Like Cinnamon (The Red Hots Remix)
Wood was hard, sweet, and spicy, with an undertaste that bit back. He was a pretty boy, too. An Honorable, Brave Gryffindor. And, like most of the rest of his house, he didn't know what mattered, or what was real. He'd fight anything if he thought it threatened his precious Quidditch team, but these games ended eventually. He prided himself on running the best team in the school, but school was just seven years and Wood had been on the team for less than that. And running through the red robes of Wood's Quidditch uniform were tiny threads that Marcus knew only he could see, things that were perfectly obvious to him for a great while before they became obvious to Wood.
Sometimes the pretty boys took awhile to catch on.
Flint always looked for the jugular, like he'd been taught. And he noticed that Wood's jugular pumped just a little bit harder when he was near, that all the blood in Wood's pretty boy neck drained out of it pretty damn quick when they were in the same room. And it was so bloody flagrant that all Flint wanted to do was rub his face in Oliver until Oliver figured it out, too.
Wood had a hard, thin shell on the outside and was toothsome inside and Marcus knew that if he tipped Oliver over, Wood would spill into a million tiny, vaguely heart-shaped pieces. Marcus wanted to tip him over, to show him what was permanent. Marcus wanted Wood to know. And Marcus liked to push, to push and tease until finally he had Oliver shoved against the metal of the bathroom stall, and he made sure Oliver knew that it was okay to fall.
"You wear your heart on your sleeve, Wood."
Flint wanted to show Wood just how bright he shone, just how differently he stood out amidst that sea of gold-trimmed red.
"Like a bloody Narcissist."
Flint wanted to let Wood know that he'd rather share in than out him. Because who you were was permanent. Who knew you was permanent. And who just knew about you was ephemeral.
"You're not alone, Oliver. Don't forget that."
Marcus's mouth nipped hot at Wood's waist. The post-Quidditch fag smoke mixed on his tongue with the fire candy flavor of Oliver, the burning tastes of schoolboy vice. Marcus's mouth licked at warm, smooth skin and his hands held Wood's wrists firmly in place.
Marcus was the first person to let Oliver know he tasted like candy.