Chapter Text
The media bubble finally bursts, a month and a half after Oliver dropped the news, and Marcus is actually surprised that the papers had held out that long. Maybe they’ve actually been discreet - or their privacy and anti-Floo wards did their job.
Puddlemere’s owner and their coach call them in the next day, declares them idiots for keeping this from the team, then promptly congratulates and thanks them for the publicity. As all things go, Marcus and Oliver get off pretty easily, something which they both know not to take for granted.
The team has a field day, now that they’re allowed to fully celebrate – Rodgers drags them both out to the pub one night and Puddlemere attempts to drink them under the table. Firewhiskey is ingested in copious amounts, and Oliver throws Marcus out of the room the next morning, the Keeper too hung over to deal with Marcus pattering about.
“Fuck you.” Oliver groans into his pillow, as Marcus accidentally closes the door too loudly.
Marcus shoves a hangover potion into Oliver’s back. Oliver moans weakly. “Drink this and stop whining. You’ve had worse.”
Adrian’s owl is waiting by the balcony when Marcus leaves Oliver to his own devices. “Thought you’d enjoy this” the neatly written note states, and a copy of the most recent Quidditch Digest is attached.
‘Wood & Flint’, the headline declares, ‘Rivals to Teammates to Lovers?’. Marcus skims the article over, and almost chokes on his own laughter as they speculate about the ‘whirlwind romance that must’ve swept Oliver Wood off his feet’. There’s a picture of them laughing while exiting the locker rooms from the beginning of last season, captioned “The beginning of the affair?”
“Did you hear we’re having our honeymoon in Greece?” Marcus calls to Oliver.
“I hate you.” Oliver yells back, and the string of swears following indicates that the potion has yet to kick in. There’s a clatter in the bathroom, then a loud yelp – Marcus tosses the magazine aside in favor of making sure Oliver doesn’t accidentally knock himself out in the shower.
Three hours later finds them bickering over seating plans for the guests, Percy called in because Marcus really does not give a shit about who sits next to who. Oliver wants to avoid the big blowouts – Marcus thinks they’re inevitable.
“Look, it’ll be hilarious anyways. Just place Malfoy next to Potter, and get a betting pool going on who’s going to throw pasta at the other first.”
Oliver scowls. “They’ll kill each other.”
“I’m sure they can handle themselves like adults.” Percy says primly, then frowns down at the small diagram. “On second thought, we might have to remove the knives.”
“Ooh, keep the knives, I’d like to see that go down.”
Percy laughs lightly, but Oliver’s face is thunderous, the man already in a bad mood from earlier that morning.
“I’m trying to make this a good wedding, okay? Stop being so insensitive and treating this like a joke.” Oliver snaps. There’s a pause as they stare at each other, and for some reason, Marcus is just fed up with the whole discussion, fed up with making decisions over trivial shit that really shouldn't matter in the long wrong.
He feels the anger flare up before he can reign it in. “If I’m not helping, I should leave, shouldn’t I?” Marcus says coldly, and something akin to hurt flickers in Oliver’s eyes.
“Boys -” Percy tries.
“Go ahead.” Oliver says, still just as annoyed. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Marcus pushes back roughly from the table, ignores Weasley’s protests and Oliver’s silence, and proceeds to stalk out the door. Everything about the planning, and the decisions, and Oliver’s impatience for things has him wound up. Merlin, can’t they have just signed some document and gotten it over with?
His feet are on automatic, and he finds himself three blocks away from their flat – Marcus curses as he remembers that there’s a cake tasting they need to get to in the next hour.
“Whatever,” Marcus mutters to himself, “Oliver can handle that himself.”
The flash of guilt that follows immediately has him turning and walking briskly back – because fuck it, even if he is no help, it’s his wedding as well and he’s not going to leave Oliver to do the grunt work. Although cake tasting doesn’t necessarily fall under the category of untasteful tasks.
As spats go, this is one Marcus is getting a bit ashamed of.
The flat’s empty of Weasley and Wood, however, when he returns, most likely already cleared out to the bakery. Marcus sighs – because as much as he knows it’s not earth shattering, that the fact that they’d lashed out was out of pent up annoyance, he hates leaving things scrambled with Oliver.
There’s a note resting on the kitchen countertop, along with fives different types of champagne that they need to finalize a decision on. Oliver’s scrawl is recognizable – went out with Percy to our appointment. Love you.
Marcus feels the slightest bit worse at the last line of Oliver’s note. It’s genuine, always is, even when he’s being a difficult asshole.
Marcus glares at the bottles, green glasses winking underneath their kitchen lights. If Oliver’s going to be choosing the cakes, he might as well choose the accompaniment. Do his part, and all that, and god knows, Oliver’s going to hate touching alcohol for the next few days after last night out with Puddlemere.
One flute of champagne in, however, and he remembers why he hates the ruddy bubbly drink. Everything ends up tasting the same halfway through, and Marcus entertains the idea of just giving everyone Butterbeer, but he can already see his mother’s disapproving face in his mind’s eye.
Marcus winds up staring at the pictures decorating their mantle, slightly tipsy because he hadn’t eaten dinner yet and champagne is sloshing around in his stomach. There’s a picture from each of their first wins on professional teams. A jubilant Oliver winks back at him under Puddlemere’s old banner. Marcus pokes at the photo with his wand, trying to make the Keeper continue laughing.
There’s the distinctive sound of their flat door creaking open, and familiar light footsteps that indicates Oliver has returned home. “Marcus?”
“In here.” Marcus calls back. The Oliver in the picture is now making silly faces back up at him. Marcus sticks out his tongue in response.
“You’re drunk.” Oliver says, leaning on the doorway and watching him amusedly. “On champagne.”
“Getting into the spirit of things, Wood.” Marcus pulls Oliver over to where he’s leaning on the back of the couch, and if Oliver struggles, it’s only half heartedly. He can feel the heat of Oliver’s breath on his own face – Oliver smells like sugar, probably finalizing the cakes this afternoon. His tipsy brain tells him to nuzzle closer, so he does just that, relaxing when Oliver lets him.
“M’sorry I got pissy. I’ll take things more seriously.” Marcus mumbles against Oliver’s cheek.
Oliver pulls back, fixing him with a soft look. “We both weren’t in great moods. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I didn’t mean to tell you to leave.”
Marcus shoves his cold hands under the back of Oliver’s shirt and Oliver gives an indignant yelp, shivering lightly as Marcus crawls his hands up further.
“Bastard.” The Keeper hisses, no heat to his words.
“You love me, though.” It’s more a statement than a question, but Oliver gets what Marcus is asking in the moment. Oliver pushes Marcus’ hair back from his forehead, the Chaser bowed a bit in order to lean into Oliver’s shoulder.
“That’s true.” Oliver says simply, and then he plucks the champagne glass from the cabinet and takes a long sip. “Ugh, what is this?”
“Champagne.” Marcus laughs at how Oliver’s nose is scrunched up, and he impulsively goes in to kiss it. Sadly, there’s apparently more alcohol in seven flutes of champagne than he realized (he’ll blame it on an empty stomach) so where he actually ends up kissing is somewhere underneath Oliver’s eye. Oliver snickers as Marcus whines pitifully at his failure.
Oliver downs the rest of the glass. “Fuck champagne, let’s just have the open bar.”
Marcus hums. “Best idea you’ve had today. C’mon.” He’s pretty sure he’s stepping on Oliver’s feet as he maneuvers them into the middle of the room, but the brunet doesn’t complain. He flicks his wand randomly towards the wall, and the stereo begins playing some disgusting Celestina Warbeck song.
Oliver starts laughing, and Marcus’ attempt to shut him up with a kiss fails because he’s sniggering too, head light on alcohol and he feels altogether too bubbly, too floaty to really have control over all his limbs. They end up swaying lightly to the warbling song, and giggling against each other’s mouths instead of actually kissing. Marcus feels like he’s in one of those cliché Muggle chick flicks, but Oliver’s steady gaze back at him makes it all okay.
“You’re not even drunk!” Marcus crows triumphantly as Oliver stumbles into the wall.
Oliver snorts. “You idiot, you pushed me. Merlin,” He sighs affectionately, “There’s two weeks left, can you believe it?”
“Mm.” Is all Marcus replies with, snuggling into Oliver’s warmth against the wall. He likes the steady heartbeat underneath his cheek, a reminder that Oliver’s whole and good and safe.
(That’s still what plagues him, in the nightmares – images of curses cast too widely, scarlet blood spilling onto stone, and him only able to watch as Oliver falls out of the skies over Hogwarts. Constantly searching, searching, searching through the wreckage and the rubble, afraid of seeing an all too familiar body broken.)
But they’re alive, Marcus reminds himself. They’re alive, and they have a damn nice flat, and their mothers throw passive aggressive comments over family dinners at each other, and Marcus gets to wake up to Oliver, towheaded and sleepy-eyed, every morning.
They’re lucky. So goddamned lucky that they’ve made it out of the War in one piece.
Marcus nips at Oliver’s earlobe, traces light kisses along the sharp jawline and the quiet huff of laughter that Oliver exhales has Marcus pressing himself closer, letting them fall back onto the couch.
“Love you.” Marcus mumbles into Oliver’s neck.
“You’re drunk.”
“Still.”
“You say it so much easier now.” Oliver murmurs quietly and the smile Marcus gets has him melting further into Oliver’s arms. He’ll just blame his sappiness on the champagne.
***
They’re trying on their dress robes when Marcus is once again reminded that Oliver looks bloody good dressed up. It’s been a while since the last press conference, no Ministry Ball to attend for appearances, and so the wonderful sight of Oliver in a custom tailored outfit has been rare.
Marcus slides into the fitting room quietly, and before Oliver can even fully spin around, has bodily pressed the Keeper back against the wall.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.” Oliver says.
“Your ass looks fantastic.” Marcus cuts to the chase, and proceeds to kiss Oliver silly. There’s a lot of groping, a lot of tugging shirts this way and that – a flurry of teeth and tongue and hands roaming shamelessly over each other’s body. Marcus is pretty sure that people outside can hear the rustling and tell-tale sounds of bodies slamming against walls, but he doesn’t much care.
Marcus is halfway to getting on his knees when the fitting room curtain is ripped back, Parkinson’s arms folded sternly across her chest, cheeks a little flushed. Percy hovers in the background, unbothered by their state of undress – Weasley’s far too used to walking in on Marcus and Oliver from their school days.
“Honestly.” Pansy huffs.
“Stop staring at Wood’s abs.” Marcus shoots back, thoroughly disgruntled at being interrupted.
Pansy pinches the bridge of her nose. “Take Wood away before Flint undoes all of the seamstress’ hard work.” She addresses Percy, fixing Marcus with a look not unlike the ones his mother used to give him when he snuck into the kitchen for extra cookies.
Oliver smiles sheepishly, tugging his shirt closed as Percy ushers him out of the small dressing room.
“Honestly, is it that hard to keep your hands off each other for more than ten minutes?” Percy asks, half amused and fully exasperated.
“Yes.” Marcus hears Oliver say cheerily, and he almost laughs, the only thing keeping him from expressing amusement being the sharp nail that’s directed at his nose.
“There is literally three days until the wedding.” Pansy snaps. “And if you mess up any of these clothes, or plans, or Merlin forbid, the venue, just because you can’t stop thinking with your dick, I will unleash all hell on you.”
Marcus raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, cool it, Parkinson. I’m not going to fuck up your project.”
“I’m going to tell Pucey to keep you far far away from Wood during your stag party. Actually, I’m going to tell all your friends not to let you see Wood until the actual ceremony. That should be enough.” Pansy mutters, more to herself than to Marcus, but Marcus still blanches at her declaration.
“What do you mean I can’t see Oliver until the ceremony? Are you mad?!”
Pansy smiles, saccharine sweet, in the way that she always used to to get her way with older relatives. “Not my fault you’re co-dependent. You’ll survive.”
Within two hours, she’s manhandled Oliver into staying at Flint Manor until the wedding, Percy and Adrian assigned to keep Marcus away and distracted, respectively.
“Cheer up.” Adrian says as he works his way through Marcus’ leftovers, feet propped on the kitchen table. “It’s like an extended form of foreplay.”
Marcus whacks Adrian’s feet off the table. The yelp his best man gives is only slightly satisfactory.
***
“Hey.”
Marcus jumps a little at Oliver’s voice, too busy staring out at the window where a crew is setting up tables in the garden for after the ceremony, afternoon sun halfway to setting. He’d convinced Parkinson – “More like begged,” Adrian snickers - into letting him arrive at Flint Manor a day early, so as for easier preparation. Of course, his real incentive was to find Oliver, but he should’ve known Weasley would’ve been all too happy exercising his old Head Boy skills.
“Hey yourself.” Marcus responds, trying not to let it show how much he wants to pull Oliver to his body right now. “Aren’t you supposed to be kept away from big, bad me?”
Oliver loops his arms around Marcus’ torso. “Don’t make me laugh, Flint. Nah, I gave Percy the slip. Wanna show you something.”
Marcus raises an eyebrow, but allows himself to be tugged down countless hallways, Oliver’s hand warm in his. They wind up in front of the ornate doors leading into the Eastern Hall.
“You want to show me my own house?” Marcus snorts, confused as to where this is going.
“You mean our wedding venue.” Oliver corrects him. “And yes.” The Keeper pulls the doors open enough for them to slip inside and the sight that meets them is enough to make Marcus catch his breath.
Sunlight glimmers in from large glass windows, illuminating the hall, the golden wooden floors warm and glittering underneath his feet. Half the wedding decorations have been put up, and delicate streamers float at the altar, catching the sun rays so they mimic spun gold. Marcus can’t remember the last time he’s been in this room – faint memories of boring dance lessons on dreary rainy morning, perhaps, but never like this.
Oliver smiles tentatively as Marcus stays silent, the latter still drinking in how the sun has painted the usually grey room in pink and golden hues.
“It’s going to be like this, during the wedding.” Oliver starts, shoulder jostling Marcus slightly as he pulls up level to observe the room as well. “But I wanted you to see it beforehand. Just for yourself.”
Marcus turns so they’re face to face, unsure if Oliver’s pink face is due to a blush or the room. He doesn’t much care because both are breathtaking.
“You’ve seen this before?”
“I took up your mother’s offer of touring the manor once.” Oliver says, voice quiet and hand slow as he brushes Marcus’ cheek with his thumb. “And she showed me it and I knew that this – this was what I wanted to give you.”
Oliver bites his lip. “I know you don’t like the manor because of your father. You never visit. But I wanted to create – to create good memories, something that’s bright and good that will make this place just a little better for you.”
Marcus looks back around at the hall - it’s terribly golden and beautiful and so bloody pure, and Marcus gets what Oliver means, now. Them having their wedding here – it’s the last roots of his father’s Dark Arts being torn up, an entirely new beginning.
Oliver’s watching him, waiting for a response, but there’s a lump in Marcus’ throat that makes it difficult for him to talk.
“Wood.” Marcus tries, and Oliver waits, patiently.
“Ollie.” He breathes, before crushing the Keeper to his chest, unable to put into words how much this means to him. It hadn’t even been something he thought he’d needed, but Merlin, Oliver always knows him best.
Marcus clears his throats, voice raw with emotion. “I don’t know what to say, just – just thank you. Oliver – you’re too good for -”
Oliver cuts him off with a kiss passionate enough to set Marcus’ nerves on fire, and Marcus roots his hands in Oliver’s hair, kissing back just as strong.
“Never too good. Never.” Oliver whispers fiercely. “I love you. It’s as simple as that.”
***
“You’ve got the ring?” Marcus asks Adrian for the umpteenth time. He knows Adrian won’t lose it, knows one little piece of gold doesn’t mean much in the whole scheme of things, but still. He’s hasn’t been this nervous since his first professional game and even then, it hadn’t felt like his heart was going to leap out of his throat.
Adrian straightens his own tie in the mirror. “Safe and sound in my pocket, Flint. Relax.” The brunet places a firm hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “You’ve got this, Captain.”
“Not captain anymore.” Marcus shoots Adrian a disparaging glance.
“Nah,” Adrian grins, “You’ll always be Captain to the rest of us.”
There’s a sharp rap to the door, and before either of them can respond, Pansy bursts in, dressed in a light pink gown and looking extremely put out. “You’re going to be late, Flint, if you don’t get out there to the altar right this second.”
“Calm your hippogriffs, I’m coming.” Marcus says, scanning over his robes one last time before strolling out and down the corridor, into the Eastern Hall. It’s just as beautiful as it was yesterday, and the guests are all ooh-ing at the room. The chairs are white, with gold metal backs, and bouquets of flowers are floating in artful arrangements around the hall. Marcus marvels at just how much effort Parkinson had put in to get this whole ceremony flawless.
“Hey, Parkinson,” Marcus calls just as Pansy’s about to split off. “Good work.”
His little cousin gives him a rare smile, and flashes a quick thumb up, before snapping “Fix your tie!” and flouncing off to her seat. Marcus rolls his eyes – that’s as good as Pansy will ever get with expressing affection, and he knows it.
Adrian takes his place first, because Marcus takes a detour on his way to the altar to say hello to his mother.
“Marcus.” Aurelia Flint says, eyeing the decorations with a pleased smile, sitting comfortably in the front row. “I hadn’t thought you’d be able to pull this off. I’m rather proud.”
“I didn’t do much. Pansy and Percy did most of the work.” Marcus admits unashamedly. It’s true - all he did was get drunk off champagne. Maybe wrote out the addresses for the invitations, but even that he’d complained through.
His mother fixes him with a stern glance that is all too familiar, but the hard lines of Aurelia’s face soften, straightening Marcus’ tie for him. “Regardless, I’m still proud.”
“Yeah, Mum. I know.” His mother may be disparaging and cold to outsiders, but Marcus knows that for all her words, she’s always been supportive, always been the reason he hadn’t turned out like his father. She’s always been proud, both in nature and in him.
And after yesterday, he’s stopped caring whether or not his father would have approved of this life Marcus has.
Percy’s at his spot next to the officiating wizard, red hair combed neatly and shoes shined to perfection. He smiles and nods to Marcus, who breaks protocol and instead claps the slighter man sharply on the back.
“Weasley. Thanks are in order.”
Percy shoves Marcus firmly back, albeit smiling. “Yes, yes, you’re welcome and all that – you know what’s a proper thanks? If you get back into place so Parkinson won’t bite my head off.”
Pansy’s already glaring daggers at the front, so Marcus heeds Percy’s command.
“I’m not walking down the aisle,” Oliver had been adamant on, but both Parkinson and Weasley still wanted some semblance of a ‘big reveal’, so they had agreed that Oliver would come in later from the other side. The crowd is still murmuring with anticipation, and Marcus is too antsy to notice Malfoy and Potter throwing glances at one another from opposite sides of the room.
The doors open and Oliver strides in, grinning and pink in the face as he takes his spot opposite Marcus.
“Oh, he’s so beautiful.” Fred Weasley croons above the music, and Spinnet and Bell immediately smack him with their purses to shut him up.
Marcus, however, would agree, because Oliver is practically glowing with happiness, and all of Marcus’ nerves are quieted at the sight of Oliver. Oliver, who’s unnervingly bright, and brash, and reckless, and always, always strong.
He resists the urge to pull Oliver close and kiss the freckles on his nose because he has both a ceremony to start and a reputation to uphold, thank you very much.
The officiant begins his speech, one that’s been said at all Pureblood marriages, but everyone can’t help chuckling at the long winded part about tradition.
“Ah,” the old wizard says bemusedly, “Perhaps I should’ve taken that part out.”
“Nah,” Oliver reassures him, “It adds to the irony.”
The officiant finishes and then it’s time for them to say their vows, Oliver pulling out a neatly folded piece of parchment from his robes.
“I go first, of course.” Oliver jokes, laugh a little shaky. Percy gives him an encouraging smile, and Oliver takes a deep breath before straightening up. He’s got that determined face again, bold, one that Marcus is well familiar with, both on and off the pitch.
“Flint -”
“I can’t believe you’re still calling me Flint.” Marcus interrupts.
“Will you shut up?” Oliver says, and this time his laugh is much calmer. “When we started out – six years ago -”
“Six years?” Montague calls incredulously.
“Honestly, can I just get through my vows?” The guests titter in amusement, and Marcus knows Oliver is far from annoyed, grin on his face.
“Yes, six years. You lot can all give me hell for that later,” Oliver addresses his old Gryffindor team, who all give him thumbs-ups. “Six years ago, this was a flight of fancy. Something that had happened out of the blue, because I just couldn’t shake you, Marcus, from my head, and I couldn’t figure out why.”
“But then – then you surprised me, in so many ways. Stuck with me, protected me – Marcus, you are so much more than I have ever thought, so much more than I could have ever asked for in a partner. And then the flights of fancies weren’t that odd anymore, and I wanted reality, an everything with you.”
Oliver takes a deep breath, smoothing out the parchment nervously, before tucking it back into his pocket. At Marcus’ questioning glance, he laughs lightly. “I know these words by heart. To have someone unwaveringly by my side, even during the worst moments – you get me, understand me so easily. You’ve given me the happiest moments and held me during the worst, and I’m so incredibly lucky to have you.”
Oliver’s eyes are glimmering, always emotional. Marcus reaches out before he can stop himself to wipe away a stray tear, and the guests’ cooing makes them both laugh.
“There’s nobody who could love me better than you do.” Oliver finishes quietly, these words more for Marcus than any of the ones before. “And there’s nobody else that I would ever want to love, like this.”
Marcus pauses for two heartbeats before he can force a word out, throat feeling raw. “Wow.” He manages, because he needs to say something. Oliver’s mother is crying quietly in the front row, and he’s pretty sure Bell and Johnson are tearing up as well.
“Wow,” Marcus repeats, “You’re really going to make this hard for me, aren’t you?”
Oliver’s smile is watery and affectionate, makes fireworks burst in Marcus’ chest.
“I’m not good with words, and I don’t know if this’ll do justice to you.” Marcus says. “But I still want you to hear them.”
The piece of parchment resting in his front pocket is insignificant, frustratingly scribbled out because no matter how hard Marcus had tried, he couldn’t get the words to show exactly how much Oliver means to him. So he decides to go off the fly, make it up on the spot, because that’s what he does. Oliver is ordered, all neat practice schedules, and he is chaos both on and off the pitch. It’s why they work – it’s how they’ve always worked, and how could Marcus disrupt that now?
“Wood. Oliver. Ollie.” Marcus swallows. “Yesterday you gave me something that I hadn’t even thought I needed. And – and that’s what you do, constantly. Always so enduring, always willing to wait and give and – honestly this isn’t making much sense is it?”
Oliver grabs his hand and grips it tightly, eyes steady and understanding. “Keep going.”
“Okay. Okay. Oliver, you’re the brightest and best thing that’s ever happened to me. This past year has probably been the roughest on us, but – remember that night when I thought we couldn’t fix us anymore?”
Oliver nods firmly, holding Marcus’ hand even tighter.
“But you didn’t let go that easily. You’re bold, and brash, and massively stubborn, and I love – love every piece of you. You never give up on things, and being with you – you’ve helped me realize that the hard choices are the ones worth making.”
“The past two years haven’t been easy, for anyone,” Marcus says slowly, hoping Oliver gets what he means. “I always did, and always will, stick to you. And I talked about tough choices, but choosing you, and loving you? That will always be the easiest decision in my life.”
When Marcus finishes, Oliver’s tears have finally spilled over and are trickling down his cheeks, the sunlight making them luminescent tracks on pale skin.
“Rings, please.” The officiant says over the sound of quiet sniffles, and Adrian presses the cool band into Marcus’ hand, Percy doing the same for Oliver. Oliver’s hands are trembling as he slides the ring on, but the Keeper is grinning through his tears. The weight is heavy and comfortable on his finger when Marcus grasps Oliver’s hands again.
The officiant smiles. “I now pronounce you bonded for life.”
A shower of golden sparks burst over them, and then Marcus is pulling Oliver into his arms, framing that beautiful face, and kissing him hard. They’re laughing against each other’s lips, tears intermingling, their guests are cheering, Marcus feels like he’s soaring, and it’s perfect.
Two of Fred and George’s party poppers hit the ceiling, and Oliver laughs in glee as ‘Quidditch Husbands’ spells itself out in red and green loopy calligraphy.
They lead everyone out to the garden, sun just beginning to set. Pansy escorts Marcus’ mother to her seat, while Mrs. Wood swoops up Oliver into a giant hug, full of teary kisses. Mr. Wood shakes Marcus’ hand firmly before pulling him in for a brisk hug as well.
“Oh shit.” Oliver whispers to him as they settle at their place. “Shit, we never changed the seating charts, did we.”
Marcus looks up to find Malfoy and Harry looking coldly at one another from across a table, forks gripped tightly in their fists. Granger wedges herself in between them, while Ron and Blaise Zabini exchange tired glances, scooting farther away simultaneously.
“Oops. It’s a good thing we’re out of hexing range…?” Marcus fights down a snicker as Potter accidentally drinks out of Malfoy’s glass. The blond looks as if Potter had dug up the graves of his ancestors and used them as fertilizer.
Adrian gets up to give his toast first, Montague and Bletchley whooping as Derrick and Bole clap obnoxiously. Malfoy has stopped glaring at Potter and is instead smirking up at their table, and Marcus just knows he’s going to get exposed in the most embarrassing way.
“Pucey.” Marcus growls in warning.
Adrian moves out of Marcus’ reach, using Terence’s seat as a shield. “There, there, Flint. It’ll be over soon.”
“Actually, Weasley and I decided to work together for this, because we can’t talk about one without the other, after all.” Adrian’s grin makes Marcus drop his face into his hands.
The entire clan of Weasley siblings cheer. Oliver looks stricken as Percy smiles leisurely and gets up from his seat.
“Percy!” Oliver hisses, “Don’t you dare.”
“Relax.” Percy gestures nonchalantly with his glass. “Adrian, go on.”
“Feel free to call out comments, folks, this is an open floor. So!” Adrian begins, “So six years, huh? If we push back and do the math, as I’m sure everyone has been doing, that places you guys as getting together in your seventh year.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Alicia Spinnet calls. Oliver follows Marcus in burying his face in his arms.
“Yes, our dear captains kept this from most of us. I wouldn’t have known myself, if Flint hadn’t been er – very obvious about his affections.” Adrian says.
Percy cocks his head. “But wait, Pucey, didn’t Marcus punch Oliver in the face at the beginning of seventh year?”
“Right you are, Weasley!”
“Is this a comedy show or a speech?!” Marcus throws his napkin at Adrian, who catches it gracefully.
“Both.” Adrian winks. “Anyways, yes, Marcus over here punched poor Oliver in the face one day while we were fighting it out over the pitch. You all remember that day?” He turns to address the old Quidditch teams.
“Vaguely.” Potter says, snickering.
“Ages ago, when half of you were wee little ones. They started pulling punches, and then all of a sudden Marcus just left – gave in, which was not something any of us were ever used to. So after some needling and probing that only a very smart Slytherin is capable of -” Adrian pauses and waits for Marcus to stop rolling his eyes, “- Flint finally admitted that he had a crush.”
Rodgers and the rest of Puddlemere start cackling with laughter.
“It wasn’t a crush!” Marcus groans.
“There was pining, and sulking, and a lot of blushing so yeah, I’d classify it as a crush.” Terence jumps in, and Adrian smiles winningly at his boyfriend.
“It’s alright, Flint. Not like Oliver was much better.” Percy adds. “He was so dejected about Marcus avoiding him, once spent an hour trying to figure out the exact shade of grey of Marcus’ eyes for no other reason besides ‘to know’, and had to be persuaded not to follow Flint around like a lost puppy.”
Oliver grins, not in the least embarrassed.
“It took a couple of nudges, a very valiant effort from the Gryffindor Quidditch team,” Adrian winks at Angelina and the twins, “But the rest, as we can all see, was history. To be honest, Percy and I shared the same sentiments at the beginning – young and naïve as we were - thought it’d be just a fling, this short whirlwind affair that the papers have all assumed. But the truth is, we can’t think of anyone else who would be better suited for each other; no other person who is as strongly dedicated to the other as you two are.”
Percy clears his throat. “You’re both genuine and extremely sentimental, even though you hide it well. Quite cheesy, if I say so myself, impossible to control. And so in love with one another that nobody could ever doubt it – I, for one, am glad to call you two my closest friends.”
“Here’s to a long and happy marriage, for our favorite Quidditch captains. Congratulations.” Adrian finishes. The clinking of glasses is drowned out in exuberant cheers and applause and Oliver leaps up, enveloping Percy in a hug that knocks the redhead’s glasses off. Marcus knocks Adrian’s shoulder as his best mate sits back down, because no words are needed, really.
“We’re a mess.” Oliver laughs, as the Slytherin and Quidditch team squabble over who gets to say their toasts next. Bell shoves Montague out of his seat with a triumphant smile, and Angelina proceeds to clamber onto George’s shoulders to get everyone’s attention.
“True,” Adrian says warmly, “But I think we’re all glad for a bit of reconciliation.”
The toasts continue, Oliver’s parents making one so tear-jerking sweet, even Marcus has to dab at his eyes. His mother is regal and proud and Pansy is glowing at the praises of how beautiful the wedding is. Fred and George had composed a sonnet, which left the guests clutching their ribs with laughter.
Malfoy comes up to shake both their hands, looking a little more relaxed with alcohol in his system, but halfway through their conversation, he stalks off hurriedly. Not even three seconds, later, Ginny Weasley is hauling Potter up to them as well.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Weasley gripes, as she watches Malfoy’s retreating back. Potter pretends he doesn’t hear anything.
“That was a great ceremony, Oliver, Marcus, congratulations.” He shakes their hands, and Oliver smiles bemusedly at his former Seeker.
“Everything alright, Harry? You look a little preoccupied.”
Ginny Weasley cuts in loudly. “Yes, yes he is preoccupied. Maybe you should go figure it out, Harry, over there.” She shoves Potter in the direction Malfoy had just disappeared in, and makes a gesture with her fist – Marcus watches in fascination as the Boy Who Lived, dark wizard slayer extraordinaire, takes one look at Weasley’s threatening face and follows her instructions immediately.
The three stand in awkward silence – not familiar enough with one another to know what to talk about.
“You know, Ginny, I saw you play during the last match at Hogwarts this year.” Oliver says after a moment, “And I have to say, you’d give some of the Chasers in the League right now a run for their money.”
Weasley’s face lights up. “You think so? I was thinking of going professional.”
“Give it a shot,” Marcus pipes up – he’d gone to watch the final as well – “You’re decent.”
“That’s his way of saying you’re brilliant.” Oliver explains at Ginny’s confused expression. “You know; the Harpies are always looking for new blood – I think you’d be a pretty good candidate.”
“The Harpies.” Ginny echoes. “The Holyhead Harpies. You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”
“C’mon, Ginny, they’re professionals.” George says behind his sister, clapping her hard on the shoulder and winking at Marcus and Oliver. “They know what they’re talking about.”
They chatter with the two Weasleys about professional Quidditch, the logistics of teams and rankings, and reputations of various Captains.
(“Puddlemere’s captain is a dick.” Marcus deadpans. Oliver rolls his eyes good naturedly.
Ginny grins. “I see the love.”)
It’s not until he notices that Potter and Malfoy have long disappeared from the crowd of now dancing guests that Marcus remembers that the two Seekers were acting all antsy.
“Oh that.” Ginny huffs when Oliver asks. “Let’s just say that they have some feelings to work out.” She winks suggestively back at them, Fred and George whisking her away for a rousing dance with too many limbs and red hair flying everywhere.
“Well.” Oliver tries, both of them silent at the surprising revelation. “I suppose we should’ve seen it coming.”
Marcus can only nod, as Malfoy and Potter stumble back into the scene, clothes slightly rumpled and both pink cheeked. He’d really rather not picture that scene, let alone the fact that people are snogging in his mother’s house. He’ll deal with that later.
Before they can get roped into dancing, teams tugging imploringly at their arms, (“It’s tradition, Flint.” Angelina grins.), Oliver jumps to his feet and races out of the garden, only to return with two brooms. The Puddlemere team all laugh, knowing exactly where this is going.
“Let’s play some Quidditch!” Oliver yells, and Marcus knows he couldn’t have married anyone else.
“At your wedding, Oliver?” Percy asks incredulously, while trying to control Fred and George’s excited cheers. As the multitude of Quidditch lover start brightening at the idea, he sighs tiredly. “Just no Bludgers, please.”
Pansy appears at Percy’s elbow, wearing a stricken expression. “Do you know how much those robes cost?”
“An arm and a leg, probably.” Marcus shrugs, as his mother and his aunt start levitating tables and chairs out of the way. Montague and Bletchley have pulled out more brooms, and the Weasley twins are busy dusting off the old Quidditch equipment. “Wood, your pick.”
“Such a gentleman.” Oliver teases, before picking Angelina immediately.
“We’re on break.” Rodgers yells from his seat as Marcus tries to choose him. The rest of Puddlemere raise their glasses in salute as Marcus groans, but he latches onto Bletchley immediately.
Alicia Spinnet looks incredibly bemused as she takes her spot next to Marcus. “Don’t you two want to be on the same team?”
“Nah,” Marcus grunts, too busy sizing up the rest of the guests, “We might as well, for old time’s sake – Fuck you, Wood! You can’t take Adrian!”
His best mate (the traitor) slings an arm over Oliver’s shoulder and gives Marcus a thumbs up from across the field.
They have Draco and Terence play against each other as Seekers but the two are both just a bit too tipsy to stay upright on their brooms. Two minutes in, Terence collapses back on the grass, cackling with laughter as Pansy does a little jump out of the way of the Snitch, and Malfoy follows only a second later, crashing lightly next to him. Potter watches from his own low flying broom, thoroughly amused.
“Probably best to lock the Snitch up.” One of the Weasley twins call, and Potter rounds it up before the rest of them begin a quick game of pick-up.
Oliver lets out a whoop as he loops through the air, robes streaming behind him. Marcus can’t help but watch as the sun offsets his husband - husband, that’s a nice word - pink and gold kissing the planes of Oliver’s face.
“Don’t get too cocky, Wood!” He yells as Oliver settles back in front of the makeshift goalposts.
Oliver pouts mockingly. “Aww, is someone scared they’re going to lose?” He veers to the right to dodge Marcus chucking a Quaffle at him, then shoots forward until his broom’s alongside Marcus’.
“And that’s Flint-Wood, to you.” Oliver says, before tugging Marcus in and pressing a blazing kiss to his lips. Marcus responds with equal enthusiasm, the warmth of Oliver’s body in his arms filling his chest with that drunk bubbly feeling again, as he laces his fingers into the collar of Oliver’s robes. He feels Oliver grin and Marcus kisses him over, and over, and over again.
God, he’s so fucking in love.
(“Gross!” Adrian calls from the ground, as Montague and Bletchley start cat-calling.
“Mum and Dad are kissing again.” Malfoy snickers, face flushed from alcohol. He’s sprawled on the grass, Potter not that better off a few meters away.
“If they’re Mum and Dad, then that’d make all of us step-siblings.” Potter says in a voice that’s usually reserved for logical things.
Malfoy’s face screws up. “So me and you - does that count as incest?”
Hermione and Ginny stifle their laughs as Ron pulls up a fistful of grass and throws it down on his best friend’s face, Potter spluttering as dirt clogs up his nose.
“Please,” Ron says tiredly. “Please, Harry, I’m not drunk enough for this.”)
***
Marcus is adamant about going home to their flat after the wedding – the party’s still going at midnight, but he’s tired, Oliver’s head is lolling onto his shoulder, and they haven’t been able to curl up in their bed for three days.
Marcus would punch anyone who calls him domestic and soft, but he’d also have to agree.
With a swift kiss to his mother’s cheek and a promise to Oliver’s parents to swing by for lunch sometime, Marcus apparates them back home. Their rings clink quietly as they let go of each other’s hands. Within ten minutes, they’ve stripped off their dress robes and dived under the covers, limbs tangling within the sheets.
“And we’re back.” Marcus whispers, moment too delicate to talk at normal volume. Oliver nuzzles his face against Marcus’ neck, breathing slow and even. Marcus thinks the brunet must have fallen asleep already, but then Oliver rests his chin against Marcus’ sternum, looking up with sleepy brown eyes.
“It’s like we were already married without even knowing it.” Oliver laughs, and Marcus pulls his husband up so he can brush his lips over Oliver’s temple. Oliver’s right – after all, getting to come home to one another is really all that matters, and the only thing that’s changed, honestly, is the fact that they now have matching rings on their finger.
Everything’s the same, yet just a little bit different.
He feels light and warm all over as Oliver snuggles into him further, arms draped securely around his torso. Light kisses are peppered across his collarbones, and Marcus snickers as Oliver practically purrs when Marcus drags his hands through the Keeper’s hair.
Marcus has never really believed in happy endings, far too cynical and practical in nature to fall for that. But this – Oliver curled up against him, the moonlight glinting off of his ring as he continues stroking Oliver’s hair, the promise of crisp air and the pitch waiting for them next season – this is better than everything and anything he’s ever wanted.
And yeah. Flint-Wood has a nice ring to it.
***
The next time they win, a year later, Oliver is pulled away to get interviewed again, a reporter for Witch Weekly asking Oliver what he has in store after another season. Before his husband can finish saying “You know, maybe having a kid.”, Marcus rushes over to tackle Oliver to the ground.
Because yes, fine, kids, we can definitely talk about that, Ollie, but at home.