its ok to not like every alter in a system. its actually super normal. frequently alters are very different from each other. trying to befriend an entire system is like trying to befriend a room of entirely random people. not impossible, but definitely ambitious. you are not at all obligated to get along with everyone you meet, whether they share a body with one of your friends or not.
wanting a romantic partner as a recipromantic is so embarrassing bro i literally just have to sit here and wait to be beckoned out of my tower by a handsome knight
(Real talk, Jesse Williams has been an advocate for Palestinians for nearly a decade now - since 2014 he’s always stood his ground about this topic - and it’s really a breath of fresh air.)
During a Valentines Day game, the kiss cam gets put on the coach of the Crimson Sharks and his star player. Everyone thinks it's funny except for them.
Pairing: Simon/Markus
Rating: T (mentions of sex, nothing on page)
Words: 2859
Read now on AO3
Author's note:
i originally posted the first part of this for the dbh kisscam event last year and i had always planned on it having the one year time skip, but i ran out of time to finish it it. now, after a real life one year time skip, i am here to post the full thing 💖
this is a direct sequel to @brokskar's melt. it can be read on its own, but i highly recommend reading his fic as well
Markus' gaze follows the puck as it speeds across the rink, darting between his teammates while they expertly dodge the opposing team. His limbs twitch as he watches the game, reacting to the play. His body is too light sitting on the bench without his pads, helmet, and skates, his skin too exposed to the chill arena air.
"What do you think?" asks Simon after the team breaks for the second intermission.
"I think I really miss the game," Markus replies.
"The game misses you too. We've only won half our games since your injury."
Markus fights the smile pulling at his lips. "Blaming that on me, huh?"
"Don't act humble now. I know you know you're my best shooter."
Markus can't keep holding back the smile when he hears that phrasing. Not the team's best shooter, his. "Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it."
Simon is leaning in close enough for Markus to smell the wintergreen gum he's chewing. His coach bending down to speak directly in his ear never felt this flirtatious before. The proximity is necessary to be heard in the crowded stadium, after all.
Markus isn't the only one picking up on the energy between them. That is made horrifying clear when he glances up at the giant screen in the center of the arena. Simon notices the panic in Markus' eyes before he notices the jumbotron. His gaze travels from hazel eyes to an overblown display of the two of them surrounded by pixelated pink hearts and the words "kiss cam" printed in cursive. The coach glances back down to see his star player still frozen in place. Simon straightens up, scans the stadium for the camera responsible, and holds up his middle finger to it. Once the operator has moved on to victimize another pair of people in the stands, Simon gives Markus a weak smile and a firm squeeze on the shoulder before retreating into the locker room.
Markus shakes his head, pulls out his phone, and does his best to appear unbothered. Simon doesn't return until the rest of the team does at the beginning of the third period. He stays distant for the rest of the game, standing on the opposite side of the bench from Markus, tucked into the collar of his fleece, staying fully focused on the ice. Markus tries to do the same, but he just can't focus. Watching the game but not really processing it, anxiously eyeing Simon in his periphery. He is all too aware of the missing presence by his side and is slightly ashamed of how much he yearns for it. As much as Markus may find Simon's hovering annoying, he finds it comforting as well. A comfort he needs right now.
The game ends scoreless, putting the Crimson Sharks into an overtime shootout against the Steelheads. What would normally be a thrilling development feels more like a punishment. Twitching that once was anticipation to get back on the ice has become anticipation to leave the rink. Markus can't stand having eyes on him anymore. He wants to be alone, but he also really doesn't. One thing is clear and it's that he needs to get out of here.
The parking lot is quiet. Markus should leave now, beat the traffic. Instead, he sits in his Bentley and stares into the night. A few minutes pass before he decides to call North.
"Hey hot stuff," answers a low pitched feminine voice.
"Hey," greets Markus.
"You doin' okay? You dont usually call."
"I don't know. Not really?"
"What's up?"
"There was a game tonight. I'm not back on the ice yet, but I was watching from the bench. Studying plays, you know."
North lets out a gentle, lighthearted laugh. "I don't, but go on."
Markus snorts. "It's honestly impressive that we've managed to be friends this long and you still don't know a single thing about hockey."
"Oh, that's quite intentional," teases North.
"Aw come on, I've shown interest in your career," says Markus, a manufactured whine in his tone.
"Men like you always do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Did you really call me to get psychoanalyzed?"
"No," replies Markus, the playful tone fading from his voice. "Something happened." He pauses and North is quiet, waiting for him to continue. "Between second and third, Simon and I were talking and, I dont know, I guess he was getting too close because they put the kiss cam on us."
"Simon's the coach you're sleeping with?" North asks.
"We're not sleeping together, we just made out a little," clarifies Markus.
"What are you, a virgin?"
"North, I have done things to you that I am embarrassed to even say out loud," Markus returns.
"You are such a prude."
"I am not," defends Markus. "I'm just… Sexually shy."
"That's not how I remember it," notes North, adopting a sultry tone.
Markus is quiet for a moment. Maybe on another night he would let this conversation go where North clearly wants to take it, but not tonight. "Can we please just talk about Simon?"
"Right, your middle school crush." When there is no reply to her joke, North adds, "you really are upset about this, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Markus mutters in response. "When I saw us on the jumbotron… It felt like everybody knew."
"I mean so what, right? It's 2038. Isn't pansexual the new straight?"
"Yeah, well hockey's about twenty years behind. Simon could lose his job if anybody found out about us. He knew exactly what to do and I… I just froze."
"Look, I can't really understand what you're going through, but what I do know is that your sex life is your business. It should be your decision to show it to people, not some dickhead camera operator."
"Yeah… Thanks."
"Love you."
"Love you too," replies Markus. "Do you think I hurt his feelings? He avoided me for the rest of the game."
"I mean you said he could lose his job, right? I think he was just trying to keep some distance to avoid suspicion."
"You're right," says Markus with a sigh. "I'm overthinking it."
"You wanna come over? I ordered pizza."
"Not tonight."
"More wine for me," North resigns.
"Good night. Thanks for talking to me."
"Good niiight," North sing songs before hanging up.
When the call disconnects Markus notices a text from Simon: You ok?
ya, he replies.
Three dots start bouncing in the text log, showing that Simon is typing. Can I come over?
Markus stares at the message for a full minute, heart beating in his chest. Why is he so nervous? Simon visits him all the time. He probably just wants to go over the game since Markus left early. sure, he replies.
Have you eaten? I can bring dinner
no i haven't. thanks
Markus is lounging on the couch when Simon arrives. He sets his phone on the coffee table before getting up to answer the door. "Hey," he greets.
"Hey," Simon returns. He lingers on the stoop for a moment before stepping past Markus. His tablet is tucked under one arm while his other cradles a bag of takeout. "Living room or kitchen?"
"Kitchen," answers Markus.
He follows Simon down the hallway, who deposits the food on the counter before settling into a bar stool. Markus grabs two plates and forks before joining his coach. The two eat and go over the game, but eventually they have to acknowledge the elephant in the room.
"I had a chat with that camera operator," says Simon.
"You didn't have to do that," replies Markus.
"He's lucky I didn't have him fired. That was very unprofessional."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Hey," Simon places his fingers oh so gently under markus's chin. It doesn't take any applied pressure to get Markus to meet his gaze. "How are you doing?"
"I don't know," markus answers, matching the other man's hushed tone.
Simon closes the distance between them, pressing his lips, butterfly light, against Markus'. Markus leans in, deepening the kiss. His arms want to reach out to the other man but he keeps them down, carefully maintaining his balance on the bar stool. This isn't the most practical position for them to be kissing in, but neither of them care.
"Whatever happens, it's going to be ok," Simon assures.
And Markus believes him.
One year later:
"Markus Manfred is pansexual?!" exclaims an overly energetic voice over. "At the Crimson Sharks Pride Night last week, the team captain was spotted with pink, yellow, and blue tape on his stick: the colors of the pansexual flag. Rumors about his sexuality have been spread around social media ever since he was shown on a kiss cam with his coach Simon Powell last seas-"
Markus swipes the video off of his screen with a sigh. He's never quite sure how to spend the hours between his morning workout and his game prep. When he's home, in Detroit, he'll practice piano or visit his family, but often when he's away Markus just ends up laying in bed and scrolling social media.
He wonders what Simon is up to. The two of them try not to spend too much time together on tour. Sometimes Markus finds the secrecy obnoxious, other times thrilling, but mostly it is simply a necessary function of their relationship.
can we go out for dinner tonight? he texts to Simon.
A few minutes pass before the reply comes in. The hotel is hosting dinner for the team
can we go out anyway? Markus types back.
No. I need you focused. Big game tonight
Markus frowns before replying, i know. i just miss you
I miss you too. Lets plan a date once we're back in Detroit
ok. will i see you after the game?
Only if we win ;)
Markus' scowl softens. if ur trying to motivate me its working
Good
wyd?
The lack of reply gives him his answer. Working.
Markus sighs, abandoning his phone in a mess of white bedding as he wanders over to his suitcase. He exchanges his sweats for a black turtleneck and jeans, accessorized with a gold chain and his favorite high top Dunks. Once he's determined he's presentable enough to avoid #messymanfred from trending, Markus retrieves his phone from the bed and takes to the streets of Seattle.
An hour passes before he gets a response from Simon. Sorry had to make some calls. Wish I was doing you ;)
A smile tugs at the corner of Markus' lips. still trying to motivate me?
Perhaps
you are so evil
But effective
Simon isn't wrong. Perhaps it is his pep talk and Markus' head space audios that lock him into the hockey zone, rather than the playful sexual manipulation. Either way, when Markus hits the ice he is focused, motivated, and on his A game. By first intermission he's already scored twice.
"Great work out there, Manfred," greets Simon when Markus enters the locker room. "Good line synergy," he adds, loud enough for Mason and Anderson to overhear. "Keep that energy up. I want to see at least three more goals this game. Think you can do that?"
"Fuck yeah we can!" exclaims Mason, leaning down to knock his helmet against Manfred's.
"Fuck yeah we can," Markus repeats to Simon, smiling wide.
That stellar top line delivers on their promise in the second period alone, but the Serpents are keeping up, always bringing it back up to a tie. By third period, the Sharks are hungrier than ever for that win.
Josh peels off of Markus' flank as the captain crosses over into the neutral zone. Markus hits a slap shot from the blue line but it's intercepted by one of the Serpent's defense, sending it rocketing back across the rink. A quick pivot sends a flurry of ice shavings in Markus' wake as he chases the disk back into his team's end zone. He isn't able to secure more than a single point lead before his shift is over and the second line hits the ice, but it's still a lead. Disparate colored eyes watch intently as carbon fiber sticks battle over the puck. Never as intently as Simon, though, who spends the entire period alternating between pacing the team box and hunching over the bench, chin tucked into his fleece, stunning blue eyes only ever leaving the ice to furiously tap notes onto his tablet.
"Bottom line," he calls out, when the Serpents fly past the Sharks' defenses to bring the score to yet another tie. "We need stronger defense out there."
When the top line hits ice again, the score is still tied, neither teams' defenses letting anything in the net. Unfortunately for the opposing team, Mason, Manfred, and Anderson are known as the league's quickest and highest scoring line. Even by their own standards, they are working incredibly together. Weaving between players, passing backward, intuitively placing themselves exactly where the others need them, completely in tune with each other. That is, until Seattle's own best player hits the ice. Leonardo Henry, the second fastest skater in the league, behind Garrett Mason.
Connor hugs the left wall, shimmying the puck along the outer edge of the rink. Henry is gaining speed on him fast. Before Connor can pass the puck to Manfred, the opposing player cuts him off, slamming him against the Plexiglas barrier. Even with his helmet pinned to the wall, Connor stays focused on the puck, attempting to finesse it away. Another player crashes into him from the other side. Connor relents the puck, instead using his stick to fend off the two men crowding him. It buys him about three seconds to attempt a score, which he does. The cramped space limits the power he can put behind his swing, but he's close enough to the goal for it to not be entirely futile. Connor doesn't see the result of his wrist shot before the two other guys are crowding him again, this time intentionally shoving him. A whistle is called, but it's ignored. Markus' stick and gloves are on the ice by the time he reaches Henry, ever hot headed and ready to defend his team. Leonardo clocks Connor in the nose. Not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to send a trickle of blood running from it. Markus immediately retaliates with his own punch before the two are forcibly separated and sent to the sin bin.
Markus and Connor had both been too swept up in the action to witness the outcome of his risky maneuver, but the booing crowd told them everything they needed to know. It was bad enough that such a precarious move had made its way into the net, only made more unsavory to the Serpents' fans by their own player being sent to the penalty box. The two players sit in solitude for five minutes, but as soon as soon as their blades touch the ice it's as if they never left. Connor and Garrett flank Markus, falling right back into sync with their captain. They're in their final shift, their culminating minutes on the ice, their last opportunity to secure a victory before rolling into overtime.
Play moves fast, a blur of red and blue jerseys skittering from one end of the rink to the other in pursuit of that coveted disk. The puck ricochets in every direction, passed from player to player, team to team. Even the crowd quiets down, holding their breath as they watch the league's most skilled players performing at their best. Even more noise falls away as Markus focuses all of his attention on the game. He had fumbled so many plays in the past because he had left his brain sitting on the bench, next to Simon. Today he took Simon with him onto the ice. He can hear his soothing voice giving him corrections, feel his permanently cold hands giving him soothing touches, and it makes him play better than ever.
With only 14 seconds to spare, Markus scores the winning point, securing a spot for the Crimson Sharks in the Stanley Cup final. His teammates on the ice crowd around him, quickly followed by the rest of his team, jumping and hollering in a triumphant huddle. Smiles stay plastered on their faces as they travel down the line of handshakes with the other team, rushing back to the box to celebrate with their coach. When Markus gets to Simon, he steps in close, eye to eye with him in his skates. Every cell in his body aches to lean in, to claim a celebratory kiss, but he stops himself. He can't be so careless. Not now. Not ever.
"Good game," grants Simon, with practiced nonchalance.
"Thanks," Manfred mutters back, shuffling off to the locker room.
Markus hypes up his team, smiles for the cameras, shows face at the after party, everything a captain should do, but the victory doesn't truly feel like a victory until he's in Simon's room. Not until he finally feels those delicate hands and tender lips. Not until he hears that low, soothing, voice saying "Congratulations, Captain."
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