keeping count (losing count)
This started as a headcanon, but got a little long for bullet-points, so here we go. A little meandering from my tired brain on Flintwood. I don’t do Valentine’s Day, so this is belatedly in lieu. Dedicated to the lovely Flintwood squad at large.
Premise: Marcus uses numbers to manage anxiety. He keeps count of their kisses. One day, he slips, and he says the number out loud.
Kissing Oliver is always different each time for Marcus. He keeps count, and he isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t know how else to cope, or if it’s because each one bears remembering. It might well be both. Numbers help him to keep the chaos in his head ordered in the same way that Quidditch strategy does. He’s never told anyone. He never plans to.
There’s the first time, when their blood is boiling mid-argument; there’s a cut on Oliver’s lip and Marcus’ eye is swollen from where the other punched him. Oliver’s mouth tastes like blood when he closes in, firstly just wanting him to shut up, to stop talking, to stop being so tempting and beyond reach, to just stop, but then Oliver yanks his head back and bites his lower lip, turns what should have conquered him into silence into yet another challenge. Marcus is really, really bad at resisting challenges. As it turns out, he’s even worse at resisting them when they come in the form of a Gryffindor Quidditch captain, whose hair is always a mess and who, as it turns out, makes not kissing him seem like a sin.