like fizzled out fireworks
pairing: marcus flint x oliver wood
setting: best friends au, summer before oliver’s sixth year
a/n: a foray into one of my favorite au’s for flintwood
They’re stargazing on a clear summer night in the field that separates Marcus’ house from Oliver’s and he rubs his bare heels against the grass, knowing he’ll have stains on the bottom of his feet when they finally part for the night.
It’s late and quiet. He’s got the bridge of Oliver’s nose in his peripheral, and content washes over him. Normally he gets fidgety this late in the summer, the premise of school drawing ever closer a damper on the holiday spirits, but they’d flown and practiced for hours in the evening and it’s quieted his nerves.
When they go back, it’ll be another season of rivalry and biting remarks. But for now, Marcus breathes in the sweet scent of grass and broom polish, relishing how similar it is to their first summer together in little league, and every one after that.
Oliver’s voice breaks the silence. “Look,” he points towards a cluster of stars, “Didn’t we learn about that one in astronomy?”
“Probably,” Marcus rumbles, “S’ probably one of the boring ones, though.”
They’re so close that he can feel Oliver’s chuckle on his left side, but he doesn’t look over.
“What do you consider interesting, huh?”
Marcus pokes his tongue into the corner of his cheek. “I dunno. The stories, you mean?”
“Sure.” Oliver props himself up on one elbow and Marcus steels himself to avoid the warm brown gaze that he’s gotten so used to over the past few months.
He grips a handful of grass and pulls, feels the give of the roots in his palm. “I guess Eridanus is cool.”
Oliver snorts. “With the son trying to drive the sun chariot?”
Marcus can feel Oliver’s gaze on his face. “Yeah, that one.”
“You have weird taste.”
Oliver lets himself fall back onto his back, shifting restlessly to get comfortable again, and Marcus watches the faint spiraling of the stars. He wonders if he’s imagining the movement, wonders if he’s imagining how Oliver seems to be just the slightest smidgen closer.
Maybe it’s better that they don’t really have the space for this, for these moments, at school. Marcus doesn’t think he could take that much of Oliver in one bout. He’s sure he’d drown too quickly.