Oliver came back to consciousness slowly, with the familiar hollow feeling in his stomach that told him he'd been knocked from his broom and fallen some distance, possibly catching a concussion in the process.
A few minutes and the steady throb that felt like his skull was too small for his brain upgraded that 'possibly' to 'almost definitely'. Oliver groaned wearily, or at least he thought he did - he was still more than a little fuzzy.
It took a while longer of only listening, hearing the bustle and voices around him - though he was unable to make out anything more that the fact that they existed, for now - but eventually he managed to fight his eyes open.
The first thing to meet his eyes, unsurprisingly, was the bright gaze of his lover.
Harry's slightly worried expression cleared into a smile as Oliver looked up with clear eyes, reaching weakly for him. He caught Oliver's hand, squeezing reassuringly. "Hey, there, love. Feeling all right now?" he asked softly.
Oliver swallowed, decided it would be a mistake to speak, and nodded vaguely. Harry gave him a dubious look, but all he did was reach for a glass of water waiting on the stand by the bed, not releasing Oliver's hand to do so.
Bless Harry's thoughtful self. Oliver thought, sipping gratefully at the glass his lover held helpfully steady for him. Harry pulled it away a moment later, raising an inquiring brow, and Oliver nodded his thanks.
When the rough feeling in his throat had dissipated, Oliver gave speech a try. "What happened?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Harry sighed. "Oh, one of the Holyhead Beaters apparently took your stunning defence personally, and made it his mission to do as much damage to you as possible. You took two Bludgers in a row to the back of the head, yelled something in Gaelic, then blacked out - and fell off your broom, of course."
Oliver blinked, wondering what might have come out his mouth, and Harry paused, brushing his free hand across his lover's cheek. Oliver turned his head a bit, making a clumsy attempt to kiss Harry's wrist, and Harry smiled at him before continuing.
"Well, I did a bit of quick magic to slow your fall, as none of your team were close enough to catch you, and then the Mediwizards settled you in here - I shooed them off once I got here and was sure I could handle your injuries." Harry added, flushing lightly.
Oliver laughed quietly, squeezing Harry's hand and bringing it to his chest. Of course he had.
Harry took a deep breath and continued. "The match was called, and the Beater is being investigated - he oughtn't to have been able to hit both the Bludgers at you, at that rate, without using some kind of charm to summon them - so there will be a rematch in three weeks, when the investigation should be completed - and you'll be back to top form, as well."
Oliver managed a weakly tilted smile. "Great." he said. "Thanks, mo muirnín."
"I knew you would want to know." Harry shrugged it off casually. "Feeling up to sitting up, yet, or do you want to lie down for a bit longer?" he asked, quickly directing the conversation away from the game, now that Oliver knew enough not to worry.
Oliver shifted gently, then relaxed. "I think I'd better remain prone." he said, frustrated.
Harry's small smile twisted. "Hey, hey. . . ." he soothed, petting a hand down the centre of Oliver's chest. "Prone isn't so bad, now is it?" he asked, raising a brow just as his fingers pressed on a particularly sensitive spot on Oliver's throat - though not hard enough to do anything more than draw Oliver's mind to more pleasant episodes of Harry pushing him back onto a bed.
"Well . . . . not so bad, no." Oliver said. "S'long as it's you here with me." he added, and petulantly tried to shift upright again.
Harry frowned at him, and Oliver tried his most innocent smile - the very same that he'd used on his Mum as a kid, when he'd done something he ought not have - even as Harry pressed gently on his breastbone again.
The smile didn't work on Harry any more than it had on his Mum, though it did get him a fond smile in return. In fact, though neither had ever said as much, Oliver suspected the only times it did persuade either of them to sympathise with him were down to indulgent affection more than anything else.
Harry sighed through his nose, cast his eyes towards the roof of the tent for a moment, and then nudged Oliver's side softly, sliding onto the small cot beside him.
It was a precarious perch, to say the least, but Oliver shifted a little, carefully, allowing Harry to do most of the work, and wound up curled with his head in Harry's lap.
Harry stroked his - still sweaty, Oliver now realised - hair away from his face, humming absently, in an almost discordant key, barely audible.
The sound, not an uncommon one around Harry, particularly when he was thoughtful or distracted, had set Oliver's teeth on edge when they had first moved in together, but it had now become unaccountably soothing.
Oliver closed his eyes and pushed his head back against Harry's belly, humming sleepily and allowing the nausea and dizziness still rising in his body to overtake him again.
Maybe he would feel better after he'd slept a little more, and he felt more comfortable now anyway.
The last sound he registered was Harry's fond, low chuckle, and a murmur of his name as Harry continued to pet his aching head.
"Oh, Oliver." Harry chuckled. "Rest, love; I'll be here when you wake."
'Mo muirnín' means 'my darling' in Scottish Gaelic.
This story has been waiting, incomplete, since September of 2011, and I finally finished it for real, polish and all, in February. Since then, I sort of . . . just kept forgetting it existed. I have another one-shot, also fluffy, with this pairing, still waiting to be finished.