Work Text:
“Who wants to hit the pub down the street before we turn in?” Oliver’s enthusiasm was met with silence by the rest of the team, just off the bus. His insides were a jumble of nerves. In just two days, they’d be playing for a chance at the title and there were only two things that would relax him: getting out there on the pitch and getting a shot of whiskey in his stomach. And since their equipment was still en route, he only had the second option.
Okay, so going out to drink the night before what might be the biggest practice of your life wasn’t necessarily a good thing, but he just wanted a couple shots, some time to relax, and a few minutes to enjoy with his mates that they’d made it this far. “C’mon, you guys. You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you?” The rest of his team stared blankly at him or avoided his gaze.
“I’ll go for a drink with ya.”
Oliver recognized the voice before he saw Marcus Flint push past the group of teammates and drop his travel bag on the trolley heading up to their rooms at the inn.
Two hours and no clue how many shots later, he had to admit Flint actually made a good drinking buddy. His pace was perfect. His small talk was not at all painful. His jokes were tasteless. And his kind of sideways smile was bloody infectious. “One more,” Wood said, holding up one finger on an already limp hand.
“You said that before the last one.” Flint rocked to the side, keeping balance on the barstool, his shoulder crashing against Wood’s.
“This time, I mean it.” Another glass was plunked in front of him, and he gripped it.
“You’re good at this.”
“Aye.” Wood took a drink then set the glass down and squinted. “Wait, what? Drinkin’?”
“Letting loose. Relaxing. Thought you were always so uptight, especially before a big game.”
Wood shrugged. A lot had changed since their days at Hogwarts or his first years in the league. He knew what real pressure was like now. He knew what really mattered. “Aye, well, this calms me.”
“Only two things calm me before a big game.”
Grinning at him, “A good, hard, long practice and a stiff drink?”
“Nah.” Marcus’ fingers slid over Oliver’s, lingered for a moment, and pried the glass from them. “A good practice and a hard, long, stiff prick.” He took a drink and, before Oliver’s slightly slowed mind could race to make sense of that, Marcus’ lips were on his, whiskey passing between their mouths, and tongues following.