There was quidditch in the background, he could remember that without a fault: what with the whistle, the cheer, the shouts and the drear. The wireless cranked up while it was nestled near his ear.

The anticipation and how it sauntered and how it fluttered before him here. The rubbing of a few calluses across the landscape of his knees. The bunchings of a sweatshirt and how they rode when Harry eased, how they climbed a little higher as he shimmied to meet him here — to meet him halfway across the couch and to sprawl above his touch. Until the ruckings of his shirt were a quarter to Tom's chest and you couldn't blame if he wandered and indulged what he had here.

With his arms snugged against him and his hands along his stomach, just fondling what they were missing and squeezing what he liked, as Harry leaned into Tom's body and nestled there for a moment. Crooked beneath his chin and cradled above his heart, embraced between his thighs and cherished like a star, while they were lying on the couch and with Tom within his hair.

Nuzzling with his nose, with his lips and with his brows: as he would always while in flight, while Harry veered him from the ground, while they were soaring through the skies and with the wind whipped around them. And Tom held him just like this and was distracted from everything else.

Because all he wanted and what he yearned was right here and he loved it: the tremors, the adrenaline, the scuffling of Harry's hands when he searched for Tom's own and squeezed them to his wrist. The shudders, the enthrallment, how he would pivot in Tom's lap just so he could listen with a fervor and with a reverence for this match.

Even if right above them was the thundering of the wireless, crowing and shrilling and perched there like a chicken. As there was nothing else it could do, and yet Harry stared at it with wonderment.

He would tense while he listened, as if a witness to this match. He would bolt like a player, as if he was there within the wind. He would curse at all the moments where cursing was allowed, bristled to his head and with strands like a crown. He would whistle with the crowd and stomp with his hands: his chest like a drum while beating out a rhythm — when a score, when a pass, when a save were done well.

There would be lightning at his mouth when Tom caught him with emotion, when Harry looked at him through his lashes and found excitement all throughout him. That he could trace every 'hmmm' and every smile of amusement as Tom held him close — as if to immortalize this very moment. Because to him, the real excitement was having Harry when he was like this.

How the adrenaline — Tom could feel it — coursing through his body and burgeoning through his back whenever Harry was animated. And how it weighed him further down into the continent of their affection; and his every moment and expression no matter how small, they would ripple into Tom and he would covet them within his arms.

Because his partner was a wine glass, he would echo and bounce all his energy to whatever was around him if you tapped him. And for the most part, the sum of it seemed to centre from his shoulders: how they bucked, how they twisted, how they lurched from position, how they turned, how they tucked, and how they bowed from where he was.

From excitement. From the chase.

From the splendor and disappointment.

From the frenzy. From the game.

From the stillness overtaking.

When someone passed the quaffle and then lost it to a Beater. When someone scored a goal and earned a foul from the Keeper. When someone got a penalty and then the game was on hold: two shots without a chase and there were misses galore. And when somewhere on the pitch, you could hear a — "Look out!" from the coaches.

Because the Seekers were a blur as they missiled to the ground, like hawks giving chase and they were faster than that of sound.

Because in the stillness, the snitch was more apparent than before. And Austria and Hungary were seething to have it first: nearly foaming at the mouth when they cried all they could — chanting 'Brunner!' or 'Simiko!' and 'Go, go, go!'

Neither one nor the other could dare give this up, almost falling into each other as they grappled with their wood. Reaching farther and farther out until they were anywhere but on their brooms, trying to snatch at a feather or at the gold near their fingers. But it darted from their reach and teased them to come closer.

Because the snitch was relentless so down, down they went.

From thirty.

To twenty.

Then ten...nine…

Harry swore when Tom grabbed him because he was arching from the couch, and the other was at the mercy of an elbow at his gut. When Harry hurried to try to catch all the thunder from the wireless, as if this and this itself was a snitch at the moment, and there was nothing he'd rather do than claim it for himself.

As three turned to two — then a sickening, little crunch of bodies bouncing across the turf and if you listened, brooms snapping. And then that echo of a splatter was drowned out by an uproar: of crying, shouting, 'whoop whoop!' s and 'yah!' s, cursing, amazement, ovations from the crowd.

But none of these were as interesting as the fireworks in front of Tom, motioned there by a Harry with only an on-switch and not an off: as he twisted at the knobs and the needle on the wireless flew past from where it was and it must've landed in Ireland. As the commentators for the World Cup stirred a frenzy in their living room, doing a play-by-play-by-play-by-play until the past fifteen seconds were recounted in three minutes. And Harry bolted from the arms and the lap he was wrapped in, trudging circle after circle and flattening their carpet.

Too busy to even notice because he was working through the science of what it took to grab the snitch and to then hold it while you were dying.

Because that was what happened and what it sounded like on the field, when a mediwix had flown over and she inspected both Seekers. Broken arms, twisted shoulders, fractured jaws and concussions, blood loss, in-and-out-of-ness, slurring and gibberish. That what remained of both women were lifted into stretchers and that in the hand of one Brunner —

" — GREAT SCOTT, SHE'S DONE IT! — "

— Austria took this victory. And that her team hoisted her up like the Second Coming of Merlin: bellowing her name as she waved the bloody snitch and dressing her with their hand-guards — as tradition, Harry had mentioned. But most of that was glossed over when Tom listened to the wireless and he was still holding the other man as if he'd lose him if he loosened.

Because Death and its presence were as immenient as the crowd and no one would talk about it since right now, it didn't matter. Because the feats of human nature and the tenacity that came with will were more important to the people as they echoed through the wireless. And there was nothing to hold them back as the Austrians and their fans belted chorus after chorus of their team's fighting song. And the commentators were still shouting that —

" — THIS WILL FOREVER GO DOWN AS — !"

— this was the fastest game in history and that by tomorrow, Zoë Brunner would be known throughout the world as the 'Wasp of the Pitch.' Or whatever made sense to them.

Because Tom had stopped listening in favor of hearing Harry: once the other came around and was cozied to his being, snuggled to his chest and popping like that of lightning. And contained entirely in a bottle made of glass and Tom's breathing when he snorted through his laughter and ruffled Harry with his hands.

Because his darling was like a bird, cheeping loudly near his neck. Because his boyfriend was a boa when Harry squeezed him and loved him back. Because his partner was an explosion when he rallied with the wireless. And because his Harry was amusing and Tom narrowed with a squint as there was the sunset in his smile and it warmed him from within.

Harry had looked forward to this for a long time and he got to share it — here with him. And his heart was full and pounding, there was adrenaline at his touch, and he had this feverish kind of look while spouting random nonsense.

Random details about the Seekers that landed nowhere in Tom's mind, and yet he listened and was raptured and he took this all to heart. Grinning and squinting and he was as pink as Harry was because his partner was a sponge he was willingly being soaked through. And he couldn't help but be excited when Harry beamed to him like a star, like a sun for him to touch and he knew he wouldn't be burned.

But be blinded, that could happen and it did when Harry grinned.

Because he was handsome and beautiful and crazy — all at once: infectious with an energy that left a tingle where Tom touched and his eyes were like a forest moments after a bolt of lightning had struck above the canopy and flashed into the darkness.

In that they were green and brilliant and there was nothing filled within them, except his own dear reflection when Tom nuzzled him. Bumping forehead to forehead and with a nose beside his own, much like a weight for him to perch on when Harry sagged into his shoulders, and Tom brushed him with his cheek to try to calm him from his fervor.

Because Harry was still shaking as he tempered through the rush, collapsed here and his breathing was as shallow as a dish, while he murmured through his awe and as his body started to loosen. And all his tremors seemed to fade when he heard a 'Harry' at his head, as if a whisper in his hair before it trickled and then again; when he felt a 'Harry' at his neck and felt it scruff near his chin, nibbling at his jawline until he was pleasantly a shade of pink; and when he tasted 'Harry' at his lips and it was a sweetness he couldn't forget, as it parted him down the middle and traced the ceiling of his mouth.

When Tom kissed him — there and then — and pressed him lightly against himself to try to quell all the aches and the rush throughout his body. As these were common when he was riddled and pumped with emotions, when there was nowhere for these to go until Tom was here with him. And in return, Harry whispered just his name to his collarbone when he settled there and winded down to the ministrations all around him.

He caught the stillness when Tom heard it and how for a moment, he didn't move. As if he didn't know how precious or what it meant to Harry that he was here with him.