amnesia au (flintwood)
Marcus has woken up from a bludger to the head missing his memories from the past eight years.
That’s what the Healers tell Oliver, anyways.
“Is it reversible?” Oliver asks, immediate, slightly desperate. There’s a boa constrictor tightening around his chest, a panic setting in a dull roar.
“They’re putting together an official diagnosis, Mr. Wood, which we may need your help with.” The Healer says in the most reserved of tones; Oliver thinks some semblance of empathy would be nice.
Marcus is laying down on the hospital bed when Oliver is led in. They’re lucky that the league provides them with private rooms - it’s both a preventative measure, and a comfort clause in their contract. Flint’s head is heavily bandaged, a deep purple bruising spreading beneath his eyes. He’s glaring at the ceiling. Very much upset - very much alive, which, Oliver reminds himself, is something to be grateful for in and of itself.
Marcus notices the commotion of them entering the ward. Then his eyes, slightly swollen shut, meet Oliver’s. They narrow into a hostile squint.
“What the bloody fuck is he doing here?” Marcus asks the Healer by his bedside; his eyes never leave their mark on Oliver, no doubt taking in the deep blue Puddelemere uniform, the sweat and grime smeared across his face, the expression of wide-eyed worry.
The Healers look at Oliver expectantly. Oliver inhales, sharp.
***
Marcus comes out of his one-on-one meeting with his coach with the darkest look Oliver has ever seen. It’s comparable to the time Marcus had walked in on Higgs and Pucey making out on their couch, except the situation is a lot less amusing, and a lot more nerve-wracking. Montrose’s coach claps Marcus once, firmly, on the shoulder, before turning to Oliver and pulling him aside.
“There are some things that I didn’t tell him,” Turner says discreetly, their backs turned to Marcus, who’s currently getting run through the potion regime he’s supposed to subscribe to by an assistant Healer. “He knows the basics, of course - when he’d started with Montrose, his standing on the team, stuff like that. The other things, though...felt it best if it came from someone who knew him on a more personal level.”
“How did he take it?”
Turner shrugs, glancing over his shoulder. “Surprised, I suppose. Pretty pissed he can’t remember shit.”
“No doubt.”
“Yeah,” Turner continues, “But - Wood. Look. He’s not exactly...friendly, so to say. Rude as all hell to me before I told him I could kick his ass off the team at any moment if I wanted to.”
Oliver smiles wryly. “Sounds like sixteen year old Marcus to me.”
“Sure,” Turner says, “Makes things difficult for you, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Oliver says. He’s firm in his hope that this is temporary, that something will be enough to trigger the memories back. The hours that Marcus has been shunted around from Healer to Healer have been, for Oliver, time to think. To draw up a game plan. He doesn’t dare think about weighing the pros and cons, the likelihood of wins versus losses. There’s only one outcome that he’s willing to chase after.
“Wood,” Lawrence calls awkwardly at the next practice. The rest of the team had left the locker room already, spirits low over the accident. It hadn’t been in the news and all players are attuned to the impact of injuries, but the circumstances had become common knowledge in the league and hadn’t sat well with anyone.
Oliver nods his head in acknowledgment, unsure of what to expect. Lawrence is stocky and tan, with close cropped dark hair and while he plays hard, he never means poorly.
“I, uh, I wanted to apologize,” Lawrence starts, but Oliver shakes his head.
“It happens. We both know that.”
“Yeah, but good God, Wood, never this bad.” Lawrence continues earnestly, “When it hit, I was scared shitless. And now...I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright.” Oliver smiles stiffly, unused to working these particular muscles in his face.
“If there’s anything I can do - how is he?” Lawrence asks. It’s been the league’s open secret that Wood and Flint were an item, long before they’d officially told their coaches and managers. Oliver’s used to fielding questions like these, but it’s a little harder when the truth of the matter is that he wouldn’t know, because Marcus is slipping out of his fingers.
“He’ll be okay,” Oliver replies, and tries really hard to believe it himself.
“Let me know if - anything, alright, Wood?”
Oliver nods, close-lipped in the way he’s been smiling too often these days.
He makes his best attempt at cooking Marcus’ favorite foods; the steak, rosemary potatoes, the dash of red wine in the stew. All of this Oliver knows like the back of his hand, regardless of the fact that he’s never actually cooked it before. He can taste it if he thinks hard enough, but that’s never helped anyone in the kitchen.
“Please help,” he begs Percy after the potatoes come burnt and black out of the oven, and Percy, with a long-suffering sigh, comes round after work in order to help the disaster of the meal.
“I’m not too good at cooking myself” Percy warns, before wrinkling his nose, “But I do know your oven is on way too high.”
“Marcus used to make dinner,” Oliver says, and then he hears the words he uttered, and collapses into a chair.
Percy levitates the burnt potatoes into the trash with a flick of his wand, and turns immediately to the bottle of firewhiskey on Oliver’s kitchen counter.
“You need this,” Percy instructs. “Here.”