Thud. Thud. Thud. Cedric peered through the steamy haze, attempting to find Wood. He'd overheard the Weasleys telling the rest of the Gryffindor team that their captain was trying to drown himself in the showers, and he'd come down to their locker room looking for him. The place seemed empty, but he could hear one of the showers still running. Maybe Oliver was in there—and his trousers grew tight at the thought of Oliver in the shower—but it'd been hours since the match finished. No one, even someone as pretty as Oliver Wood, took that long to clean up. More likely someone had carelessly left the water running. He'd turn it off, then, and head back to the dorms and the massive party that was going on in the common room.
It was their first victory in years, and over Gryffindor and Harry Potter, no less. Small wonder that the entire house was ecstatic. He'd even seen Professor Sprout there, imbibing Butterbeer and telling stories of Hufflepuff's glory days, years and years ago. He sighed and folded up a wrinkled set of robes someone had tossed on a bench. He'd wanted to talk to Oliver, to apologise. Even if the other captain had refused a rematch, insisting that the loss had been fair, Cedric still felt badly. The sight of defeat written all over Oliver, in the slump of his shoulders and the bitter set of his mouth, made his stomach queasy. And it wasn't Oliver's fault, it had all been pure luck and chance. If it was anyone's fault, it was the Dementors' for making Harry fall. Not that Cedric could blame him; he'd been petrified by them, too, and had reached out blindly for something to hold onto. It was only dumb luck that the Snitch had been there and he wanted to tell Oliver this, to reassure him that the loss wasn't anyone's fault, especially not his. Just pure chance.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Where was that ceaseless banging coming from? Maybe one of the pipes was broken. He headed for the shower, still pouring forth steam, and pulled aside the curtain. He was reaching in to turn the water off when he registered that the shower was not empty and was, in fact, quite occupied by a naked Oliver Wood. A naked Oliver Wood who was banging his head on the tiled wall and had been doing so for a while, judging by the pruned look of his skin and the massive bump rising on his forehead.
"Ah—er—I didn't know—I mean, shower—sorry," Cedric babbled, flushing to the roots of his hair. He tried not to stare at the wet, bare flesh before him—even if it was wrinkly, it was still gorgeous. The glimpse that he'd caught was tantalising, and he swallowed, hard.
"What? Come to gloat?" Oliver glared at him and pushed past, quite rudely, Cedric thought. And much to his sorrow, the Gryffindor tossed on the robes and clothes that Cedric had folded just a few minutes ago. In some distracted part of his mind, Cedric was disappointed to see Oliver's Quidditch-hardened muscles and sculpted limbs disappear under layers of cloth. Maybe I should've hidden those, and the image of Wood, naked and unselfconscious and angry, made Cedric's knees weaken. His ability to think disappeared and he couldn't concentrate on much beyond the angry line between Wood's eyebrows and how it marred the otherwise handsome face. He wanted to remove it, wanted to smooth the angry, defeated expression from the other boy's face. Unfortunately, his brain had melted and when Wood stepped closer, growling angry words about celebrating Hufflepuff's victory where he wasn't welcome and rubbing salt in the wound, Cedric could only gape like a fish, mouth working but nothing coherent emerging. Meanwhile, his blood—among other things—was rising with the proximity to Oliver Wood and the knowledge that, apparently, the Gryffindor preferred to go commando. Oliver's voice was rising, and he'd begun to yell when Cedric grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him in, kissing him gently.
Oliver was warm and damp and smelled of soap. His lips were chapped by too much exposure to the sun and the wind and he was too surprised to react, but Cedric continued to kiss him, hands sliding down to link around Oliver's waist.
Suddenly aware of what he was doing, Cedric hastily let go and stepped back. Oh, Merlin, I—what just happened? Frantic thoughts ran through his head, he's going to hate me, no, he already hates me, I can't believed I just leaped onto him like that. Oliver was staring at him, wide-eyed but not yet revolted, and Cedric tried to save things by apologising.
"S-sorry, didn't mean to…" his voice trailed off helplessly.
Oliver's eyes lost their confused look and refocused, brown slits of anger, as he shouted, "Sorry? For what? Catching the Snitch? That's what you're supposed to do, Diggory! So sod off!"
Hurt and shocked—Oliver was still thinking about the match?—Cedric started to leave, as ordered, and hesitated. He opened his mouth, nothing came out, and he turned and left abruptly. He could still taste the soap on his lips and he remembered the sensation of Oliver's body, taut with tension, against his. He lingered outside, suddenly reluctant to join his team in the common room, and savoured the memory of the encounter, as odd and brief as it had been. Maybe Oliver would emerge soon, and Cedric shivered, thinking about Oliver, wet and lonely and angry, angry in a way that was completely foreign to him. Quidditch was just a game, after all, nothing to get enraged and frustrated over. He'd wait, then, maybe catch Oliver on his way out, try to talk to him and explain.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Sounded like it was going to be a long wait.