baby, i was just thinking today about how your hair is the perfect length. i love it and i think you should keep it the way you have it for a long time! anyway, i can’t wait to see you when you get home <3
@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 apartment feels impossibly quiet as he stands in front of the mirror : every moment feeling heavy , as if gravity decided to weigh down his limbs — twisting the knot in his stomach tighter with every passing second . the echoes of the game still linger in his body , the rush of the crowd loud against his memory & the electric pulse of a win : but none of that is what makes isak's hands shake as the phone screen lights up and pulls his attention instantly . whenever you’re ready for me . his pulse picks up almost immediately — a sharp & uneven rhythm that makes his breath hitch against his lungs . isak exhales , but it doesn't help : if anything , it makes it worse . suddenly it's real in a way it hasn't been before when there was distance . time . the safety of knowing that whatever they were building existed in a space that couldn't quite touch him physically . now it can — now it will .
it hadn't been like this earlier , & that was the strangest part . a heavy sigh drags out as eyes close just for a second , while the easy memory resurfaces — vivid & untouched by the nerves currently clawing at his chest . he'd seen marcos across the ice just hours before and the feeling was held in easy control : no shaking hands nor unsteady breath . no overwhelming awareness of every little thing his body was doing . even when their eyes met , because they had time & time again , it hadn't unraveled him like this . he huffs out a quiet breath , opening his eyes again and allowing gaze to remain unfocused for a second . the contrast is almost laughable . the hours , endless hours , they've spent talking — flirting in a way that crossed all lines , they never made him this nervous , everything landed without effort : and now there's nothing to hide behind . no game to focus on & no screen to filter through . just the reality of a man that had center point in his mind for the past two years , stripped of every buffer that made it manageable before .
the mirror by the door catches him as he passes — & isak pauses there for a fleeting moment , studying his own reflection like it belongs to someone else . there's a tension in his shoulders he can't quite shake , a restless energy threading right under his skin : and he wonders if marcos would be able to tell that there's something different . norén exhales slowly , running fingers through his hair as if to ground himself & think about it rationally — it's just a date , just a dinner in reaction to a bet made weeks before . just promises to follow in an order he already knows well enough . for a second , maybe two , the mindset works in his favor : breathing feels suddenly easier and thoughts are back in order . . . until they aren't , because the second they reach for the center of it the whole thing falls apart — it's not just a date , not just another player . it's marcos , & that changes everything . the name alone feels heavier than it should , like it carries something that refuses to be reduced into something simple .
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 .
❛ but be careful now ... ❜ isak adds after a beat , something amused threading through the teasing tones in his words . ❛ you keep talking like this and i'll start thinking you wanted to lose just to buy me dinner . ❜ he keeps his eyes on the road , but remains acutely aware of everything else : the presence beside him , the warmth of it , the way the air in the car feels different now that it's not just his . even the sound of the rain raging outside seems softer , dulled against the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat that still hasn't quite settled . ❛ but don't worry , i'll take you to the best restaurant in detroit . your treat , of course . ❜
i cut my mutuals list in half , and now i hope this won't get out of hand and i'll be able to follow through ! so a brand new starter call to be done at some point this coming week .
biminute reminder that I LOVE YOU SOOOOO MUCH, that my life is better with you in it, and MARCOS LOVES ISAK MORE THAN I HAVE THE VOCABULARY TO EXPRESS!!!!!
bisecond reminder that i love you one hell of a damn lot ! and you are the best part of my days and it's such a privilege to be able to share everything with you , even the silly little moments ! thank you for making my whole day set in place without fail ok , and tHANK YOU THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME THE BEST AND ONLY SHIP EVER ! BECAUSE ISAK LOVES MARCOS MORE THAN THE HUMAN BRAIN IS CAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING , THE VERY BLUEPRINT OF SOULMATES !!!!!!!!!!
morning comes slowly , like the world itself is reluctant to disturb what had finally been put back together . a soft band of pale winter light slips between the curtains & stretches across the bed , touching rumpled sheets and bare skin with quiet reverence — as outside detroit has already begun its restless rhythm , with the quiet hum of life continuing whether hearts are whole or broken . inside and within reach of a shared world , however , everything feels suspended still : delicate in the fragile moment after a storm , when the air hasn't quiet decided what it would become just yet — strong for the first time in what felt like a lifetime . marcos lies half - draped over him , the comfortable weight pressing warm & solid against his chest : his head resting just beneath the hollow of isak's collarbone , dark hair messy from sleep — breathing slow and steady in a way that feels almost miraculous after everything that had happened . after the months of silence , after the long & miserable stretch of a half - life that felt too quiet , too empty , too long .
fingers slip into marcos' hair almost without thinking , combing through the messy strands with idle tenderness that feels instinctive — like muscle memory rediscovered after an injury . same as one of dufour's hands rests against his chest , fingertips wandering lazily over exposed skin as though reacquainting themselves with a familiar ground that was once taken away : & now belonged to them once more . small , absent patterns to have no beginning or end sending a quiet warmth through isak that sinks deeper than simple touch — like being allowed back into his own life , because for months there had only been self - inflicted absence . a hollow space carving pitiful existence that had followed him everywhere : to the rink , the locker room , the lonely quiet of his apartment when adrenaline wore off & silence grew teeth .
isak had survived it , technically — but only barely, relying on borrowed strength to face day after day . & the truth was that there were moments isak wondered what the point of it all was supposed to be , without the other man in his life : colored in the exhausted kind of thought that would show up at three in the morning , when mati was asleep & the apartment felt too silent against an impossibly empty world . in the moments where the idea of simply stopping seemed dangerously tempting and within reach — stopping the tortuous effort of getting up , going out , moving on with a life that held no appeal . isak norén had never been someone who gave up easily : hockey had burned stubbornness into his bones long before marcos ever walked into his life . but those months came closer to it than anything else ever had — closer than he would ever like to admit .
but the memories fade in importance against the relevance of the now , where marcos was there , real & steady against him . the other man shifts slightly against him and the small movement sends a quiet rush of something warm through him . alive . not just breathing , not just functioning the way he had been — but actually living , in the deep & undeniable way that settles somewhere behind his ribs . isak's arm tightens a little around marcos without him even realizing it , instinctively drawing him closer to bury away the thoughts of how loud his absence had been . the quiet between them only lasts for a short while before question takes hold of the space , fingers tracing his skin pausing as if the answer might be hidden somewhere beneath the surface — written in the language of scars & heartbeat . his own hand stilled for only a moment in marcos' hair , not because he doesn't know the answer : but because he knows it too well . the truth coils in isak's mind with almost startling clarity , immediate & certain in a way that makes his chest tighten .
always .
not in the dramatic way that would be romanticized — but in the way the world quietly tilted on its axis , slipping into his life so naturally there was no clear shape of a start . always , in the way everything rearranged itself around marcos before they could even stand face to face for the first time . always , in the way every early memory of them now seems threaded with something gentle & inevitable , like reading a story again just to realize the ending has been hinted at from the very first page . the outline of a smile reaches for isak's features at the thought : his hand resuming its slow path through marcos' hair with quiet devotion as he searches for words that can carry even a broken fraction of the truth . ❛ i don't think it was one big moment ... ❜ he finally starts , voice still rough with sleep & the quiet weight of the morning . ❛ i just ... started noticing things . like how every good day still felt off until i told you about it . how i'd see something stupid and think about how you would laugh at it . ❜ fingers slip slowly through marcos' hair again , just to find rest at the base of his neck . ❛ or how when something went wrong , the only thing that actually made it feel better was hearing your voice . ❜
there's a small pause , isak's gaze moving from the pale light on the ceiling to marcos' figure still so impossibly close . ❛ at some point it just hit me that everything kept circling back to you , baby . my whole life started organizing itself around you without me even realizing . and everything without you felt just ... wrong . ❜ the words sit there for a moment , comfortable & honest — isak shrugging a little under the sheets , making marcos shift a little with him . ❛ but i think deep down i always sorta knew about it ... i felt it in my chest during that first game . i just needed some time to catch up to the reality . ❜
HOCKEY WAS LIFE. hockey was the air he breathes, and the thing that consumes most of his time. even now, on the couch with one of his best friends, playing the newest nhl game. " i'm going to be bruins, that's my team. if i go grab a beer - you can't cheat. i don't trust you. " pointing an accusatory finger at his tall friend, taller than himself. but he wasn't too intimidated, he wasn't actually intimidated at all - but norén did feel like a damn wall when he slams into him on the ice, fucking hurts. he's kind of crazy, but logan understood what the ice could do to you. something switched and changed when the skates hit the ice. " listen, i was thinking.. i want to do something bad tonight, but we have to pinky swear that no dietitians will ever know, " locking eyes with the dark haired hockey player currently sprawled on his couch. " i need like, five big macs after this morning skate. "
the controller rests loosely in his hands as he scrolls through the teams : the menu music of the new game filling the living room in comfortable nuances — clearly set in the way isak finds himself half - slouched into the couch , perfectly relaxed in the kind of way one can only get at a good friend's place . yet , when john announces his choice , the scrolling stops & brows are lifted in his direction . ❛ ... the bruins ? ❜ norén says slowly , disgust only barely veiled like the other man had just admitted to putting ketchup on pasta . ❛ alright . love that for you , embracing the ‘ i - enjoy - making - enemies - in - every - room - i - enter ’ energy . ❜ attention then moves back to the game , carrying the long - suffering patience of someone who has known logan for far too long .
a second goes by , and then he adds . ❛ i'll still beat your ass tho . ❜ he huffs a quiet laugh through his nose & goes back to picking his own team — shaking his head like he's witnessed something disappointing but not entirely unexpected . the controller lowers again at the sudden confession : silence lingering in the room for a second , like the statement deserves a moment of reflection . ❛ five . ❜ isak muses as john nods , dragging out a long sigh whilst he leans back against the couch — studying him for a second as if trying to figure out if this is a cry for help . ❛ man , just say you're trying to speedrun a stomachache ... you really don't have to get creative with it . ❜ another sigh , eyes back on the tv : amused grin lingering on his face as he does so . ❛ just keep the grease off the controller or i'll hurt you . ❜
𓈒 ◌ ✶ Independence was not all it was cracking up to be. Had ever actually been alone ? That was the question he found himself asking again again. And the answer seemed to be no. He was the youngest child of many, he was always brought around to his sibling's activities and passed around their friends. There was always a standing invite for him to tag along. Then he was on team after team. When he got drafted to the Firebirds, he moved in Marcos ... and just sort of never moved out. Even when @rushplay moved in. Then it was the three of them. It was perfect really, at least for Ronan, there was always someone hang out with. His two favorite people were happier than ever. And Isak knew how to cook. Somehow both Marcos and Ronan had missed that life skill. He pulled out his iPad, rolled back the cover, and stood it up on the counter.
He opened FaceTime and tapped Other Dad - ISAK. The chimes sounded at he waited for an answer on the other end. ❝ Heeeeeyyyyy, Isak. ❞ he lips had a smirk that he was trying to hide. A laugh he was attempting to swallow. ❝ It has recently occurred to me that I do not know how to make breakfast food and that breakfast for every meal has lost its charm. ❞ He was going through a ridiculous amount of eggs. ❝ Can you teach me how to cook ? ❞
the sharp facetime ringtone cuts through the quiet of the apartment , bright & insistent in a way that makes it sound like something urgent is happening : even tho experience has taught him that it almost never is — mostly as known name flashes against the screen as isak reaches for the phone . ronan . that alone is enough to bring one eyebrow up . still , isak answers without thinking too much about it : thumb across the screen as he settles deeper into the couch , one leg stretched along the cushions while the pale chicago afternoon filters through the tall windows . the camera connects & immediately something feels almost off — ronan's features colored in a tight line that suggests he is trying not to laugh : his shoulders moving once , slightly yet enough to confirm amusement . ❛ hey ... ❜ voice is careful , eyes narrow at whatever the other man is about to dump on him .
when ronan speaks again , like someone presenting important findings amidst the wobble of suppressed laughter , all isak can do is blink with the kind of surprise that shouldn't really exist — he remembers old routines well enough , & still he blinks once as silence settles . he leans forward slightly , squinting at the screen like he might discover the punchline to this somewhere just outside the frame . ❛ ronan . ❜ he finally says after a brief pause , as if allowing the other man enough time to reveal a joke . ❛ what do you mean you've been having breakfast food for every meal ? ❜ question comes mid sigh at the idea of him just surviving on scrambled eggs like a particularly confused bodybuilder . ❛ tell me this is a joke . ❜
alright , so ... it's no secret that @reborns is isak's primary ship in this blog and fundamentally woven into his main verse . their relationship isn't just another dynamic layered on top of the storyline but rather a structural part of it . so so so much of isak's emotional growth , motivations , history and long term development have been built with marcos and the chicago firebirds in mind that separating them from core canon would unravel what makes the verse cohesive in the first place . sett and i put an extensive amount of time and care into building them , and their relationship functions as the backbone of the main storyline rather than something easy to ignore .
for that reason , marcos will remain central to the main verse moving forward and any additional ships will take place in alternate verses where isak never leaves detroit / joins the firebirds to preserve the continuity of my primary canon . i'm really not trying to diminish my romantic dynamics here , but i do want to honor the depth that has been worked on with so much care already . marcos will inevitably receive priority when it comes to plots and replies and such reflects the amount of time sett and i already invested on this ship , how seamlessly they fit together and how much of their story is structured around their connection . i adore every single one of you , but i think it's fair for all of us to set things straight !
maybe it wasn’t his proudest moment. but lately, pride had not been something he was collecting in abundance. marcos holds his phone low in his lap, thumb hovering uselessly over the darkened screen. a scoff lodges behind his teeth as he stares down at the disconnected call — at isak’s contact photo staring back at him. he knows him, it will only be a matter of moments before the phone lights up again. maybe he hadn’t anticipated it the first time, but by the second, third, fourth attempt? yes. by the fifth, absolutely. he expects it now. there’s a dangerous comfort in that expectation that isak had wanted him to have since they first spoke. he might be pushing his luck now. he can feel the edge of that awareness pressing in, even as frustration continues to simmer beneath his skin. rationally, he knows better. rationally, he is the one who always knows better. and yet when it comes to him, rationale becomes something thin and easily torn.
it shouldn’t surprise him — the quick withdrawal. the silence. it was well within the parameters of what he had come to expect. isak has always been a paradox embodied: the most consistent presence in his life and the most unpredictable. steady and volatile in equal measure. the one person he could count on and the one who could still knock the wind from him just as soon as he feels like he’s standing on steady ground. marcos exhales slowly, gaze lingering on the photo he’d taken of him. he hadn’t expected everything to change simply because something between them had. evolution does not erase history. he tries, almost clinically, to recall his first time with his first girlfriend. to summon the memory with clarity. but it feels distant, washed-out. lacking from beginning to end. he remembers the mechanics of it. the assumption that something monumental was supposed to happen, but nothing had. he can’t even recall what he thought in the moment — only that when it was over, he’d felt strangely hollow. as if he had followed instructions perfectly and still failed to arrive anywhere meaningful. it had not felt like a step-up between boyhood and manhood, it had felt like absence. somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.
it was nothing like this, nothing like isak.
with him, there had been an unbearable rightness. a sense of pieces slotting together with such perfect precision it almost hurt. as though something long displaced had finally found its intended place. the way isak had kissed him that night, the way he had looked at him — not with doubt, not with passive curiosity, but with recognition. as though he was not discovering something new, but claiming something that had always been his. everything anyone had ever told him about how it was supposed to be had fallen short. it wasn’t awkward. it wasn’t confusing. it wasn’t merely good. it was overwhelming in its magnitude, all-consuming, and far better than anything he could’ve imagined himself. and that, perhaps, is the most frightening part of all — because once you know what better feels like, everything else feels like compromise. his phone remains silent in his lap. but he knows it won’t stay that way for long.
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.
he would rather be hurt cleanly than comforted dishonestly. he is not asking for reassurance, he is asking for honesty. for something solid enough to stand on, even if it cracks beneath him. because uncertainty is the cruelest part. the not knowing. the wondering if affection is real or simply guilt dressed up kindly. his throat feels tight, but he pushes through it. “ you know me better than that, i can handle the truth. ”
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 . ❜
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
