Ludwig tightened his grip on his broomstick, swallowing around the nervous lump in his throat. Cheers of his name from the stands made him look from staring straight ahead, and a small smile wormed onto his face as he spotted his brother donned in green-and-silver merchandise, yelling his name and waving madly.
Ludwig carefully released his broom and waved at Gilbert. He shook his head fondly as Gilbert cheered at being acknowledged.
His eyes flickered from Gilbert, to the equally merch-clad boy sitting beside him. Feliciano had a Slytherin scarf draped around his neck and a flag in each hand; the brilliant smile on his face seemed to light up the entire pitch.
"Go Ludwig!" The cry danced on the winds and reached Ludwig's ears, warming them considerably.
A shrill whistle cut into his focus on Feliciano's smile, and Ludwig's gaze darted back to the referee. One of the ex players – an ex Beater from Gryffindor, Erszébet Hedérváry, he recalled – strode out onto the field, frizzy hair flying and Quaffle in hand. With another sharp long, blow of her whistle as she reached the center of the pitch, the ex-Beater tossed the Quaffle into the air, signalling the game to start.
Ludwid leaned forward, pushing the end of his broomstick downward as he hunkered down and focused on the opposing team. A blur of black iron whizzed past him, veering straight for a hovering Chaser – Matthias Køhler, judging from a glimpse of wild blond hair and the bent crook in his broomstick – and he dipped his broom forward, zooming ahead of it.
He looped around and hit the Bludger with the sweep of his broom, and it bounced off of it, redirected into the path of a smoothly flying Hufflepuff.
Feliciano was a Hufflepuff, Ludwig thought, as he nodded at the Dane's wind-snatched call of thanks and the Hufflepuff being knocked back hard several feet across the foul lines. And yet he was cheering for Slytherin – Ludwig's house – instead of his own housemates.
The thought made his heart swell as he chased after another Bludger and intercepted it, sending it at a bulky, dreadlock-headed Hufflepuff Beater. Ludwig watched the Cuban get hit with the Bludger, but get knocked back only a few feet.
He noticed that the other's face was twisted in anger and determination, and took a plunge in order to dodge the same Bludger being hurled back at him. Ludwig zoomed beneath that Beater, deciding to avoid that wrath unless required, and swooped across the pitch.
A Hufflepuff Chaser zoomed past him, and Ludwig spotted the Quaffle in her hand. With a snarl of surprise, he tilted his broom forward and pressed after her. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a Bludger racing alongside him, and he reached out to guide it along with him as he pursued the Quaffle-holding Chaser.
She took a sharp dip downward, throwing a glance back at him. As she spotted him easily keeping pace with her through her windblown blonde bangs, she leaned to the left and began to zigzag her broom to and fro.
Ludwig smirked and refused the bait, keeping straight on her tail. Rearing his arm back, he calculated her movements for a moment before hurling it, broom slowing as he threw it.
The Hufflepuff Chaser veered to the left, taking a huge loop around him, and the Bludger sailed past her –
– toward the middle of the Slytherin stands.
Ludwig felt his heart stutter to a dead stop as the small iron ball hurtle into the crowd. A familiar voice, one that he'd grown to love, reached his ears, raised into a shrill scream of pain, and Ludwig nearly toppled off of his broom as Feliciano, distinct among the faceless crowd in with his auburn hair and brilliant beaming smile, was knocked hard off of his seat by an iron ball flying at high speeds.
—-
"I am so sorry," Ludwig blurted.
Feliciano lay on a bed in the Pomfrey Nursery, head wrapped in bandages. The Bludger had hit him in the chest and nearly broke his ribs – bone-healing magic had corrected any fractures or breaks – but the fall from his seat was what had knocked him unconscious. The game had been postponed, and Ludwig all but quit his Quidditch career for good as he watched Feliciano being carried off to the Nursery.
He smiled anyways. "It's okay," he said, carefully, as not to irritate the bruises darkening his jawline. "It was an accident!"
"I'm still so sorry." Ludwig clenched his jaw and glared down at his hands, folded on his lap. "I threw a ten-inch, heavy iron ball at you."
"And that's okay," Feliciano cut in gently, reaching out to pat Ludwig's hand. "I forgive you. Remember the part where I said it's okay? I said it as many times as you said sorry, so if you don't then maybe you're the one with head damage, yes?"
Ludwig sighed, chest tight at the feeling of Feliciano's warm, tanner hand covering his own pale one. "I am so sorry."
Feliciano shook his head, a smile on his bruised face. "Did you win?" he inquired.
"No, it's postponed because I injured a spectator. Which I am still incredibly sorry for."
"Are you going to play again?"
"Most likely not. I would feel too guilty about hurting you – sorry again – and doing the same to others."
"I'm sorry I won't be there to cheer you on anymore." Feliciano smiled sadly at him, and Ludwig's heart twinged. "But if you continue to play, I'll be cheering for you in spirit! Go Slytherin!" He put a fist in the air and cheered, but winced and carefully lowered it back down onto the bed.
Ludwig didn't think he could possibly get any more fond of Feliciano. But as the other beamed at him and gave him a thumbs up, the way his chest filled with affectionate warmth proved himself wrong.
Swallowing around a sandpaper-dry tongue, Ludwig lowered his gaze to Feliciano's hand, prone betweem his body and the bed rail. "Thank you," he said quietly, fingers twitching as he thought about taking that hand. "Your support means a lot to me. Slytherin would never win a match without you there to cheer us on."
"Oh, I'm sure you could win without me!" Feliciano said, looking up at him with warm amber eyes.
"No we couldn't," Ludwig said, returning the other's gaze intensely. "You're my– our good luck charm."
Feliciano blushed, his smile sloping sheepishly as his tanned cheeks bloomed with color. Ludwig's eyes flickered from his eyes down to his hand, and back up to his face to watch him bite his lips nervously.
"I," he suddenly said, talking on a whim. "Uh. Could I.. maybe…"
"Si," Feliciano interrupted gently, the smile on his face radiating with warmth.
Ludwig clamped his mouth shut – a wise decision – and jerked his chin up. He closed his eyes and put his hand over Feliciano's, covering it on the bedside railing, and scooted to the edge of his chair. He leaned over, tilting his head to the left, sucking in a deep breath through his nose, and –
– jerked back as running footsteps burst into the Infirmary.
"Dios mio, Feliciano! You got hit with a fucking Bludger ball?! If you're fucking comatose, I'm going to kick your unconscious–"
The boy who ran into the Infirmary skidded to a stop and stared at both of them with furrowed eyebrows. "Are you," he asked, a spark of anger igniting in his narrowed hazel eyes, "the bastard who hit my brother? Were you kissing him?!"
Ludwig blushed. "I'll see you later, Feli," he blurted, quickly walking around the other's bed and past the outraged brother, whose angry cursing was making him wish that he'd been the one knocked unconscious with a Bludger at that moment.