Roger Davies (justroger) wrote in inverted, @ 2011-08-28 19:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | oliver wood, roger davies |
Who: Roger and Oliver
What: THE MATCH FINALLY ENDS
Where: Quidditch World Cup Stadium
When: 11 pm, Sunday. 28 hours after the match started.
Status: Complete!
Roger was exhausted. Physically and mentally exhausted. This bloody match had stretched on beyond a day, and he was ready for it to end already. But at the moment, he held the quaffle in his hand and he threw it hard toward the leftmost ring. The Falmouth Keeper, to his credit, reached for it but it was still an easy score. 130 points. That was the margin Puddlemere held over Falmouth as the team's fans cheered.
There had been all sorts of time-outs called, including one more two hour break that Roger used to eat another sandwich, wash it down with water, and then sleep until they forced him awake. The rules were ridiculous on substitutions. Players couldn't leave the pitch until they were deemed "too exhausted to play." So if he left the game, chances were he wasn't getting back in. For that reason, most of the players that were currently flying were the ones who had started 28 hours prior. And it was showing on the scoreboard. After a series of goals on both sides, the scoring had leveled off.
A roar arose from the crowd and Roger spun around to see what was happening. Both Seekers were streaking across the pitch, Falmouth's trailing Puddlemere's, but the young reserve Seeker for the United faltered, and the Falcons' Seeker used that to his advantage, pulling ahead and then down, while the other struggled to catch up before they both suddenly changed directions and the race looked neck-and-neck. They were heading toward the opposite side, and when a deafening roar went up Roger had no idea who had finally caught the snitch.
* * *
Oliver lived and breathed quidditch, but even for him a 28 hour game was pushing it. He'd taken both two hour breaks like everyone else, but refused to be substituted even if he was the very definition of exhausted. Not wanting to nap and get out of the rhythm of playing, he hadn't slept since Friday night.
Both teams spirits were flagging and Oliver was sticking close to the goals, though there weren't many quaffles coming from the Chasers. It was largely back and forth at this point in the game with most players just trying to stay on their brooms. When suddenly everyone looked lively again, he craned his neck to see the two Seekers zip past him in pursuit of the golden snitch. Blocking an attempt at goal from one of the Falmouth Chasers who thought he was distracted, Oliver held onto the quaffle as the crowd suddenly let out a deafening roar.
No fucking way.
Falmouth's Seeker had his hand closed into a fist and he was holding it in the air with a massive look of triumph on his face. Their Puddlemere Seeker on the other hand was looking like he wished he was anywhere but there.
* * *
Roger was flying closer but it quickly became apparent who held the snitch. And it wasn't the result he was hoping for. He stopped suddenly, hovering in the air, looking completely crushed. All he wanted to do was get the fuck out of there and go to bed.
He was barely present during the end of game activities, his brain refusing to function properly, until he was back in the locker rooms and collecting his stuff. He wondered if Tracey was out there still and if she was, if she'd be able to apparate him home before he splinched himself.
The season was over. And Falmouth had won the cup.
* * *
Bloody hell, they'd lost the cup. After 28 fucking hours they'd lost the damn cup. Oliver just drifted around up by the goals for a long moment, not wanting to believe it. The Falmouth players were shouting obscene things and shooting around in the air with a renewed energy that no one on Puddlemere had.
Eventually coming down to meet the rest of his team, no one said anything and they all endured the end of game proceedings without looking like they were even fully there. Back in the locker room it was much of the same and Oliver collected his things and got changed without any enthusiasm at all. They lost the damn cup.
"That was a waste of time," he muttered to Roger, packing up his things.
* * *
"Agreed," Roger said grumpily. "I'm going to go pass out. If I can find Tracey to get me there." He slung his bag over his shoulder and looked at Oliver. "I'd say next year, but I don't even wanna think about that now."
* * *
"Enjoy," Oliver replied bitterly. Rubbing a hand across his face, he was planning to pass out too, but there would probably be some alcohol involved first. He didn't want to think about next year either, all he could think about was this year and how they had lost to Falmouth.
"What we need is sleep and drinks. Nothing more."
* * *
"I'll meet up with you in a day of six for those drinks," Roger answered. "Whenever I wake up."
He nodded at his mate and then went to look for Tracey, pondering momentarily why the hell he was dating a Falmouth supporter.