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Marcus stared out over the lake silently, almost like a lifeless machine.
The cold bit his face and nose especially, it stung at his eyes, causing them to water and forcing him to blink, and his hand was practically frozen to the bottle in his hand. Like clockwork, he'd raise it to his lips, hesitate, then toss back an ounce or two. It tasted foul, it burned his throat and made his chest warm, and then when that feeling subsided it was on to the next.
He didn't even know how long he'd been out there, waiting, wallowing, and wishing.
"Quite cold out, isn't it?" A voice called from the right of him, gradually getting closer and closer.
Marcus' heart stuttered. He'd heard the crunching of twigs and the muttered curses, and felt the feeling of being watched long before anybody had announced themselves to anyone. He knew what to look out for, to tell if it was him, and he hadn't even meant to.
But after months of doing something repeatedly, you pick up on some things.
"Then, don't come," Marcus retorted, keeping his gaze fixed in front of him. He wouldn't — couldn't look. Things got weird when he looked, and yet, he could feel his resolve crumbling already.
The other hummed, finally taking a seat on the fallen log that Marcus perched himself on. Like every other night.
They sat close, a gradual development. The days got colder, and they huddled closer; Marcus' heart grew warmer. Nowadays, they practically shared Marcus' cloak, shoulders pressed together and knees knocking without care.
"You know I wouldn't miss this for the world," his companion joked, settling his arms around himself to maintain warmth.
Me neither, Marcus silently agreed. He couldn't say that, though.
Instead, he finally allowed himself to move his gaze and subtly turn his head to examine the other in his peripheral. Almost immediately, his breath caught in his throat, and Marcus didn't know why he kept doing that to himself, over and over. He thought it would get easier to ignore if he kept sneaking glances, and yet...
The curly red hair that fell around his face and slightly obscured his eyes, the moonlight reflecting off of his nerdy little glasses while seeming to illuminate his freckle-smattered skin, and his straight nose, made so red by the cold that it nearly made the faint flush to his cheeks look white in comparison.
He'd look, and he'd look, but nothing new ever revealed itself. The sight was somehow just as breathtaking.
"Stop looking at me."
Marcus nearly flinched, as if he'd gotten to close to the fire and almost burned, but he merely looked away. Suddenly, the bottle in his hand looked so, so interesting. The taste wasn't horrid, just comforting. The burning in his throat and the warmth in his chest was embraced, but even then it couldn't overwhelm that feeling of something else.
"You shouldn't be drinking that. It's quite bad for—"
Marcus put his hands in his head, and let the empty bottle softly pad onto the compact dirt ground. "By Merlin, shut the fuck up, Weasley."
Silence settled between them after that, and Marcus felt... remorseful almost immediately. But he could never say:
"Sorry."
He hadn't expected it from the other, and that just made him feel even worse, because what should he be sorry for? He just... seemed to care.
"I — you just say that all the time," Marcus tried apologetically. He felt the need to explain himself, to backtrack because he'd never intended the gruffness in the first place.
Percy leaned down to pick up the discarded bottle, brushing the dirt off and throwing it behind them. Marcus heard as it clashed, clinked, and clanked with several others, and cringed.
"I mean it all the time," Percy insisted emphatically. "I think, that maybe you might have a little problem. You know —"
"Percy, please," Marcus interrupted, and the desperation in his voice had Percy's mouth clicking shut immediately. "It's Yule, a time of celebration, not intervention."
"So, why are you wallowing?" Percy challenged.
"...I said please."
Percy bit the inside of his cheek, staring at him, silent and considering, maybe even pitiful. Moments passed before he shook his head and turned away.
The message was clear: it was let go, that time. Marcus exhaled a breath he didn't even know he was holding, slow and shuddering.
They sat in silence again, and Marcus wished desperately for a change in topic. If they kept talking, then maybe the silence wouldn't be filled with racing thoughts about their proximity. Maybe Marcus could stop thinking about ways they could... get even warmer.
"I was a bit surprised you stayed," Percy began, quietly, as if scared to break the quiet they fell into. The wind picked up slightly, and whistling as it rustled through the trees and the few leaves hanging on by what could be nothing but magic.
Marcus was grateful for the distraction. "I always do. I'm surprised you did."
"Oh," Percy frowned, pausing to lick his lips which had cracked thanks to the wind and the cold. "I didn't know."
He wouldn't. Marcus didn't like to talk about how he never liked to go home for Christmas or Yule or whatever his parents decided to celebrate that year. It was inauthentic, and home never felt like home. Family never felt like family, and guests weren't good ones. It was depressing, and that place was suffocating.
For that matter, he never liked to go home at all, a far cry from the Weasleys and their big family of nine, whom everybody knew got matching knitted sweaters for the holidays and basked in love as warm as their shared ginger hair. Marcus felt sick just thinking about it, but at the same time couldn't comprehend ever giving that up to stay at school.
"I wanted to stay, catch up on school and do some studying for OWLs. I guess it ended up being okay, because my baby brother wanted to stay too," Percy explained, even though Marcus hadn't asked. That happened a lot, but Marcus was content to listen if Percy was content to talk.
And truth be told, he was glad Percy did stay. It was the only thing keeping him from downing three bottles a day, sleeping, and repeating.
"You know OWLs aren't for months, right?" Marcus asked, amusement tinging his voice.
"You know you're only 16, right?" Percy shot back defensively, and the significance would've been lost on Marcus had the other not clarified. "Like, you won't find your purpose at the bottom of tomorrow's bottle. Just, go to class."
Ouch.
"Well, Percy, if I wanted to get my self-worth from my teachers and general academic success, I would've asked your advice earlier," Marcus rolled his eyes.
"At least I've got self-worth, Marcus," Percy shot back, folding his arms. The effect was quite lost, however, when that only served to press them into each other even more.
3, 2...
Percy's posture sagged. "Sorry, I..."
Marcus decided to save them both the trouble of hearing him struggle through an apology. For whatever reason, they couldn't stop having petty, meaningless arguments about their differences. It only made them understand each other better.
Digging in his pockets, he felt around until his fingers jammed into something hard and messily covered in three sheets of parchment. Pulling it out, he kept it in his open palm and nudged Percy, who was still struggling to form words.
It had its intended effect: Percy shut up and peered curiously at Marcus' outstretched hand.
"Gift," he explained shortly, almost embarrassed. He'd debated long and hard about making and giving it, because on one hand his nightly talks with Percy were starting to mean something to him, and he was feeling quite charitable. He never got anything for anybody, and he felt like he should express his weird appreciation for their odd bond somehow.
On the other hand... they didn't even acknowledge each other when the sun rose. Percy had a whole family and a friend or two, probably much closer to him than Marcus, who could probably gift circles around him. They loved him, knew what he wanted and what to give him, and Marcus...
Marcus was just learning to.
Just as he expected, Percy's eyes widened, and he took the small thing with much more reverence than required. He would obviously be making a big deal about it, and Marcus was flustered already.
"I — I don't know what to say..." Percy whispered, staring at the crumbled up wad of paper in his hands.
"You haven't even opened it," Marcus pointed out, and then pretended to turn his attention away. "It's not even that much. You don't have to say anything."
"I mean — I didn't even..." Percy trailed off, seeing Marcus shrug his shoulders. He carefully pulled back the wrapping paper, as if it weren't just crumbled on there to begin with, and eventually unfolded it to behold a small figurine of a screech owl, painted grey and charmed to flap its wings. "Hermes," Percy gasped, taking the wooden carving and bringing it closer to his face for inspection.
Marcus carefully tried to ignore the look Percy gave him. How it made him feel. "It only took an hour to make," he mumbled flippantly. Wrong thing to say.
"You made this?" Percy inquired, turning his head to fully look at Marcus. "I love it."
Marcus knew he couldn't pretend not to notice that time. Pursing his lips, he nodded, and tried to pretend the small swelling of pride, caused by the light in Percy's eyes, didn't exist.
They gazed at each other. Marcus waited for Percy to say something, like he often did when things got quiet between them. But he didn't; he just looked back. He looked, and his lips curled into a knowing smirk when Marcus' eyes inevitably flickered to his lips, even when Marcus quickly looked away, terrified at his own thoughts and actions.
"Your nose is so red," Percy breathed a laugh, seemingly ignoring the little moment between them.
Marcus could sigh in relief. Maybe, he'd just imagined being caught. Maybe, the silence was merely a normal lilt in conversation, and the air hadn't filled itself with feelings that went unchecked. Maybe, Percy would be normal, he could act normal, and he could get himself through his Christmas without getting shit-faced and pitying himself too terribly. If he was lucky, the emotions would keep themselves at a 6.
"Yours is too," Marcus frowned, allowing himself to look at Percy again. "So are your ears. And your cheeks and neck. And, can't forget about your hair."
Percy touched his hair, as if just remembering that it was red. He huffed and rolled his eyes, gritting out, "It's cold."
"No sh—"
His voice faltered as he felt Percy's hands cover his. They were soft, but extremely cold, and that was saying something. It elicited a shiver, only partly due to the temperature.
At Marcus' questioning glare, Percy explained, "I was going to cover my ears, but I didn't want to move my hands from my pockets. But your hands looked warm. And they are, somehow."
Marcus inhaled deeply. "Oh."
At that point, it hurt to blink, and it hurt to keep his eyes open. The wetness that formed in his eyes was to combat the dryness of the wind, and dryness resulted from blinking away the moisture. Apparently, that wasn't a problem for Percy, whose piercing gaze hadn't left his face since he'd purposefully put his hands on his.
"Bad idea, maybe?" Percy asked, removing his hands to cover his ears. He massaged them, momentarily making them even redder, but obviously failing to bring warmth from the scowl on his face. "S'too cold. Everything's too cold. Might have to go back to the castle."
Marcus didn't know what he was thinking, as one minute he was wondering how Percy's cold hands could bring so much warmth, and the next his hands were cupping the sides of Percy's face, replacing Percy's with his own.
Percy's hands fell limply to his sides, and they both stared at each other with wide eyes, both slightly surprised at Marcus' actions.
Marcus swallowed thickly, feeling the need to explain himself, but at the same time not wanting to say anything lest he dig himself an even deeper hole. "I don't — is this better?"
Percy nodded, a mute and absentminded thing. His eyes looked glazed over, but Marcus blinked and then Percy looked normal again, if a bit redder than usual...
There was a slight tremor in his voice as he finally answered, "Quite," smiling weakly.
"Oh. Good."
A charged silence settled between them, one that Percy apparently didn't deem necessary to fill with comments about red faces. Marcus' heart pounded, the sight that made his heart stutter now magnified tenfold.
Slowly, hesitantly, he moved his thumb, brushing it against Percy's cheekbone and nearly gasping when Percy's eyes fluttered momentarily shut as he sank into the touch. What the fuck.
He wanted to panic, wanted to scream, to squeeze, to surge forward, but all he could do was watch. He watched, as Percy's eyes grew darker, face grew closer, and lips... well, they somehow ended up on his.
Funny thing, that. He hoped Percy was warmer now. He sure was.
Percy's lips were cold, so were his hands, face, neck, the small of his waist... but his mouth was really, really warm. Marcus would know; he'd licked all around it, and still his insides burned with a need that ignited a fire that warmed him better than any bottle of fire whiskey could.
It felt really good, and Marcus could feel his inhibitions slipping away as he let his mind fill with Percy, Percy, Percy.
He felt Percy. He tasted Percy. He breathed Percy in and — maybe he found somewhere else to drink his purpose from.
It would prove much, much harder to get rid of this little problem, however.
The next night, they couldn't even look each other in the eye. A bunch of yearning, the want to moan about his carnal desire to devour Percy under this particularly full moon, and yet Marcus couldn't bring himself to say a word, sitting stock still next to Percy as they looked at the reflection of the moon on the black lake.
Both itched to say something, but by the end of the night, nothing had been exchanged except for two sentences. That, and a few kisses.
And it went as such the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Even after the holidays ended, Marcus couldn't wait for that time of night where he'd sit on their log, (full) bottle in hand, waiting for the sound of Percy's footsteps.
As it happened, over and over again, Marcus felt something building in the air. Something between them, and it was anxious and unsure, uncomfortable in nature, foreboding and neither of them wanted to address it.
Somehow, he'd seen it coming, and yet, he didn't stop. Marcus couldn't stop it, he didn't stop it, and he didn't want to stop it.
He'd remember that night in a flurry of roaming hands, labored breaths, choked out moans, and the primal desire to just be close. Need ran too high, and mouths wandered too low.
Months building up to it, and just like that, it was all over. All gone.
It hurt badly, sitting on that log and waiting for someone who would never show, but Marcus couldn't bring himself to stop. Because it was his fault for wanting so much, and still wanting, knowing what could happen. Knowing what did happen.
But, oh, how desperately he craved that high. How desperately he drowned himself in moonlight, memories, and alcohol, trying but never succeeding to achieve the same warmth.
It was just him, the black lake, and the moon.
(Oh, and the ominous animal noises he sometimes heard from a distance.)
Marcus stared out over the lake silently, almost like a lifeless machine.
The cold bit his face and nose especially, it stung at his eyes, causing them to water and forcing him to blink, and his hand was practically frozen to the bottle in his hand. Like clockwork, he'd raise it to his lips, hesitate, then toss back an ounce or two. It tasted foul, it burned his throat and made his chest warm, and then when that feeling subsided it was on to the next.
He knew exactly how long he'd been out there, waiting, wallowing, and wishing, but that hadn't worked for months, nearing years.
No amount of wishing on the stars would bring about what he wanted. The familiar crunching of twigs, muttering of curses — sometimes, if he wished hard enough and had enough to drink, he could still imagine the noise. He guessed today was one of those days, as it had been for the Yule prior.
There was a pang in his heart as he heard a growing voice call, "Quite cold out, isn't it?"
Marcus closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. That night had played in his head so many times before, but never did it feel so vivid, and the illusory voice of Percy had never hurt so bad. He was really losing it.
"Then, don't come," he whispered as the interaction played out in his brain, like the thousand times it had done before without fail.
After, Percy would come and sit down next to him, and say, "You know I wouldn't miss this for the world," and hold himself tight despite being huddled up to Marcus for warmth.
Marcus geared up for the phantom touch, the imaginary soft words that would have him holding his breath and fighting himself to keep from looking to his side.
Instead, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest when imaginary Percy deviated from the script. Maybe... maybe the phantom touch wasn't so phantom.
"I'm sorry," faux Percy whispered once he'd sat down, and Marcus didn't even have to try to keep looking away. There was an acute pain in his chest, and the hot moisture building in his eyes was decidedly not attributable to the cold.
This could not be real. Not here, not now, and yet...
"Can you look at me?"
Marcus couldn't, because now he knew it was real. He was real, and he was here, and for whatever reason, after a year and a few months, he wants to come and say sorry in this elaborate way, and crush Marcus' spirit more than he already had.
He shook his head, and real Percy sighed.
"You shouldn't be drinking that."
"Shut the fuck up, Weasley," spilled from his lips, both out of habit and genuine frustration. He'd been through this many times before in the past, hoping beyond hope that it could be real. Now it was, and he wished it weren't. "Why are you here?"
"Well, I'm studying for NEWTs," Percy explained. "You're here because you don't want to go ho — there?"
Marcus cringed at the slip up, and even more at the correction. It only served as a stark reminder of them — how vulnerable he'd allowed himself to be with Percy, how much he'd told him, only for the other to fuck off and find some lass to date the moment things got serious. Like Marcus wasn't sat there everyday, like an idiot, waiting for someone who'd already moved on. Or at least, loved to pretend to.
"NEWTs aren't for months," he said, rather than stating any of his thoughts. That would just get ugly.
Percy sucked in a breath. "I know."
"You know?" Marcus echoed, disdain and hurt coloring his voice. "Not gonna give me any shite about finding my worth at the bottom of a bottle? About being 16 and hoe I should go to class to give me my worth?"
"I—"
"Well, I'm 18 now, Percy. Quit drinking a while because I thought I found something better, but that ended up being even worse for my health than a bottle a day. And, it's especially fucked up, because sometimes I'll drink, legally now, and remember this boy I quite liked from when I was 16, telling me not to, so, I do it more."
His voice sounded detached, void of emotion even to him, but that was about the rawest he could be. He wasn't going to cry, let Percy know how much he'd hurt and ached, but by Merlin, could he feel.
Even the stupefied silence that followed only gave Marcus slight vindictive pleasure, because then he was looking at Percy and swallowing his words, like he was 16 all over again and fawning over him. His hair was a little different, he wasn't wearing his glasses today, but his nose was the same red, his skin was just as freckle-smattered and the moon illuminated him just as right. Again, Marcus found himself looking, staring.
This time, Percy didn't tell him to stop. He stared right back at him, regret swimming in his eyes.
"I've got you something," he said, digging in his pockets.
Whereas Marcus' wrapping was unsightly and partially ineffective, Percy ditched the wrapping entirely, and when his hands emerged and he opened his palms, lo and behold...
Hermes, the carved wooden owl figurine.
"You're... regifting this to me?" Marcus frowned, slowly closing his fingers around it after Percy pressed it into his palm.
"Well, he looked a little lonely, so I made this. And this, and... this," Percy listed, brandishing more and more figurines one by one. The last one, he was understandably hesitant about because, well, it was undeniably meant to be Marcus.
The first was of Marcus' little owl, Cassia, aptly painted a cinnamon brown, and the other was of Percy himself. They were... slightly subpar in quality, if Marcus were being completely honest, but for whatever reason, there were three of them, and they were there, and Percy had tried to make them. He accepted them all.
Percy cleared his throat as Marcus inspected them. "I wanted to give you Cassia last year, but... I was scared."
At the mention of last year, Marcus inhaled deeply, clenching his fist around the figurines tightly. He remembered last Christmas clearly, despite the terribly inebriated state he'd called it a night in — silent tears, punishing cold, seeing Percy and Clearwater snog under the mistletoe, and lots of alcohol.
"I was scared, Marcus," Percy repeated, as if Marcus hadn't heard him say it the first time.
Marcus wanted to scoff, to roll his eyes and tell Percy that he knew nothing about true fear until he was literally going through withdrawals from a person's touch, and would have had he not heard the tremor in Percy's voice. He tried to steel himself, but something about the emotion in Percy's tone had his resolve weakening already.
He wanted to be mad, to shake Percy and scream at him to make him feel a sliver of what Marcus had felt for the past year and a half, but he couldn't even bring himself to.
Here was Percy, apologizing and wanting to be heard out despite not deserving to be. But Marcus was always weak when it came to Percy.
"It was just so much. You'd get shitfaced every other night, but then we'd started kissing and suddenly it was like I'd hung the stars and the moon, and I know how much you like to look at the moon. And then we'd gone there and I — I didn't want to admit to myself that perhaps I could want more than that. Maybe I wanted to have what other people had, and be able to huddle close and exchange kisses when the moon was the sun and we weren't sitting on this bum-bruising log by this damned lake."
"You were ashamed," Marcus remarked after he'd processed Percy's story, watching him splutter in denial before conceding.
"Yes, but — "
"And since you just liked me that much, you ghosted me to go and find someone you felt comfortable doing all those silly, open things with."
"But, I wanted it to be you," Percy finished lamely. "And I know that makes me sound like an arse in every way to look at it, but I've always wanted you. I was 15, you were my first, the feeling was new, and I didn't know how to handle it. Still don't. But Penelope... she wasn't you."
Marcus heard everything he wanted to hear, and Percy was saying all the wrong things that Marcus wanted to be right and true.
The entire thing was so, so fucked, but he was weak, and he longed desperately. It felt like he was betraying himself by forgiving Percy, but he just couldn't resist.
He couldn't resist him then, and he couldn't resist him now, leaning in readily when Percy had done so.
The bottle in his hand fell to the compacted dirt with a soft thud, and Marcus felt good for the first time in a year in a half, the feeling even more euphoric than the first time. Percy’s mouth felt warm and welcoming, like home, and Marcus was right determined to keep his home for a while. It was one he'd like to go back to every Yule, and every other day of the year.
He could feel himself falling all over again — for Percy's same taste, Percy's same lips (cold and chapped), and Percy in the moonlight, who he knew looked just as good in the sun.
He hoped they could make it to the morning, but for now it was him, Percy, the black lake, and the moon.
(Oh, and the sound of two startled voices behind them.)