When Oliver was drafted to a professional quidditch team, Marcus was hardly surprised. He was even less surprised when he got his own letter of invitation to a rival team only days later.
“It really does suit us, doesn’t it?” Oliver said.
They were curled in Marcus’ bed, enjoying the afterglow of what they lovingly called ‘congratulations sex.’ Oliver was resting his head on Marcus chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Marcus pressed a kiss to the top of Oliver’s head. He breathed in the smell of Oliver, of sweat and leather and wood.
“Don’t let them brainwash you, okay. I still better be your favorite quidditch player at the end of the season,” Marcus teased.
“As long as you don’t forget to make time for me. Quidditch player or not, I better be your favorite at the end of the season,” Oliver replied.
“What? You think I’m gonna let my kink for burly, hot-headed, keepers get the better of me and have me chasing something other than a quaffle?” Marcus asked.
Oliver didn’t answer, but held him tighter.
“Hey,” Marcus said, hooking a finger under Oliver’s chin. He tilted his head back enough to look Oliver in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that would bother you. We’ve dealt with distance before; it’s nothing we’re not used to. We’ll make time for each other.”
“I know,” Oliver whispered.
Oliver sat up and looked at Marcus, then said, “Don’t play with me like that.”
“Oh, and I’m such a practical joker. I’m serious. Marry me.”
Oliver wanted to say yes, but Marcus never gave him any hint that he even liked the idea of marriage. He couldn’t imagine getting into this if it was only because it was what Marcus thought Oliver wanted.
“Oliver, what’s wrong? You can say no,” Marcus said, obviously starting to feel uncomfortable. “We won’t break up if you say no.”
“You really want to? You want to marry me?” Oliver asked.
Marcus untangled himself from his sheets and made his way over to his wardrobe. Instead of opening it, he grabbed a tiny box from on top. Cradling it in his hands, he got back in bed with Oliver.
“I was going to ask last week, but then you got signed. I didn’t want to steal your thunder, you know?” Marcus said, lifting a ring for Oliver to see.
He picked it up and slipped it onto his finger. “Can you imagine? Maybe we should get married and keep it quiet until our teams face off.”
“You’re such a dramatic little shit. You could just say ‘yes’ and kiss me,” Marcus said.
Oliver smiled, “Yes, and kiss me.”
Marcus rolled his eyes and smiled, “Fucking dramatic.” Then, of course, he kissed him.
