I've been wanting to write a sequel to Synthetic Bonds about Blaise and Oliver for a while, but it took me a while to think of a story that I liked. I'm excited to get back into the Synthetic Bonds world, and yes, Harry and Draco will be making reappearances.

For people who haven't read Synthetic Bonds, I've tried to write this so you that you don't need to. But as a warning, this is a non-magic AU set ambiguously in a fictional version of the US where gay marriage doesn't raise eyebrows and soccer is as popular as it should be.

For those of you who have read Synthetic Bonds, thanks for continuing on to this story! Some of you will probably remember that sometimes, my updates are a bit sparse. Unfortunately, my schedule is even more annoying than it was when I was writing Synthetic Bonds, but my goal is to have at least one chapter up per month. I know that's not very fast, but I promise that the whole story will be written.

And a major thanks to my beta, rozeable1/emptycarouselsatsunset!

The grass was cold against Blaise's face, which reminded him that now was not the time to get too comfortable. He quickly pushed himself up and scanned the field. There had to be only a few minutes left in the game, and while his team was in the lead, it was hardly an assured victory. He'd just been engaged in a long battle the other team had tried relentlessly—though unsuccessfully—to organize a strike against him. It was a welcome relief to find that his team had taken the ball back and was driving it down to the other side, but Baise was still ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

The ball was going towards the other team's goal right now, gliding through the air at high speed. Blaise was holding his breath as he tried to will the ball into the goal, but instead, it bounced off a post and into the goalie's arms. Readying himself for the return, Blaise watched as number five from the other team charged towards him with the ball, weaving his way through the defense with the assured grace he was becoming known for. But Blaise had watched him play and studied his tendencies down to the way he liked to twitch his wrist in the direction he was going to kick. The movement was so small that Blaise was still not sure if he was making it all up. But players all have their little quirks, and he didn't have time to doubt that he'd found number five's.

And there it was, the little movement that told Blaise that the ball was going to number seven. He called it out, and five raised his head in surprise. It threw him off, and that was just the second Blaise's team needed to catch him, stealing the ball back until finally, the shrill sound of a whistle signaled their victory and was followed by an overwhelming mash-up of human voices and horns.

Thirty minutes later, Blaise was still soaked in sweat, his shorts practically stuck to his thighs. But it was hard to worry about being dirty when his team didn't seem to be done celebrating. The Cannons, as they'd let themselves be known, hadn't made it to the national finals in almost a decade, and they'd finally secured themselves a spot. Post-game shenanigan ideas were being thrown around, and everyone seemed to be slowly coming to a consensus on where to head for the night. Even the ones with family who usually headed in early were planning to stay out late. It was a special occasion, and Blaise had no desire to miss it. There were very few people for whom Blaise was willing to make a fool of himself with. The group of men he practiced and traveled with on a regular basis were among the honored few.

A loud voice sounded over the chants, somehow managing to be heard over a resounding rendition of what sounded like fifty different songs.

"SHUT UP!"

A room full of some of the world's finest athletes, and all it took was the booming voice of their manager Greg Harrison to make them all be quiet. Harrison was staring sternly at them, the blue in his sweater bringing out a steely glint in his eye. No one made a sound, worried about where the famously mercurial coach's mood would take him now.

Then, out of nowhere, he smiled broadly. There was a collective sigh of relief as he said, "Now that I know you can play like this, we're going to push you harder in practice."

It was closest thing they were going to get to praise from him, so everyone stifled their groans. It was hard to imagine how practice could get more difficult. Blaise still had bruises in places he didn't know could bruise. Someone would have to warn the medical staff though; there was sure to be an influx of players with physical ailments coming in. The fact that they wouldn't be having any important games for a few weeks confirmed that Harrison had only misery and pain in store for them.

Harrison went through a list of his highlights from the game, calling out a spectacular goal and several brilliant moments in defense. Blaise was surprised to hear his own name called, and when he raised his head, he was glad to see that Harrison was still smiling. "Great job today." And that was that. It was more than enough.

He continued on. "The Grant University soccer team came to watch today. Their coach asked if it would be okay to bring them around to meet you guys when you're all showered up. I'd like it if you'd all show up."

There was a general murmur of assent. The Grant coach must have some good connections. Harrison wasn't renowned for his generosity—he'd refused many an attractive model or pop star's request to meet the team, much to the chagrin of the single men. Blaise was curious to meet the person who managed to work his way through Harrison's usually rigorous set of rules.

Blaise was the last to finish getting ready, which wasn't surprising. He had a steadfast routine that his teammates had long given up making fun of. He'd even noticed some of them trying to quietly check out the labels on his lotion bottles, which usually coincided with them buying the lotion a week later. Overall, he thought the average skin quality on his team had improved significantly over the course of his time there.

He left the quiet locker room and walked down the hall to where a louder commotion could be heard. A group of young men were chatting with his own teammates, their faces clearly marked with excitement and awe. Blaise crept in quietly, standing towards the back as he grabbed a bottle of water and studiously started drinking it. He never knew what to do in these situations. Standing quietly and waiting for people to talk to him usually worked well. Pansy and Draco both made fun of him for not being more forward, but it's not like Blaise needed to approach people. He thought a certain air of unapproachability suited him, if only because it allowed him to be at his laziest.

He still couldn't see who this mysterious university coach was though, so Blaise decided to stand in the periphery of a nearby circle in the hopes that he might get some more clues. His teammates were recounting the finer details of the game to a small group of college soccer players. It was fun to listen to, but hardly helpful. He nodded his head in time to the conversation, throwing in the right laughter in response to the appropriate cues. He was considering whether he should contribute to the recap, considering several points of the game that might be amusing to go over again. There was the time one of the players on the other team had pretend to fall in the hopes that he could get the referee to call a foul on the Cannons, only to find the referee threatening to give him a yellow card if he didn't stop clutching his arm.

Before he could enter the conversation, he felt a light tap on his elbow. Harrison was behind him, and he leaned forward to say, "You should meet their coach." Blaise shot him a confused look. It was one thing for him to be curious; it was another for Harrison to somehow acknowledge that curiosity without Blaise saying anything. "I think you two know each other. He says he went to that fancy high school you went to."

Blaise followed Harrison through the crowd. There were other pockets of college players chattering away. They were wearing their school jerseys, a deep crimson that stood out against the navy of the Cannon's jackets. Only one of them was wearing a bright green jersey, and the look of admiration he shot Blaise seemed to confirm that he was their goalie. Blaise gave him a little nod, but continued the trajectory Harrison had set out for him.

"That's him," Harrison said, pointing towards a man who was a few feet away from Blaise. Blaise could only see him from the back for now: tall, built, brown-haired. It was all very generic handsome-man-from-behind as far as Blaise could see. But then he heard the man laugh, and Blaise knew he knew that laugh. He'd first heard it ten years ago, and it was a sound he'd always loved hearing. The man turned around, and Blaise saw that smile.

Oliver Wood.

*.*.*.*

Four years ago

Oliver was smiling at him, and Blaise could barely believe his luck. He'd managed to make it through three whole dances without making a fool of himself in front of a man he'd had a crush on since high school. In fact, Oliver seemed to be enjoying his company. Maybe Draco blackmailing him into asking Oliver to dance wouldn't be such a disaster after all. There had to be plenty of other relationships that had a solid foundation in blackmail. Hell, Harry and Draco hadn't even liked each other when they first got engaged, so at least Blaise and Oliver had a headstart on not hating each other.

Speaking of the happy couple, Draco and Harry were turning slowly on the dance floor. Draco's head resting against Harry's chest, and Harry seemed to be whispering something into his ear. The shine off their new wedding bands made something twinge in Blaise's stomach—he suspected that this is what envy felt like.

"You know," came Oliver's voice, warm against Blaise's cheek, "I never would've put those two together."

"I don't think any of us would have. Remember our first practice in high school?"

Blaise had been in the same year as Harry and Draco, and their class would never be able to live down the epic battle down that had taken place on the soccer field when Harry and Draco realized that they would both be trying out for the same team. At the time, he'd sided with Draco out of loyalty. Looking back though, Blaise couldn't help but wonder if the initial tumult of Harry and Draco's acquaintance hadn't been a bit misguided. Certainly, if they had discovered that they were so happy together now, they could have been happy much earlier if it weren't for their egos. And truly, in all the years that Blaise had known Draco, he had never seen him as happy as when he was with Potter.

"Of course," Wood replied, reminding Blaise that he'd asked a question before going down his own internal monologue. "How could I forget? That was my first year as captain, and I was terrified that I'd completely failed before the season even began."

"Well, you managed to tear them apart before the coaches saw, so clearly you did something right."

"I remember that you were standing in the back looking like you were trying not to laugh."

"I've known Draco for most of my life, but that was my first time seeing him with grass stains in his hair. Besides, I thought I was being subtle."

"Just because you're quiet doesn't mean you're subtle."

Blaise wasn't sure, but it seemed like Oliver's arm pulled him in closer as he said that, but he must have been imagining it. "Okay, I was at least going for unnoticed."

"It's hard not to notice you, Blaise." This time, Blaise could swear he felt Oliver's lips brush deliberately against his ear.

*.*.*.*

Present Day

Blaise froze, which was awkward because Oliver was extending his hand out to him and saying words that Blaise was sure he was supposed to be responding to. Oliver's hand was in his, and Blaise tried to shake his hand without actually feeling it. This only resulted in a sort of limp handshake, and he instantly regretted it. He wasn't sure what he was feeling—it was like someone fed him a meal made of excitement, anxiety, dread, and happiness, and while he wasn't sure what flavor that made up, it did seem to be vomit-worthy. It had been over three years since Oliver had left to play in London, which meant that it had been three years since Blaise had seen him.

"How are you?" he asked, hoping his voice didn't reveal any shake. "I heard about your injury," he added, glancing at Oliver's shoulder. Of course, everyone had heard about Oliver's injury. The image of him clutching his shoulder in agony had been pasted on every sports site and soccer blog. From thousands of miles away, Blaise could only watch in horror. Oliver wasn't the sort of player to let an injury stop him—in high school, he'd played with a twisted ankle until the coach realized what was happening and made him come off the field.

"Yeah, it was rough."

"I didn't know you were going to be coaching at Grant." Blaise stopped himself before he added that he didn't even know Oliver was back in town.

"It was kind of a last minute decision. Their old coach got too sick halfway through the season, and he was looking around. One of my old teammates told me about it, and here I am. I was going to call you, but I've been so busy with moving and getting everything set up…."

Blaise let Oliver's voice trail off, not wanting to hear him make excuses when Blaise worried that maybe he didn't merit one. "So it's true then?" he said, diverting the conversation. "You really can't play anymore."

"Nope." He shrugged as if resigned to his fate, but Blaise suspected it would take longer for Oliver to truly accept the decision. "I almost punched the doctor when he told me."

"You should have punched Ronald," Blaise noted grimly, naming the player who had been the cause of Oliver's injury.

"You saw it then?"

"Of course. I watched all of your games." He sounded more like a besotted high school student than he intended, and Blaise instantly felt his cheeks heat up. He thought he saw the corner of Oliver's mouth twitch. "I still don't understand how he managed to get away with running on top of your shoulder."

"You and half of London." Oliver's grin was much more obvious now. God, Blaise had missed that smile.

"I heard he couldn't show his face in public for a week."

"It's nice to know that a shoulder can drive a city to defend your honor."

"The last I read, you were thinking of playing for a lower level league."

"I was thinking about it, but I had a good run, you know?" He still had that look of trying to convince himself that he was being sincere, but as he continued on, Oliver sounded more sure. "Coaching is fun though. They're a great team, and it reminds me a bit of being captain back in school. Plus," Oliver added, with a sincere look that made Blaise's stomach tighten, "it's nice to be home.

And with that, Blaise responded the only way he could. "It's nice to have you home."

*.*.*.*

Four years ago

"Hold on, I need to finish my glass," Blaise said as he downed the champagne. It was probably sacrilege to chug this champagne, but his mother wasn't around to chide him.

"Come on," Oliver said for the tenth time, reaching a whiny pitch that Blaise was just drunk enough to find endearing. "I want to show you something."

"I hope this doesn't involve me having to meet more people. I've already had to talk to three strangers tonight, and I'd rather not go through that again."

"No, no, no," Oliver assured hurriedly. "No people. Just come on!"

Blaise let himself be dragged from the table. Not that Oliver's tight grip around his wrist aroused much resistance. Truth be told, the only reason Blaise was delaying was because he didn't want Oliver to let go.

Oliver pulled him towards the back of the hall. The guests were starting to thin out now, and a crowd was gathered around the coat check as expensive furs and tailored jackets were distributed around. Blaise and Oliver were both staying in the hotel, so it didn't seem strange to pass them by. Blaise nearly tripped as Oliver wove him through the crowd. He quickened his steps to keep up, wondering where Oliver could possible taking him with such urgency.

They were at the elevators now. Oliver pressed the "up" button once—then three more times in rapid succession when the elevator failed to materialize.

"It's an elevator, Wood. It's not magically going to appear just because you jam your thumb into it."

Blaise's comment went unnoticed though because just then, the elevator doors opened and Oliver tugged him inside. Before the doors were even closed, Blaise felt himself get pushed up onto the wall, and suddenly he was warm. Very warm. There was a chest against his, and legs and hips and hands.

And lips.

Oliver's lips were on his.

Oliver was kissing him.

Oliver. Kissing. Him.

Blaise's brain was on high alert. Something was wrong. Everything was perfect, and that meant something was wrong.

Oliver Wood was kissing him, and Blaise was so caught up in trying to figure out what alternate universe he was caught up in where (finally!): Oliver Wood was kissing him.

Then just as suddenly as it started, it ended. There was cold across Blaise's lips where Oliver had left a gap between them. The elevator doors had just opened. "Er, sorry," Oliver said, and with nothing else said between them, he turned and left.

Blaise stood there, unsure of whether his legs had locked up or his brain had just stopped functioning. Paralysis by high school crush—that would be a new one to tell the doctors. He didn't move, riding the elevator back down as he tried to wrap his mind around what had just happened. A light ping sounded, and the elevator doors opened. A black-haired man was holding up a blond man, the two of them giggling as they stumbled into the elevator.

"Blaise!" Harry said loudly. "Look, Draco, it's Blaise!"

"Is it?" Draco was glancing around wildly, as if Harry frequently lied about Blaise's proximity. "Where?"

The sight of them helped penetrate through the temporary fog, and Blaise looked at them both in bemused silence until finally, Draco seemed to realize he was standing right in front of him. "Blaise!" he shouted. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"I'm married!"

"Are you?"

Draco paused at the question, not entirely aware of the amused tinge to Blaise's voice. "Harry," he said, lowering his voice slightly. "We're married, right?"

"Yes, Draco. We have the rings and everything."

"Oh. Right." Draco's face brightened. "See, Blaise," he waved his right hand in Blaise's face. "Married! And we're going to have sex! All of it!"

"I think you've got the wrong hand up, dear," Harry volunteered, taking Draco's other hand and putting it in Blaise's face for him. "See, now you can properly miss Blaise's sarcasm properly while telling him far too much information."

"I don't know if I should find you two adorable or disgusting."

"Don't hate us because we're going to have more sex than you tonight."

Blaise tensed, but tried to shake the comment off with a laugh.

"Come on, Draco," Harry said, grinning apologetically at Blaise. "It's not a competition."

"It is when I'm winning."

"I thought I saw you leave with Oliver," Harry noted. "Where did he go?"

Dammit, Harry.

"Nothing," he said, shrugging while feeling his body tense further. "We were just both tired. I realized that I forgot something at the reception, so I went back down to get it."

"But you didn't get out of the elevator."

"What are you talking about?'

"When Draco and I got into the elevator, you were already here. You came down with the elevator, but you didn't get out."

"That's not true."

"It is!" Draco had just rejoined the conversation with some inconvenient insight. "What happened? Did you finally confess that you've had a crush on him since our first day of soccer practice?"

"Of course not."

"Well, did something happen then?"

"No."

Draco leaned forwards and squinted, engaged in the drunken equivalent of what he must have thought was careful suspicion. "You're lying!" he declared, practically spitting as he said it.

"I'm not lying," Blaise replied, engaging every trick he knew to cover up the truth.

"Yeah, you are. You're turning pink!"

"For the hundredth time, Draco, I don't turn pink."

"You do! When you blush, you turn pink. And you only blush when Oliver is involved."

"I am not capable of turning pink."

"Well, you do it anyway."

The elevator opened again. Blaise felt himself slacken when he saw Oliver standing outside the door. This whole elevator ride was starting to feel like some kind of cosmic joke, but it would have been a lot funnier if it were happening to someone else. Harry and Draco stared at them both. Oliver bit his lip, then stepped inside. Blaise felt like Oliver was trying to avoid looking at him.

"Got off at the wrong floor," Oliver mumbled to Blaise as he stood next to him. Blaise nodded, but all he could think about was the fact that Oliver's hand had—for all of one second—just brushed against his own.

Draco was staring at them, any semblance of subtlety having vanished approximately five drinks ago. Harry tried to quietly elbow him, presumably to wordlessly tell him to stop being so damn obvious, but that only earned a loud, "OW! What did you do that for?" making the rest of the ride even more awkward.

It turned out that Oliver and Blaise were staying on the same floor. He wasn't sure how he hadn't realized that earlier, but when they both clumsily staggered out of the elevator together, Blaise could have sworn he heard Draco start giggling into Harry's shoulder.

The elevator door closed behind them with that telltale *ping*, and Blaise suddenly wished he had just stayed on and rode it all night.

"Sorry," Oliver said. "About earlier."

"Why?"

"I mean, you didn't really seem to…you know—like it. I was probably just getting carried away. I mean, we had fun and everything tonight, so I just thought…well…." Oliver glanced around the hallway, and it seemed for the first time in all the years that Blaise had known him that Oliver looked flustered. "Well, anyway. If you could just forget about it. Or not. I mean, it's up to you."

"Um, right."

"Well." Oliver stopped in front of his room and opened the door. "Good night." And before Blaise had a chance to reply, Oliver had closed the door with a depressing thud behind him.

Blaise entered his own room and collapsed on the bed, slamming his face repeatedly into the undone comforters. Everything would be easier if he could just do things without thinking of all the ways he would inevitably fail. How could he just stand there and not do anything when the culmination of ten years worth of awkward sexual frustration had practically solved itself.

"Fuck it," he said after having berated himself for a good three minutes. He dug his hand through his pocket and grabbed a flask. Taking a small swig, he could feel the taste of scotch burn through his throat. It felt like courage, he decided. Or stupidity. But maybe that was what courage was.

He got up and stuffed his key into his pocket. The haze of alcohol was just starting to hit his system, and he needed to take this one moment of his brain shutting up to do what needed to be done.

By the time he was across the hall and knocking on Oliver's door, he was already starting to doubt himself. And when Oliver opened the door, Blaise was almost ready to sprint back to his room. But Oliver had undone his tie so that it was hanging loosely around his throat, and his sleeves were pushed up to reveal the muscle of his forearm. And that did Blaise in. He opened the door wider, and while shooting him a questioning look, Oliver stepped back to let him enter. Blaise closed the door, then slid his hand along the loose tie as he pulled it off Oliver.

This time, when Oliver kissed him, Blaise was ready.