EDIT: Written for reallyreally. Enjoy, Mikey and everyone else! :D
Rating: PG, for mention of character death.
Characters/Pairing: Percy and Oliver, you could call it slash.
Warnings: One: Tis incredibly short. Two: HUGE HALFBLOOD PRINCE SPOILER. So, if you haven't read it and don't want the whole flippin' thing ruined for you, I wouldn't read this.
Summary: Everything manages to work itself into a routine.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, so on and so forth. The idea/plot was mine, however, and if I catch you stealing it, then I WILL open a can of virtual whoopass on you. >:F
"But it isn't my fault!" Percy Weasley shouted, slamming his fists down on the table to punctuate his rising to his feet, causing the two teacups and spoons that sat upon it to rattle dangerously. His face had reddened in anger and frustration, though he wasn't yet breathing heavily as he was prone to do when enraged so. Despite this, his counterpart sat calmly across the table with the air of someone weathering a storm from the safety of a warm pub.
"I didn't make this happen! I didn't want any of it to happen!" Percy raged, gesturing violently and uselessly with his arms as he began to furiously pace the small kitchen he and his counterpart occupied. The man sitting at the table only watched, waiting patiently for the time when it would be safe to speak. He noticed that the heavy breathing had begun.
"I never hated him!" He shouted, hair seeming to positively flame in his fury, face very close to matching it. "I never sided with his enemies! I just didn't agree with him, I didn't care for his foolhardy way of running things! He trusted too much, he was too naive to do his job!"
Oliver, sitting at the small table in Percy Weasley's kitchen, felt a pang of indignance at this. You shouldn't speak ill of someone who died valiantly, he thought to say, Gryffindor through and through, but Percy had gone on, practically wearing a hole in the floor before the stove with his pacing.
"I never said I wanted him dead, I didn't want him dead, but someone...someone could have done a better job!" He was losing steam now. The last statement sounded like a last, weak attempt at an argument that wouldn't be won. He was slowing now, his breath slowing with him. This had been a shorter rant than usual. His expression had gradually gone from furious to unreadable. Oliver figured that he had better get whatever words he had for him in now, before he broke down entirely. This had become their routine.
First, Percy would come home from work, under immense pressure to do his job well and recieving stress-makers from all angles. Next he would mull it all over, turn it around and around in his ample mind and start looking for things that he had a reason to be outraged at. They were never hard to find. It had been bad last summer, yes, worse at Christmas, and the past few weeks had led up to the day that had truthfully taken the cake.
Murdered, what was more, by a supposedly trustworthy ally and spy. Oliver couldn't comprehend it. He could not find the power within himself to comprehend it yet- but then again, it had only happened the previous week.
He had stood stoically at the funeral, watching the people around him mourn, sobbing into the perfect summer evening. He could remember distinctly closing his eyes, wondering why, why wouldn't the tears come? Why couldn't he make himself mourn the death of a man so great? Because, said a rather logical and perceptive part of his mind, he had never fully appreciated the greatness. This was when he had bowed his head in acknowledgement rather than mourning; acknowledgement of his ignorance and his unquestioning acceptance of constants.
And constants? They no longer existed. They never truthfully had, but to Oliver, at one time they most certainly did. Their presence was literally unquestioned. You took advantage of them. Never could he recall ever feeling thankful that the school was headed by a man of such virtue and intelligence- never could he remember thinking about what life would be without Dumbledore, or McGonagall, or his mother and father, or any number of the things that he had once accepted as un-do-away-with-able.
Which brings us to the next step in their routine- After Percy had found the reasons for his outrage, his heartsickness, his guilt, he would storm and rant and rave until he could no longer, whereupon he would seem to give up entirely.
This late night, as he collapsed into Oliver's arms once again, for the first time he wasn't the only one crying.