Work Text
Marc barely stifles his yawn as he stretches his hands over his head, leaning back until his back cracks in a satisfying crunch. This homework isn’t going to do itself, but it looks like he just might have to call it a night. His thighs still burn from practice, the suicides Coach had finished them off with were never fun. Though Chris seemed to get something out of it, the freakish nut.
He looks out over the blue-black view of his window, harder to see with the glow of his desk lamp immediately next to the cool glass. Turning it off plunges him into darkness before his eyes recover, slightly slower than they used to be. Below his seventh floor apartment, he sees the lights of the city pulsing quietly. People walk in the shadows, barely lit up with the light of their cell phones, bundled up in thick, dark jackets as they walked. He thinks he sees a few groups of people from school, staggering out of bars and bodegas, their little bubbles of ephemeral happiness impenetrable by cold nor dark.
He stands, grabbing his coffee mug off his desk and closing his laptop. Walking around in the dark is something Marc’s all too familiar with - from concussions to forgetting to pay the electric bill to early mornings and late nights from hockey, he’s used to the layout of his apartment. The kitchen floor dips a little bit right in front of the sink from one too many pots dropped from slippery hands. He rinses out his coffee mug in the sink, setting it on the side when he’s finished. The problem set can wait until Sunday for him to do, which means he can fuck around after class tomorrow if he so chooses.
And he so chooses.
Coffee mug more or less rinsed out, he returns to his desk, grabbing his phone off the charger and then heading toward his room, pausing when he reads the notifications he has waiting for him. Jared’s asking something about hand-me-down elbow pads, Chris has been blowing up his Snapchat, but the one that actually tethers his attention is a simple text from Hank, asking if he’s still awake.
Not if he’s still up, if he’s awake.
Marc responds the affirmative, and is already taking off his sweatpants and replacing them with jeans, donning shoes and a jacket by the time he gets a reply. Just reading the small text makes him smile as he heads out the door. Anticipation crackles through his body, feeling like static in his blood.
Hank lives relatively nearby; it’s not a walk he minds doing by foot, though a cab would be faster. Marc knows that Hank has his reasons for inviting him over so late - it is 11pm the night before the night before a game, Coach would be pissed - but Hank works on his own timeframe. He’s quite possibly the only player that Coach can’t actually say anything against because if he did he’d officially lose the team, even guys like Marc who just want to put their heads down and hope he eventually gets fired before they graduate.
The city feels different now that he’s a part of it. The lights of stores that never seem to close, gas stations and hair salons pulse slowly into the frigid night, encouraging patrons to come in and spend their money on wares easily available all across the city. ‘I ♥︎ NY’ shirts line the tops and bottoms of windows, barely obscured from the smoke - or is that steam? - pumping into the air from down below.
He didn’t bother to bring his headphones for the walk, although as he passes a group of drunk teenagers dragging themselves from a cab and heading into the foyer of a hotel, he sort of wishes that he did. He didn’t really want to hear them whining about how shitty the alcohol was, or why Benny shouldn’t have hooked up with that girl when his ex is clearly still not over him, and other inane shit. He hadn’t had a temper for that even when he and his friends were more in tune with that level of drama.
Now it was all about who was going to actually wind up doing a thesis that they actually cared about, and if anyone was going to have a chance at going pro. Normal concerns of collegiate hockey players.
Eventually he turns off the main drag, down some side streets lined with brownstone houses and apartments, cleverly looking the same on the outside, though Marc knows that some of these houses have just one sole occupant, while others boast up to eight college kids desperate for the illusion of independence. He’d take his modest apartment and some reasonable quiet to himself over the additional pressure of living with more idiots. If he wanted that fate, he’d have moved into the hockey house with the rest of the D-core.
He finally stops at 1380, undoing the latch on the wrought iron gate, feeling a bit like he’s breaking into the castle by bribing the guard dog. The lights aren’t on, leaving the impersonal white light of the street lamp to shine onto the brick stairs, guiding his bounding steps. He knows the code for the lock box - “Joel’s birthday,” Hank had told him with a smug half-smile - and unlatches the deadbolt with the key inside.
The foyer is warm, though no lights are on in the first floor. The stairs are clean, the goalie gear from practice laid out in a back room somewhere with a door closed between it and the rest of the house. Paperwork is spread across the dining room table, probably Alex’s judging from his backpack still sitting on one of the chairs. But his red and blue bike is gone, so maybe he’s over at Mika’s for the night.
Maybe that’s why Marc got a text.
He shrugs out of his shoes and jacket, leaving them in line with Hank’s. As he starts up the stairs, rolling up the sleeves of his grey hoodie, he hears the soft cadence of Swedish from the upstairs room. He smiles inwardly, wondering to whom Hank could be talking; judging from the casual tone, it’s probably Joel.
Reaching the top of the tight stairs, he walks down the short hallway to the bedroom, a sliver of golden light sliding across the floor, leaving stripes on his socks. He makes his way closer and closer, ever still, before slowly nudging the door open.
Hank’s sitting cross-legged on the center of his bed, ear pods in as he gestures to the screen in front of him. Whatever he hears makes him laugh, and when he looks up and sees Marc, his smile brightens into something genuinely excited, before it hardens, weaponizing itself and starting up that pleasurable buzz in Marc’s veins again.
He’s not sure what it is that Joel says to Hank, but whatever it is makes Hank glare at the screen, before he mutters a sharp “goodnight.” Marc makes his way over, slowly moving through the space, his hands tucked into his jean pockets save for his thumbs, hooked into his belt loops.
Hank had a lot of soft warmth that radiated from his space. He kept it clean, uncluttered, and calm, with deep blues and golds dressing up the flat white and brown space. The furniture was all modern looking, but the coldness was offset by the warm lighting scattered throughout the room. His dresser had mirrored trays set on top, containing his cufflinks and various rings, a few hair products scattered between. Through the slightly ajar closet door, Marc spotted the sweater he liked to steal from Hank - an oversized cream colored one that he only wore indoors but one that Hank always threatened to take pictures of him in because it fit him well, but claimed he never had.
Marc’s pretty sure he’s lying on that point.
By the time he makes it to the bed, Hank’s already shoved his laptop into the basket on the shelf of his bedside table, his ear pods back in their case and haphazardly tossed by the base of the lamp. Marc smirks as he gets on the bed, coming close enough for Hank to slide his hands into his autumn chilled hair and pull him in even closer, until their lips were only just brushing.
“Miss me?” he murmurs, and Hank doesn’t deign it with a response before they’re kissing.
Marc likes it when Hank takes control; he likes it when his goalie tells him what to do, or manipulates him physically into doing whatever he wants. He likes it when Hank whispers praise to him, and he likes it when he can still feel him hours, even days later. He likes having bruises where everyone can tell the method but no one can tell the source.
On this night, however, Hank was the one to call him. Now Hank’s the one in need, and Marc’s not going to keep it from him.
He’s bigger than Hank, a fact he usually likes to keep tucked away with other unimportant details, but now he uses his bulk to pin Hank to the bed. He straddles his waist, drawing a small gasp from the man beneath him. Marc deepens the kiss, letting Hank weave his fingers through his hair, listing into the sensation. It feels nice, the press of lips and tongues, the knowledge that they can take as much time as they want because Alex is gone and that also means that Marc can be loud but he’s here for more.
“What do you want?” he asks once they pull back for air. He knows what he wants - he wants Hank to mark up his throat, he wants to worship Hank with his mouth, he wants to have an aching back by the time they’re spent - but this isn’t about him.
“Whatever,” Hank mutters, the syllables slurring together. He really is easy for it, and the realization brings a new determination to the fore.
He moves his hands down before sliding them up beneath Hank’s shirt, spreading his hands over his torso, rubbing his thumbs against Hank’s nipples. They’re a sensitive spot, have been for as long as Marc has known him, for as long as they’ve been doing this - and he knows that when he breaks from the kiss and takes one into his mouth, pressing faintly with his teeth through the thin cotton of Hank’s shirt, that he’s going to make the loveliest of sounds.
Hank doesn’t disappoint, rocking his hips up against Marc, making it very clear just how interested his dick is in the proceedings above his waist. Marc doesn’t give in, squeezes Hank’s hips with his thighs - still somewhat sore from practice - intent on finishing his ministrations to Hank’s chest. The whimpers he wrings from Hank’s throat, so helpless in their length, so honest in their pitch, get him hooked. He turns to the other side, laving his tongue over the material, turning the soft black shirt impossibly darker.
When he’s done, and the material is nice and soaked, just to be an asshole he brushes his beard against the stiff, sensitive flesh and Hank sounds as if he’s been shot. Riding the wave of confidence, Marc slides a hand between Hank’s thighs, rubbing over the soft cotton and feeling the hot wetness already starting to spread.
It’s been a rough season; it’s been a rough year.
Abruptly, Marc’s pulled up by a hand in his hair, and is met with frozen judgment from flat ice iris’. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” Hank breathlessly complains, his other hand tugging roughly at the hoodie.
“So are you,” Marc retorts, snapping the band of Hank’s pajama pants.
They stare at each other before Marc stands, removing his sweatshirt and letting the shirt come off with it. He hears Hank getting in a similar state of undress as he kicks his jeans off too, leaving a mess on the floor. Normally Hank wouldn’t stand for that, but he’s not in any position to be telling Marc what to do. When he’s down to just his trunks, he climbs back onto the bed, pushing at Hank’s underwear already.
Hank lets him, and from there it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s pressing his tongue to the precome gathered at the tip, licking away the salty liquid. Hank trembles beneath him as Marc really sets in, flicking his tongue in ways he knows get him so close to the edge. A few moments after that, Marc dedicates himself to taking in more and more of his lover, loosening his jaw with a practiced edge. It’s messy and sloppy, just the way Hank likes it - he’s told him before, in moments of lapsed judgment, that he likes when Marc’s mouth is wet enough to fuck without hesitation.
He gives this to him now, listening to the muffled “oh fuck” and “yes, baby, yes” above him. Neither of them have the time for sex right now, not with a game coming up in the next 48 hours, not with not enough adequate preparation. Sometimes it’s just the presence of another person that brings half of the pleasure; sometimes it’s just the act of pleasure itself to solidify what these two people mean to each other in a warm room on a cold night.
Marc presses his hands on Hank’s hips, pinning him further to the bed so he can’t quite get enough leverage to actually fuck his mouth. He does take him as deep as he can, swallowing until he’s almost lightheaded from the cock in his mouth. It seems ridiculous, but when Marc dares to look up through his eyelashes he sees Hank has his arms over his eyes, little whines escaping in between half formed words. He stills his head, leaves his lips stretched around Hank’s cock and pinches his thigh, bringing the goalie’s attention down to him.
When their gazes lock, Hank weakly attempts to thrust into Marc’s mouth, one hand flying down to grab onto Marc’s hair, tugging slightly as he comes. There’s not a lot of warning, but Marc takes what he’s given, swallowing it down with a muffled hum.
He pulls back, flicking his tongue over the last few drops of come, still weakly dribbling down Hank’s cock. He licks his lips as Hank lays in the afterglow, chest heaving in soft warm lights. The room falls quiet again, without the slide of sheets and moans of its occupants. Marc’s still painfully hard, but he pays it little mind as he crawls up to be closer to Hank.
Hank looks up at him with bleary eyes, sloppily reaching up and pulling him down over top of him. The warm press of their bare chests together, the feeling of Hank’s arms around him anchors Marc. A few minutes pass by like this, each just basking in the feel of the other, Hank rubbing soft circles over Marc’s shoulders. He knows, intuitively, that Hank is tracing old lines of freckles leftover from his summer training. He also knows that Hank still wants to find a time to kiss all of them, because they only show up when he’s been in the sun for long enough that his skin reveals its constellations.
Eventually, the silence is broken by Marc lifting his head and asking, “So what did Joel want?”
Hank tiredly snorts, a soft giggle almost escaping. “I don’t really want to talk about my brother right now.”
“I’m just trying to make conversation,” Marc quips, feigning nonchalance, like his dick isn’t digging into Hank’s thigh and like every moment isn’t a test of his will against riding Hank’s thigh until he comes. “It’s those Canadian manners. Sorry about that.” He purposefully drags out his accent, emphasizing the sorey aboot.
Hank rolls his eyes, just a flash of pale blue in the dim room. “Yeah, well. There are ways to make up for it.”
Marc raises his brows, tilting his head. “Oh really? What ways could those be?”
Hank makes it abundantly clear when he flips them both with that strength and quickness reserved for the ice. When Hank gets his mouth on Marc’s dick, letting the defenseman fuck his face, Marc starts a litany of dirty talk mixed with affectionate names. As he comes, he moans, “Fuck baby…love you, so good,” and thinks nothing of it.
They say nothing about it in the aftermath, Marc brushing his teeth and tongue with the extra third toothbrush Hank keeps on hand in case of moments like this. He doesn’t want to put his jeans back on and walk back to his apartment, not when it’ll be about 1am by the time he arrives.
Hank throws back his comforter, the soft dark blue sheets all the more inviting. “Get in,” Hank states, though it’s an offer. Marc knows he could refuse.
He crawls in to the bed and presses up against him, closing his eyes against the soft lights. Usually falling asleep when any source of light was near him was difficult, but New York had gotten him out of that habit. Falling asleep in this quiet little den of light is one of the easiest things he’s ever done.
The next morning, Marc wakes up before Hank does. The morning feels always different in someone else’s bed, but he’s used to waking up in Hanks by now. He slips out of the bed, tossing on a pair of Hank’s underwear that are just a tad too tight around his thighs but they fit enough that he can warrant walking around downstairs, just in case Alex had returned.
He hadn’t, but Marc kind of wish he had - maybe then the kitchen would be stocked. It’s not their fault, exactly, that no good food exists in the house. Hank is horrible at cooking, and Marc can assume that little Alex isn’t much better. But he doesn’t feel like going on a grocery run and putting in all the thoughts that go into a pre-game day nutrition regimen for goalies, so he puts in a Postmates order for himself and then trudges back upstairs to shower.
Everything he uses is Hanks, and he knows this because Hank has the most brand loyalty of any college student Marc knows. Any and all Lush products belong to the proud Swede, and while Marc wants to tease him, he knows that they work and that they smell damn good. As he works the Copperhead into his hair, filling the shower with something soft and seasonal, he’s suddenly accosted with the memory of what he had said last night.
He doesn’t quite drop the shampoo bar in shock, but it’s a close thing.
Love you.
Hank hadn’t said anything in response; maybe he hadn’t heard it? Maybe Marc could play it off like nothing was out of place. He could just get his Postmates order, maybe text Hank that he had to go to the library, or maybe that he got called into work to cover someone’s shift. Avoiding him wasn’t the smartest choice, but he didn’t want to deal with the possible fallout. He doesn’t want to threaten their friendship, their status on the team, their…whatever it was.
Rinsing off quickly but thoroughly, Marc steps out of the shower and dries himself with Hank’s towel, the soft rich grey a stark contrast to the stiff bleached white towels that belonged to Alex. Marc pulls on the same borrowed trunks from before, before donning his jeans and socks as well. He’s bare chested, roughly toweling through his hair as he pads into the bedroom, searching for a brush or comb to do something with the fiery mess atop his head.
Marc feels someone watching him, and turns to follow the feeling. Hank stares up at him from the bed, his own hair a mess across the dark blue pillows. Marc raises an eyebrow, and Hank responds with a smirk hidden beneath the comforter, pulled up high enough to just show his eyes.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Marc offers, resuming his hunt for a comb.
“I was just thinking that I could get used to this view in the mornings,” Hank returns. Marc hears the shifting of the mattress, the crack of bones as Hank’s back finally awakens with the rest of his body.
“You’re such an old man.” Marc selects a brush that looks like its meant for wet hair, having heard enough of Hank’s rants and raves about proper hair care to know that there are specific tools meant for specific tasks. Though he’s played around with different cuts and styles in the past, Marc’s never gone as far as Chris has - that boy either looks like a Roman statue or like a goblin, depending entirely on his hair situation. It’s not even for dares.
“This team drives me to drink,” Hank mutters, bringing himself to a full sitting position. “Premature age, you can blame it on them.”
Marc hums, vaguely constructing his hair to go in some kind of flow with the brush. It doesn’t really matter; when it dries, it’ll do whatever it wants to do in the first place. He hears Hank getting out of bed, coming over and dropping his head on Marc’s bare shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist. It feels nice, feels domestic when Hank acts like this, and for a moment Marc can pretend that they can have this for more than just the time being.
“Babe,” he murmurs, reaching up and running his hand through deep brown locks, scrunching his fingers every so often.
Hank grunts, a wordless urge to continue whatever he’s going to say. As he goes to ask Hank - ask him if he heard him the night before, ask him if he felt the same way, ask him what they were even doing - the doorbell downstairs rings.
“…Breakfast,” he explains, turning out of Hank’s hold. He darts downstairs, not bothering to put a shirt on as he opens the door. The delivery woman seems taken aback, but he gives her a half smile as he takes the offered bag. In all actuality, he could have gone down to the bodega and gotten it himself, but there’s an extra added convenience factor to having two bacon egg and cheese sandwiches brought to his door.
Well, Hank’s door.
Upstairs, he can hear the shower starting. He doesn’t act on this knowledge, and instead unwraps his breakfast sandwich and takes a soft bite. There’s a lot of things he supposes that he should be focusing on - perhaps the rush of affection in his chest every time he catches a whiff of the body wash on his body, or the warm balm he feels on his tired mind whenever he’s at Hank’s house - but instead he looks out the window, watching a group of cyclists pass by. Their wheels spin slowly in the morning light, round and round, sluggish in the cold and wind.
Marc can relate.
Chris falls into the stall beside him, unwrapping the tape from his ankle, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. It’s Quickie’s stall, but Jesper had taken off shortly after practice had ended, clearly in a mood. Marc can’t blame him; practice today was shit.
“Did you shower in your wrap?” Marc asks, propping his elbow on his knee. Hank’s off talking to a coach, and Marc doesn’t want to venture out into the cold by himself so, he’s waiting. He’d also conveniently forgotten his own shampoo in his travel bag, having already started packing earlier that day in between stats problems.
“I thought the water would loosen the adhesive. Guess I estimated incorrectly,” Chris says in a way that makes Marc wonder if he’s actually doing it on purpose or if this is just how all Literature majors act at all times.
“Jesus Christ,” Marc mutters, drawing a self satisfied laugh from Chris.
“Do you think before you speak?” comes from across the hall, but it’s not aimed at Chris for once - it’s Mika and Buchy going back and forth, probably about something related to soccer. It feels nice, a little bit, to watch the inane conversations flow between the stragglers. People who had bummed a ride with someone else or had too much to do and wanted to put it off as long as possible. As an alternate, Marc knows that part of his job is to keep the boys in line, but also to foster a sense of team identity. As a senior, he knows his time for doing so is short. It’s their last season. They’re all tired, injuries are piling up, they’re losing no matter what they do. It feels like an uphill battle at times, one that he’s leading by himself since their captain transferred and the other A’s are too new to their jobs.
Hank walks back into the room, running a hand through his hair. He looks distressed, but Marc’s willing to bet he’s the only one who can read the slight tightness to his frame, the way he refuses to look at anyone else in the room. Marc gets up, leaving Chris to his own devices and goes over to him.
“Everything okay?” he asks, knowing what the answer is.
“Coach isn’t starting me tomorrow,” Hank mutters. Marc knows it’s a miracle that he’s even getting an answer from him at all. “Says I need to take a game off to ‘just watch the process.’” The sarcasm is venomous in his words, and Marc sighs.
He never had a problem learning the guidelines of different roles he’s held - farmhand, son, brother, friend - but Hank takes the lines and throws them out. Marc wants to address the discomfort Hank’s feeling - the frustration, the annoyance, the general tension sitting heavy on his shoulders - but the way he wants to do it is with soft kisses and gentle touches and maybe an orgasm or two. It’s not remotely professional, nor is it even within the realm of possibility when it comes to things they can do before a game, but he has to do something or else they’re all fucked. Hank’s emotional status is a lynch pin of locker room dynamic, and in some kind of backwards way, this is a test.
A test he’s well on his way to failing.
“Come on,” he murmurs, taking Hank’s leather jacket sleeve between his fingers and tugging. “Lets get out of here.”
Hank allows him to lead, the two silhouettes heading out of the locker room amongst joking names and airborne tape balls.
Marc waits until they’re a block away from the rink before asking, “Why do you think Coach isn’t starting you?”
“He wants to give Alex a shot. I get it, Alex is a freshman and I’m graduating this year, but like. He could have at least told me earlier.” They duck between the steel beams of construction along the sidewalk, stepping over discarded cigarette butts and gum.
“You know Alex wouldn’t ask for a start over you,” Marc explains, before letting a grin slide over his face. “If at the very least because you’ll make his living situation awful.”
“I wouldn’t-” Hank insists before looking up at Marc. Marc wags his eyebrows at him, and Hank rolls his eyes. “I’m not that bad.”
“Hank, you’re a drama king and everyone knows it. There’s a reason we call you King.” He nudges Hank with his elbow, trying to get a rise out of him.
“And here I thought it was because of my name.” It works, and the soft little smile that Marc gets in response makes his heart stutter in his chest. It takes him back to that morning, Hank looking at him from the covers, his smile hidden by the comforter. The words settle on the back of his tongue, a simple three syllables that he can’t bring himself to say.
“Your name is good,” he finally mutters, cheeks brightening to a shade of red just shy of being able to be blamed on the cold weather.
Hank gives him a sort of disbelieving look, but Marc quickly turns into the Starbucks they were in the middle of passing. His goalie follows, as Marc knew he would, and as he gets in line amongst the various other customers, he feels Hank press in close.
“Speaking of names,” he murmurs, in a voice too low and smooth to be suitable for public use, “are you going to live up to yours?”
Marc immediately thinks of the connotations of “marking” something, thinks of the bites he’s missing along his collar bones and the ones he wants to leave on Hank’s thighs when he sucks him off again. But that’s not what Hank is talking about, and he forces an overdramatic pout instead. “That was told to you in confidence.”
“You should have been confident that I was going to bring it up at a moment’s notice, especially when you’re the one who drags us into Starbucks.”
Marc scrunches his nose in response, ignoring Hank’s words but also knowing damn well that he is going to live up to his nickname and order a hot venti PSL, because what else would one get in the middle of October?
Hank’s laughing as he places the order, pinching Marc’s arm through his sweatshirt. Marc smiles to himself when he hears Hank ordering one too.
They wind up back at Hank’s place, since it’s closer to the rink. Alex looks up from where he’s organizing his Under Armor spread across the living room floor, an apologetic look on his face. “I am sorry,” is all he says, and Marc elbows Hank to drive home that yes, his moods do have an effect on his teammates.
Instead, he says, “We know. Coach has been in a mood lately, but that’s not your fault. No one’s blaming you. Just do your best, kay?” He takes a sip of his drink, careful to let his thumb cover the Sharpie written PSL. Alex seems to take the words from his alternate, but checks for Hank’s reaction just in case. He must not see anything threatening, because he goes back to organizing his clothes. Marc kicks off his shoes and heads upstairs, bringing his bag with him like he owns the place.
He automatically goes to Hank’s room, setting his bag down near the seating area and sitting on the floor crosslegged. He thinks he hears Hank coming in behind him, closing the door for some semblance of privacy. The bed creaks as he lays down, the gentle crisp sound of a coffee cup being placed on the bedside table brings Marc out of his little spiral.
“I don’t think that I’m as frustrated about Coach not playing me tomorrow as I am about some other stuff,” Hank says, a very clear opening. Marc grunts to encourage him to continue, a mirror of their situation this morning. He opens his bag, pulling out his laptop and starting it up to see how many emails he’s missed.
“Like, I don’t like it when people won’t just come clean about shit. And I know that I hold in things but I think it bothers me when other people do it because I kinda recognize that about myself.”
“Someone’s been listening in therapy,” Marc murmurs. Hank flips him off from the bed, and he barely resists the urge to take off his sock and throw it at him.
“Oh please, it’s twinsdom, you learn this shit when you spend all of your life with someone who looks and acts exactly like you,” Hank says. “But like, it’s also frustrating when you think you’re on the same page as someone and then they sort of change the rules.”
Marc fixes his gaze to his computer screen, his heart beating almost painfully hard in his chest. “You, uh…have anyone in mind? Who’s done this?”
“Mmhmm. I’m waiting for them to come forward and tell me but I’m not sure they will unless I give them a shove.”
“…Is this you giving a shove?”
“Oh, you bet.”
Marc refuses to look up, not sure what he would do if he had to look at Hank while they had this conversation. What if he looks up and sees annoyance? Or disgust? What if he sees everything that he was worried he’d see from the start of their arrangement in preseason of their sophomore year? What if he sees the inevitability there in those ice blue eyes - that Hank has what it takes to go pro, has already been talking to people and looking at staying in New York postgrad, and Marc’s status on the team is nothing but seniority?
What if he looks up and sees the end?
“I don’t know what there is to say,” he finally murmurs.
“Well did you mean it?” Hank asks, pushing forward with a bravado almost convincing enough to make Marc believe that this doesn’t affect him as much as it affects Marc himself. Of course he meant it - it’s why he hasn’t brought it up all day, it’s why he hoped that it would die a quiet death like all unspoken truths, that the sounds would fade from memory with more pressing matters coming to the fore.
Instead, Hank remembers.
Instead, Hank heard him.
Instead, Hank asks him if he means it.
Marc finally looks up from his computer, fingertips clinging to the edge of charging jacks and USB ports. Hank’s lying on his stomach, looking at Marc with a carefully constructed neutral expression. The set of his mouth is too still, but if he looks for long enough, he can see the faint movement along his lower lip as he worries the inside between his teeth. He can see the way his brows slightly furrow the longer Marc goes without answering. He can see the desire to look away and preserve the delicate bubble of deception.
“Of course I did,” he whispers instead. I’ve loved you for a while, he doesn’t say. “..I do. Still.”
Seven words and three years of something building between them - cumulating at a New Years party their sophomore year and never once fading away from then - to finally coalesce in this moment.
“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
“I didn’t want to make things weird. And we never really described what,” Marc gestures between them, “this was. I thought it was just sex so I was fine to keep it that way, I didn’t know how a relationship would work.”
Hank raises an eyebrow, sitting up and bringing his knees under him. “What do you mean? You…do you not - is this not?”
Marc remembers the toothbrush sitting in the bathroom drawer, the sweater in the closet, the fact that Hank’s address is saved in his phone for ordering food and clothes, the effortless sharing of clothes, bed, space; it’s a lot. It’s many signs that he should have realized earlier, many signs that flood his body with second hand embarrassment at his own past idiocy, but excitement for the future.
“…I didn’t realize.”
“You’re so fucking stupid, get up here,” Hank demands, and Marc is helpless but to give in. He gets up, takes the short half-step to the foot of the bed, and Hank’s pulling him down into a kiss that immediately makes him whine. They kiss for a few moments more before Hank pulls back enough to mutter, “I love you too. You absolute fucking moron.”
Marc whines again, this time in embarrassment, but Hank quickly kisses him again to muffle the sound. He crawls on the bed, pushing Hank down beneath him to continue their kisses, straddling him in a mirror of last night. He didn’t think that having said and acknowledged the words would change too much, but as he feels Hank slide his hands up his thighs, his fingertips pressing against the lower edge of his hipbone, he feels fundamentally, cosmically altered.
The static shifts to a full blown electrical storm, pleasure buzzing with every brush of their lips. Marc pulls back, wanting to bite and mark and claim, but he can’t, so he settles for nuzzling in close, kissing along Hank’s throat instead. Their facial hair rubs together, the heated friction settling something deep inside, a loose piece clicking into place. It’s deeper than language, something primal and possessive that wants nothing more than to take what is sacred and protect it until there is no evil, no darkness, no threat that could possibly pose a danger. He thinks this might be what makes love worth dying for. He also thinks that there’s no reason a college senior should be having these kinds of thoughts, but life is too fucking short to bother asking questions to which he doesn’t think he cares about the answers.
He feels fingers carding through his hair, scrunching every so often, stroking the slight curve of ginger hair beneath his ear. That deeper, darker part of him purrs in satisfaction.
They go on to win the game the next day, their first win of the season. When they line up to congratulate Alex on a job well done, Marc ensures that he goes second to last, pressing his cage against Alex’s and grinning widely. “Fucking beaut of a game,” he shouts, the words just for the two of them over the sounds of people leaving, the doors for the zamboni already swinging open, their team heading back to the locker room.
“The defense was phenomenal,” Alex responds, his own grin bright in response to either the game or his correct use of the word “phenomenal.” Chris must be so proud that his teachings are sticking around.
Marc’s never felt this tired after a game - he thinks he’s set a new record for time on ice, but he’s not sure if it’s a good thing or if Coach is trying to tire him out before the season actually picks up - but he claps a gloved hand on Alex’s shoulder and skates out of the way, leaving Hank to say whatever it is he wants.
By the time they load up on the bus, exhausted but feeling somewhat hopeful, Marc wants little more than to sleep. He’s almost there, curled up in his usual seat closer to the front of the bus, where it’s quietest, but a weight in the aisle seat beside him makes him lift his head. Hank’s looking at him shyly, his hood up and hands in his pockets like he usually does post game, even if he hasn’t played, as if he’s got to somehow contain any and all emotions or pains from the experience and shield them from others.
“This seat taken?”
Marc scrunches his nose at him in response, before patting the seat. Hank slides in next to him, promptly leaning in close and resting his head against Marc’s shoulder, humming in contentment. Marc gives up on trying to find a comfortable way to rest with his hat backwards, like he prefers, so he flips it around, leaning against the headrest.
The city lights pass by outside as they leave Jersey, yellows and whites blending and blurring together as the bus flies down the highway. He can see lights inside their bus, phone screens and chargers, the green lights of the aisle bifurcating the bus. Faint whispering fills the bus as even the gamers in the back of the bus start to settle down, including the occasional muffled laugh here and there.
Half the team’ll probably go off to party, using the high from the win and the rest from the bus to push them until at least 6am, if certain snap stories are to be believed. The other half will slink back to dorms and apartments, intent on sleep or work or phone calls home to talk about the first win of the season.
It’s a long season, though - they’ll have plenty of chances.
His phone buzzes with a text, briefly disrupting Hank’s nap. He makes a displeased noise, and Marc gently shushes him, slipping his fingers beneath the hood to ruffle his hair. When he checks it, he sees a series of texts in the sibling group chat.
They’re mostly giving each other shit, but congratulating Marc on the first game won since their captain transferred. Eric mentions that he wishes he could have seen it, but his own game had gone to OT. That had Jordan and Jared started up about oh well ~pardon us~ for intruding on Mr. AHL and a very blatant get fucked eric.
Marc goes through and likes the messages that directly dunk on Eric but also emphasizes a few containing news he hadn’t heard yet. Apparently both Jordan and Jared were in talks with the Charlotte Checkers, and Marc’s chest tightens a bit as he reads over the texts.
He types thanks., period included, but is sure to send the message with some confetti. This is a problem he’ll address later but for right now, he thinks he’ll let himself just focus on the warm weight of his boyfriend pressed against him as they move through the dark, soundless night.
His favorite way for Hank to fuck him is whatever position puts him face down, ass up the fastest. There’s something inexplicably hot about biting into pillows, trying to keep from moaning too loud while Hank keeps murmuring dirty talk in his ear, gripping his hips so hard they leave bruises. His second favorite way for Hank to fuck him is the spontaneous way that has two grown hockey players somehow fitting into a single hall bathroom at a house party. He likes the stiffness in his spine afterwards, the way his shoulders and biceps ache from bracing himself against the wall or mirror, the way he can look into that reflection and see Hank watching him with a predatory, possessive, cocky smirk.
This time is like the second. It’s not the first time that they’ve fucked in the hockey house, despite neither of them living there, and it probably won’t be the last, much to Mats’ chagrin. Hank has his hand over Marc’s mouth, and he can feel the press of his rings against his lips, keeping him silent. The pleasure is too fucking much, and he knows he’s a fucking mess - he’s buzzed, and so is Hank, and the only article of clothing that’s still on him is this mesh crop top Chris dared him to wear, and it barely counts. He has a knee up on the edge of the sink, but there’s something so innately hot about Hank - the fake injury makeup still impeccable, the torn clothes with fake blood barely out of place - fucking him with such composure.
He feels a little bit like the hooker he’s supposedly dressed up as, and there’s a part of him that is getting off on that way more than it should. Hank reaches around, wrapping his long, talented fingers around Marc’s cock, stroking him roughly. The pleasure pain is overwhelming, and when Hank leans forward and calls him such a good slut in that deep, throaty tone he gets when he’s also on edge, he comes so hard he paints the mirror white.
Afterwards, he’s too wrung out to hold himself up anymore, but Hank hasn’t finished so he winds up leaning back against Hank, his leg still up on the sink edge, his head back on Hank’s shoulder. He bites his lower lip as he watches their blurry reflections, the red smear across his mouth the remains of his lipstick, blurring into his beard. Hank’s thrusts drag out the sensitivity, his hips twitching every so often until Hank finally stills, groaning low and deep against Marc’s jaw.
Finally, Marc swings his leg down, staggering forward like a fawn newly brought to the world. Hank smooths a hand down Marc’s back before tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash. “This is why I bring those for parties,” Hank says as he reaches down to help get Marc’s trunks and jeans back on.
“You know I like it better when you don’t,” Marc mutters, letting Hank button his jeans as he tries to evaluate just how much some water to his face will fix. Hank smirks as he leans against Marc’s back, raising an eyebrow over the one eye with a milky white contact in it. In a way, they’re the opposite of each other, Marc’s injured eye on his right side, Hank’s contact on his left side, putting them side by side.
They make a pretty picture, the AberZombie & Bitch model and the Red Head/Red Light they’d been assigned through the team costume lottery. It’s only now that Marc manages a laugh, tilting his head this way and that to see how much mascara has run off. “It just occurred to me that they probably meant for me to be a cop.”
Hank snorts and reaches down to snap Marc’s very visible underwear band. “Please, with an ass this good, you chose the right costume.”
Marc jumps a bit at the feeling, his body already sore from their excursion. It’s only now that he realizes he probably should clean the mirror before his come dries on it, and they get even more obvious. “You, out,” he dictates, shoving at Hank’s shoulder lightheartedly. “I need to clean up.”
“Okay, don’t take too long,” Hank purrs, reaching up to pull Marc down into a kiss before unlocking the bathroom and heading out. Marc quickly locks it again and tries to make some semblance of order of both himself and the bathroom space, but as he hears the uproarious drunken cheering as soon as Hank makes it back to the rest of the party, he thinks that maybe it won’t be that big of a deal.
He opens the door and promptly freezes. Chris has Mats in his arms and is pinning him against the wall, the duo making out with the kind of desperation that Marc knows from experience will really only end one way. He bites his lip and turns, heading down the stairs with the knowledge that hey, at least two of their teammates are safe.
He and Hank leave together, not uncommon for them and that’s one thing that Marc is grateful for. They’re closer to his apartment than Hanks - while Hank had chosen to be closer to the rink, Marc had chosen to be closer to campus as a whole - and the comparison takes Marc back to the text he’d gotten from his brothers the weekend prior. Of course Hank had chosen to be closer to the rink; that was where his future was. It was where his ability to stay in New York was, where his success lay.
The realization makes his chest tighten, and though he doesn’t want to entertain the thoughts coming to the fore, he knows that he probably should. He shouldn’t spend so much energy running from his own thoughts, since that’s what had him so fucked up in the first place.
Hank slides his arm through Marc’s, matching him stride for stride. The warmth feels nice in the cold night around them, and soon enough they’re walking through the main doors of Marc’s apartment building. They take the elevator, because they’re still just buzzed enough that stairs are an absolutely awful idea, and the seventh floor isn’t worth the effort. They stumble into Marc’s apartment, the lights completely off save for those that filter in from the city around them.
Marc kicks his shoes off and shuffles to the kitchen, finding a clean glass and filling it with some water. He’s determined not to be hungover in the morning, even if it kills him.
Hank comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, kissing along his shoulders and neck. It’s very similar to how they wound up fucking in the bathroom only a few hours ago, and Marc presses back against him, ready and willing to incite round two. Only he’s met with Hank pulling back and whispering, “What’s wrong babe?” instead.
Marc furrows his brows and looks down at Hank, clearly confused. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been quiet the whole walk back. Kind of off this whole week. Did something happen?”
Occasionally, Marc forgets how observant Hank is. Some of it, he’s sure, is from being a goalie and having to read the slightest adjustments in body and hands to figure out how to make a save. Some of it is Hank’s personality, being someone prone to action rather than speech. Some of it is from general life experiences of adjusting to a new country and culture for perhaps the most formative years of a human life. It’s also because Hank knows Marc so well, and Marc’s typically a recalcitrant guy but when he gets absolutely silent is when the trouble hits.
“Jordy and Jared were talking about how they’re talking to the Checkers,” he says with a forced shrug. “It’s just a funny coincidence that it’s the same team that Eric’s with. That’s all.”
Hank’s not buying it. His flat expression is exaggerated even more by the one nearly glowing contact staring at him from beneath unimpressed dark brows. “Marc, please don’t lie to me.”
“What do you think you’re gonna do after graduation?”
He feels Hank hesitate, reading the question for more than just the surface level. “That…depends on what the Rangers say.”
“So it depends on hockey?”
“Right now, yeah. I could always graduate, go back to Sweden, and see where the SHL would take me. Or I could stay in America and use this business degree for something.” He shrugs, and Marc’s abruptly reminded of the state of their clothing, standing in the middle of his kitchen on Halloween night talking about his future and, in a round about way, their own future.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he whispers, resting his lips on the edge of the glass in his hand. “I have no fucking idea.”
“That’s okay, babe, a lot of people don’t.”
“Hockey isn’t in the cards for me, my numbers aren’t good enough and there’s always the possibility that I’ll be considered a liability because of my eye. No one needs a defenseman who can’t fucking see. And really, what are my majors going to get me?”
“Babe, no one is asking you to have it all figured out right now.”
“I don’t want to go back to the farm. That’s all I know is that I just don’t want to go back to the farm, I can’t do that for the rest of my life.” It’s pouring out of him now, the truth, and it tastes not like he thought it would. It tastes like sadness, and defeat, and maybe that’s the reason he’s been so focused on making sure his team is okay in his last season with them, and maybe that’s the reason he’d been so desperate to say I love you yet not desperate enough to do it. Because if he could leave at least one positive lasting mark with some kind of hope according to some kind of plan, he’d count this whole thing as a win. He’d count the late nights and the hospital visits and the migraines and concussions all as a win. All of it would round out to a perfect 24-0-0.
It’s not, though. And that’s just life.
Hank squeezes Marc’s shoulder, sighing softly. “You…I was going to bring this up later but. You do know that you can always come with me, right? Like, wherever I wind up, whether it’s Sweden or here or some other third option that I haven’t even thought of yet.”
He comes around to the front of Marc, standing in front of him. “I’m just a zombie, standing in front of a hooker, asking him to listen to what he’s saying and not needlessly worry about the future when he doesn’t have to.”
Marc can’t help it; he laughs. The sheer absurdity of that statement, and the relief of having some kind of fall back that isn’t just going back home and working on a sod farm for the rest of his life, combine into some kind of effervescent euphoria that works its way from the very core of his being outwards. It’s not static, it’s not an electric storm, it’s bliss and it’s a revelation of a vision of a future Marc wants to have, with the man in front of him by his side.
“And I’m just a hooker, standing in front of a zombie, saying yes,” he finally answers. Hank goes up on his tip toes to pull him into a kiss and yeah, he thinks he could get used to this.
They eventually wash off the makeup brush their teeth, Marc offering an oversized t-shirt to Hank for him to sleep in, letting himself just curl up in his underwear. He’s still kind of sore from earlier, and he laughs about it as he gets into bed.
“What are you laughing at?” Hank asks, sliding in beside him.
“The fact that we fucked and then right down the hall Chris and Mats were making out. That and I’m more sore than I thought I’d be,” he explains, sliding one arm under the pillow that Hank’s about to rest on. Hank curls up beside him, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s about time they figured their shit out. They’re almost as bad as us.” This makes them both laugh, a sort of fresh faced embarrassment when thinking about the in-between moments and miscommunication. The laughter fades away gradually, the both of them getting comfortable in each other’s arms, a give and take of pressing in close for active comfort and resting on their own sides attempting to let sleep claim them.
Marc’s on the edge of sleep before one, singular thought comes to him, burning in its intensity and demanding in its urgency. He squeezes his arms around Hank, drawing a surprisingly alert hum from the Swede.
“You don’t mind if hockey isn’t in my future? Like if I’m not good enough to keep playing?” He practically breathes the words, soft and delicate in a way his 6’4” frame would never indicate.
Hank hesitates for a moment, before rolling over entirely, putting his hand on Marc’s cheek. He strokes his thumb gently beneath Marc’s damaged eye, and he almost tears up at the gentleness in this soft city lit darkness.
“Marc. As long as you’re in my life I don’t really care what happens next. I don’t know if I can promise forever right now, but I know that I’d like to. At some point.”
They stare at each other for a few moments, and distantly Marc recalls a few conversations with extended relatives about how he’s “the odd Staal out” and how he’s never had a girlfriend and never brought anyone home. He thinks about how he’s never had an interest in that sort of thing, and he thinks about how Jared had a girlfriend before he did - not that girlfriends at 16 really count but Natalie seemed nice enough and they were still together two years later - and how he never really thought of a future with anything but hockey. He thinks of the depressive episode that had lasted nearly two years, that he was still pulling himself out of at times, when he’d gotten concussed and his eye had gotten completely fucked by that errant puck when he was just fucking around with some friends. He thinks about how the idea of a wife and kids seemed nice in abstract but how he really wanted a husband and possibly some kids, definitely a dog or three, and maybe a summer home on the lakes of Ontario.
He leans forward at the same time Hank does, meeting in the middle with a sweet kiss that says way more than words ever could. They’re too tired to think about doing anything else, but it’s nice to feel Hank slide a thigh between his own, to feel the ache for the sleepy soft domestic steadily loosening.
Outside, the city thrives in the blue-black evening, the city lights pulsing quietly on the other side of the thin shades. People walk in the shadows, barely lit up with the light of their cell phones, bundled up in thick, dark jackets as they walked, staggering out of bars and bodegas.
They have no concept of the love above their heads, curled up inside a quiet seventh floor apartment, the little bubbles of ephemeral happiness impenetrable by cold nor dark.