Title: Day 7
Author: tarotgal
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Oliver/Marcus
Disclaimer: Not my characters! I make no money from this.
Summary: Oliver’s sick and angry at everyone about it.
Notes: Written during my 12 Ficlets in 12 Days in 2012 project for x_posed_again

Oliver loved being a starting keeper. His days sitting on the sidelines as a reserve, watching his teammates play their hearts out above were just fine. And his days as first backup when he got thrown into the game to bail them out were ones he treasured. But there was nothing so good as being first string and getting to start in goal. He loved protecting those rings more than anything. More than a good shot of fire whiskey, more than the Quidditch Cup he won in Hogwarts, even more than Marcus Flint, who spent more nights over at his place than not.

Lacing up his boots, Oliver leaned into his locker space and grabbed a handkerchief. He rubbed at his nose, but it didn’t do any good. “Ihitchh!” He’d pitched forward, out of sight, and the sneeze had been well muffled by the hanky; he was pretty sure none of his teammates had heard in the loud changing room.

“Wood!”

With a desperate and quick sniff, Oliver pulled back and straightened up. Macy was new as a team captain. He was a hardass but fair. Definitely not a guy to cross.

“Go see the healers.”

Oliver stared at him, incredulous.

“Are you deaf or just ill?”

Oliver blinked. How had Macy known? Had he just guessed and was hoping for confirmation?

“That’s it. You’re out. I’m calling in Jackson to fill. Go see the healers and get yourself sorted, man. No one flies on my team when compromised.” He pointed. “Go!”

Half-dressed and fully fuming, Oliver went. He threw himself into the rehabilitation room and marched up to one of the healers. “Give me some pepper-up.”

His demand was received with a soft smile and a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Now, now, son. We’ve got to examine you before we can give you anything. Team policy, I’m afraid.”

“But the game’s going to start,” Oliver worried, glancing back at the door.

“You’ll be able to hear the play-by-play. Now like down and relax. This will only take half an hour or so.”

Resignedly, Oliver sat down on the table and let the healer prod and poke him.

*

Puddlemere United lost to the Ballycastle Bats, 260 to 90, due in part to the worst ring-keeping the team had seen all season long. Oliver sat in one of the team boxes, fuming and sneezing into his handkerchief; he wasn’t even allowed to be near the rest of the team until his cold cleared up. Which meant he wasn’t more than another face in the stands during the game, watching his family get trounced by the bats and watching Marcus Flint do the majority of that trouncing.

Oliver returned home at the end of the night ready to tear the place apart if anything were out of line. The flat was empty, which was just as well. He didn’t expect to see Flint the night of such a crushing defeat. All he wanted was to take a long, hot shower and another dose of pepper-up. Marcus had a condition and couldn’t take it, but Oliver always had a dose or two in his cabinet in case of emergency. The stuff usually cleared a cold right up, but this one was hanging on. Leave it to him to catch the worst possible cold imaginable.

“ih-hihshh! IhTchhh!” He stood in front of the steaming mirror, smoke pouring out of both his ears, snuffling into a tissue. He looked like shite, felt like shite. The shower really hadn’t done much to help at all. He wrapped a towel around his waist and muttered, “Thanks, Flint.”

“You’re welcome.”

Oliver wheeled around to find Marcus standing in front of him in the doorway, smiling sloppily. “Ye’ve got some nerve…”

“That surprise you?” Merlin, he was slurring his words again.

“I thought we agreed—as long as ye’re here, no drinking.” Oliver liked a drink as much as the next man; there was no harm in moderation. But Marcus transformed when he was completely drunk, and Oliver didn’t much care for the person he became.

“Technically, I’m not drinking here. I drank with the team at a bar. We had a win tonight.”

“I saw.”

“You’re not happy for me?”

“Not when ye’re winning against my team I’m not.”

“Yeah, well, they were rubbish out there. Didn’t know what they were doing. That’s what they get for not starting you.”

Oliver looked at Marcus like he was crazy. As far as he was concerned, Marcus was crazy. “Go screw yerself, Flint.”

“Oh, that’s not very nice.”

Oliver pushed past him, stormed into the living room, and threw himself onto his couch. “I’m not feeling very nice.” He coughed and rubbed at his forehead, which was both hot and aching. “I’m feeling like shite. And I don’t need yer drunk ass around here making me worse.”

Marcus stayed where he was for a minute, then he lumbered over, leaning against the back of the couch. “You don’t feel good?”

“No,” Oliver snapped. “Ye gave me yer bloody cold.” He shivered and tried to burrow into the back of the couch. “For all I know, ye did it on purpose so that the Bats would win today.”

He didn’t answer right away. In Oliver’s opinion, that was an admission of guilt. There wasn’t anything else he could say. Literally, because his breath caught. “Ih-ih-IHtchh! Hihshhh!” He dragged his hand under his nose one way then the other, wanting to get up and not wanting to move from this position at the same time. He thought about pulling his wand out and summoning some tissues, but before he could, there was a blanket around him. And then a wad of tissues stuffed in front of his face. And a cool hand against his forehead, making him shiver.

He shook it off. “Fuck you, Flidt.” Oliver gathered the tissues up. And though he wanted to blow his nose, he threw them back at Marcus instead. He sniffed and coughed and sniffed again. “Why dod’t ye just go?”

There was another silence. Then Marcus sat down on the couch. Oliver tried rolling further into the couch to get away from him, but it wasn’t a very big couch. “’Cause you’re ill.”

Oliver coughed out a laugh. “Ye’re dot the caregivig type.”

“Hell no.” He rubbed at Oliver’s arm, stroked his cheek. “But you took care of me when I had this bug. And if I’m not mistaken, you were the one who insisted on kissing me, not the other way around. I didn’t give you this cold on purpose. I didn’t give you this cold so United would lose the game. But I did give it to you.”

“ih-Hitchihh!”

“And I’ll stick with you until it’s over.”

“Who says I wadt ye to? Ye’re drudk.”

There was a pause then the words coming out of the darkness at him. “Yes, I am.”

“Aye, ye are.” Though it sounded like Marcus was sobering up quickly.

“But I won’t be when we wake up together in the morning.” He handed over more tissues, holding them there this time. “Take ‘em, Wood.”

Oliver took them and rubbed his nose angrily. “Damn ye, Flint.”

“Hey, listen to that. He can talk again.” Marcus rubbed circles on Oliver’s shoulder. “How about walk? Does he want to go to bed?” The shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. “Does he want to go to bed with me?”

Oliver coughed and nodded. “Aye.”

Marcus aparated them there, then helped Oliver under the covers. They lay side-by-side for a few minutes. Then Oliver shivered, swore, and scooted over to him. “You’re so warm.”

Chuckling, “You’re the one probably running a fever.” But he wrapped an arm around Oliver, pulling him close. “It was fuckin’ cold out there on the pitch today, you know.”

“It was?”

“Yeah. Miserable as anything. My feet were numb by the end of the game. It was all I could do to stay on my broom until our seeker caught the snitch.”

Slowly, Oliver smiled into Marcus’ chest. “Sounds wonderful.”

“Heh… yeah, I guess it was. Makes you feel alive.”

Oliver yawned and closed his eyes. “Tell me about it, Flint? The whole game? As much as you can remember?”

“A bedtime story for the keeper?”

“Got a problem with that? Sniff! Sniff!”

“It doesn’t have a happy ending. At least, not the kind of happy ending you like.”

“I’m ill and want to hear about it.” He tilted his head back and kissed Marcus’ jaw. “I’m so exhausted, I won’t make it to the end, I guarantee.”