SAWYER & OLIVER

( these were made by Dreamer7Black !!! )

( these were made by milkshakes_oo !!!! )

( ABSOLUTE FUCKINF BANGERS made by bIoodbender )

(we agreed unanimously that oliver is the type of asshole to post shirtless gym pics)

( also one of my absolute favourites:
drawn by my bby girlfraud )

BEAUTIFUL one drawn by itslocked

the mixtape that inspired this bonus one-shot:

i. fireworks by you me at six | ii. painting flowers
by all time low | iii. me without you by all time low
| iv. monsters (feat. blackbear) by all time low | v.
cold night by you me at six

After graduation, Oliver and Sawyer both went professional. Except, they were drafted to different teams and spent majority of their time apart. They both participated in the battle of Hogwarts—with them were also: Wyatt, Jeremy, Rio, Marcus, Violet, and Quinn. All of them survived, albeit, injuries—both psychological and physical—were sustained. As the years elapsed, Harry was overjoyed to know they were both still together. Once the battle was over, just like everyone else, they resumed their lives.

Sawyer and Oliver kept very lowkey. Nobody would even notice that they're in a relationship unless they asked because they're not very open with PDA, and only a small select number knew. When their respective teams played against each other, people would wonder why the Appleby Arrows' beater seemed to play with more vigour than ever, and why the keeper of Puddlemere United would exchange a few heavily implicated words of—as an outsider would see—dislike, sparking rumours of a weird rivalry between them.

Their relationship was great. The distance, they didn't mind at first. Of course, it sucked, being separated by continents and timezones, but in the first few months and four years, it was manageable. They've been together for almost five years and it feels so natural clocking back into their own little rhythm once they see each other again.

Until it wasn't.

Slowly, communication grew sparse. They still saw each other during holidays and off-season time, but most of that was also dedicated to training with their separate teams. Oliver and Sawyer saw each other even less once Oliver got taken off reserve and became the main Keeper for Puddlemere united, ultimately achieving his dream. Sawyer was proud, of course. Happy for him.

Letters that might've come in daily while both were overseas dwindled to once a week, calls were even rarer, and soon enough communication halted for almost a month during quidditch season.

Sawyer noticed Oliver getting closer with his teammates, and seemed to want to spend a lot of time with them. She was busy, too, but she got tired of most of her teammates easily, still unable to shake her antisocial personality even throughout the cusp of adulthood.

And then one day, Sawyer came home to Oliver sitting in the kitchen, a glass of orange juice in his hands, and immediately knew something was off.

"We can't do this anymore," Oliver had said to her, under shitty lighting and shittier circumstances. Even though they were standing under the same roof, in their cramped little kitchen, Sawyer could feel the continental drift between them. mountains that once upon a time couldn't break Oliver out of Sawyer's tenacious grasp seemed to jam the reception between their mouths and now Sawyer could hear nothing except the static of her own heart slowly shattering, crack by crack from the inside, as she put the pieces together. Oceans that never once held the possibility of drowning out Oliver's rare smile when he held Sawyer after months of travelling and being apart seemed to drag them further and further with the tide. And now, as she had once told herself years prior, they were nothing.

Once upon a time, she would've fought him. It was in her nature. She was a fighter by birth, and she would hold onto what was hers unless he was adamant about not changing his mind.

Granted, now, she could see the exhaustion etched into the bags under his eyes, the way the light had faded from his smile, and the way his shoulders were sloped like this was the inevitable, like 'giving up' was scrawled all over them.

And she, too, knew. Sawyer was tired. She should've known. Nothing good can last. Especially not in her hands.

"If that's how you really feel," Sawyer says, more like a statement than a question, though it could be read as either. Her voice is steady, calm. She's already seen this coming, though the ache that fissures her from the inside is vicious and cleaving. It hurts, losing someone. Hurts even more knowing that he's making the decision to walk away. But her face is blank, betraying no emotion. If he wants to leave, it wouldn't be fair if she made the process more difficult for him than it already is. If he ran back to her out of guilt because of her own sadness, that would be incredibly selfish, she decides. If he wants to leave, he can leave. And she can decide if it's worth it to pick up the pieces once the door shuts behind him and she's left alone to the sound of her own pain.

"I-" Oliver starts, suddenly unsure. But she reads the resolve in his eyes and she knows he's just figuring out the words to give. They don't even know how to talk anymore. "I'm tired."

"So am I."

"And?"

"What do you want me to say?" Sawyer asks. there's not a trace of feeling in her tone. No malice or melancholy or anger. Only understanding. "Would you like if I stopped you? Would that change your mind?"

"No," Oliver says, slowly. His voice is soft. Low. Defeated. Not like his image on the pitch after a match—golden and radiant in his victorious absolution. "No, it wouldn't."

"Then, it's easy," Sawyer says, setting him free, "you can leave whenever you'd like."

He gives her one last long look, green eyes boring into her dark ones. She doesn't bother trying to decode it. "I love you," he tells her, and the strain in his throat plucks at her guts.

"I know," she tells him, and her voice wavers a little, but she reigns all her emotions in and presses them under her heel.

Only after he packs his things and walks out of their—now just her—apartment, she discovers that there are no tears to shed over someone she once thought she'd been in love with.

So she shoves Oliver Wood into an abandoned drawer in the back of her mind, along with all the things she's chosen to forget, and locks it tight.

It's over. Somehow, it feels impossible to get out of bed the next day.

A week passes. She starts cleaning the apartment, getting rid of things that she doesn't need, and putting things she can't bear to look at anymore because they only serve as painful reminders of a man who chose to leave into cardboard boxes she shoves into the closet of the guest room, which she doesn't go into anyway. Month by month, she moves on, she reinvents a life, she plays quidditch with her teammates, she meets up with Quinn whenever she's in town, and she starts opening herself up and hanging around the Appleby Arrows' keeper, Tyler Havilliard.

(She doesn't throw away the pictures, just puts them somewhere else. She physically cannot remove the Nirvana shirt he'd given her for her eighteenth birthday, so it stays on, and she tells herself it's because she likes the way it hangs off her shoulders. She falls asleep to the mixtapes he gave her every Christmas.)

A year passes. Sawyer heals. She's fine. Not exactly happy, But not exactly heartbroken anymore either.

Then comes the day that Puddlemere United is scheduled to play against the Appleby Arrows.

At some point in the game, Oliver gets knocked off his broom from a very dangerous height by a bludger. He breaks his arm and cracks three ribs and he's put on one week's rest, doomed to sit out for the other games even after the medics have fixed up his bones and put him back together, good as new. He insists that he's fine, but the Puddlemere United team's coach orders him to stay home and rest anyway. He'll see him back at physicals first thing next week, and they'll talk about getting him back in shape soon.

Meanwhile, Sawyer sees this unfold from the air, and the immediate instinct to fly down and do a quick inventory of his injuries is so strong she impulsively goes with it once the halftime buzzer sounds.

"Move," she commands, so fierce, so filled with vehemence that Oliver's teammates move out of the way automatically. They know her track record and her temper problem. "Get out of my way."

"Sawyer," Oliver starts, face draining, heart stopping, world crumbling apart, when she takes a seat on the bench beside him, pinning him with a gaze so intense it burns. "I'm fine."

"Cut the shit," Sawyer says, the first words she's spoken to him in a little over a year. Three hundred and seventy-eight days, to be more specific. "Look at me," she says, and grasps his chin in her hands. He lets her, but opens his mouth to argue. In a different year, she might have pressed her mouth to his to shut him up. But this year, she doesn't. This year, her eyes search his face for any telltale signs of pain. "This—" she gestures between them— "might be nothing, but don't you dare lie to me."

"Mate, you've got three broken ribs and a shattered elbow, she's right," one of oliver's teammates snorts. Oliver cuts a glare in their direction.

"I'm fine," Oliver insists, clenching jaw and gritting his teeth so hard he thinks he hears one crack. It doesn't help that his body aches so badly he feels like death. But the call of the ongoing quidditch match pulls stronger than the aftermath of his fall. "I'm all healed. I can play."

"Not in the next week you won't," his coach grunts at the same time Sawyer growls, "don't be fucking stupid."

"We're not together anymore," he wants to tell her, but can't find it in himself because there's that old ache in his chest, a collapsing star sucking out the air in his lungs and it won't go away. "Why do you care?" he asks her, instead.

"Don't ask stupid questions," she says, stone-faced and impatient, face flushed from the violent game, sweat plastering her hair to her temples, and she's looks just as fearsome as he remembers. Beautiful. But before he can tell her anything, before he can say tell me to go, she pulls away from him and vanishes into the distance once more.

That, Oliver thinks, is the last he'll see of Sawyer Lee until the next Puddlemere United match against her team. Or Christmas, when their families meet up for dinner at his parents' house. That is, if she even bothers turning up.

Until she shows up at his doorstep at the beginning of his one week of house arrest.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, baffled, the world crumbling all around him once more as he stands in the doorway, taking in the sight of her—grey hoodie, black jeans, backpack slung over her shoulder, all freckles and fierce glare. He doesn't miss her checking him out either. It makes him smirk a little bit. "How'd you get my address?"

"Wyatt told me," Sawyer says, and his heart throbs at the mention of his best friend's name, and the fact that the twins, whose relationship had been in bitter shambles for years, seems to be slowly mending. Not perfect yet, but a work in progress. "Will you let me in or not?"

Despite rationality screaming at him to shut the door in her face, he lets her in, presses himself against the door to let her brush past him and into his apartment. He kicks himself internally. Not because of that lapse in judgement and ultimate moment of weakness, but because he realises, with an agonising pang, that he misses her. Fucking hell, he misses her more than anything in the world.

He leads her to the kitchen, and doesn't miss the way her eyes skim the interior of his apartment. It's not a secret that they both earn good money, enough to live comfortable lives. His apartment is nice, and he likes that it's comfortable, looks lived-in and is state-of-the-art. The apartment that they used to share wasn't any different.

She perches on a barstool at the island while he makes her favourite drink. For five minutes, silence fills the space. When he sets the hot chocolate in front of her, she blinks. Her face is blank, but he decrypts it as surprise.

"I remember," he says, clearing his throat. The way she stares at it, like it's some foreign gesture, the curl of her lip half a shade off disdain—he's almost afraid she'd ignore it.

When she takes a sip, he has to cough to hide his relieved sigh.

"So," he starts, raking a hand through his hair, taking a seat next to her. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to check up on you," she says, bluntly, toying with the handle of the mug. "Also to clear the air here; that bludger that hit you wasn't mine. I'm not doing this out of guilt."

He raises a brow. "I know."

"You do?" She cocks her head.

I trust you, he wants to say. Instead, he scoffs, "If you wanted to take me out, I would've been dead. I know how you play. But that's not all. Tell me why you're really here."

"I realised that I needed to do this when you took that fall." Her voice is frighteningly soft. His pounding heart stomps on the brakes so hard his entire chest throbs. "One week," she says, looking at him so intensely he can't help but avert his gaze. "Give me one week to win you back. At the end of it, you can decide whether you want this—" she draws a line between the both of them— "or not. It's your decision to make. So. Tell me to go."

He should tell her to go, that he didn't want her pity. He should kick her out of his apartment and never look her way again. He should let her down now, tell her he doesn't love her anymore, that he doesn't want to go through that vicious cycle of distance and pain and not being enough for her again. But he can't lie. Not to her.

So he tells her, "stay."

Her face is blank for a moment.

Then there's a small twitch in the corner of her lips that might've been scorn, though Oliver isn't convinced, and he feels like the sun is imploding inside him again.

"One week to make you love me again," Sawyer muses.

Oliver rolls his eyes, and he has to stop himself from choking on the old brag of his heart: I never stopped.

Instead, he says, "clock's ticking."

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
if anyone wants a sequel entailing this little ficlet..... 👀