WWW.THEPLAYERSTRIBUNE.COM. an independent ﹠ private original character named marcos dufour, captain of the chicago firebirds. based around the nhl career of various legends. refashioned to mold easily within all sports narratives ﹠ beyond. introspection-oriented with a number of alternative universes utilized for further adaptation. based on the idealized events of the 2010-2015 chicago blackhawks, with inspiration taken from the careers of anze kopitar, patrice bergeron, ﹠ sidney crosby. depictions of the sacrifice of living your dream, the prevailing consequences of tragedy, ﹠ the way your past informs your present. as beloved by sett, twenty-6 — all pronouns﹔ mid-activity at best. minors ﹠ personals dni. please read carrd before interacting.
ℑ𝔇. please note, marcos is single-ship ﹠ is either actively in a relationship with isak or presently married dependent on timeframe. his husband will be mentioned in interactions, headcanons, ﹠ verse information of all kinds as he's a very important part of marcos' life ﹠ story!
AN EXPLORATION IN... religious guilt, being the oldest child, the price of becoming a legend, loving something that's killing you, golden boy with a golden heart, the act of both feeling ﹠ thinking deeply are cursing you, heavy is the head that wears the crown, if it's your calling / it'll keep calling, there is your dead father somewhere in you, feeling like a bad person since you were seven years old, ﹠ what's left unsaid will always find a way to scream.
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i smiled like nothing was wrong , and then went back to lying about everything . they call it trust. i call it what i was good at surviving on. there are versions of me they would never recognize, and i made sure they never had to. independent , highly selective, and private blog for aria montgomery from pretty little liars. written and protected by pearl .
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@rushplay asked: the cabin is tucked into the edge of the fjord, surrounded by dark pines and the quiet hum of water rushing against rocks: the sky leaning heavy with early morning as clouds present themselves bruised in purple and gray, stretching over the mountains in the distance. by the doorway, isak watches marcos standing there on the balcony, shoulders relaxed but eyes fixed on the vast expanse of norway ahead. he notices the curve of his neck against the collar of his shirt, the faint line of his jaw catching the still faint light, the way his shoulders shift as he breathes in the crisp morning air. and all becomes a view isak wants to memorize in a quiet moment that belongs only to them. he steps closer, sliding an arm around marcos' waist, living in the subtle warmth and steady beat of his body against his own. he can't help but lean in, pressing a gentle and long kiss against the high of his cheek: just as he can't stop himself from thinking that this quiet, simple closeness is somehow even more thrilling than the roar of a packed arena. more intoxicating than any victory on ice. “ it's a little too early to be out of bed, baby. ” isak finally murmurs, voice low and warm.
the world outside greeted him with cold, not chicago cold exactly. it wasn’t the sharp, angry bite of winter wind screaming off lake michigan, this cold felt cleaner somehow. the air was damp and crisp enough that his first breath almost stung, filling his lungs with the smell of saltwater and wet pine and something earthy he couldn’t quite name. moss, perhaps. and rain. the scent of stone that had existed for thousands of years before him. his feet settled against weathered wood still slick with dew, and for a long moment he simply stood there. the fjord stretched endlessly below, it wasn’t flat, nor still. it seemed alive. dark water churned steadily against jagged rocks beneath the cabin, white foam gathering in swirling eddies before disappearing again. it wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t quiet either. the constant rush of water sounded almost like breathing. a rhythm older than memory.
across the water, mountains rose from the earth with such impossible enormity that his mind could only conjure memories of switzerland and the sprawling swiss alps. their peaks disappeared into clouds bruised in shades of purple and gray, heavy and low enough that they looked as though they might brush the tops of the pines. mist clung to their slopes in ribbons, moving so slowly it barely seemed to move at all. dark pines stretched endlessly along the mountainside, dense and ancient. their needles whispered softly whenever the breeze stirred them, and every now and then he could hear the distant call of a seabird echoing somewhere unseen. the sound bounced strangely between the cliffs and disappeared into the vastness.
there were no sirens, no traffic, no glow of skyscrapers, and certainly no sound of a city waking. the morning light hadn’t quite arrived yet, though the sky was beginning to surrender. the horizon glowed faintly silver behind the clouds, turning the surface of the fjord into liquid steel. everything looked softened by mist. even the neighboring cabins, scattered far apart along the shoreline, appeared dreamlike in the distance with smoke lazily curling from their chimneys.
it felt unreal, not because it was beautiful, though it was. but because it looked like somewhere that shouldn’t exist outside of paintings. or at the very least, outside of isak. for a time now, norway had lived inside stories and in photographs, inside the wistful expression that crossed his face every spring when the weather grew warmer and homesickness settled heavily on his shoulders.
marcos understood it better now, it had always been hard for him to conceptualize a home he wanted to return to.
but standing there with his hands buried in the sleeves of isak’s sweater, the collar still carrying the faint scent of his cologne and detergent and something that was simply him, marcos could suddenly see every piece of the younger man that had been shaped by this place. the enormity, the quiet, the steadiness, and even the loneliness. maybe that was what made his chest ache.
because this wasn’t just norway and this cabin wasn’t just a cabin (though calling this feat of architecture a cabin felt like a mockery). this was where isak had become isak. the mountains that had watched him grow, the waters he’d looked upon as a child, the skies he’d missed all those years spent an ocean away. where he learned that his only safety was by his lonesome and far away from the people and the place that raised him. and somehow, against all of his attempts to keep their relationship in perspective, marcos had been invited into it. into something so personal and sacred that standing here felt almost surreal.
marcos’ breath leaves him in a soft cloud and he smiles to himself. he thinks, with no small amount of wonder, that if he turned around right now and found this entire trip had only been a dream, he wouldn’t even be too surprised. because sometimes, when he lets himself think too hard about it, he is overcome with the quiet certainty that isak himself must be one. not in the way people spoke of dreams, as fleeting things or impossible fantasies that dissolved in the harsh light of morning. no, if isak was a dream, then he was the sort that stayed with you long after waking. the kind you carried with you throughout the day, unable to shake the feeling of warmth it left behind. one so vivid and impossibly dear that reality itself felt poorer by comparison.
there were moments—even now, ages after they had first collided into one another’s orbit—where marcos would look at him and feel that same surreal disbelief settle over him. that they had really met. that isak had really looked at him. and perhaps most miraculous of all, that he had wanted him in return and found something worth coming back to, again and again and again. every part of their relationship had felt touched by that same unreality. not because it had been perfect, but because it had always seemed too improbable to belong to him.
that someone as extraordinary as isak could have entered his life and stayed there.
there’s a creak behind him and he doesn’t have to look to know isak had been roused, everything inside of him seems to settle by consequence to his proximity. marcos smiles automatically at the familiar weight settling around his waist, leaning instinctively into the warmth of his lover where he presses close against his back. the kiss to his cheek lingers and the heat is suffusing, omnipresent in its own intensity, surging through his veins and the cold norwegian morning stands no chance against it.
he lets out a quiet hum at the murmur against his ear, eyes crinkling at the edges as his hands come to rest over isak’s arm around his waist. behind them, the cabin remained dim and warm, the remnants of last night’s fire reduced to a soft amber glow inside the stove. their bed undoubtedly still held the shape of them tangled together beneath heavy blankets, waiting patiently for their return.
“ i know, ” he murmurs, affection threading through every word as he tilts his head to steal a kiss from the corner of isak’s mouth. “ but i woke up and you were sleeping so peacefully. i thought i should let you enjoy it… i admit, i’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that i’m here. ” that isak had invited him into this part of his life, after so long spent in a relationship defined by stolen hours and saying goodbye almost as soon as they had said hello. he didn’t have to rush to leave. he didn’t have to preemptively miss him the second they were finally together. for once, there was nowhere else either of them needed to be.
well, at least not yet.
it would be weeks yet before he had to worry about returning to the states and being apart from him. and he didn’t want to miss a moment of the now.
a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as his gaze drifts back out toward the water. “ but if you came to take me back to bed, i won’t protest. ” his eyes flick sideways, dark and warm with amusement. “ though i should tell you, if this is another one of your schemes to trap me there until noon, i am already aware of your intentions. ”
the morning light had finally begun to creep over the fjord in earnest, pale silver surrendering to softer gold as it filtered through the clouds and spilled over the mountains. the last remnants of darkness cling in vain to the skyline. it caught in isak’s hair, dark and unruly from sleep, the ends flicking out slightly where he’d failed to tame them with his fingers. his features were still softened by the remnants of slumber, though nothing could dull the striking sharpness of him. the broad sweep of his shoulders beneath his sweater. the powerful line of his neck disappearing into the collar. the strength that seemed to live effortlessly in every inch of him, built not to intimidate but simply because nature had been almost obscenely generous.
there was something boyish to him still, despite the size and the strength and the years. something mischievous lurking at the corners of his mouth, in the glint of his eyes whenever he was teasing or particularly pleased with himself. something soft beneath all the rough edges that everyone else saw, but marcos struggled to conceptualize in the same respect.
to marcos, isak looked like something carved out of a dream.
and even now, with the fjord behind him and the mountains rising into the morning mist and the whole of norway stretched out in impossible grandeur, marcos still finds himself thinking the same thing he had the first time he’d truly looked at him. nothing in this world should be allowed to be this beautiful. least of all a man who looked at him as though he had hung every star in the sky with his own two hands.
“ though to your great fortune, i am very weak where you are concerned. ”
the breeze coming off the water brushes strands of isak’s unruly hair across his forehead, and marcos finds himself helpless against the familiar swell of adoration that rises in his chest. it seemed there was no cure for it. not that he had ever truly wanted one. “ unbelievably so, actually, ” he murmurs fondly. then, unable to resist any longer, he turns fully in his arms. the movement brings them flush together, marcos settling naturally against the broad line of his chest as his own arms wind around isak’s neck. he rises slightly onto the balls of his feet, smiling all the while, and there is something soft and quietly awed in his expression, as though he still cannot quite believe he’s allowed moments like this with him.
that he’s allowed him at all.
“ besides, ” he says quietly, his voice warm with laughter and tenderness, “ i think it would be terribly rude of me to deny you, considering it’s freezing out here and you had to leave our warm bed just to come collect me. ”
he tilts his head, nose brushing lightly against his, and then closes the distance between them. it is not one of their stolen kisses between games or hurried goodbyes in the quiet dark of their apartments and hotel rooms. there is no clock counting down, no flight to catch, no teammates waiting for them somewhere beyond the door. only the two of them and only the sound of the water below and the whisper of wind through the pines to keep them company.
when they part, it is only by an inch or two. his forehead comes to rest against isak’s, eyes still closed for a lingering moment as he exhales softly, contentment settling over him as naturally as breathing.
and somewhere beyond them, dawn finally breaks over the fjord, washing the mountains in molten gold.
the stadium lights flare overhead, sharp and glaring, washing the arena ice in streaks of red and white. above the seating, an animated phoenix arcs across the massive screens, flames licking around its wings as it soars through a blaze, a perfect reflection of the disorder below. the roar of the crowd thunders in his ears, a relentless wave that makes his own teammates’ voices impossible to catch. even if he could hear them, the cacophony of cheering fans, blaring horns, and the thrum of the arena would have swallowed every word. he picks out fragments here and there: norén. real piece of work. it’s nothing new, nothing that alters the expectations he’s already formed. and yet… somehow, norén has exceeded them all. he’s a force of nature, unrelenting, a hurricane that refuses to dissipate. every move, every calculated aggression makes him impossible to ignore. marcos feels it in the way the other man occupies space, how he threads through the game like a living threat, a shadow at the edge of perception that never lets up.
from the opening faceoff to the current moment, norén hasn’t left his awareness, always hovering, always there, a presence capable of bruising more than just pride. the heat in marcos’ chest intensifies, and it’s almost impossible to separate adrenaline from irritation from the kind of sharp, gnawing focus that comes with standing in the eye of a storm. he can’t make out what isak is chirping at him, the norwegian accent rolling thick across his tongue, swallowing whole syllables until even the english comes out warped and jagged at the edges. but he doesn’t need to understand the words to grasp the meaning. the curl of isak’s mouth, the sharp flash of teeth, the deliberate way he lingers just a second too long on marcos’ general area — none of it is kind. every second on the ice reinforces the same truth: this isn’t just a game. it’s a collision of wills, a test of endurance. and norén has made damn sure marcos knows it.
it isn’t as if he hadn’t expected it. the forecast for this event had been spoken long before isak ever skated his first regulation game. vid had warned him outright — in that calm, matter-of-fact he always did — that there would likely be blood spilt, and marcos would have to learn how to brace himself for it. how to stand firm when the inevitable finally came barreling down on him. he wonders now, fleetingly, if isak somehow senses the truth beneath his composure — that he isn’t nearly as prepared as he once believed himself to be. he’d thought he was ready. he knew what he’d be facing across the ice for the next three periods. he’d studied the footage, memorized the patterns, prepared himself the way he always did. and still, something uneasy coils low in his chest, winding tighter with every shift. an anxious sort of anticipation hums beneath his skin, sharp and electric, making his pulse feel louder than the crowd itself. he can’t remember the last time he stepped onto the ice feeling anything other than steady certainty. even in the face of certain losses, he’d always been composed, unshakable, methodical. not like this. not with this restless current running beneath everything.
for the first time in years, chicago has found itself facing a rival in detroit that feels truly, dangerously even. a team capable of pushing back with equal force. but blaming that alone doesn’t quite sit right in his gut. there’s something deeper stirring beneath the surface, something dark and unsettled lurking beneath the black water of his thoughts. because truthfully, marcos doesn’t think norén feels an ounce of that same unease. which is almost the most unsettling part of all. it’s only the first month of isak’s nhl career, and yet he moves through enemy territory like he’s been here for years — like this is his fifth season instead of his first. there’s a comfort to him that borders on arrogance, an ease in the way he inserts himself into every moment without hesitation or doubt. no second-guessing, no restraint.
early in the second period, the tension finally snaps.
the score shifts to 0–1 in favor of detroit. both teams had been defensive walls up until now, bodies throwing themselves into lanes, sticks clashing in sharp bursts of sound that echoed off the boards. but it only takes one mistake — one small opening — for everything to unravel. the puck slips free, skimming past the last defender before snapping cleanly into the back of their net.
courtesy of isak.
naturally.
he doesn’t even pretend at modesty. instead, he turns immediately toward the firebirds’ end of the ice, coasting backward with maddening confidence as he throws his hands up, gesturing in encouragement for chicago fans to turn up the noise. his grin is sharp and merciless as he jeers at the fans clustered closest to the glass, his teammates raining down for their celebration, which he hardly acknowledges in favor of riling up not only marcos’ own teammates, but also the people gathered in support of them. boos rain down in a furious wave, loud enough to rattle the glass.
what a guy...
marcos exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as the noise swells around them — horns blaring, voices shouting, the arena shaking beneath the weight of thousands of furious fans. and still, through all of it, his gaze finds isak again without meaning to. always drawn back, like iron to a magnet. he’s no longer surprised to see him looking back. marcos rises the moment his shift is called, the movement automatic, instinctive. he swings cleanly over the bench in one smooth motion, skates biting into the ice with a sharp scrape that vibrates faintly up through his legs. he knows, with quiet discontent, that he hasn’t been playing at full intensity yet — had been holding something back without fully realizing it.
he doesn’t want norén thinking he can’t keep up.
the center line approaches in a blur of white and red beneath his skates as he glides into position, the chill of the ice and the heat of the packed arena colliding in the air around him. he squares up across from a detroit player he doesn’t immediately recognize — a hard-looking guy with a jaw set tight, eyes flat and assessing beneath the brim of his helmet. to his right, he spots another familiar figure: smaller, scrappier, shoulders coiled like a spring ready to snap. bellemare. the name clicks into place alongside memory — last year’s matchups, the relentless pressure, the irritating persistence that made every faceoff feel like a fight. there’s a look in bellemare’s eyes now that marcos recognizes immediately, something sharp and hungry that prickles at the back of his neck. trouble, just like norén.
marcos draws in a slow, measured breath, lungs filling with cold, recycled arena air. he lowers himself into position, knees bending as he settles into that familiar half-cocked stance, body angled just so — balanced, ready, coiled tight with anticipation. the world narrows around the circle beneath his skates, the painted lines sharp and bright against the ice. the official steps forward. the puck hovers.
and then—
it drops.
for a split second, everything goes silent. the roar of the crowd vanishes, swallowed whole by the sharp tunnel of his focus. no fans. no boards rattling. no teammates shouting from the bench. just the firmness of his stick underhand, the flash of black rubber falling between them. his stick snaps forward like an extension of his arm, precise and practiced, muscle memory taking over. the puck connects with a clean, satisfying tap before shooting backward in a straight line toward mace, who’s already set and waiting. then the silence shatters. movement erupts all at once — skates carving deep grooves into the ice, bodies colliding in bursts of controlled violence, sticks clashing in sharp, splintering sounds. the arena roars back to life around him in a deafening wave, sound crashing in like surf against stone as the play explodes outward from the faceoff circle.
mace receives the puck cleanly, the pass settling against his blade with a soft, controlled tap before he pivots, shoulders turning as he scans the ice. everything moves fast after that — detroit pressing forward in tight formation, sticks jabbing into passing lanes, skates chewing rough arcs into the ice as they collapse inward like a closing fist. marcos doesn’t hesitate. he explodes forward off the faceoff, legs driving hard, edges biting deep as he cuts across the neutral zone. the air feels thinner when he skates like this, sharper in his lungs, adrenaline threading through his bloodstream until every movement feels brighter, louder, faster. the roar of the arena builds again behind him, swelling like a tide as the puck cycles along the boards. “ boards — boards! ” someone shouts it — he thinks maybe tate, maybe one of the defensemen — but the word slices clean through the noise. marcos angles himself toward the right side, anticipating the play before it fully forms. the puck rims along the glass with a hollow crack, skittering across the boards as two detroit players close in to contest it. bellemare is one of them.
the smaller forward throws his weight into the collision without hesitation, shoulder driving hard into marcos’ side the moment he steps in. the impact rattles through his ribs, sharp and jarring, but marcos absorbs it with a grunt, planting his skates wide to hold his ground. the boards shudder behind him as sticks clash low, blades scraping furiously for possession. for a split second, it’s nothing but chaos — shoulders grinding, gloves shoving, the puck pinned between skates. then it slips free. marcos reacts before the thought fully forms, jamming his stick forward to hook the puck loose from bellemare’s reach. it squirts into open ice just beyond the scrum, sliding into the high slot like it’s been placed there deliberately. opportunity.
he breaks free from the tangle, pushing off hard, legs burning as he surges toward the center. the ice opens up ahead of him in a wide, impossible stretch, the detroit defense scrambling to close the gap. one of them lunges forward, stick outstretched, trying to cut off the lane — but marcos shifts his weight at the last second, dragging the puck across his body in a smooth, practiced motion. the defender misses by inches. the sound of the crowd swells — rising, rising — voices stacking on top of each other until it becomes a wall of noise pressing at his back. he barely hears it. all he sees is the net. the goaltender squares up fast, dropping lower in his stance, pads tight together as he tracks the puck with laser focus. the crease gleams under the harsh arena lights, ice carved into jagged grooves from repeated stops and slides. marcos pulls the puck back, loading the shot.
time slows.
his lungs burn, chest tight with effort as he shifts his weight onto his back skate, stick flexing under the pressure. the angle is tight. the defender is closing. the goalie’s glove twitches upward, anticipating the release. with a sharp exhale, marcos snaps his wrists forward. the stick recoils with a satisfying crack, sending the puck flying clean and fast. it rockets across the ice in a tight, spinning line, slicing through the narrow gap between the defender’s stick and the goalie’s outstretched glove. for a heartbeat, everything hangs suspended.
then—
the net ripples.
a sharp snap of rubber against mesh cuts through the roar like thunder breaking open the sky. the crowd detonates. sound crashes down all at once — deafening cheers, pounding boards, teammates shouting as they surge forward from every direction. marcos barely registers the impact of bodies colliding into him in celebration, the rush of adrenaline flooding his veins so hard it leaves him momentarily breathless. goal. he exhales sharply, chest heaving as he turns instinctively toward the glass, the bright lights overhead blinding for a split second as he lifts his head. and without meaning to — without even trying — his gaze flicks toward detroit’s end.
toward norén, who looks less like his discouraged teammates and more like a shark scenting blood in the water. he all but steps over the bench in his haste to get back onto the ice, sheer size unfolding into motion with startling ease. there’s nothing sluggish about him, nothing hesitant — just that same predatory focus that had stalked marcos’ periphery since the opening puck drop. even from across the ice, there’s a sharpness to him, something intent and unyielding. and there it is again — that crackle of unease, sharper now, more electric. it crawls beneath marcos’ skin the moment they share the ice at the same time, tightening low in his chest until it presses against his ribs. the adrenaline from the goal hasn’t faded, but the satisfaction he’d expected — the bright flare of triumph, the easy relief of tying the game 1–1 — feels strangely muted. subdued beneath something heavier, something more anticipatory than celebratory.
norén moves like a storm gathering strength, rolling his shoulders once as he glides into position, jaw set beneath the visor of his helmet. there’s no visible frustration in him, no lingering sting from the tied score. if anything, the opposite — something sharper flickers there, something alive and energized by the shift in momentum. like he’d been waiting for it.
marcos has the sudden, unmistakable sense that whatever comes next is going to hurt.
staying in your apartment instead of going to a hotel when you're not even there, because just being in proximity to your things brings me unimaginable comfort and security + i stole your shirt that i slept in because i miss you all the time we're not together (in a non-boyfriend way)
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@rushplay asked: what time do you want me to pick you up?
a soft drizzle hangs in the air just outside the shinola hotel where the firebirds are staying, the kind that darkens the pavement to a dull sheen and beads against the tall glass windows facing the street. the city beyond is blurred slightly by it; headlights streaking through the damp evening, the faint glow of streetlamps trembling across wet asphalt. the clouds overhead are thick and heavy, swollen with rain that looks ready to break loose at any moment. watching it gather along the edges of the skyline makes marcos think, more than once, that he should call the whole thing off. it had been a bad idea from the start. impulsive. the kind of thing that’s easy to want from a comfortable distance but far more difficult to face once the reality of it begins to close in around you. now that the moment is actually approaching, the nerves in his chest have begun to gnaw in earnest — restless, insistent, and entirely impossible to ignore.
he doesn’t know what either of them had been thinking.
maybe they had simply convinced themselves it would be fine, that nothing about it would matter once the moment passed. or maybe the more troubling truth is that they both knew it wasn’t fine at all — and neither of them cared enough to stop. over thirty minutes ago, isak had asked when he should come pick him up. marcos had answered almost immediately, the message sent before he could pause long enough to reconsider. whenever you’re ready for me. now, sitting with the quiet weight of that decision, he isn’t entirely sure why the words had come so easily. the irony of it isn’t lost on him, either. marcos hates being in cars when he isn’t the one driving. he dislikes the loss of control, the uneasy sensation of placing his safety entirely in someone else’s hands. usually he avoids it whenever he can. some memories are better left buried. and they have an unfortunate way of clawing back to the surface when given something tangible to cling to — an image, a moment, a familiar feeling of helplessness he would much rather keep sealed away.
this was a different kind of helplessness entirely — a softer, far more humiliating kind of wanting that isak seemed to summon as effortlessly as coaxing the moon above the horizon. inevitable. as certain as the slow turning of day into night. and it wasn’t superficial, either. it wasn’t just the way isak looked or the seemingly careless charm he carried with him like a second skin. sometimes it was something as small as his name lighting up the screen of marcos’ phone. that alone was enough to make his heart slam into fifth gear, hammering against his ribs as if someone had injected adrenaline straight into his bloodstream. he doesn’t think he’s ever smiled so much in such a short span of time. and certainly not because of someone who, by all reasonable measures, wasn’t supposed to matter very much. but as it turns out, he did. marcos likes him and he was becoming more significant by the day.
by the minute. by the second.
truthfully, it had never really been a matter of marcos telling him no. the answer had been decided long before they ever spoke their first real words to each other. yes, yes, yes. a quiet mantra he repeated again and again — sometimes through thumbs flying across his phone in the dead of night, sometimes in the easy agreement when isak asked him to watch one of his games, and now… potentially, he’d be saying it breathless and low against the shell of his ear in the privacy of his vehicle. he would tell him yes until his voice was hoarse with it. because hesitation didn’t change the truth of the matter: he wanted isak more than he feared the consequences of wanting him.
his phone buzzes in the pocket of his hoodie and his heart immediately leaps into his throat. he fumbles lightly at the fabric, pulling it free with slightly and uncharacteristically clumsy fingers. outside the parking garage. logistically, it makes sense. it’s a smart place to be without anyone thinking twice, especially considering they don’t want to be seen — or rather, can’t afford to be. marcos draws in a deep breath that shudders its way through his chest before he stuffs the phone back into his pocket. he pushes himself upright from the cold steel beam he’d been leaning against, grounding himself for a moment before he starts moving. at this time of night, the hotel is strangely quiet. a few scattered guests pass through the garage, their conversations low and indistinct. marcos offers a small smile here and there, a polite nod of acknowledgment. this isn’t a city that would recognize him quite as easily as it would recognize isak. at least not without his name and number stitched across the back of a jersey.
outside, the rain has thickened slightly.
he steps into it with a faint wince as a heavy droplet lands against his cheek and slides slowly along the sharp line of his cheekbone before falling from his jaw. he wipes it away with the back of his hand and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head — partly to shield himself from the rain, partly for discretion. marcos remembers isak’s truck easily enough. a dark ram with tinted windows. isak had told him about it once, gleaming with pride through the static of their phone call — it was his first big purchase with his nhl paycheck. marcos had laughed at the time, amused by the boyish pleasure in his voice. it isn’t difficult to spot now. the truck sits along the quiet street like something massive and deliberate carved into the landscape, its dark frame reflecting the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp. a neon sign down the block flickers softly in the wet night air — the brakeman — its light flashing faintly across the truck’s glossy windows. it suits its owner, somehow. but the sight of it makes marcos’ legs feel strangely numb all the same.
he swallows hard and approaches, hoping he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels. his knuckles tap lightly against the window in quiet confirmation before the lock clicks open for him.
the moment he pulls the door open, warmth spills out into the cool night air, along with the soft glow of the dashboard lights. and isak. marcos freezes for half a heartbeat when their eyes meet again. just long enough for the moment to catch somewhere in his chest before he remembers himself — remembers the necessity of discretion — and climbs quickly into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind him. it isn’t the first time he’s seen him in person. but it is the first time they’ve ever been alone like this. not beneath the blinding glare of stadium lights. not surrounded by the deafening roar of fans or the relentless gaze of cameras. just the two of them now, enclosed in the quiet hum of the truck’s engine.
in the soft glow of the dashboard, isak looks unreal.
the low light gathers along the sharp planes of his face, casting them somewhere between shadow and gold. it softens the edges just enough to make him seem warmer, though there’s still something striking about the way the dim light catches in his dark eyes, turning them a deep shade of honey. his lashes are as dark as his hair, framing that gaze in a way that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. the scar along his jaw has mostly healed, raised with a soft pink hue, but far from irritated any longer. he finds that he wants to graze his thumb along it. marcos feels his stomach knot at the sight of him — but not with anxiety. something gentler loosens inside him instead. the easy curve of isak’s smile slowly unravels the tension that had been wrapped tightly around his chest all evening, easing its grip until breathing suddenly feels easier. until it feels, strangely enough, as though the first real breath he’s taken in months had come the moment their eyes met across the small space between them.
he can’t help the smile that forms in return.
warmth pools through his chest and dimples crease softly into his cheeks, leaving him feeling unexpectedly boyish with excitement he tries to subdue in order to not look like an idiot in front of his counterpart. the scent of isak’s cologne lingers warmly in the truck — something clean and comforting — and where moments ago marcos had felt unbearably claustrophobic inside his own skin, he now feels light. almost giddy. “ hi. ” it’s perhaps the most underwhelming greeting imaginable for a man he’d been watching across the ice only hours earlier — when the firebirds had lost 4–5 to detroit. ordinarily, losing to their greatest rival would have soured his entire night. but that game still bought them this moment together and even if he hadn't been at his best… well.
marcos isn’t entirely sure he regrets it.
“ i don’t want you getting used to bragging to me and then actually winning, ” he adds, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. “ that was a fluke, just so you know. ” truthfully, he’d been far more distracted during the game than he should have been. at one point he’d even found himself wondering — somewhat seriously — whether leaving between periods would earn him a fine. the anticipation alone had made him feel like he might burst out of his own skin. looking back now, he almost wishes he could tell that earlier version of himself not to worry so much. though he isn’t sure he’d change the outcome. because the happiness shining in isak’s eyes now — whether it’s from the earlier win or simply from sharing this small, stolen moment together — is something marcos finds he doesn’t want to take away. he exhales softly, his smile widening just a touch. “ but i suppose i should be more gracious than that, ” he says lightly. “ so… nicely done, trouble. i definitely owe you that dinner now. ”
the question makes his eyes crinkle faintly at the corners, a quiet hint of amusement settling there. it isn’t really at robin’s expense — more at the strange, impersonal world they both inhabit, where scrutiny is constant and very few things remain private for long. every detail is observed somewhere by someone, cataloged and repeated until it no longer belongs to the person it started with. “ you have about as common a name in your neck of the woods as it gets, ” marcos says, glancing over with a mild, knowing look. “ i’d be more surprised if people didn’t already know that about you. ” there’s no sharpness to it — only quiet pragmatism. anonymity is a luxury few of them ever truly possess. marcos understands that better than most. still, he sympathizes with him.
it isn’t easy having your personal life dragged out into public spaces where strangers feel entitled to consume it, regurgitate it, and dissect it endlessly, as though they know any of them at all — or could ever fully understand the choices that brought them here.
“ this one is on me, though, ” he adds after a moment, the faintest shift in his tone softening the remark. “ i’ll admit i didn’t know much about f1 before i realized we had the same sponsor. i was doing some research. ” the admission is offered with quiet, almost apologetic honesty. his dark eyes narrow slightly against the fading orange skyline stretched across montreal, the last of the evening light burning low along the horizon. the sun glances off the glass of nearby buildings and the metal barriers lining the circuit, scattering warm reflections that flicker across the asphalt below. even now the place hums with a subdued energy — crews moving equipment, distant engines being tested, the occasional burst of laughter or shouted instruction drifting through the air.
it had been the most convenient time for them to meet: the firebirds’ captain freed from the grinding pressure of the playoff push, and a narrow gap carved out of robin’s otherwise relentless schedule just ahead of the canadian grand prix. soon enough, the stands behind them would be roaring with thousands of fans and the track beneath them would explode with the deafening thunder of engines. for now, though, it exists in a rare moment of quiet anticipation. he’s never personally stayed to see a race, it seems like there was a first time for everything. “ i didn’t want to embarrass myself during our first official meeting, ” he adds, the words tipped with dry humor.
marcos leans back against the railing that overlooks the track, forearms resting comfortably on the cool metal as he steals a sidelong glance toward the professional driver. a faint grin pulls at his mouth. “ but i am sorry if it’s unpleasant for you to talk about, ” he continues after a beat, the teasing edge gentling into something more thoughtful. “ i only brought it up because it felt… familiar to me, in a way. ” his gaze drifts briefly back toward the circuit stretching out below them, long and quiet beneath the dimming sky. “ leaving family behind for the chance at something better, even when there’s no guarantee it’ll work out... that i can understand. but you seem to be doing very well for yourself. ”
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and when marcos' voice reaches for his attention , it feels like oxygen rushing back into his lungs after being held under for far too long : and he doesn't realize how tight his chest has been until it loosens — like something holy & damning all at once . if this was a game , isak would be reviewing the footage later , nodding in reluctant admiration at the captain of the firebirds for such disciplined play — for absorbing pressure just to redistribute it cleanly , breaking every defensive tactic he could come up with in face of the truth . for making isak feeling like he is one exhale away from confessing everything instead of playing his hand in self - defense . but it's shock that detonates within him so violently he has to grab the edge of the counter to steady himself : his pulse kicking up again as the word strike him sill — regret . & it's so far from the truth that it almost feels cruel , as it's doesn't even brush the shape of what's been tearing him open all week .
he stops pacing entirely , the apartment suddenly far too quiet against all marcos has to say . regret would be easier . regret would mean isak could file the night away under a mistake label , tuck it into a drawer to hide the blurred lines of rivalry & go back to whatever version of himself existed before they met . but regret didn't find a home in his chest — never standing a chance against the way marcos' hands tugged at his hair or the way his mouth tasted like something dangerously addictive . against how the world had narrowed to skin , breath & the steady rhythm of two hearts colliding . and the afterward , after the heat and movement and breathless murmurs , when the beautiful terrifying moment had happened . somewhere between foreheads pressed together , fingers still loosely tangled , the quiet hum of shared air . . . where he felt held . anchored — like for the first time in his life he wasn't just bracing against something : not performing for the world to see or calculating exits . isak was simply there , belonging . and the word makes his throat tighten even now .
amusement steps back to give ground for the understanding of something greater that was shared : something isak has to learn to compress into something as small & manageable as a phone call . it was never about doubt — it's about magnitude . a feeling too large for an easy interpretation that sits under his skin like a second pulse , constant & insistent . it threads through everything : morning skates , team meetings , the quiet stretch before sleep . . . just carve his dreams and be picked up again first thing in the morning . marcos is there in the spaces between thoughts , in the silence that exists after skates leave the ice — and it's almost unbearable how easily isak's mind runs back to him at any given chance . it isn't just desire . desire would imply something simple , physical & contained . this is deeper , heavier . like gravity shifted the night they spent together and now isak is permanently off - balance , orbit altered .
that's the oppressive truth of it . isak doesn't just want marcos in passing . it's excessive — it's reckless . it's far too much for something that was supposed to be simple . he had never felt chosen like that & now he can't picture a life trying to forget it .
the week in attempt of doing so was a nightmare . even if isak would pretend otherwise — laughed when expected , trained , played . going through the motions of what was required whilst telling himself space was good : that would bring forth sense on turning it all into something easier to manage . it didn't . it expanded instead , making silence almost deafening . every empty moment heavier with thoughts of marcos , with replayed memories that could eclipse everything else . the warmth , the calm & the dangerous sense of rightness found in his arms . isak would check his phone without meaning to , scroll back through old messages like they might say something new , start typing & delete it — over and over , as if he wasn't the protagonist of such distance . still , he missed marcos . and that's what unsettled him the most : how deeply the absence cut . how once distance felt clean and even relieving , and how marcos would still stand as the exception to everything .
and no amount of distance could fade the edges of the night to outset the attempt on stepping back . it hasn't dulled into something convenient or out of mind — it was steady , vivid & warm . close enough that isak can almost reach out and touch it again : the build up to it , the tension that had always simmered between them finally snapping into something undeniable . the way it didn't feel rushed , even though his pulse had been racing since seeing the snow would force proximity . it still felt deliberate . mutual & chosen . the way marcos looked at him before anything even happened — not hungry in careless hues , not detached : but focused , like isak wasn't just another passing moment . like seeing him wholly . and that alone had done more damage than he expected . he could still feel the way marcos had touched him without hesitation , no question of whether he was wanted — and it felt grounding instead of consuming , like holding him together instead of pulling him under . & he liked how he felt in response . present , not just performing or calculating : not holding part of himself back just in case like so many times before . for once , not just playing a role . . . but breathing through freedom shared with the right person .
so short - lived silence follows the death or marcos' words as isak forces himself to breathe evenly — keeping his voice from shaking , from carrying the faint tremor of panic to be twisted into defensiveness , for otherwise he might lose his chance again . & he can't lose it . not him : not like this . that's the terrifying core of it all — how marcos has threaded himself into his thoughts in a way isak can't focus on anything else . not pride & not annoyance . not the faint sting of being hung up on five times . all of it dissolves into something simple and far more dangerous : marcos has become the very air in his lungs . ❛ regret ? ❜ he echoes softly , easing tones out of sharp edges . ❛ you think that's what this is ? regret ? ❜ isak runs a hand through his hair , gently tugging at it as if he can pull the right words loose . ❛ baby , if i regretted it ... do you think i'd be calling you for the sixth time ? ❜ always the runner , following the pattern of how easy it was to set control this way . but not this time — if it was , isak would've let the silence stretch . he would've taken assumption of regret & let it stand firm . pride would've carried him the rest of the way : he would've shrugged it off , buried it under distraction because runners don't soften their voice and swallow pride just to keep a line open . . . yet there he was .
he closes his eyes and sees dufour beneath him , voice in his ear — the way his name had sounded different : soft & almost reverent . not rival , not opponent , just isak . isa . his , his , his . and that's what made him run . not regret , not doubt , not second thoughts . ❛ i panicked . ❜ isak says suddenly , as if scared fear will hold the words to his throat otherwise . ❛ that's not regret . i panicked because it mattered . because i liked it too much and i can't stop thinking about it and about you . ❜ he pushes himself away from the counter & starts pacing again — slow and deliberate , movement always helping him to think . ❛ i don't do this . i don't chase , i don't ... ❜ usually care . voice dies under a heavy sigh and the feeling of stepping onto thin ice . ❛ i don't regret it . i won't regret it . and i don't want to pretend it was a mistake or to go back to whatever we were before it . ❜ a beat , and then softer . ❛ you can hang up again , i'd deserve it . but i don't want you to think that i'm just trying to erase what happened . and i'll call back until you understand this . ❜
there had been such an unbearable rightness in his arms that even the smallest stretch of distance afterward felt like a particular kind of misery. marcos felt erratic — so easily frustrated, so quick-tempered beneath the surface. for all his life, he had been prided on his resilience. in retrospect, maybe that meant he should have held it together better; perhaps it would have made him seem less small than he felt. but his usual restraint had always faltered when it came to isak. it had been that way from the moment they met. everything marcos thought he understood about himself had softened at the edges, as though viewed through a gentler lens. the image he carried of who he was — someone who abided by his own strict disciplines — blurred into something warmer. he liked the version of himself that liked norén far more than the one who had known nothing of him, even if this version was more difficult, more emotional, more exposed than he would have ever permitted before. perhaps it had nothing to do with some hidden change in him and everything to do with isak, who had a way of making the world feel brighter, sharper, more alive.
even when pain inevitably followed.
that was the sacrifice, wasn’t it? deep affection always carried risk. love promised ache as surely as it promised warmth. and that was precisely why marcos had spent so much of his life avoiding anyone capable of giving him what he needed most. until isak. isak, who made him want more. who wore down his walls not with force, but with presence — until they were no longer fortifications but something pliable, something he could step over with ease. until he could cradle marcos’ face between his hands and look at him with such open adoration that it felt like he was melting beneath his touch. heat unlike any he had ever known followed, a sharp contrast to the blizzard raging outside isak’s apartment in detroit that night — the windows rattling faintly with the wind while inside everything felt impossibly still.
marcos had thought he would be afraid when the moment came. that shame would snap back into place like a steel trap, that he would recoil from the very thing he claimed to want. but when he looked at isak, nothing in his life had ever seemed so beautiful. nothing had ever felt so certain. it was marcos who pulled his jacket down impossibly broad shoulders and kissed the juncture between there and his neck. marcos who guided isak’s shirt over his head. marcos who tugged him closer by the leather of his belt, closing the last of the distance between them to undo the buckle. it was everything he had sworn he would never allow himself — and everything he had always longed for with only him. isak had kissed him breathless, all fire and urgency, and yet touched him with reverence — as though he were something worthy of care and consideration. he looked at marcos as if he were the center of the universe, and when they finally unraveled together, it felt less like a collision and more like alignment — two heartbeats settling into the same rhythm, two souls humming at a shared frequency. whatever defenses marcos still clung to had collapsed entirely, reduced to rubble he had no intention of rebuilding.
he fell asleep with his cheek pressed to isak’s chest, lulled by the steady drum of his heart. it soothed him more than any other ever could. for the first time in what felt like an endless winter, he understood the shape of peace. understood what it meant to feel at home. but morning came too quickly. when he woke, the warmth had thinned into something colder. there was a distance in the room that hadn’t existed hours before — a chasm he could not name but could feel all the same. isak barely looked at him. and in a fragile attempt to preserve what remained of his pride, marcos dressed quickly and left without allowing himself to hesitate. he did not look back. he had wanted reassurance. desperately. but dignity would not let him beg for scraps — and none were offered.
so perhaps he had been angry.
but more than anger, it was disappointment. not only in the situation, but in himself. he knew better. he had always known that the moment he loosened his grip, the moment he let someone else take the wheel, everything he had so carefully constructed stood at risk of collapse. for days now, he had been in quiet turmoil — alone with his shame and doubt, carrying that weight alongside the responsibilities of being a newly minted captain. it was heavy. all of it felt unbearably heavy. and what unsettled him most was that, even now, he still wanted to crawl back into isak’s lap. to feel those strong arms wrap around him again. to bury his face in the crook of his neck and let the steady rhythm of his pulse anchor him. to listen to the low, rasping timbre of his voice as he spoke about everything and nothing at all. it was destabilizing — how deeply he wanted to matter to him and how much he was sure that he did. how much isak mattered in return. how peace, when he thought of it now, sounded far more like his name than any place ever could. it felt like sanctuary in his arms, safety he had never known with anyone before him. marcos still trusts him with the wheel. how could he regret that even if his lover did?
but isak doesn’t regret it and that reassurance is vital in this moment of fragility. the conviction in his voice is deliberate, steady and unshakable in a way that leaves marcos with no room to argue, even if he were inclined to try. there is no doubt there to latch onto, no hesitation to dissect. isak can’t stop thinking about it. about him. the admission sends a sharp, involuntary pull of warmth through marcos’ core, a quiet surge of pleasure that he tries — and fails — to conceal. he works his jaw, fighting down a smile as though isak might somehow hear it stretching across his face through the phone. he doesn’t want to pretend. he doesn’t want to retreat to whatever they were before. not that there had ever been much distance to return to; restraint had never truly existed between them, only a thin illusion of it. isak wants to take the wheel still.
he’s gripping his phone so tightly that he doesn’t notice until his fingers begin to ache, forcing him to loosen his hold. only then does he push himself upright from where he’d been leaning against the kitchen island, restless energy carrying him toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. outside, flurries of snow drift lazily from the sky, soft and relentless against the glass. a quiet huff of laughter escapes him when isak insists he could hang up and that he'd call back again — over and over — until marcos understood the gravity of what he was saying. and in that moment, standing there with the city hushed beneath snowfall and isak’s voice steady in his ear, marcos can’t help but acknowledge the truth settling heavily and beautifully in his chest. he adores him. wholeheartedly. beyond reason or doubt. it was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating to be aware of just how much he likes him, how much he wants to be with him again. and the fact that how gone he is for him seems to stretch both ways to impossibly vast extremes.
he wouldn’t demand better if he didn’t care and isak wouldn’t adjust the way he’s always carried himself to bring marcos comfort in return if he didn’t matter.
“ you really don’t want to go back? ” the question is barely there at all — threadbare and fragile, carried on a breath so soft it almost disappears within the static hum of the call. even as he asks it, marcos feels foolish for giving the fear a voice. still, the words are out now, suspended in the quiet. the relief is immediate and overwhelming. it cuts cleanly through the tight coil of anxiety in his chest, through the erratic flutter of his heartbeat that had refused to settle. his shoulders loosen without his permission. “ i… ” he falters anyway. he shouldn’t be embarrassed. isak has already seen him at his most vulnerable, has held him there, and brought him there more than once until he cracked apart in his hands and under the solid weight of him. and yet heat creeps up beneath his collar, staining his neck as he searches for language that doesn’t make him sound as insecure as he feels. he rolls the words over in his mouth, rearranging them, discarding them, trying again.
“ i’ve never… ” his voice falters, the words thinning out before they can fully form. the implication lingers anyway, suspended in the fragile quiet between them. he presses his teeth briefly into his lower lip, worrying at it as though he can physically tug the courage out of his mouth. “ …with anyone besides you, ” he manages at last. the admission is a heavy weight, even after giving it room to breathe. “ i thought maybe i’d done something wrong. that you didn’t… enjoy being with me the way i did with you. ” there. it’s laid bare now — with nowhere left to hide. a slow breath leaves him, equal parts confession and apology, as though exhaling through his nerves might steady the tremor beneath his ribs. “ i’m sorry. i didn’t realize you were scared either. i was caught up in my own head and thinking about what i might’ve done wrong that i wasn’t very considerate of you. ” he pauses, shame flickering briefly across his expression even though isak can’t see it, but he can in his reflection.
“ i know i yelled at you the first time. ” there’s a faint, self-conscious huff of laughter. “ it’s okay if you want to hang up on me now. i hear it’s cathartic. ” a small smile curves into his voice despite himself for the tease at his own expense. he hooks his thumbnail between his teeth and shakes his head, almost bemused by his own rare impulsivity. “ i didn’t mean to make things harder for you, isa. ” his tone softens, warmth threading through it more openly now, no longer restrained. it blooms there, tentative at first and then certain, weaving into every syllable. “ i was scared because… it mattered to me, too. it mattered more that it was with you. ” he swallows, but he doesn’t retreat this time. you. you. you. “ i just panicked the longer i sat alone with it because i… ” a small, helpless breath of honesty escapes him. “ i kind of like being with you. a little bit. ” the understatement is almost laughable, obvious in the humored way he confesses to it. as if it were not obvious all along that the sun rises and falls with isak and when he wasn’t there, everything else seems to freeze over by consequence.
“ and i was worried that maybe i made it mean more than it was supposed to. ”
