So mystarsandmyocean tells me she’s writing college!Oliver and Felicity, and sarcasticfina will always and forever have written my favorite high!school!Oliver and Felicity. So I shall attempt to, IDK, bring my own style to a genre I feel has been done much than I ever could before.
"Don’t you ever feel like this is all pointless?" Oliver is hanging, upside down, from a tree limb. Mostly because Felicity has been ignoring him for the past hour and it doesn’t feel right not to have her eyes on his.
"Gosh, I don’t know Oliver," Felicity says dryly, "is that an existential question, are you questioning the necessity of English homework?"
"I don’t know what the former means, so… the second one."
"You and I both know that you’re not as dumb as you like to pretend you are, so. What? You don’t like the book?"
"I like it just fine when you read it."
She’s looking over the top of her glasses at him like a goddamn sexy librarian and she’s popping gum like a cheerleader and honest-to-god the problem with Felicity Smoak is she checks too many of his boxes at the same time for him to keep track of which dirty thought to shut down first.
"Well, part of the problem is that it’s supposed to be a play. And the other part is that listening to people who don’t often speak in 15th-and-16th century English read Shakespeare is a bit like having a needle slowly inserted into your eardrum. Bearable at first, but then…"
Oliver shudders. “Way too graphic, ‘Lis.”
"Fel-ic-i-ty, as you well know."
"What? No nicknames?"
"Oliver Queen, I have known you since we were six years old. You can’t put on your charmer act and get me to lose my focus."
"No?" Oliver drops from the tree and crawls across the grass to lay his head in her lap. "Tell me about Shakespeare, then. Make me care. That’s what you’re good at, Fel-i-ci-ty."
She does just what he hoped she would do. Buries her hand in his hair and scritches at his scalp like he’s some kind of cat.
"Well, for starters, this play is hilarious…” And she’s off, talking about Benedict and Beatrice, Hero and Claudio like they’re old friends. And Oliver is laying with his head in her lap while she reads to him and gestures and babbles.
And he forgets, for a minute, the arguments his parents are having, the dip his grades are taking, the way his future is looming, because the sun hits her painted purple lips and makes them shine and he wonders if…
if he pulls her down and touches their lips together, will she be surprised? Will she think it’s about time? Will she think he’s ruining everything?
"You’re not listening," Felicity says, after several minutes.
"Yes I am. Don’t you think Beatrice and Benedict knew each other for a long time?"
"Yes… I do, actually. Most scholars read the play and think perhaps they had a relationship before, just based on some of the dialogue."
"That’s what I thought. So maybe — do you think the play is all about timing? The right time — the right place — you can meet the right person in the wrong context and…" Oliver shrugs.
"I think you could certainly write a paper about that."
"Like — I don’t know. Maybe Benedict was just an idiot kid, you know? He says he likes being a soldier. Having his freedom. Maybe — I don’t know. Maybe he broke Beatrice’s heart because he couldn’t get his shit together. Maybe they were really in love the first time."
Felicity pauses. Like she can tell they aren’t just talking about Beatrice and Benedict. “Maybe Beatrice didn’t want to have all of her attention wrapped up in Benedict. Maybe, even though he was handsome and smart and rich — she just knew, if they got together it would be forever and it wasn’t the right time. Maybe that was it.”
"I don’t want to wait," Oliver says, and his heart is breaking. "I want you here always with me."
"I don’t want to wait either." She bends her head, touches his forehead with her lips. "But I can’t right now. You know that."
Oliver stretches out on the grass and thinks for a moment that he ruins everything he touches. A perfect, golden, sunny moment, and he had to say something stupid.
"Besides, you don’t really love me. Not yet. You think you do."
"It’s okay, Oliver. We’ll figure it out, together. Yeah?"
She kisses him, softly, on the lips then. “Just — stick around, Oliver. Show me you mean all those sweet things you say with your eyes.”
It’s a long and bumpy road. Love isn’t simple, or sweet. It can’t be caught in a bottle on a summer’s day and held like captive lightning bugs, easily summarized or quantified. Oliver doesn’t know how to be faithful. He has to learn. Felicity doesn’t know how to believe in forever, or grand romantic dreams. She has to learn.
They have tragedies, and victories. And ten years go by before he puts a ring on her finger and calls her Mrs. Queen and they have children who hang upside down from tree limbs, and like to read Shakespeare.
Sometimes Oliver walks behind the mansion to that tree and wonders why the pain of not having her that day was so immense when the thought of losing her now is so much worse.
She was wrong that day. He loved her then, the way that adolescents can love. White-hot and permanent and all-consuming.
He loves her now with the weight of years, with the fire of knowledge — knowing what she looks like on her best days and her worst. Knows her inside and out and is still learning her.
He always goes back to the house and wraps his arms around her and kisses her because he’s allowed to do that now, and feels sorry for the boy he was — who had to wait.