Aidan Lynch fidgeted with his Quidditch robes anxiously as he stood at the back of the team, nerves jangling in his stomach. He clutched his broom in one hand, the smooth handle familiar and comforting on his palm. The world around him was blurred, out of focus and altogether too close and too far away, tilting as he moved his head. He centered in on the one place that remained still and clear: the back of Connolly's head at the front of the line. His crowing nerves edged closer to his chest, forcing his heart into his throat and his breath out of his lungs.
Finally, the team began to move forward, taking off one by one. As Aidan stepped out of the locker room, the roars of the crowd immediately pressed in on him, not quite seeming real; they accosted his head and blended together with the blurry world in front of him. The only place that remained solid, clear, was the space where his hand held his broom, the press of the wood on his palm and the curl of his fingers around the circular handle, his hold on the world, his lifeline. His nerves unfurled inside him, choking him, smothering him, pressing against the inside of his chest until he couldn't breathe. He saw Quigley take off in front of him as if through a smudged glass, and without thinking, almost instinctively, he swung his leg over his own broom and pushed off from the ground, hard.
As soon as the solid feeling of the ground left his foot, Aidan felt every drop of anxiety leave his body, flow out of him as he rose above the field. Every nerve in his body was alive and on fire as the wind whipped over his skin; the world came into focus, everything sharper, but none of it seemed to matter; nothing existed outside of his the air on his skin and the broom beneath him. Aidan breathed in and the magnified voice of Ludo Bagman sliced through the bubble that surrounded him, "Aaaaaand - Lynch!" He was soaring.
Aidan flew over the crowd, eyes scanning the field below him for any glint of gold. He kept one eye on the scowling child dressed in scarlet robed, watching for any sign that he saw the Quaffle and trying not to be intimidated by the intent look on the boy's face that spread to every aspect of his being, filling his body with concentration. His eyes jumped over the field, searching, seeking. But never looking at his team's goal post. He kept his eyes carefully away from the green figure in front of the goal, the silver embroidery writing out the name he knew so well. He kept his mind on the game.
It was through this cloud of determination that he saw the sallow-skinned boy playing opposite him pull into a dive, his face still full of that plain deliberation. Cursing himself for being distracted, Lynch pressed against his broom and followed the scarlet blur, the nose of his broom pointing almost straight down as he plummeted through the air. He dropped downward, searching for the gold that Krum must have spotted.
There was only a second in which Aidan realized what had happened. Only a second in which Krum pulled out of his dive and the ground spiraled closer, and Lynch felt completely blank of intent or fear. Only a second in which he was going to crash. Only a second in which he looked up and his eyes were drawn to the Irish side of the field, to Connolly's face contorted with panic. Only a second before the world went black.
As soon as he was revived, Aidan looked up and saw five of his team members watching him anxiously, and Connolly determinedly not looking at him. He felt a pang in his chest. Connolly…There had been a time when he had called Connolly by his given name, and Connolly had called him Aidan, a time when they had been the best of friends. They had spent every waking moment together, never closer than when they were flying through the air. Then they were brothers, alike in freedom and alone in the world. Then the rest of the world didn't matter; nothing else existed when they were zooming faster than the speed of light. They raced against one another, competed for the Snitch or scoring goals with the Quaffle. Even when they landed on the ground, they left their hearts in the air behind them; every laugh they drew out of the other would bring them back among the clouds. They had been closer than any brothers. But then Aidan had told Connolly how he felt, and Connolly had told him it wouldn't be prudent, that they should call each other Lynch and Connolly like the commentator did. So now he was just Connolly, and Connolly wouldn't even look at him.
Aidan pushed off again, his foot full of the hard feeling of the ground, trying to leave his thoughts on the ground behind him. He soared above the crowd as his team scored goal after goal, searching determinedly for the Snitch. He hardly noticed when the referee caused a commotion with the Veela, his mind never leaving the act of looking for the Snitch.
Suddenly, the world around him was filled with color. He saw the green of the field that had filled his eyes throughout the match; red speckled his view as blood flowed freely from his opposite's face; orange flared as fire caught the referee's broom; and through it all, he saw a speck of gold.
The wind whistled in his ears as Lynch flattened against his broom again, his robes trailing behind him as he hurtled down toward the earth; he could see nothing beyond that flash of gold. Flecks of blood spattered his face as Krum drew level with him, but still he dove straight toward the splash of gold, drawing closer and closer every second. This time, there was not even a split second in which he understood the reality of what would happen; there was not a moment in which he could glance upward. He soared toward the ground, the glint of gold filling his vision as the ground spiraled toward him again.
Aidan lay on his back in the healer's tent, staring up at the brown-tinted light shining through the material, recalling Connolly's words after Lynch had told him. "You're crazy," he'd said, and the tremor in his voice had broken Aidan's heart. "You can't – you can't be in love with me." He had stumbled backward, away from his friend, away from the man who loved him more than anything else in the world, the man who would do anything for him. Aidan had pleaded, told Connolly that he was sure there had been something, something between them. When he had seen the desperation in Connolly's eyes, he had begged that they could at least go back to how things had been. "I can't," Connolly had replied, his breathing ragged and torn. "I – I can't." A month later, it was all over the magazines that Connolly had found himself a girlfriend. His Connolly. But now he was just Connolly.
Aidan stared dully ahead as the mediwizards bustled around him.
"Aidan!" He heard the call before he realized exactly what it was, when it was too far away to make out the word or the voice, only the sound. Jerking around, he saw a figure running toward him, repeating the cry anxiously. "Aidan! Aidan!" Connolly drew nearer, his eyes blazing. "I thought you'd died," he continued more softly, the edge of desperation in his voice deepening, and before Aidan knew what was happening, Connolly's lips were on his own, rough and clashing, teeth getting in the way of their mutual hunger, their mutual need to get closer. He felt himself clutched to Connolly, and realized his own hands were clawing at his friend, pulling him closer, closer, until he was as close as he could come, and still he tried to drag him nearer. They clung to one another, mouths moving fiercely. Finally they drew apart, foreheads pressed together. "We won, you idiot," Connolly said, a laugh edging on hysterical behind his voice, and then they were kissing again, lips pressing together, and nothing else in the world mattered. Just Connolly.
As the team entered the top box, Aidan was hyper-aware of Connolly's arm pressed against his back, Connolly's side against his own, Connolly's anxious glances toward him, checking that he was all right after the crash, checking that he was still there. The world was unfocused again; Lynch felt dazed.
The grin on Aidan's face tugged at his cheeks, pulling wider as he saw the Cup raised into the air. Finally, they left the top box, seated on their brooms, Aidan Lynch on the back of Connolly's, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way. They flew around the field in another victory lap, soaring against the wind just as they always had; he and Connolly free, zooming at the speed of light. The rest of the world didn't matter, didn't even exist. Just Connolly.