Chapter Text
The crowd’s cheering and stamping is shaking the stands, but Marcus has all his senses attuned to the Bat’s Keeper, Quaffle gripped tightly in his palm.
Rodgers soars by. “Give ‘em hell, Flint.”
And then a swoop, a quick rush and a fake to the left has Marcus’ goal sinking home into the center hoop. The Puddlemere section goes wild – it’s the championship match, and they’ve gotten to the finals for the past two years, but have never cinched the title. Everyone clamors that the third time will be the charm.
Rodgers picks up where the Quaffle falls, but a Bludger forces him to drop the leather ball. One of the Ballycastle Chasers moves in, and Marcus swears loudly as another Bludger keeps him from playing a proper defense.
The Ballycastle Chaser rushes the goal post, but Oliver’s too quick, catching it in the crook of his right arm. The Keeper passes it along to Murdock, Puddlemere’s third Chaser.
Marcus would whoop in support of Oliver if he wasn’t so intent on getting another goal.
They’re soon in formation, tearing up the pitch when Puddlemere’s Seeker goes into a sharp dive, the crowd falling into a dramatic hush. Marcus takes the distraction to strong arm his way through the Bat’s line of defense, snarling at the Keeper, who jolts and lets the Quaffle flip through the hoops.
It barely matters – because then their Seeker pulls up with a triumphant expression, raising the struggling Snitch in her tightly clenched fist, and Marcus’ elation at scoring is then drowned out by the elation of fucking winning.
Their team piles onto the Seeker, and Marcus notes in the midst of celebratory yells and strong bear hugs that Oliver has tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, face flushed from exertion and happiness. Marcus can’t help but feel his own face split into a giant grin, something which Rodgers lets out a surprised yelp at.
The press descends moments later, camera flashes blinding, and before Marcus can get his hands on Wood, the Keeper is pulled to the front by the Prophet.
“Oliver Wood! Goodness, first season as captain – after stunning performances before hand, voted as Most Promising Newcomer your first year and Most Delectable Quidditch Player – what’s next after this spectacular championship win for Puddlemere?”
The young reporter is breathless and blushing as Oliver grins down at her, smoothing her robes down awkwardly. Marcus snorts – an Oliver on an adrenaline rush, hair all mussed, tends to have that effect on people.
“Well,” Oliver says, a little breathless himself, “I – I think I’m going to get married.”
His smile is brilliant, eyes a little wide and seemingly in shock himself at his declaration. Marcus chokes, and not because of the congratulatory headlock Rodgers has him in.
The reporter blinks confusedly at Wood, mouth agape. “Um…excuse me – married?”
Oliver beams. “Yeah, yeah, married. Isn’t that wonderful?” And he grins like a lunatic back at his equally shocked team. Sure, the Keeper had taken a Bludger to the head ten minutes into the match but they hadn’t thought it had that big an impact. They exchange glances, then seem to all simultaneously shrug and engulf Oliver in hugs and kisses and laughter.
Marcus wants to face-palm, except for the fact that his heart is beating a little too quickly, and he can hear sappy violin music playing in his head like one of those cliché Muggle movies, and honestly.
Oliver’s warm brown eyes meet his, and Marcus just knows his boyfriend is one-hundred spanking percent serious.
Oh fuck it all, he’s getting married.
Marcus lets out that celebratory whoop.
***
It’s not until well past two in the morning that they get a moment to themselves, after-party incredibly exuberant and everyone hell bent on making Oliver stay for the entirety of it.
(“To our hard-ass Captain and his engagement, though none of us had any idea you were in love with anything besides Quidditch.” Rodgers had toasted, and everyone else followed with increasingly exuberant toasts, all for the sake of teasing Oliver.
Marcus had to casually slip a Sobering Potion over to Oliver to keep him standing.)
By the time they head home, Marcus is sure the news is out of Oliver’s declaration. And it’s not like Marcus had been distant or angry all night – quite the opposite, in fact, sticking as close to Oliver as he could without alerting the buzzing of the reporters. Yet the moment they apparate back to their flat, Oliver launches himself at Marcus, pitching them off balance in a mess of limbs back onto the couch.
“I meant it, y’know.” Oliver says breathily, pressing kisses to Marcus’ face so fast, Marcus can’t catch his lips like he wants. “Marry me. I want to marry you.”
Marcus finally manages to contain Oliver’s wriggling, grabbing the Keeper’s head between his hands.
“You’re not giving me much of an option here,” Marcus plays nonchalant, “Hell of a non-traditional proposal too.”
Oliver freezes. “Oh. Oh – I can do the getting down on one knee thing – right now, I mean, hold on-” And he struggles to get out of Marcus’ grasp.
Marcus is pretty sure Oliver would recite an entire love confession if he isn’t stopped, and as much as Oliver’s earnestness is endearing, he’d rather keep the declarations of undying love to drunken nights out. He pulls Wood closer to his chest and kisses a line up the pale expanse of neck instead.
“Bloody hell, you’re an idiot.” Marcus snorts. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Oliver blinks. “Oh – oh, yes!”
His smile is blinding, even in the dim light of their living room. A rush of affection fills Marcus’ chest at the sight of Oliver, happy and whole and all his.
“I’m the luckiest man alive tonight.” Oliver whispers, pressing their foreheads together.
Marcus rolls his eyes, because he’s pretty sure everyone and their mothers would count him as the lucky one, to land someone like Oliver. And yet here they are, on a couch in their flat and still as wrapped up in one another as they were six years ago.
If there’s something Marcus did right all those years ago, Oliver was it.
“I love you.” He murmurs quietly against Oliver’s cheek, words coming out easier than ever. “Even if you are a reckless asshole.”
Oliver beams, and then finally holds still long enough for Marcus to kiss him, full and deep. He’s pleased at Oliver’s half lidded eyes when he pulls back, and normally he’d drag Wood down and continue, but he can feel the strain of the match settling into his muscles already. With all the excitement and adrenaline fading a bit, Marcus is dead tired, and he knows Oliver needs his sleep as well.
Marcus drags himself up, and Oliver hooks his feet around Marcus’ back so that he can be carried into their bedroom. The Chaser tries not to laugh as Oliver noses at his temple, but its endearing, and they’re in fucking love, and things are so much better than Marcus had ever thought they’d be, one long endless year after the War.
They tumble into the sheets after a quick trip to the bathroom, and Oliver laughs as the white pillows fluff up around him, Marcus collapsing onto the Keeper with an ungraceful flop.
“I love you.” Oliver says for the umpteenth time tonight, tracing his fingers lightly down the bridge of Marcus’ nose.
“Sleep.” Is what Marcus responds with, pressing his lips to Oliver’s knuckles, then ceremoniously diving under the covers, whacking his boyfriend – no, fiancé - in the ribs in the process.
It takes another half an hour before they’re settled, laughter sounding far too much like giggling, even though Marcus will never admit to it.
***
There are four owls waiting in the kitchen by the time they roll out of bed the next morning. Marcus groans loudly as he recognizes his mother’s eagle owl, the bird pecking at the wooden dining table.
“Shoo.” He attempts to wave it away, but it bites at his fingers until he begrudgingly unties the neatly sealed parchment, throwing it to the side to open after breakfast. Oliver plops down across from him, cup of coffee already in hand, blinking in normal waking-up confusion.
Marcus pops in the toast, and turns back towards Oliver to see the Keeper snickering at the front page of the Daily Prophet.
‘Puddlemere Wins, Oliver Wood Engaged to Mystery Woman’ is the headline flashing obnoxiously back up at them. Marcus skims the article, pleased that they’d noted his six goals, before choking on his own drink at the long list of possible women Oliver might be linked to, ranging from Quidditch healers to random players Wood had just happened to be standing next to.
And for fuck’s sake, Gwenog Jones? Doesn’t she have a girlfriend?
Wood’s eyes are twinkling as he takes a long drink from his cup. “My, Marcus, looks like you’re my ‘mystery woman’.”
“That is the worst thing you’ve ever said, and I remember that joke about the hippogriff you told at Percy’s birthday.”
His mother’s owl is still hanging around, apparently hell bent on getting a response. Marcus is pretty sure his mother gave explicit instructions to the blasted bird.
“That’s my dad’s.” Oliver mumbles through a bite of toast. The Keeper nods towards a small grey owl who’s staring pointedly at Marcus.
Marcus wonders if it’s possible to train a bird to glare at your son’s surprise fiancé.
Oliver unravels the scroll, and snorts loudly. “Look at what that geezer wrote - ‘Son, please refrain from announcing earth-shattering news at random – your mother screamed so loud she woke our neighbor up. Not a lot of fun dealing with Mrs. Evans at two in the morning. Give our hellos to Marcus; and cheers to you both, win and engagement!’”
Wood stifles a laugh, but his cheeks are pink and pleased, eyes a touch mistier than normal. He tangles his hand almost unconsciously with Marcus’ on the tabletop. Marcus gives it a squeeze.
It’s not like their parents don’t know about them – Oliver’s always been close to his, and Marcus had had to come clean when his mother popped into their flat out of the blue, only to find her son curled up on the couch with the Puddlemere Keeper.
Marcus had been surprised at the ease with which his mother had accepted it – heirs, after all, are still a big issue in pureblood tradition.
(“You’re smitten.” She’d said bluntly when Marcus had tried to babble out an explanation.
She raises an impeccably groomed eyebrow as she appraises Oliver, who’s hovering awkwardly in the background. Her mouth upturns into a smirk. “I can see why."
“Mother.”)
But it feels good, all the same, to know that their families are behind them, supportive and warm (more so on Oliver’s part, because Flints live up to their name). Marcus tugs his mother’s letter over as he wipes crumbs off of his fingers. The parchment is filled with her classic purple calligraphy.
Dear Marcus,
I must admit I’m disappointed in your lack of manners – how long were you planning on keeping your engagement from me? I can’t say I’m surprised, really, not even that it was Oliver who proposed (you always were a little slow on the uptake). I suppose my congratulations are in order. Also, as much as I dislike that brutish sport, the Prophet states you ‘played spectacularly’. Well done.
I’m expecting your wedding to be a grand affair that lives up to our name.
Mother
“She seems…pleased?” Oliver says tentatively from where he’s reading over Marcus’ shoulder. Aurelia Flint has always been hard to figure out, family or not.
“Don’t worry, this is her way of saying she’s leaping for joy.” Marcus rolls his eyes.
He grabs a spare bit of parchment lying around and jots down a quick ‘Thanks for the spectacular vote of confidence, Mum’ just so the eagle owl will stop nattering about in their kitchen.
“Whose is that?” He gestures to the remaining owl.
“Dunno. Looks like it came from the Ministry.” Oliver approaches the bird, which drops a neatly folded letter into his hand then takes off out the open window. “Ah, Percy!”
Of course Weasley would be on top of things – Marcus doesn’t expect to be hearing from Adrian until much, much later.
“‘While I’m sure you two are wading through the mess that happened after your insane declaration, Oliver – oh the media? That’s not a mess yet.” Oliver pouts childishly, “‘I believe extreme congratulations are in order. I’m sure it will be a happy and warm affair. You know where to find me if need be for help with preparations.’ Aww, Perce.”
It’s all prim and proper, even with Weasley being a lot less uptight after the War, but Marcus knows that the redhead is sending genuine well wishes. He supposes he can soften a bit and not purposely scare the former Gryffindor the next time Percy comes around for dinner.
Oliver tosses the letters into a pile, and then he’s settling in Marcus’ lap, fingers running through dark hair. “We’ll respond to those later.”
“Oh?” Marcus quirks up an eyebrow.
“I don’t believe we’ve officially celebrated yet.” Oliver says innocently, even though his wandering hands are anything but.
“Ah.” Marcus says, before tugging Oliver down by the back of his neck for a lazy kiss. He nips lightly at Oliver’s bottom lip, eliciting a pleased sound from the man curled against him, and then Oliver’s licking and sucking at his neck fervently.
Marcus leans his head back to let Oliver have his way, pleased groan building as Oliver licks his way further down his bare chest, teeth scraping lightly over sensitive nipples.
“Gonna fuck you over the dinner table.” Oliver says against his collarbone, voice rough and full of promise. Blood rushes straight to Marcus’ cock.
“If I let you.” He retorts, even though he knows he’s going to be ass up, moaning into the table-top very, very soon.
Oliver’s grin is cheeky, just on this side of predatory. “I’m the Captain, remember? You listen to what I say.”
Marcus huffs, playing hurt at Oliver pulling the rank card, but he lets himself be maneuvered onto his elbows by eager, grabby hands.
“I forgot to mention,” Oliver traces a line of hot kisses down Marcus’ spine, nipping lightly at tan skin, “That I’ll be expecting you to do the same to me, afterwards.”
The groan that he’s been biting back unravels loud into the kitchen, Marcus’ head dropping between his biceps.
“Take it away, Captain.” Marcus says, and Oliver does.
***
It’s not until much later, both sweaty and sore (two rounds in the kitchen and yet another in the shower can do that to a person), that Marcus realizes that there is actually a shitload of wedding preparations to handle.
Oliver’s lazily flipping through the newest copy of Seeker Weekly, shoving articles entitled ‘Oliver Wood, Off the Market’ and ‘Who Has Stolen Quidditch’s Most Eligible Bachelor?’ into Marcus’ face, teasing. Marcus bats away one that proclaims Oliver has a secret girlfriend from Russia, tossing the magazine over the bed.
“I was going to frame that.” Oliver whines.
“Adrian probably already has.” Marcus sighs. “You do realize that everyone will be expecting a wedding soon, right?”
Oliver hums, snuggling against Marcus’ ribs. Marcus trails a hand through brown hair reflexively, amused at the pleased purr he elicits.
“Have you ever planned a wedding?”
Oliver shrugs. “No. But how hard could it be?”
Marcus glances down at his fiancé, who’s tracing random patterns on Marcus’ bare stomach. “The last wedding I went to, a groomsman had a meltdown during the dinner because he was placed next to his ex.”
Oliver stiffens slightly.
“And when my cousin got married, his fiancé threatened to chop his dick off if he didn’t choose the flower arrangement with lilies.” Marcus continues amiably, as if castration over flowers was a normal, everyday occurrence.
Oliver pulls himself upright. “Ahem. Ah, maybe we should get some outside help.”
“For the sake of our sanity, I agree.”
***
Pansy Parkinson stares incredulously at Marcus across her coffee table.
“You’re marrying Wood? When the fuck did you two even start dating? Let alone not try to punch the living daylights out of one another?”
Marcus lets his cousin unleash her steady round of questions, not bothering to answer, instead petting the Persian cat that’s lounging on a satin pillow.
Pansy glares at him. “Don’t touch Persimmon.” She grabs the fluffy animal back into her lap. “And I cannot believe you of all people landed Oliver Wood. It’s just not fair.” She sniffs derisively.
“Thought you didn’t like Gryffindors.” Marcus says, grinning triumphantly as Persimmon the cat escapes from Pansy’s grip and winds herself around his ankle.
Pansy inspects a manicured nail. “Yes, but this is Oliver Wood we’re talking about. He’s a do-good ponce, sure, but he’s also bloody attractive.”
“I’m aware.”
“Meanwhile, you, on the other hand…well, I suppose you’re alright, now that your teeth are straightened out.” She eyes him critically. “Honestly, the way the other Slytherin girls drooled over you when you started playing professional was frightening and – Flint, is that a hickey?!”
Pansy darts a hand forward to tug at his shirt collar, but he bats her sharp nails away quickly.
“It's a bruise.” Marcus says shortly.
“Sure.”
He drags the cat up into his own lap, white fluff no doubt going to get all over the leather couches. “So? Are you going to help us plan it?”
Pansy scowls and picks at the sugar cube resting besides her cup. “Why me?”
“Look,” Marcus says exasperatedly, once again reminded how difficult Pansy Parkinson can be, “My mother’s not going to help. You know how she is. And I don’t know a thing about planning weddings.”
“And you think I do?” Pansy takes a long sip from her tea, lips pursed. “My brother got married – not me.”
“If I remember correctly, you spent all of your third year creating a fantasy wedding with Malfoy playing the starring role as your groom.” Marcus grins nastily. He’s won this round.
The tea goes spilling all over the table at Pansy’s undignified shriek. Persimmon the cat mews grumpily.
“We are never speaking of that ever again.” Pansy sniffs, once she’s managed to compose herself. “Nor will you mention it in front of Draco.”
“I won’t.” Marcus says, standing and grabbing his coat. “If you help me.” He extends an arm, waiting for her to latch on so he can Apparate them back to his flat.
Pansy huffs, blowing dark bangs out of her eyes like a petulant child. “Fine. But you owe me.”
He’s pretty sure his cousin digs her nails into his bicep on purpose.
***
Oliver’s sitting on their couch, dressed and waiting, when he and Pansy pop into the living room. The Keeper makes to stand up, then apparently regrets it, because he hovers over the couch for a long second before plopping back down, making an obvious attempt not to stare at Pansy Parkinson tapping her shoes against the wood of their floor.
“Wood.” Pansy says dryly.
“Parkinson.” Oliver nods, before his eyes dart towards Marcus. “So, she’s, ah - she’s agreed then?”
“I’m right here.” Pansy remarks, before Marcus can open his mouth. “And I can speak for myself, thank you very much. Yes, I’ll be helping you hopeless lugs.”
Marcus settles next to Oliver, throwing an arm casually behind the Keeper’s shoulders. Pansy’s eyes glimmer with amusement, not unlike Marcus’ mother’s the first time she’d seen them together, which makes Marcus gives her the middle finger from where Oliver can’t see.
“So what needs to be done?” Marcus asks. Oliver leans back comfortably against his torso and Pansy’s smirk widens, before her face rearranges into an expression that means business.
“Date, venue, clothes, dinner, guest list, guest seating, cake, marriage officiant.” She rattles, ticking each one off on a skinny finger. “Ah, and flowers.”
Oliver laughs. “We’re not going to have flowers.”
“I’m not letting you make the wedding Quidditch themed, Oliver.” A familiar voice says from the doorway, cutting Pansy’s protests off. Percy Weasley strides into their flat, briefcase in hand and spectacles a little crooked. He smiles warmly at Oliver, wanly at Marcus, and then stares at Pansy, who glares right back.
“Er, hello.” Percy stretches his hand out awkwardly. Pansy ignores the offering, instead turning to glare at Marcus.
“A Weasley?”
“Ah.” Oliver says, voice pitched in a way that’s forcefully nonchalant. “I wasn’t sure if you’d agree, so I thought getting some backup wouldn’t hurt.”
Marcus can feel the impending headache throb in his temples.
“I’ve got it covered, Weasley.” Pansy says coldly, and Marcus remembers just how possessive his little cousin can be. It’s not like anyone’s managed to live up to her standard for Malfoy, after all, and Merlin knows how difficult that prat is.
“Percy’s good, though! He can help.” Oliver looks imploringly over at his best friend, who is in turn eyeing the doorway with a hopeful look. Marcus snickers – obviously, Pansy’s put him off any warmth based on friendship to help.
“Stand down, Parkinson.” Marcus calls lazily, far too amused at Oliver’s flustered face to give much thought to how Pansy is steadily cornering Percy like prey, the redhead choosing to abandon his briefcase on the coffee table in favor of easier escape. “Where should we start?”
“The venue.” Pansy says, as Percy pipes up simultaneously with “The date.” Pansy’s eyes narrow dangerously.
Percy rubs the bridge of his nose and inches behind the couch to safety. “The venue is fine.”
“No Quidditch pitches.” Pansy says, before Oliver can open his mouth. The Keeper throws his hands into the air exasperatedly.
“Why do you all assume that I’m going to make it Quidditch themed?!”
Percy cleans his glasses nonchalantly. “Because you’re obsessed.
“I resent that.” Oliver grimaces, curling in under Marcus’ placating arm. “I was thinking more along the lines of Flint Manor, if you’d all have let me talk.”
“You were?” Marcus says, surprised. He’d barely thought of the manor since moving out, least of all in relation to a wedding. All he can think about are how drafty the halls can get during the winter, and how he’d spent more time flying in the surrounding hills than actually inside the manor walls.
Oliver rubs his thumb along Marcus’ hand. “I like it.”
“More like you like the pitch out back.”
Oliver grins.
Pansy taps at her chin, head turned so that her short black hair falls against her cheekbones. “You know; Wood might be onto something here. And we could hold the reception in the Eastern Hall, that place is brilliant in the afternoon. All glittery and golden.” Her eyes spark alight with childish glee.
Marcus glares at her. “This is my wedding, Parkinson, not yours.”
“Would your mother be alright with it?” Percy asks Marcus.
“Auntie will be fine.” Pansy interjects, before Marcus can get a word in. He groans – yes, his mother will approve and most likely be as pleased as if she came up with the idea herself. But maybe having two of the most meticulous and controlling people that he knows plan out the wedding wasn’t such a good call.
“So the date?” Percy asks tentatively, as if waiting for Pansy to jump at him with more of her talk.
“Well, our season’s over, so we’re pretty free.” Oliver says, picking at a spot on his jeans. “But I don’t know if everyone else is-”
“Wood.” Pansy holds a hand up impatiently. “Weddings don’t revolve around the guests and their insignificant schedules. It’s your wedding, you pick a date, which at most you’d only have to consider your parents for. And Marcus’, I suppose.” She finishes thoughtfully, as if she plans on waltzing into Flint Manor and setting up an entire ball without the permission of her aunt.
“Why don’t we – as in Marcus and I – go talk to Marcus’ mother first, and then we’ll get a date back to you.” Oliver says hastily, noticing Pansy counting out days on her hand. He hauls Marcus up by an arm, and then before their two unofficial wedding planners can protest, says “Sort out where we’ll find the rest of the stuff!” before Apparating away, Marcus squeezed along with him.
They stumble onto fresh green grass, the familiar uncomfortable nausea dissipating after a couple seconds. It’s dewy under their feet, and Flint Manor looms up impressively in front of them.
“You just left Weasley with her.” Marcus kicks up a rock as they head down the gravel pathway. “Left him. Your best mate. To fend for himself. With Pansy fucking Parkinson.”
“It had to be done.” Oliver says grimly, with the air of a war hero making a huge sacrifice. With the rate at which Parkinson had been going just now, Marcus thinks, the sacrifice might actually come to fruition. He dimly wonders if anything can be used as a weapon in their living room, before the great oak doors swing open with a resounding creak.
Oliver jumps a little at the noise. “It doesn’t do that when it’s just me.”
“It recognizes Flint blood. Old magic, I suppose.” Marcus says before strolling into the familiar hall, steps resounding against the stone floor. He hasn’t been back here in years, if he’s being fair, instead always choosing to meet his mother outside. The halls remind him too much of his father.
Why Oliver thinks it’d be a good place for a wedding is beyond him. But he doesn’t have a better option in mind, and Parkinson’s point about the Eastern Hall had intrigued him, to say the least. Marcus hadn’t spent any time in there, past the old ballroom dancing lessons all Pureblood kids were forced to take.
His mother is waiting patiently at the long dining table, smiling indulgently. “I suppose Pansy got a bit overbearing?”
Marcus is pretty sure he’s gaping like a fish at this point. “What the – Mother, how the fuck did you already know?”
“Language, Marcus.” Aurelia Flint scolds sternly, and Oliver snickers as Marcus shuts his mouth immediately. “With the response that you gave me, did you really believe I wouldn’t ask Oliver to clarify?”
Oliver shuffles guiltily at Marcus’ raised eyebrow, but his expression is defiant. “Look, I had to think up backup plans just in case everything got a bit much. Which it did.” He stares pointedly at Marcus, and the former Slytherin acquiesces to Oliver’s statement. Marcus grumbles his agreement before crashing down on the seat directly across from his mother. She straightens the cutlery that Marcus had knocked out of place.
“Mrs. Flint, we were – well, I was, mostly – wondering if it would be alright to hold the ceremony here?” Oliver asks, pulling nervously at a loose thread from Marcus’ sleeve. Marcus presses his fingers reassuringly against Oliver’s wrist in response.
His mother looks back at them evenly. “Well, I’m surprised, but not against it. Where were you thinking of holding it?” She gestures vaguely around her, the multiple doorways in the large dining room leading to a maze of hallways that even Marcus has a hard time navigating sometimes.
“Uh, Pansy said the Eastern Hall.” Marcus says, and his mother smirks amusedly.
“Sweetheart, you’ve barely gone there in the past ten years.” Her grey eyes, so similar to Marcus’ own, dart over to where Oliver is fiddling with the silverware. “Although it is a marvel during the afternoon – if you two want, you could stay and wait until the sun hits it just right.”
“No!” Oliver says, flushing as the two Flints turn to stare at him, caught unawares by his outburst. “I mean – I’m sure both you and Pansy have great taste. It’ll be fine.”
Marcus narrows his eyes. “Are you hiding -”
He doesn’t finish his sentence because ow. Oliver’s grip on his hand hurts, for fuck’s sake. Whatever. He’ll figure out why Oliver’s so nervous later.
“What’s a good time, Mum?” Marcus asks, picking at the plate of biscuits that have been placed in front of them by an ancient House Elf.
“Oh, any.” Aurelia says loftily. “It’s more to do with how fast you two can put a wedding together. And how long you can keep it from the press.” She eyes Oliver sternly. “Not the smartest move, young man, to announce it to the dogs and leave them hanging.”
Oliver smiles. “It was the right time.”
Marcus feels warm fingers stroke across his wrist. “Do you think we’ll be able to have everything planned by August?” Oliver asks.
Oliver’s eyes are eager, affectionate, and just so fucking hopeful that Marcus can’t bring himself to say no to the quickness of the date. His mother, on the other hand, purses her lips lightly.
“That’s fast, to organize a wedding.”
“We’ll manage.” Marcus counters, and Oliver beams in that whole-hearted way. Marcus struggles not to kiss his fiancé senseless, because for fuck’s sake, his mother is right there.
Aurelia eyes them for a moment, then gives a very uncharacteristic shrug. “If you say so, Marcus. The fifteenth of August is a Saturday.” And with a calmness and resoluteness only his mother possesses, the date for their wedding is set.
Marcus wonders, dimly, if she and Oliver had already discussed this, and if he’s just being swept along for the ride. But then the front doors are closed behind them, and Oliver’s in his arms, kissing him thoroughly, and Marcus can’t say that he minds.
“You’ll love it.” Oliver promises, running his hands through Marcus’ dark hair. “I’ll make sure of it.”
He eyes the stone towers. It’s nice place, Flint Manor, now that all the Dark shit has been cleared and stripped away. Romanesque, surrounded by green sprawling hills, clear blue sky dazzling above them.
It’ll do.
***
The weeks fly by now, with both of them off season and each day holds another detail of the wedding to tackle. Marcus finds himself rudely awakened by an eager Oliver one Saturday - an hour later and he’s sitting in a confectionary with far too much lace surrounding him.
“We have to finalize your guest list.” Percy says desperately as his best friend gazes adoringly at the assortment of wedding cakes to choose from. Oliver waves a nonchalant hand, not put out by Percy’s usually neat hair flopping about.
Marcus watches Oliver stroke lovingly at the picture of a glazed chocolate cake and rolls his eyes. “Good luck with that, Weasley. He’s useless now.”
The assistant flits about, blushing as Oliver asks her animatedly about the different type of frosting and sponge combinations, most likely half in love already with the man, if the disappointed glances she shoots Marcus’ way are any indication. The girl’s been sworn to secrecy by Percy, Ministry badge winking on his chest intimidatingly, with Pansy clicking her long nails against the countertop for an even more ominous effect. Except, now Parkinson’s gotten bored with Oliver’s infatuation with dessert and ditched Weasley to deal with the proceedings himself.
“And the chocolate?”
Marcus tunes in from where he’s counting the ceiling tiles just in time to hear Oliver demand an explanation of the fine science of creating fudge glaze. Honestly. For how much Wood can be a health nut during the season, his sweet tooth is astronomical.
Before the perky assistant can launch into a speech about cocoa ratios, Marcus steps in. “We’re not getting a triple layer chocolate cake, Wood.”
Oliver pointedly ignores him, gesturing for the assistant to go on. Her eyes dart nervously back at Marcus, who shoves his way in between Oliver and the cake listing.
“Wood.”
“Flint.”
“Wood.”
“Flint.”
“Weasley!” Percy pipes up, eyeing how the two Quidditch players have started glaring daggers at one another. “Ahem, before we choose cakes - which are a very integral part to the reception, don't get me wrong! -” The redhead supplies hastily at Oliver’s put out expression. “But perhaps we should determine who you two actually want at the wedding? After all, the Prophet and Weekly are already clamoring to get reporters in, even without knowing the location.”
Oliver sighs, appeased for the time being. “Fine, fine, let’s see who we have.”
Percy practically throws the sheet of parchment over to Oliver, so relieved at getting his way. “Your parents, of course. Marcus’ mother and aunt.” Percy taps a quill against his chin.
“All of your immediate family, Percy.” Oliver says, “Since you’re my best man.”
Percy blinks, eyes wide behind his spectacles. Marcus wonders who told Oliver dropping truth bombs was an appropriate way of announcing news, because really. It’s a habit that needs to stop.
“Ah. Oliver – are – are you sure?” Percy tugs at his collar. “Just because I’m helping out doesn’t mean that you need to, you know…”
Oliver claps Percy firmly on the shoulders and Marcus bites back a laugh at how incredibly earnest his fiancé’s face is. “You’re my best mate. I couldn’t think of anyone better.” There’s a tone of finality in Oliver’s voice, and Percy knows Oliver well enough not to argue.
“Well then. Alright.” Percy jots down a note on the paper, looking both embarrassed and pleased. “Flint, I assume Pucey is your first choice?”
“Sure,” Marcus clicks his tongue, “He and Higgs are coming back to England next week, anyways.”
“Ah, because it’s convenient, right, not because he’s your best mate.” Oliver raises an eyebrow at Marcus’ feet on the pink upholstery. Marcus doesn’t move.
“He’s a git.” Marcus states, as if Adrian hadn’t been the whole reason he and Oliver had managed to get together in the first place.
Oliver throws his hands up exasperatedly. “And you’re an asshole. Anyways.” the brunet turns back to Percy, who’s been waiting for the couple to finish their bickering. “Puddlemere, of course…once we inform them about it. Angelina, Alicia – the old school team.”
“Hold on, if you’re getting your old team together, then I want mine.” Marcus swings his legs off the couch, feet falling with a thump that makes both Percy and the assistant wince. “Bole, Bletchley, Malfoy – the whole lot.”
“You’re sure?” Oliver furrows his brow, biting his bottom lip at the idea. “Harry and Malfoy would be bad enough; that much tension in one hall…”
Marcus shrugs. “It’s a large hall.”
Percy’s quill hovers above the parchment, and he looks to Marcus for affirmation that yes, they’re going to combine the two groups with the most rivalry at their wedding. Marcus nods, even while Oliver tugs at his bottom lip.
“You worry too much, Wood.” Marcus says, and he stands to place a hand on the small of Oliver’s back, the Keeper’s shoulders less tense at his touch. He hears the gentle scratching of Percy completing the guest list. “And we’re not getting a chocolate wedding cake.”
“Fine.” Oliver sighs. Two seconds later, however, his eyes light up. “What about a chocolate fountain? You guys have that right?”
The assistant nods hastily, quick to jump to service. “We have ten premium chocolates for you to choose from, if you wish.”
Oliver nods. “We’ll get one of those.”
“No.”
Oliver leans closer, until Marcus can feel Oliver’s lips tickle his ear, familiar cologne flooding his senses. “Okay,” Oliver whispers, “But what if I told you I’ll sample all the chocolates, using your body?”
Oliver paints a tantalizing picture, torso brushing just so against Marcus’ arm and he straightens up, attempting to fight back a flush. “When do we need to choose by again?”
The assistant launches into chatter about dates, and freezing, and chocolate, but Marcus is more preoccupied with the naughty finger trailing along the waist of his trousers. Marcus detaches Oliver’s hand firmly, the Keeper snickering as he fades back to stand with Percy as Marcus deals with the details of the dessert arrangement. Even then, he can’t find it in himself to even be slightly annoyed by how wrapped around Oliver’s finger he is – there’s just too much fun to be had.
(“I don’t even want to know what you told him.” Percy grumbles as Oliver grins unabashedly.
“Oh, just the usual.”)
***
“No, Marcus, we are not having bloody ‘mint green’ wedding invitations.”
“Oh, like your ‘burgundy red’ is any better.”
***
It takes three days for the RSVP’s to start turning up, owls popping up haphazardly in their kitchen every morning. Many of the owls have ruffled feathers, as if their senders had thrown them out the window in haste.
Marcus pokes at a particularly aggressive bird warily with his wand, only to watch as it snuggles close to Oliver’s hand the moment the brunet appears in the room.
“It’s Alicia’s owl. Massively possessive.” Oliver explains, feeding the owl a spare treat.
“I’ll say.” Marcus grunts. He pulls the familiar invitation over to him as Oliver coos and sorts out the owl’s feathers. ‘Attending’ is circled very strongly in black, messy, with a scribbled note of ‘what the fuck Ollie how come you didn’t tell us’ on the beige card.
“Looks like Spinnet’s coming,” Marcus says, “And so is Bell.” The second invitation is neater, but there’s also a hastily jotted line written at the very top: ‘oh my god I’m so happy for you, but Flint?? My god, Angie was RIGHT’.
Oliver sighs. “They’re going to give me hell for not telling them, I swear. Might have to hide out for a couple days.”
“No dying before our wedding.” Marcus says, pleased at how Bell’s owl seems to have taken a liking to him. Oliver steals a piece of his bacon, dodging from Marcus’ punch with a laugh.
He hears the tell tale whoosh of their Floo while Oliver’s in the shower, and a semi-familiar voice calls for Wood. Marcus pops his head into the living room to see Angelina Johnson’s dark dreadlocks darting this way and that in search of the Keeper.
“Hullo, Flint.” Angelina says with far too little surprise, and looking as comfortable as someone who’s head is in the fireplace can be. “Congratulations. Where’s Oliver?”
“Shower.” Marcus stands awkwardly a couple feet away from Johnson, unsure of whether to continue the conversation or drag Oliver out from the bathroom.
“Oh.” Angelina gives Marcus the once over, the two Chasers not having interacted much since their Hogwarts days. Sure, Johnson’s one of the old team who knew about their relationship beforehand, but Marcus doesn’t go out of his way to talk to her. He’s horrified to find himself about to ask about Johnson’s personal life in order to ease the awkward silence, when Oliver pads in, toweling his wet hair off furiously.
“We’ve got to get the shower fixed, Marcus, it was cold for half of – Angelina!” Oliver’s face splits into a grin underneath his towel, and he strides quickly towards the fireplace. “Way to pop in unannounced.” But the brunet doesn’t look in any way bothered.
Angelina laughs. “You said respond as soon as possible. Just got the invite – so this is as soon as possible.”
Oliver brightens even more, if that were possible. “You’re coming then?”
“Of course.” Angelina says in her classic solid way. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Oliver hugs Marcus’ arm in lieu of Angelina, seeing as the latter’s body is unavailable. The former Slytherin merely looks at his fiancé in exasperation, but Oliver’s happiness is contagious and even Marcus is pleased that the old Gryffindor team has been three for three, so far.
Angelina gives Marcus another look, this time a hint of a smirk on her lips. “About time, Wood.” And then she pops out of the fireplace, leaving a blushing Oliver to avoid Marcus’ gaze.
“So how long, exactly, have you been planning this?” Marcus asks, caging Oliver in against the nearest wall.
“Well.” Oliver shrugs nonchalantly. “Well.” The brunet attempts to wriggle out from under Marcus’ arm, but Marcus isn’t known as the fastest Chaser in the league for nothing. He drags a struggling Oliver back into the bedroom, fingers digging into ticklish ribs to make the wrestling match a little easier.
“Cheat.” Oliver gasps, as he worms away from Marcus’ hands. Marcus tackles Oliver back onto the mattress and pins the Keeper down with his thighs, blowing air into Oliver’s ear. Oliver’s hysterical laughter makes him do it again, and again, until Oliver’s gasping for breath, and flushed.
“You cheat.” Oliver repeats, thumping his hands repeatedly on Marcus’ chest. “Tickling isn’t playing fair.”
Marcus grins. “Can’t play fair all the time, Wood. Wouldn’t be living up to my potential. Now, answer me – how long have you been planning this?”
Oliver turns so his face is hidden into the pillows, mumbling something incoherent.
“What?”
“Maybe a year.” Oliver admits, throwing an arm over his face and refusing to move even with Marcus’ insistent tugging.
Marcus cocks his head to the side. “A year? But that’d be – only a few months after the War.”
“I wanted to spend my life with you then.” Oliver says defiantly, voice firm the way it always is when he’s hell bent on getting what he wants. “And I want it now, as well. But I didn’t want to feel like we were rushing – so. So I waited.”
“It’s been six years, Wood. I doubt that’d be called rushing.”
Oliver rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. And,” the Keeper’s voice lowers, hesitant. “I didn’t want us to have a wedding pressuring us while we…while we worked through our issues.”
Marcus remembers the sleepless nights, the countless fights they’d had immediately after the end of the War – debating whether or not going to see someone to help with the panicking, and the jittery hands, and the nightmares, would be of help. Marcus hadn’t wanted to talk, didn’t trust people who took one look at his name and flexed their hands near their wand. But they’d ended up pointing their wands at each other one night, curses on the tip of their tongues, scared out of their wits by a tipped-over bookshelf.
He’d looked at Oliver’s wild eyes, recognized himself in the tensed up posture, and agreed the next morning when Oliver brought up therapy again, tentatively. One of the better decisions of his life – the nightmares still flit in and out, but instead of potentially cursing one another, they get up, make tea, and sit in bed until their breathing returns to normal.
Oliver’s looking up at Marcus, face open and emotional, and Marcus tips his head down until their noses touch.
“I’m glad you waited.” Marcus says, as sincerely as he can make himself, because there had been shaky patches, where they’d sat as far away from the other as possible and wondered despairingly if this was it.
(When Marcus brought it up, that one time after a particularly bad row, in a voice that sounded far too small for his body, Oliver had broken the mug he’d been holding – then padded his way over to Marcus side and attempted to fuse their bodies together into one, pressed as close as possible.
Marcus is pretty sure that’s when he relearned, that Oliver was it for him. He hadn’t lost Wood to a bloody War – he wasn’t going to lose him after it.)
Oliver lets out a breath, as if he’d been holding it in, and Marcus feels another residual hurt from the War leave for good. When the Keeper smiles back up at him, it’s light and brilliant and three different kinds of soft.
A screech interrupts their moment, great blasted owl bursting in through their bedroom window, and Oliver and Marcus exchange wary glances at the red envelope hovering in front of them.
“NO, OLIVER,” Fred Weasley’s theatric wail echoes around the room, “I CAN’T WATCH YOU MARRY SOMEONE ELSE.”
Oliver groans, but Marcus catches the beginnings of a grin behind the hand Oliver’s hiding behind. There’s the sounds of scuffling and shoving about from the Howler before George Weasley’s voice booms out as well.
“LET’S ELOPE, OLIVER, I KNOW YOU’RE MADLY IN LOVE WITH ME C’MON, LET’S GO.”
“YOU CAN HAVE THE BOTH OF US!”
“WE’RE STEALING YOU AWAY TONIGHT, OH GLORIOUS CAPTAIN, BE READY WITH YOUR SUITCASE AND YOUR HEART.”
“AND YOUR BODY.” Fred finishes pointedly, and the two Quidditch players hears Lee Jordan cackling in the background. Marcus runs a hand over his face, but he’s grinning too at the twins’ overdramatic antics.
“In all seriousness though,” Fred continues, in his normal voice, “Of course we’ll be attending, Ollie dear, how could we ever say no?”
“I expect free drinks, though, Flint.” George chimes in. Oliver catches Marcus’ eye and the Chaser makes a mental note to bring up alcohol with Percy the next time they meet.
“And congratulations, love birds!” The twins finish, cheering simultaneously, before the Howler shudders and falls to the ground, message finished.
Oliver gives Marcus a roguish wink. “Looks like you have some competition, Flint.”
Marcus laces his hands behind Oliver’s back, feeling the muscles shift as Oliver shuffles himself closer. “If they think they can ever win against me, they’re in for a rude awakening.”
“Oi, those are my old Beaters you’re talking about.” Oliver smacks Marcus on the back of his head, but the responding nuzzle has the Keeper laughing. It’s a Sunday, so they’re reprieved from Pansy’s bossiness and Percy’s strict code of conduct for a day, no pressing decisions about flowers or appetizers or the color of napkins. Marcus is adamant about spending as much of their break lazing about.
Potter pops up in their fireplace around dinner time, Wood’s old Seeker having sent the invitation back unmarked.
“Didn’t want it to be intercepted.” Harry explains hastily, before Oliver can open his mouth for a reprimand. “You know how the Prophet can get these days.”
The sports reporters can be annoying enough, always trailing after the team for a bite about the next season, in-team drama, the latest dating scandal. Marcus can only imagine how it’s multiplied, ten-fold, for the Boy Who Lived. Potter looks relatively unbothered by the extra precautions, however, coughing slightly at the smoke and grinning up at Oliver.
“Alright, Potter. Get that smirk off your face.” Oliver says, a little petulant that someone he’d once been a mentor to now has something to lord over him. “Spit it out.”
Harry laughs, glasses slipping a bit down his nose. “I just never realized you two were together. Even with the rest of the team trying to figure out who you were interested in.”
“Granted, you were too busy saving everyone’s ass all the time. Wouldn’t blame you for not realizing, it’s not like they did.” Oliver shoots Marcus a smile – they’ve both always been fine with keeping their relationship low key, a little safe secret. They’re low-profile for a reason.
“I’m happy for you, Wood.” Potter smiles, but then falters a bit. “I’m definitely coming, and so is Ginny, you’ll probably get her response soon. But, er-” His eyes dart over to where Marcus is lounging on the couch.
“Spit it out, Potter.” Marcus gripes – he hates when people beat around the bush, and he also really wants Oliver back on the couch with him. Potter’s head in the Floo prevents the latter from happening.
Oliver shoots Marcus a disparaging glance, before gesturing for Harry to ignore Marcus’ gruffness.
“I guess your old Quidditch mates will also be attending? From Hogwarts, I mean.” Harry asks Marcus directly. Marcus fixes the younger man with as stony a gaze as he can muster, but Wood’s old Seeker stares defiantly back.
“Yeah,” Marcus says, “Everyone but Malfoy has rsvp’d yes.”
Potter’s eyes seem to flash, but Marcus is unsure whether that’s because of a trick of the lighting. “No Malfoy, huh?”
“Not as of now.” Marcus says slowly, not really following why Potter’s so weird about Malfoy. Sure they had their infamous rivalry back in school, but the way Potter’s face is drawn in thought isn’t just about animosity.
Oliver’s about to question Potter, but then the younger man grins.
“Will be looking forward to it, then. The fifteenth, right, Oliver?”
“Er, yes.” Oliver says, “Harry, is everything -”
“Great. See you guys then!” And then the Chosen One pops out of their fireplace as suddenly as he had popped in. Marcus and Oliver stare at the now empty grate.
“We should place some anti-Floo wards up.” Oliver says after a couple of moments, and Marcus has his wand ready in a second.
***
Marcus is picking up repaired Quidditch gear one day in Diagon Alley, when Adrian Pucey shows up out of bum-fuck nowhere, and promptly launches himself at Marcus.
“Guh.” Marcus chokes as Adrian swoops him into a rib-breaking hug.
“Who would’ve thought you of all people would be the first of us to get married? Damn, Flint, I didn’t think Wood was serious.” Adrian smiles, that shit-eating grin he always wears whenever he knows Marcus can’t worm his way out of a situation.
Marcus stares at him incredulously. “Did you follow me here?”
“Wow.” Adrian sighs. “Wow, three years not seeing your best mate face to face and that’s the first thing I get.” Pucey’s slightly tanned, hair a little lighter, and Marcus wonders what exactly he and Terence have gotten up to in Belgium that makes Adrian look like he constantly lives at the beach.
Marcus shuffles the bag on his shoulder. “Piss off, Pucey.”
Adrian doesn’t stop grinning. “Damn, Marcus. Who would’ve thought you two would’ve been it. Damn.”
“Are you going to keep marveling that I can keep a relationship, or are you going to accept being my best man?” Marcus attempts to punch Adrian in the shoulder, but the shorter man moves too quick for him to manage with bags hanging from his own arms.
“I’m flattered. Honored. And you’re in for a hell of an embarrassing speech.” Adrian says, a little more calmly this time. Marcus cuffs the back of his head – he won’t ever admit it out loud, but he’s missed Adrian, the man out of the country more often than not.
“How’s Terence?”
“Ask him yourself.” Adrian smiles, waving over Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus turns to see Terence clutching a swaddle of blankets to his front, and Marcus almost drops all his bags when a tiny pink fist waves minutely from the bundle.
Marcus stares at the sandy-haired man who raises an eyebrow in response. “What the fuck.”
“I can’t believe your first response is to swear.” Terence says back, half exasperated but his face shows no sign of disbelief – too used to Marcus’ language and disposition to truly be surprised. He nudges Marcus with his shoulder as a greeting and Marcus stops himself from putting Terence into a familiar headlock.
“You have a baby?” Marcus settles for, watching as the tiny pink thing yawns and latches onto Terence’s shirt.
“We’re baby-sitting my nephew, alright, don’t get any ideas.” Adrian snorts.
Marcus glances amusedly at where Terence is cooing at the now awake baby. “Yeah, sure. I give it five years.”
“10 Galleons.” Terence says promptly, wager not even distracting him from adjusting Adrian’s nephew into a more comfortable position. “I’ll head back first, I think this one needs to be changed. Let’s catch up before the wedding, Marcus.”
Adrian kisses Terence goodbye on the cheek before the latter apparates away, then promptly drags Marcus in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, chattering non-stop. And not even helping out with his bags, Marcus thinks peevishly. He’s going to make sure to place Pucey right next to Oliver’s batty old uncle during the wedding.
“Was reading about you in Quidditch Digest the other day, and that poor writer described you as ‘tall, dark, and handsome’. Do you always threaten the people who interview you?”
“Piss off, Adrian.”
***
Malfoy proves to still be a stubborn asshole, not even bothering to send back the wedding invites. Marcus forces them to meet for lunch and he’s surprised the blond had even bothered to show up – the kid’s not an idiot, and knows that ‘catching up’ will actually just be Marcus strong-arming Malfoy into doing what he wants.
“So why aren’t you coming to my wedding?” Marcus asks, and Malfoy gives a long suffering sigh, putting down his napkin.
“I’d rather not rub elbows with the likes of Potter any more than I have to. He’s going, isn’t he?” Malfoy takes a long sip of water and glances at the exit to the restaurant.
If Marcus had cared more, he’d press Malfoy for why exactly he looks so agitated at the thought of Potter. But that’s not a pressing concern. “Yeah. So?”
“Then I’m not.”
Marcus glares. Malfoy glares back, but there’s a lot less heat behind the blond’s gaze than there was before the War.
“Look, you’re the only one from the old Slytherin team who’s not coming. Which means Wood has his whole team and I don’t. That’s not going to happen.” Marcus jabs towards Malfoy pointedly with his fork.
“If Potter’s there, then I refuse.”
“Malfoy.”
The thin blond throws down his cutlery in exasperation. “Flint, we’re not on the team anymore, you can’t -”
“Malfoy.”
Malfoy shoves his plate away in annoyance, crossing his arms, and Marcus smiles because he knows he’s won.
“Fine, Captain.”
“Think of it this way,” Marcus nudges Malfoy when they leave, “Parkinson would have your head if you weren’t there to witness her masterpiece.”