“I believe in never, I believe in all the way
but belief is not to notice, belief is just some faith”
-Billy Corgan, “Through the Eyes of Ruby”-
Oliver’s about perfection.
More like obsession, Marcus thinks, because perfection sounds sterile, and that really isn’t Oliver. He’s bone poking through flesh, hollow stomached, white knuckles and nausea obsession that spills over and into Marcus’ skin. Then again, Oliver’s all about pain, as well, and there’s nothing more sterile than its white-hot stab.
Oliver’s more like an amalgamation of his obsessions. Marcus has no doubt that if he stretched Oliver’s mouth wide open and looked inside, he’d see a Snitch fluttering at the back of his throat. He’s a winner, too, and he pays for it with sit-ups in the morning, five hundred laps after practice, circling above the Quidditch field too dizzy to think straight, and running until he can’t tell the soles of his feet from the tarmac. Even if he doesn’t admit it to himself, Marcus knows that Oliver loves angles and straight lines and even if he hasn’t seen it, the Coliseum.
-
Marcus dislikes Puddlemere, really, with its English countryside feel. The one wizard bar is decorated with fake Quidditch memorabilia, like the tacky Holyhead Harpies photograph where all the girls smile suggestively and blow kisses. Everything is slow and sweet and serene, like the fresh, thick milk that swirls into Marcus’s mouth each morning and seems to numb as it oozes down his throat.
Falmouth’s been playing a tournament in Italy for the last month. The endless white beaches and vividly blue water and expansive people have spoiled him for Puddlemere. It’s not quite as claustrophobic and uncouth as he imagines it is, but he isn’t feeling charitable.
He hasn’t really been keeping up with League news, either, which is why he’s surprised to learn that Oliver is Puddlemere’s Keeper. Before his father died, tracking the rankings of teams he wasn’t allowed to be part of was simply masochistic, and after... Well, after, he’d been too busy getting used to the feel of a broomstick in his hands again. They still fit perfectly into his palms, leaving his hands smelling faintly of wood and sweat and polish.
That’s the same sort of smell that Oliver’s hands have, he finds out, a week after he meets him:
Standing above him, looking every bit as earnest and focused and Oliver as he was in school. Arms crossed, saying “Flint” and smiling as if he knows something.
He’d thought that Oliver would have burned out by now. Marcus has always seen Oliver as more of a Hufflepuff than a Gryffindor: practicing and practicing, always pushing himself--a scurrying, industrious little ant. But Marcus forgot that he pushed other people as well, forgot all the hatred that massed in the sleepy eyes of the Gryffindor team when they were woken at 5:15am, and the way Oliver shrugged it all off.
Oliver says, “We always win when people do what I tell them.”
Marcus knows it’s true, and finds himself agreeing.
“And you know you’d win all the time,” Oliver continues fiercely. “If only people weren’t so...”
“Weak,” Marcus finishes, and they look at each other for a little while.
-
Puddlemere beat the Falcons 350-180 on Saturday. Marcus remembers being angry, in a haze, flying between his Beaters and yelling orders at them. They don’t listen to him like United listens to Oliver. Marcus can almost feel the drills behind their unthinking obedience of Oliver’s orders, ducking and throwing and pulling up like marionettes. Marcus knows that Oliver’s strength is making up for their weakness, and so he concentrates on him.
He can still feel every delicate detail of the leathery Quaffle in his hands as he accelerates towards the goalposts and Oliver, just as he can still feel the slow-motion starburst of pain in his left shoulder as Oliver smashes into him. It was a challenge, the headlong straight rush, to test Oliver’s words of the previous night. Oliver made good on them. Marcus looks backwards just in time to see the passed ball shoot through the left hoop. The expression on Oliver’s face as he careened into him is the one Marcus thinks of when his tongue in his Oliver’s mouth that evening.
Marcus is the one who pulls off all of Oliver’s clothes and teaches him how, but Oliver’s a quick learner, just like he is on the Quidditch field. In a way, it’s just a continuation of the match, and as they slide together, Oliver says, “You understand.”
He doesn’t really respond to that, standing up and pulling on his clothes once it’s over. Oliver’s still sprawled on the bed, and for a brief moment, his eyes close, and there’s just a tangle of white on white: limbs, lips, bedsheet. Oliver opens his brown eyes again and looks up. He asks whether Marcus is staying, and he’s just the tiniest bit surprised, though he’d never admit it.
“With the opposition?” Marcus’s laugh sounds a little forced, but it’s enough to carry him through from morning-after goodbye to breakfast alone, as usual, because Marcus thinks he knows Oliver’s not as fucking tough as he thinks he is.
-
The Falcons are training very hard for the Championship match. Marcus can see how much it’s taking out of them from the spineless rag doll way the team slouches in the locker rooms. This is the first time they’ve been in the finals in thirteen years. Wechley makes a comment about it being unlucky, and is silenced by Marcus’s glare.
Wechley laughs nervously, and Marcus thinks he’d really like to smash his nose in. But they’re on the same side, and Marcus doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore.
“More practice,” he says gruffly, and kicks off in a haze of dust and frustration without waiting for the others.
They practice hard, Beaters knocking into Bludgers with so much force that it sends a shudder through their entire bodies. Orson screams “Watch out!” as a Bludger crashes into Marcus’s face. He spits out a shard of white tooth, soaked in red, and thinks about Oliver.
-
Oliver’s very earnest about everything--Marcus was right about that much. Even when he’s making love, he’s serious and focused and I have to get it right, like he’s learning a new Quidditch strategy.
“The Wronski Feint,” Marcus laughs. Down, down, down together, and then pulling up at the last moment, so close to the grass that their eyes are filled with green.
That night, Marcus stays with him little longer, though he still leaves in the morning.
-
Oliver’s got a head for strategy. Marcus is willing to give him that, after watching Puddlemere United streak across the pitch. It’s something a person like Oliver probably takes delight in: the tiny details and chessboard calculations that translate into something wet and bloody and suffused with adrenaline.
This time, the Falcons are more prepared, smoothed and honed by Marcus’s sandpaper tongue. Each wet thud of leather against wood is amplified, pacing their game like a heartbeat, raising the tempo in anticipation. The scores change with a profusion of glitter and a soft pop- 580-510, Falmouth. 730-720, Puddlemere. 970-950, Falmouth. It’s more than sport, underneath the white stadium lights; it’s more real and illuminated than anything else.
Oliver’s eyes flicker, and Marcus hurls the Quaffle through one of the hoops. 980-950, Falmouth. Marcus smiles, but then he sees Oliver gesturing to Mulwray. There’s shouting, and the Seeker is diving towards the flicker of almost-invisible wings even before the words are fully out of Oliver’s mouth, but he’s not fast enough. Oliver realises it, speeding beside Mulwray, pushing his broom to its limits. It’s not even a decision, it happens so fast. Oliver shoves and Mulwray’s off his broom, rushing through the air with nothing but Oliver’s ‘Grab the damn thing!’ echoing in his ears.
He does:
Fingers grazing the fluttering wings and then crushing them, before the earth rushes up and Mulwray screams.
The whistle blows, and United wins, 1050-980.
Marcus looks down at Oliver. It’s like the height gives him clarity--he understands for the first time.
-
“It’s about winning...but--not just...it’s about everything,” Oliver says later, seeing Marcus after the match. “You understand. That’s why--you understand.”
Marcus is almost sick at the thought of it. “You could have killed him--” He looks down.
“It was the only way to win. You know that.” Oliver’s not apologetic, but Marcus didn’t really expect him to be. “You understand.”
‘No, I don’t,’ Marcus thinks, but doesn’t say, ‘I don’t want to.’ Instead, Marcus leans in and kisses him.
It’s not even a decision, it happens so fast.
He looks into Oliver’s eyes and smiles. In the dim light outside the locker room, it’s easy to believe he doesn’t understand anything at all.
-