e a s e . y o u r . t r o u b l e d . m i n d

Ease Your Troubled Mind
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG-13

Summary: In which Oliver and Charlie drink firewhisky and old secrets are revealed.

Notes: For my dear Evol Twin Käthe on the occasion of her natal day.

Date: September 1, 2005

When Oliver comes home, there is a narrow strip of light glowing from beneath his door. A light he didn't leave on when he left for practice this morning. He casts a muffling spell as he unlocks the door and pushed it open, wand drawn and ready for trouble.

Charlie Weasley is curled up on the old sofa Oliver's mum bought him when he moved, clutching a pillow the way Oliver used to clutch the stuffed Quaffle he'd slept with until he was eleven.

"Oi," he says roughly, though his hand is gentle against Charlie's shoulder as he coaxes him awake, "I thought you were in Romania."

Charlie blinks up at him, broad, blunt fingers shoving his hair out of his eyes as he sits up. "I was," he says. "I'm not right now."

"I noticed." Charlie gives him a wry grin as he drops down onto the sofa. The silence stretches between them, and it should be uncomfortable -- he hasn't seen Charlie in ages -- but it isn't. "Something to drink?" he asks finally, preparing to summon the butterbeer from the icebox.

"You know Bill was injured in the raid on Hogwarts," Charlie says at the same time, and Oliver revises his plan quickly, summons instead the bottle of firewhisky he keeps for after the particularly bad losses. He's already had a visit from the twins on the same topic; he had to buy a new bottle the next morning and he won't soon forget the headache he woke up with that day.

"Yeah," he says, opening the bottle and handing it to Charlie, who drinks right from it, head tipped back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Oliver has to swallow, too, hands tightening on his knees. He's over this, been over it for years, and yet...

Charlie finishes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and passes the whisky back to Oliver. "I should have been there."

"You couldn't have known." He doesn't know what Charlie does for the Order, having only joined since the battle, but he's sure that whatever it is, it's important, and Charlie needs to remember that. "You were needed in Romania."

"Bill, Ron, Ginny -- all of them fighting, and I was thousands of miles away, sleeping like a baby. Dumbledore--"

Oliver's heart constricts, and not just out of grief for the headmaster. Charlie is pale and worn, the thin skin beneath his eyes is shadowed. Oliver reaches out, puts a hand on Charlie's shoulder and squeezes in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. He's used to comforting teammates after lost Quidditch matches, not old friends in the aftermath of battles. Charlie's skin is warm and smooth under his callused fingers, and Oliver finds his eyes drawn to the spray and swirl of pale brown freckles that decorate it before disappearing beneath the collar of Charlie's shirt. Oliver swallows again, wondering what they taste like.

"It's not your fault," he says gruffly, because he can't think of anything else to say and he's been quiet too long. He's certain Charlie's noticed his staring.

He raises the bottle to take another swig of firewhisky when Charlie says, "Here, let me." Charlie takes another drink but doesn't swallow. He leans forward and seals his mouth over Oliver's. Oliver nearly chokes on the mouthful of firewhisky; he clings to Charlie's shoulders as Charlie presses him back against the cushions, lips still moving against his, tongue licking the inside of his mouth as if he likes the taste of firewhisky and Oliver.

Oliver certainly likes the taste of Charlie.

When Charlie pulls away, Oliver is reluctant to let him go; he sucks on Charlie's lower lip hungrily, and Charlie gives a huff of laughter.

Charlie pushes a hand through Oliver's hair and then cups his cheek, his touch delicate -- he's got Seeker's hands, Charlie has and Oliver has always admired them. "I suppose I could lie and say this was sudden or a surprise," Charlie says, looking at him intently, "but it isn't, is it?"

"Well," Oliver answers, tipping his head up for another kiss, which Charlie gives him. "Well," he says again when they come up for air, "I always fancied you at school, but you never--"

"I do now," Charlie interrupts, "if you still do."

Oliver pulls his head down and kisses him again, open-mouthed and laughing. "I really do," he says to the freckles on Charlie's neck, which taste like sweat and skin and summer somehow.

They touch and taste, kiss and whisper, exploring each other eagerly on the creaky second-hand sofa. Oliver feels a tightness in his chest at the trust Charlie shows in him, the direct way he tells Oliver what he wants and asks what Oliver wants in return, and all Oliver wants to say is you, you, you, as their legs tangle and hips thrust until they are both weak from satisfaction.

Afterward, they rearrange themselves more comfortably on the sofa, which really isn't long enough for them, but they manage. Charlie falls back to sleep with his head on Oliver's shoulder, and Oliver breathes very slowly so as not to wake him. He doesn't know if it's the firewhisky or the guilt, or if Charlie really does want him, but he's not going to question it right now. He buries his face in the soft red mess of Charlie's hair, memorizing the scent and feel of it against his skin, and stays up all night, watching Charlie sleep, the shadows gone from his face.

end

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