Pairing: Adrian/Oliver.

Rating: R.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: He leaves nothing behind when he goes, but there are traces of him everywhere...

Adrian has been waiting for Oliver.

He’s been waiting now for days, but something always happens—he gets called to classes, or forgets there’s a Quidditch practise for Hufflepuff, or Percy Weasley shows up just when he’s in the middle of a good dream.  So it’s Thursday afternoon by the time he actually catches Oliver in his room, and all the finesse and seduction has gone right out of his head and been replaced by desperation.

‘I’m going to Paris tomorrow,’ he says, wrapping his arms around Oliver like he’s afraid if he doesn’t hold on tight enough, that he’ll just dissolve into mist in his grasp.  ‘Going to visit my parents.  Blaise is going with me.’  These are important things to note, because everyone needs to know where they stand.  I love you best.  ‘So,’ he says, and there’s a lightness to his voice that’s almost forced, because he means it so much, ‘I’d better make it impossible for you to forget me.’  It’s only three days, he knows, but it’s three days when Oliver will be with Percy, and Adrian needs to leave something of himself there, right at the forefront of his mind. 

Oliver kisses him, and he’s terribly jealous of Blaise but would never come out and say it, at least not now, at the beginning of their curious arrangement with Percy.  But he promises ‘I won’t forget you,’ because it’s true, and really he’ll probably spend far too much time contemplating, worrying, mulling over just how this all came to be, that he is so caught between lovers.  He ignores it for now by hiding inside Adrian’s mouth, burying his confusion in smooth pale skin.

But Adrian will say it, because he does not know yet to keep it silent.  'It's a strange thing,' Adrian whispers, a little wonderingly, his fingers trailing loosely across Oliver's skin.  'And I'm not certain what to make of it, but I think it is the sort of thing I should tell you.  I'm--I'm jealous of Percy.  Already.'  He presses a finger to Oliver's lips, just in case, to forestall response, and continues thoughtfully.  'I know I haven't got any right to be, and I--I'm sure it'll go away.  I've never been jealous before, and I'm not sure how it works, and it's not anything to...worry about, or anything.  But it's there.  And I thought I should tell you.'

And Oliver just looks at him, and doesn’t know what to say in response, doesn’t know what to do at all, because really was it only just a few days ago that he said I don’t want anyone but you and meant it, and they were sitting on the grass on a cold grey morning that felt like the middle of springtime just because of the way Adrian was holding him, and Adrian had this mad suggestion about sharing him with Percy, and then—

Well, the kid was a Seer, supposedly.  Maybe there was something to the Divination business after all.

But it makes him happy, a bit, that Adrian is jealous, because he’s jealous sometimes, he’s used to sharing but not to feeling, and Adrian should be jealous when he takes a pureblood Slytherin girl home to meet his parents, a girl they’ll probably think is perfect for him.  A person on the absolute opposite of the spectrum from him: a man, a Gryffindor, three years Adrian’s senior and his teacher besides.  A person they’ll approve of.  (He does not know, yet, how much Adrian’s parents are like him, how little they would actually care about such things, he doesn’t realise they know about him already.)  If there is jealousy, it means Adrian really does feel as strongly as he says he does, that when he whispers breathy I love yous in Russian against sweaty moving skin that he’s not just saying what he knows will make Oliver come harder and scream louder. 

--want you need you love you please now oh yes please god oh—

So it’s been acknowledged, and they don’t need to talk about jealousy anymore, don’t need to talk at all.  Adrian pulls Oliver down on top of him and pleads in his ear, whispers things that would make good moral wizards blush and avoid him, but make Oliver bite down on his smooth skin and fuck him hard into the mattress and scrape his nails down his sides to mark him mine, mine, mine. 

He knows, because Adrian has told him, that when he has moments alone he opens his shirt and looks down at those marks, and remembers what it felt like to have them put there.  There are other marks on Adrian’s body, more sinister things, but Oliver does not know this.  The only marks that matter are the ones he has put there to stake his claim.  He does not know what Adrian’s other lovers think of them, if they notice, if they feel jealous in turn.  If he thought of it, he would still not know if he should care.

It is always everything with Adrian, sex that is, fast and hard and hungry and desperate, they both fantasise about moving more slowly but when they actually come together they can never seem to manage it.  There is sweat and moaning and scratching and sore muscles and adrenaline.  There is exhaustion, collapse, tangled limbs in the bed-sheets, sticky places on bare skin.

 ‘Stay,’ Oliver asks, as he always does.

‘You know I will,’ Adrian answers, and curls around him, nestles into the pillow and for the next few days at least his scent with linger on it.  There will be strands of silky blond hair, in the shower or clinging to the duvet, and Oliver will find them sometimes, when he is not expecting to.  Adrian leaves nothing behind when he goes, but there are traces of him everywhere.