beat analyzing odi‘s run and odi just listening with the most intent look on his face like this is a literal debrief - their relationship is so important to me
that moment when your cousin randomly sends you part of a french essay to proof-read (we never usually talk) and your first impulse is to just say no, but then you realize it's about beat feuz and you immediately go all hyperfixation
What my brain came up with, after seeing Odi all devastated when he blew out of the Olympic Super-G.
Fucking Yanqing. The thought has been a constant refrain on Marco’s mind ever since the botched downhill trainings and it has only gotten louder with every terrible meal he’d been served, every furious but fruitless hot shower to try and get rid of the bone-deep chill the incessant wind has instilled in him. Mostly of course, with his seventh place on Monday.
It’s only when he feels his ski gliding out underneath him, when he loses control for the fraction of a moment right before racing into the last sector of the Super-G, that it suddenly becomes very quiet in his head. Gone is the anger, the irritation, the doubt he’d pushed to the back of his mind in the beginning of the race. There’s nothing for a second, except for what feels like the very conscious, lightning-fast crash of his adrenaline levels. Later, he doesn’t remember skiing down the rest of the track.
The image that ends up on TV, of him bent over the fence, his face hidden, is the image of the moment when his brain picks up the chants of Fucking Yanqing again. Only now, it’s tainted with much more self-doubt, more inadequacy. He feels Gino’s hands on his back, but barely hears the encouraging words in his ear. They’re the wrong hands, the wrong words. Neither are able to drown out the soundtrack of loss; fuckingyanqingfuckingyanqingfuckingyanqing.
Marco manages to string together a few sentences for the reporters that don’t sound completely hopeless. After, he sits down on a low fence and calls home, despite the early hour in Switzerland, unsure what he’s hoping for. It’s not like even the kindest words from his family could make him feel better right this second, it’s not like they’ve placed less hope, less expectations in him than he did himself. He’s a few minutes into the call and his energy is waning, when Beat finally finds him.
Beat crouches in front of Marco, placing his hands on the younger man’s knees and takes a single look in Marco’s eyes before squeezing his right thigh and reaching for the phone with the other hand. Marco can’t say with certainty whether the heat of threatening tears has stung his eyes before meeting Beat’s or whether it has been brought on by the kind understanding shining at him from his friend. He mumbles a half-assed goodbye into the phone before passing it to Beat.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Odermatt. We have him. He’ll be right back on his ridiculously talented feet for the Giant Slalom.”
Marco’s suddenly too tired to really take in the words. It’s the tone of Beat’s voice though, the mental energy he’s expending for Marco, his steady touch that finally soothe Marco’s frayed nerves. “Thank you,” he says roughly when Beat finally hangs up and passes Marco’s phone back to him. “Not for that,” Beat answers.
They’re at Marco’s hotel room door and all Marco wants is a long, hot bath and then bury himself in bed for the night and lick his wounds, when Beat says it.
“I’m sorry, baby. You’ll do better next time.”
Marco’s surprised by the sudden hot burst of anger, proving there’s still some energy left in him. “Don’t call me that!” he snaps at Beat and jabs his keycard into the door slot with enough force to potentially break it in half. It doesn’t, thankfully, and he pushes open the door to stalk into his room and toss his shoes aside.
“I… what?!” Beat sounds worried, surprised, but his tone is still gentle. He follows Marco into the room and quietly closes the door behind them.
“Don’t call me baby like I’m some damn inexperienced toddler who can’t do shit and has to be taken by the hand all the time. I’m not…” He cuts himself off then, in the middle of his angry rant because Beat’s hand is on his shoulder and his low voice is insistent, tense, when he calls Marco’s name.
“Marco, stop.”
“What?!” It’s all Marco knows to say, when he turns around defensively to face the older man again. He throws his hands in the air in frustration. “What, Beat?!”
He can’t read the look in Beat’s eyes when he finally speaks again. “Do you honestly think that’s the reason I call you baby? Because I think of you as some little kid and want to patronize you?” Marco just shrugs. His anger has deflated already in the face of Beat’s growing intensity. He drops his chin and stares at his socked feet on the hotel carpet, facing Beat’s heavy, damp boots.
“Baby. None of the thoughts I have of you are appropriate for a little kid.”
The rough admission shocks Marco, Beat’s gentle tone all but a fading memory. When Beat’s hand softly grazes Marco’s jaw, he feels it in his entire body and a quiet, involuntary sound escapes him.
“Look at me,” Beat demands and Marco complies. And what he sees in Beat’s eyes – it’s something he hasn’t even dared hope for. His breath comes in shallow bursts now, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.
“Baby,” Beat says again, slowly, deliberately and Marco’s skin breaks out in goosebumps. He gives a little shiver against Beat’s hand, still resting on his chin. “You’ve had a rough week and I… I didn’t mean to tell you this tonight, I didn’t mean to bring this up. So, tell me to stop if you don’t want this as much as I do.” Marco can feel Beat’s voice against his throat when the older man leans in and brushes his lips against the soft skin on his neck.
“Don’t stop,” Marco whispers, his hands reaching out to grasp at Beat’s jacket. Then Beat’s lips are on his, soft but insistent. It feels incredibly good and despite himself, Marco now can’t keep the tears from spilling over anymore. When Beat draws back, his thumb tracing a soft line under Marco’s eye, his eyebrows knit together in a worried look, an actual sob escapes him, and he takes a quick step closer and buries his head on Beat’s shoulder. Beat’s strong arms come around him and he’s squeezed against a strong chest. It feels like the safest space he could have imagined.
“Marco…?” His name is a worried question on Beat’s lips and Marco only cuddles closer, holds on tighter. It takes him a few moments to be able to form words again. When he finally feels steadier, when his breathing is calmer, he takes a tentative step back and motions for them to sit on the bed. Beat takes the invitation, shrugging out of his jacket, then sitting down close to Marco, his questioning eyes patiently aimed at the young blonde.
Marco reaches out and interlaces his fingers with Beat’s, then takes a slow breath. “I’m okay,” he promises. “It’s just been a long day. And this…” he looks at their joined hands. “This, I really didn’t expect.”
Beat chuckles. “Yeah. Me neither. It’s been a long time coming for me though.”
“Me too,” Marco admits.
“I need you to know, that I’m in constant awe of you. I really don’t see you as inferior in any way. You’re brilliant, and so talented, and driven. And beautiful.”
It’s everything Marco needs to hear today. For the first time in hours, he smiles one of his trademark broad smiles and squeezes Beat’s hand in answer. Fucking Yanqing, he thinks again. The thought has a very different quality, this time, though.
