# 𝟮𝟬

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.

marcos dufour — the one whose messages isak looks for without even thinking . the one who somehow slipped into his routine so easily it felt like he'd always been there . the one who says things that stick , that settle somewhere deeper than they have any right to & change isak's entire mood . the one he hasn't been able to stop thinking about .

he grabs his keys before he can overthink it any further . the hallway outside his apartment is dim , covered in the kind of lighting that makes everything feel suspended — like time itself is hesitating . footsteps echo faintly as isak walks , and he becomes hyper - aware of everything : his breathing , the rustle of fabric & the quiet click of the elevator button . when the doors slide open , he steps inside and leans back against the wall , staring at the numbers as they tick downward . each floor feels like a countdown , marking the movement towards something inevitable . by the time isak reaches the garage , the rain has already started to fall harder — it drums steadily against the roof of his truck , a constant & restless rhythm that mirrors the way his pulse still refuses to settle . isak grips the steering wheel for a moment , fingers tightening unconsciously as the city outside is blurred & shimmering , lights stretched into long , wavering steaks by the rain .

the drive should be simple enough . familiar roads , familiar turns . but tonight everything feels slightly off , like the world has shifted just enough to keep him on edge . isak even catches himself rehearsing things he might say — just to drop them immediately . nothing sounds right in his head : too stiff , too forced & too obvious . he scoffs softly under his breath , shaking his head at his own stupidity — when has he ever struggled to talk ? when has he ever needed to script something as simple as a conversation ?

but this isn't simple , and he knows it .

yet , against it all , stands something with startling clarity . he wants this . he wants him . not in the abstract way it existed before — not in the easy , distant way it lived in messages & late night conversations that could be closed with a screen . not in the casual way it threaded through things that never had to be said outright . isak wants this in a way that feels solid , immediate & unavoidable . it settles somewhere deep in him : heavier than the nerves , heavier than fear — because those are still there , his heart is still beating too fast and his hands aren't entirely steady . but underneath all of it there's something else . something stronger , something that doesn't waver even in the face of the unknown . marcos has been on his mind for so long now that it's almost a challenge to remember what it felt like before , and tonight feels like it's leading somewhere better . isak wants to see him , to exist in the same space & see what happens .

the hotel comes into view sooner than he expects , looming through the haze of rain & streetlights . his chest tightens as he pulls right outside the parking garage . the engine idles softly , but everything feels too loud — his heartbeat , his breathing , the faint tremor in his hands as he reaches for his phone to let marcos know where to find him . it's absurd how quickly the confidence from earlier has drained out of him , leaving only nervous energy in its place : his muscles feel strange , heavy in a way that has nothing to do with the game — like his body doesn't quite belong to him anymore . isak flexes his fingers , trying to shake it off , but the tension lingers . but before he can think about it further , he sees movement out of the corner of his eye : & the tap on the window almost takes his breath away . he unlocks the door by instinct , the passenger side opens . . . and suddenly everything , every single jagged edge of nervousness & restless thought , fall into silence .

it feels almost unreal the way the dim light catches in dark eyes that seem to hold their own quiet gravity — holding isak captive . a shiver runs down his spine despite the warmth of the car , sharp & intoxicating in the best possible way . he realizes , distantly , that he's smiling . it's not like he hasn't seen marcos before : across the ice , under blinding arena lights , framed by noise & motion . he's seen him in interviews , in pictures — media shots , team posts and ones reserved just for him . but none compare to how he looks there , in that shared moment : not filtered through distance , not interrupted by movement , masked by a visor or diluted by the presence of a thousand other things demanding attention . the light catches along the lines of his face , softer than the harsh brightness of the rink but somehow more revealing because of it — it traces the edge of his jaw , the slight curve of his mouth , the shadowed depth of his eyes that feel warmer like this .

he looks — god , he looks . . . there's no clean way to finish such thought , because pretty feels too small : too simple for something so divine . it's in the details of who marcos is , in the way his lashes cast faint shadows under his eyes as he climbs into the seat like he belongs there — & in a way , isak knows he does . in the way the subtle flush lingers on his cheeks from the cold outside , making him look dangerously disarming .

and just like when they first truly saw each other against the ice , for a fleeting second , isak can see forever in marcos' eyes .

he takes a deeper breath when marcos smiles back at him , barely managing to keep his hands steady on the wheel as something warm & electric coils low in his chest . it's almost too much , the contrast between how familiar marcos feels and how completely new this is at the same time . they've already talked for hours before — learned each other's habits , rhythms . and yet this feels like the first time : because it is . not seeing him , not knowing him , but having him there , within reach & in a space that belongs to neither the game nor the distance that always stood between them before . alone , and together at the same time .

❛ hi . ❜ isak echoes , softer than intended as he just sits there for a second — fingers now curled loosely around the steering wheel , like his body still needs something solid to ground itself to . marcos then talks again and he feels an immediate , sharp & warm pull somewhere under his ribs , familiar enough to allow a performative eye roll , that is followed with an open smile even if his heart is still pounding against his chest . ❛ you're so generous , ❜ he says finally , managing to keep his voice steady enough as partial attention moves around as he eases the truck back into the road . ❛ it took you , what ? ten seconds to admit defeat ? ❜ a pause as he risks a glance , just for a second — regardless of how hard it is to look away again .

holding composure in the face of discomfort had always been second nature to him. it wasn’t something he remembered learning — only something he had always known how to do. smile when required. speak when prompted. absorb what needed absorbing. he understood expectation the way other people understood instinct, and he executed it flawlessly. such had been the pattern since he was very small. he did not fray, falter, and certainly didn’t unravel. or at least that was the story that he told himself. because if marcos is honest, it has not been a sudden collapse or a dramatic loss of control. it had been subtler than that. a seam loosening here. a thread pulled there. tiny fissures forming beneath the surface where no one thought to look except for isak, a slow undoing. it unsettled him — not the discomfort itself, but the loss of mastery over it. and yet, if there was anyone who could push him to that precipice, it was him. the only man who had ever made him feel as though control was something fragile. with him, composure did not sit so neatly on his shoulders. it slipped. it faltered. it revealed the messier undercurrent beneath — the longing, the fear, the depth of feeling he kept so carefully contained everywhere else. it is no small surprise that it was him, he had never truly been in control in norén’s presence. only a narrow pretending that dissolves completely when he is in front of him.

he had let isak see him. not the careful, curated self he presents to the world with steady hands and an even steadier smile. he had let him see the soft parts — the wanting, the trembling certainty, the hunger that had lived beneath his skin from the moment they met. and he had done it willingly, eagerly. isak did not owe him anything for that. he knows this. intellectually, he understands it with perfect clarity. vulnerability is not a transaction. it does not guarantee permanence. isak had never been required to stay. and yet, there is a monstrous, ugly part of him that feels humiliated anyway. what if he hadn’t liked it? it had been his first time in this exact configuration of truth — his first time with a man, his first time with him. the odds of getting something wrong felt astronomically high in hindsight. too eager. too tense. too much. not enough. isak had gotten so quiet afterward. that silence has replayed in his mind more times than he cares to admit. it grows teeth every time he revisits it. it makes him wonder if something shifted in the space between their bodies and the sheets. if isak had looked at him and found that there wasn’t anything to want after all. or worse, if he had liked him, but not the reality that they lived in.

especially not that he was a man.

the thought lands like a sharp, sickening pang straight through his chest. he presses his teeth into the soft tissue of his cheek as if he can bite the fear back into submission. because he liked it. all of it. he liked it because it was isak. because of the impossible maleness of him. the breadth of him. the warmth and weight and strength that had felt so right pressed against him. it had scared him too — not because it was wrong, but because it had felt inevitable. and inevitability leaves very little room to retreat safely. what terrifies him most is the possibility that isak could walk away from it intact. that he could tuck the memory neatly under his belt, just another experience, while for marcos it had been something tectonic. what if it only mattered like that to him? he is not naïve. he knows isak cares for him. he has felt it in a hundred small ways across what feels like a lifetime. but caring and staying are not synonyms.

there is a fine, brutal line between wanting someone and knowing that wanting them might not be sustainable. two men. two rivals. two front-runners of illustrious teams bound together since their inception. the optics alone are combustible. some things feel beautiful in private and impossible in daylight.

the phone vibrates in his lap. isak’s name flashes across the screen, and despite everything — despite the doubt and the tightness in his chest — he smiles. it isn’t a lack of care, not even close. he lets it ring once. twice. just long enough to steady himself. then he answers, smoothing a sigh into something softer before it can betray him. when isak’s voice comes through, it’s back to that familiar tone — sweet, carefully measured, forced into calm every single time marcos gives him another opening and another chance. the absurdity of it nearly pulls a laugh from him. in fact, it does — a quiet huff, sharp and breathless, because how did they get here? nothing about them has ever been orderly, a series of crossed lines and blurred boundaries and choices made with full awareness of the consequences.

“ marcos, baby. ”

his eyes crinkle at the edges despite himself. he thinks of detroit and the snowstorm. the way isak had tested the softness of his name over and over again that night — layering something sweeter onto it, pushing gently at the edges of what marcos would allow. as if he hadn’t climbed into his car willingly. as if he hadn’t chosen to stay the night in his apartment when the weather forced their landing. as if he hadn’t climbed into his bed. “ this is starting to get out of hand. ” he almost wants to laugh again. because starting? everything between them has been out of hand since the beginning.

he stays quiet as isak speaks, grateful that they seem to be moving past the defensiveness. he is tired of platitudes. tired of gentle avoidance. he would rather have something sharp and honest. truth, at least, would be less mortifying than being told sweet nothings and left to be hung by the noose of his own longing. “ if you regret… the last time we saw each other… ” he can’t say it outright, feeling too exposed for all the uncertainty beyond them. he already feels the heat crawling up his neck, the shame of even admitting how much it mattered. “ it is okay. you can say that and we can just… let it go. you don’t need to do this part. ” he hates how calm he sounds. the evenness is deliberate — forced into place to conceal how raw his heart feels inside his chest and completely not like how he ever speaks to isak. because what he is really offering is not indifference. it’s an exit. 

“ i just need you to tell me that. ” the words come out steadier than he feels, but they are no less urgent for it. there is no accusation in his tone. “ leaving me in the dark like this is not… acceptable right now. ” he pauses there, jaw tightening briefly. not in anger. in restraint. he has spent so much of his life tempering his reactions, smoothing over discomfort before it could inconvenience anyone else. but this he will not swallow down quietly. “ not after what we did. ” it is not a weapon or a ploy for leverage, it is simply the truth. something fundamental happened between them, whether isak wants to name it or not. “ i don’t want you to tell me things you will regret just to make me feel better, you understand? ” his voice softens there, but it does not waver.  

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 .