guy of lusignan, racism?(I don't if it counts as racism btw it has nothing to do with skin color).
✎Note✐ reader is a female in this. Author hates this but decided to post it anyway. This is not the actual historical figure but the figure from KoH movie.
✎Tags✐ @jsprien213
✎Part 2✐
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You don't understand how it happened.
How did you end up in Jerusalem?. It's Not our modern day Jerusalem, it's 1182 AD.
From what you understood, you are during the anjou household reign of Jerusalem, most likely during king Baldwin IV time due to Saladin's name being mentioned so it must be around that time. But that's just a guess, if it is true then The king must be about 20 at this point.
When you first opened your eyes you found yourself laying on an a soft mattress, According to who they seemed to be maids, you had fainted while walking through the garden. You do have some blur memories of walking through a grand garden even though you know for sure that you did not walk through such garden ever in your life.
the last thing you remember, that you know that you actually did, that you went to sleep on your bed in your home, that's it. You didn't die while sleeping, did you?.
maybe you somehow took someone's else life, a someone from history none the less. It may sound bazaar but it's the only logical explanation in this unlogical situation.
While you were dozing off, trying to think of a solution to this disaster, The door was pushed wide open. a woman with fine clothing and jewelry enters with servants following her in. "I see you have finally decided to wake up." Her tone was sharp so was her glare.
You stared back at her, not with the same coldness but with confusion. "Who are you..?" You do know that she has to be a noble due to her clothing, but which noble? And why did she visit you? Why is her tone was as if you two know each other?.
She scoffed "It seems like the maids were right, It seems like you actually went mad this time." 'This bitch-' you thought to yourself, you can only say such things in your mind because you don't want to insult someone who might has the power to execute you on the spot. "Who are you?." You ask again, this time with determination.
"Sibylla of Jerusalem." Your face went pale, you thought knowing her identify would make you understand the situation better but it only confused you more, why would she visit you?.
You look away, you feel like you're gonna faint again. "Tsk.. Pathetic.." She mumbles as you grip on the bedsheets, she grabs your chin and makes you look directly to blue eyes. "Hold yourself better, you are no common girl, remember that you are queen of Jerusalem, wife to my brother, you are y/n of Jerusalem.. Even if I don't deem you worth of such honour yet here we are.."
You are not sure if she wanted to scold you or mock you, either way her words hurt you even though you don't know why, it just stungs.
"We're having dinner this evening, you should be fine by then." She stated as she turned her to leave. you wanted to protest, you are in no condition to join a stupid dinner. "But-" "absence is unacceptable." she cuts you, she doesn't even bother to turn around to look at you yet her words held a warning in them. With that she finally left you alone.
Now you know whose life you are in, yes life not body because you are 100% sure that this is your own body, whatever. In history her name was forgotten so she's only known as Baldwin's IV wife or the Saracen queen.
Basically Baldwin and her got married to secure an alliance between Jerusalem and some Saracens, and to prevent Saladin from getting anymore power since your people are also in odds with Saladin.
You pity her.
No one cared about her, she was just a tool for her family to gain more power, Jerusalem's court despited her because she is still a filthy Saracen in their eyes and not to mention that king Baldwin IV, her own husband did not spare her a single glance during the entire of their marriage. It's not personal, it's just she's the least of his concerns.
In the end of the day she was executed because she attempted to poison to Sibylla but failed, it is unclear whatever she was truly guilty or framed.
No.. No. You won't die like this.. You won't live like this! You don't want to die with sorrow and tears!.
You won't allow history to repeat itself, you don't care if it's gonna change tomorrow's history or not, you value your happiness more than history that you might not live to see.
If you want a peaceful life, you have two potions.
you earn the King's favor and then you will live peaceful as the queen.
Which you are mostly to take, run away after securing a good amount of money.
Just in case, you're gonna try to secure both plans. You will try to earns his favor while earning enough money to escape.
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Evening came fast.
You didn't want to leave bed but you also didn't want to piss off sibylla so it sucks to suck. Even though you still don't understand, how can she threaten you?! I mean yes she is a princess but you are the queen here for God's sake!. Damn was the old owner this weak that no one respected her title as queen?, however this will change, You didn't die to live again to take bullshit again.
The maids may not be fond of you but they sure did well in dressing you up, you don't like you're about to throw up at any given moment at all But the hard part isn't not looking like you're about to throw up, the hard part is not actually throwing up in front of everyone.
"Come on y/n!." You cheer up on yourself in front of mirror, you were right about the body thing, it is your body. you look like you, not like the actual historical figure (even though there is no surviving portraits of her but okay). 'I'm happy that i didn't lose you, my sweet sexy asf face' you wink at yourself before someone's voice interpreted your flirting session with yourself. "What are you doing?." God.. Why can't they leave you the fuck alone?. First Sibylla, now this?.
"wHaT aRe YoU dOiNg?." You repeat mockingly before turning around only to see Baldwin IV in flesh and blood standing in front of you, you recognized him easily due to the mask. Your face went paler then it went with sibylla, why is God doing this to you? You are praying for the ground to open in half and sallow you.
His blue eyes just stared into yours, it felt like he is staring right through your soul. "..." He didn't mutter a word, You don't know what he is thinking but whatever it is, it doesn't seems like something you want to know about.
You wanted to cry, really. But not in front of him because it would only worsen the situation, after all you just mocked a king.
"..."
It's been awkward silence for 6 long minutes, he didn't say anything yet. 'You know what? I already ate shit so let's just walk away and pretend that nothing has happened.. Maybe he will just ignore it and then I'll get to keep my head..' You thought to yourself.
You proceeded your plan and it actually worked! He let you walk away although you felt his eyes still watching you like a hawk.
Dinner was as awkward as you'd expect. You tried your best to just focus on your platte and ignore everyone else on the table. "Are you alright?." It's Sibylla, even though her words seems out of concern, her voice holds no kindness to it.
You looked up from your plate, you stare back at her but this time with more confidence since the last time you two spoke. "Yes, I am fine." You replied to her question with a calm yet confident note.
That caused sybilla to stare at you. You have never acted like this before, you were always quiet and shy, never once you looked right into her eyes with such directness.
"I heard that you fainted in the gardens today. you should look out for your health more your Highness... It would be a shame if you become so sickly like someone we know.." Said the man who is seated next to Sibylla, who you assume is guy of lusignan.
At his words Baldwin looked up at him, that caused guy to shift uncomfortably in his seat, he hated everything about Baldwin, especially his blue eyes when they stared right through his soul.
'God.. It's so awkward...' You thought before deciding to gamble with fate again. "Your majesty.. Your food will get cold.. Please eat." You hold his gloved hands in yours as you tried to give the kindest smile you could manage. He moved his eyes from guy's to yours before he pulled his hands away and continued his meal.
That went as smooth as possible.. You could feel Sibylla's glare but you couldn't care less, what matters now is to earn Baldwin's favor.
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Im back from the dead 💪🏻.
Idk if you guys will like this but enjoy and if you got any notes for me then go ahead 💃🏻.
Please mother I need to know how Baldwin would react if reader showed up 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽
He’d be in disbelief, thinking he’s imagining you again as he’d been told numerous times that you’re dead… but he still deludes himself, allows himself the chance that you’re still present, that you still love him, that you forgave him because his love trumps all. All he wants is to hold you again, rest his head in your lap as he prays he never wakes up from this dream.
