Dan spends Valentine's Day with Ulf Larsson, and has never been happier about the holiday.
The Leafs are down in Sunrise and Larsson manages to coax Marc out for the first time in, god, Dan doesn't even how long. They go to some low-key place, the three of them, and Larsson sits down, looks expectantly at Marc. Dan doesn't know what that's supposed to do, but after a drink he understands the magic of Larsson, because Marc starts getting it out in fits and spurts, cussing out the press in two languages (and Dan thinks a bit of Swedish, because Larsson looks pleased), and then insulting the city of Toronto at length, which Dan takes with a poker face, because Marc's more than earned the privilege.
When he finally runs out of steam they've finished their third drinks, are waiting on another, and Marc takes a breath, looks around, and then declares he needs to go to the bathroom, stumbling off.
"You are a hero," Dan says fervently, and Larsson shrugs and smiles. "No seriously, you are my valentine. You are our valentine."
"Not interested in a threesome," Larsson says. "Never interested in a threesome."
"Marc's not into blonds anyway," Dan says.
Larsson snorts. "Marc's not into anything but you," he says.
*
They're at the giggly stage of drunk when they get back to the hotel, shushing each other as they sneak in Marc's room just on the wrong side of curfew. Marc does, in fact, start to giggle when Dan trips over a raised part of carpet (he swears it's raised, he does), and Dan has to kiss him to muffle the sound, Marc's laughing into his mouth, and then going quiet when Dan's pulling away just long enough to pull Marc's shirt over his head.
They've been having sex, of course, all through the season; they're twenty-two, they're cohabiting, and Dan doesn't think there's ever going to be a point where he looks at Marc and doesn't hurt with how much he wants him, but it hasn't been like this in awhile, Marc getting a case of the giggles again when Dan has to practically tear Marc's bag apart because Marc forgot where he put the fucking lube, and it's an emergency situation, so Dan does not share his amusement. His eyes falling shut when Dan pushes into him, nose nudging against Dan's, the two of them so close they're sharing breath.
He manhandles Marc under the covers, after, because Marc's too orgasm stupid to do it himself. "I don't know what Larsson's talking about," Dan says. "A threesome with us would be awesome."
Marc laughs a little breathlessly. "I am not even going to ask," he says.
"Probably for the best," Dan agrees, closes his eyes as Marc drapes himself over his chest like a heavy, hot, annoying blanket.
*
Marc keeps that lightness about him through Tampa, and Dan is probably going to kiss Larsson the next time he sees him, for bringing this Marc back. But maybe he's too hasty, because the second they get into Toronto he disappears again, and comes back a few hours later the grim little soldier they've browbeaten him into being.
"What's up?" Dan says, tries not to sound like he's pressing, and Marc just shrugs and disappears into the bedroom.
For the next week Dan feels more like he has a roommate than a boyfriend, Marc in the same place as him, at the same time as him, but so disconnected it's like he's hardly there. Marc gets a goal and barely cracks a smile, disappears into their bedroom the way he always does when he's upset about a game, and Dan doesn't know how he can fix things when he doesn't even understand what will make Marc smile anymore.
He wakes up to an off-day with Marc already gone, coffee made and apartment empty, and he hates that he isn't surprised, just calls Sarah and convinces her to get her lazy ass up for Sunday brunch.
She meets him at an old favourite, sleepy eyed and glaring. "You're paying," she says, like Dan doesn't do it as a matter of course, Sarah's job at that company doing something (Dan will admit to not listening as well as he should) not exactly making her the same as an NHL salary, even the one for a player like Dan.
After brunch he wheedles her into skating. "You seriously don't get sick of it?" she asks sceptically, but she goes to Nathan Phillips Square with him, renting a pair of skates, only wobbly for a minute before she sinks back into the familiar strides. She dropped hockey at the same time Dan committed, too busy with the sudden onset of teenage angst, but she keeps smooth pace with him, threatens him with injury when he attempts to spin her, and demands hot chocolate once their hands start going numb.
She's coming back from the food truck when Dan's phone starts going insane, and after the fourth straight buzz he quits trying to warm his hands in his pockets and reluctantly pulls it out.
wat the fuck is from Tremblay, and Dan doesn't get it until he gets a link from his agent, Leaked: Marc Lapointe to the Canadiens.
Dan stares at it, ignores at least ten other text notifications, and says, "I have to go," mechanical, when Sarah gets back.
"I just got hot chocolate," she argues, but he's already walking to the subway.
By the time Dan makes it home he's steeled himself for the worst, half afraid that he's going to get home and find that Marc packed up all his shit, disappeared without saying a word, but when he opens the door, Marc's just sitting on the couch, busy with his phone.
"I thought you would have left by now," Dan says blankly.
"What are you talking about?" Marc says, head snapping up. He looks guilty, caught.
"Montreal," Dan says. "It got leaked."
Marc stands, looks he like he does want to bolt, then, but Dan's blocking the only escape route barring a ten-story drop off the balcony, and there's no way in hell he's moving.
"Toronto asked me to waive my no-trade clause," Marc says.
"I know," Dan says. "The whole city knows. They found out at, oh, the exact same time as me."
"It was not supposed to leak," Marc says.
"Well, great," Dan snaps. "That makes it better."
Marc chews on his lip. "I cannot stay here," he says finally.
"Are you ending this?" Dan asks, and is dimly embarrassed when his voice cracks. "Is this your way of doing it?"
"What?" Marc says, looking honestly startled. "Why would you think that?"
"Are you serious?" Dan asks. "Maybe because you just got traded without telling me?"
"I did not decide until today," Marc says. "I do not sign until tomorrow, I can—"
"No you can't," Dan says. He got offered an out, a dream out, his childhood team and a way to escape the personal hell this city has put him through.
"Dan," Marc says.
"Couldn't put me in your contract this time either?" Dan asks. It comes out snide, but that's fine.
Marc's jaw tightens. "They said they would make room," he says finally. "If you wanted to come."
"If I wanted to come," Dan repeats.
Marc nods, hesitant. "I would not presume—" he starts.
"Close it," Dan snaps. "Close the deal. Tell them it's a package one."
His shoulder knocks Marc's as he passes him, and he slams the bedroom door after himself, throws himself on the bed. He feels vaguely like he just acted like a teenager throwing a tantrum, but he's angry enough that it's probably best he's just slamming doors. He glares up at the ceiling until his eyes burn, scrubs them impatiently.
This is his city, this was his, growing up idolizing Big Bad Buchanan and wanting so badly to be a part of it. And he is, he was, actually lived the dream of holding up the Stanley Cup in his hometown, and now it's all fucked up. There's nothing left to stay for, not with this team, but they're the colours he's been wearing all his life.
He can hear Marc on the phone in the living room, rapid French that means he's talking to his agent. Hell, it could be Montreal's management, or his mother, or who knows, Dan always set adrift while Marc communicates in a way that Dan will never understand. A whole city of people communicating in a way that Dan will never understand, not the language or the fans, and he didn't even think about it before saying yes, even if Marc didn't ask. Didn't presume, as if Dan wouldn't follow him to Montreal, contract or not, if Marc
wanted him to. Follow him to any team, grit his his teeth and play in the minors if he had to, if it meant that Marc would be there when he came home.
Marc would not presume, and he was ready to sign that contract anyway, surprised at Dan thinking he was leaving him. But he would be leaving him, wouldn't he, packing up and going. It's something Dan would never consider, but Marc did, and Dan wouldn't have even begrudged it if it meant that Marc would smile again.
Marc comes in just under an hour later, sits gingerly at the foot of the bed, like Dan's going to go for his throat, but Dan's burnt through the anger, just left feeling something, he doesn't even know what. Too many things.
"Do you even want me to come?" Dan asks, quiet, not looking away from the ceiling. Doesn't want to see Marc's face when he gets his answer.
"Do not be stupid," Marc snaps.
Dan sits up, finds Marc looking at him, steady.
"They cannot guarantee you will not be sent down," Marc says.
"Great," Dan says. "I love Hamilton. The smell of rotten eggs grows on you."
Marc just keeps looking at him, the look on his face impossible to read.
"Yes," Dan says. "Take the deal."
"You love this city," Marc says quietly.
"Well this city makes you feel shitty," Dan says, "and they don't deserve you."
"Every time you go to Montreal you are happy to leave," Marc adds.
"Every away game will be like a vacation," Dan says.
"This isn't funny," Marc says, voice breaking, and Dan scoots down to the bottom of the bed, wraps an arm around Marc's shoulders, pulling him in.
"Hey," Dan says. "I love you. I would follow you anywhere, and anywhere includes your stupid, stuck up city. Okay? If you were planning on getting rid of me, you should have done it years ago, because nothing's going to work now. Even Quebec."
Marc laughs wetly into his shoulder.
"So we're going to go to Montreal, and everyone in the world is going to make fun of my French, and you're going to kick ass and make everyone in Toronto cry over letting you go," Dan says, pressing a kiss to Marc's hair.
"I could not ask that of you," Marc mumbles into his shirt. "I could not imagine leaving you here, but I could not ask you to go."
"Well, good thing I offered, then," Dan says. "You fucking idiot."
Marc sighs, fists his hand in Dan's shirt, which, once again, will have to be thrown out because the collar's been completely stretched out. It's always the shirts. He doesn't understand why Marc has it in for the shirts.
"Thank you," Marc whispers, and Dan rests his cheek on the top of Marc's head.
"I need you to know I'm always going to come with you," Dan says. "I just. I need you to know that, okay?"
"Okay," Marc whispers.
"Okay," Dan says, and closes his eyes.
xii. bring it home
There really isn't time to prepare, so they pack light for Montreal. Marc's suckered his agent into looking for apartments, but in the meantime they check into a hotel that looks just like every other hotel. They spend half their lives in hotel rooms. Their apartment had been an escape, but this just feels like another road trip, the two of them living out of bags.
Marc managed to swing signing the contract during a three day break for the Canadiens, so it's pure luck that they actually manage to practice with the team instead of getting pushed straight onto the ice. Marc spends more time with the media than the team, cornered everywhere he goes, giving interviews and switching fluidly from English to French depending on who's asking the questions, while Dan tries to make nice with a locker room of guys who have no particular interest or need to make nice with him. Half of them barely speak English, Montreal stubborn in sticking to its French heritage, and the rest of the team is a mish-mash, at least five different languages being spoken in the locker room at any one time.
It's an open practice, which the media has taken full advantage of. Marc's always been a big fucking deal in Montreal, even when he was the enemy, and the Montreal media's done a one-eighty on him so fast that it must have given them whiplash. Dan's introduced to his linemates, two Francophone boys who hardly speak more English than Dan does French, and who stare at him balefully until the drills start getting called, a chaotic mix of English and French that Dan follows half of if he's lucky.
After practice Dan barely has enough time to shower before he's cornered by the portion of the media that hasn't gotten their fill from Marc. He suffers his way through a few gently lobbed questions about how he feels about being in Montreal, some much more biting questions about how he feels about unofficially being part of Marc's contract, and a short speech about how happy he is to be in Montreal in French he'd rehearsed endlessly the night before, Marc patiently coaching him through pronunciation until Dan mostly had it down.
They're only out of the hotel for a few hours but Dan's dead on his feet when they get back. Marc only sticks around long enough to change and fix his hair before he has to go off to an interview, a proper one, TV lighting and make-up, the whole shebang, something Dan's exhausted just thinking about. He plans on taking a post-practice nap in Marc's absence, but it stretches out so Dan doesn't wake until Marc gets back, gently shaking his shoulder.
"Sorry," Marc says. "Dinner?"
They get room service. They'll be sick of that soon, it's easy to get sick of, but Dan doesn't want to go anywhere, and Marc looks dead on his own feet, so Dan closes his eyes, listens to Marc order in rapid-fire French, opens his eyes when Marc starts nudging him again.
"Sleep cycle," Marc says, very seriously, and Dan scowls at him but sits up, which is about all he's willing to do.
They eat bland, healthy food, more sustenance than anything, and Marc puts the TV on something French and talkative as Dan tucks him under his arm.
Dan's homesick, and it's ridiculous. It's been one day. He's done multi-week road trips, played a two-week tournament in Finland once, has spent as many holidays away from his family as with them. It's been one fucking day, and he's got the most important part of home drowsing against his chest, he knows that, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.
*
Marc scores in the first period of his first game like a giant middle finger to Toronto's management. Dan beams at him from the bench, but that joy doesn't last long, Dan's line caught on the ice for one goal against, then another, and they go minus two. The Canadiens lose the game, and there are no grins after. Marc's across the room from him, and Dan keeps one eye on him, the other on his linemates, who are having a passionate conversation that involves a lot of scowling and gestures in Dan's direction.
"Do I want to know what they're saying?" Dan asks the guy to the left of him, Grayson, an Alberta boy who was drafted by the Habs ten years ago and now speaks French so well Dan's been tearing his hair out in envy.
"No," Grayson says shortly, which only piques Dan's curiosity, so he looks at him until Grayson sighs, busies himself unlacing his skates. "They're wondering why they lost a linemate just so Lapointe could bring his luggage," Grayson says. "Last time they checked, Lapointe got one roster spot, not two."
He looks up then, pointed enough that Dan knows it's not just them thinking that, Grayson does too, and who knows how many others.
Dan swallows hard, focuses on his own skates, rushes his shower, tells himself he's imagining the eyes on him, though he probably isn't. When the cameras come out Dan wants to get out of the room, get out of the province, but instead he goes over to Marc, sticks like a burr (like fucking luggage), lets Marc handle the spotlight, intercede whenever anyone gets too close.
They make the cab ride to the hotel in silence, Marc clearly respecting Dan's mood, because he obviously doesn't share it, quiet but hardly self-contained, practically spilling happiness. It's one game, it's one goal, but Dan would feel like an asshole if he brought Marc down after the season he's had so far, so he doesn't say anything, stares out the window and lets Marc curl his hand into Dan's, tentative.
*
They're on the road for the next game, and Dan sticks close to Marc, doesn't give a shit if that bothers anyone. He takes the window seat for once, letting Marc be the barrier. Marc doesn't even crack open his book during the admittedly short flight to Boston, leaning across the aisle to talk to Depardieu in rapid-fire, excited French. Dan just puts his noise-canceling headphones on, watches a couple episodes of Community, tries to figure out how he's supposed to create chemistry with a line that resents his being there.
And he gets it; Bruno St. Pierre is cooling his heels in Hamilton because Marc insisted that him and Dan were a package deal. Dan's always pissed when management steps in and fucks around with the roster, even if it's an improvement, because change is terrifying and they all deal with enough of it as is. He can't blame them for their anger. He wishes he could.
*
Marc doesn't score that night, but his line is insane, playing with the sort of chemistry it usually takes months to build, years, even. Boston goes down without a chance, a 4-1 game, and Marc's name is up on the board twice, he's getting buried under hugs on the ice, because the only thing better than beating your rival is beating them in their own house.
Dan, on the other hand, still manages to be minus in a game like that.
His linemates scowling at him is pretty obvious when they're surrounded by a celebrating locker room, and Dan tries not to meet their eyes. They go out for a team dinner and Dan sticks by Marc again, pretends not to notice the appraising look Marc gives him. They may have been inseparable in the early years, but they haven't been lately, comfortable on different ends of a table or different restaurants entirely, Marc dragging Larsson around like a blanket back when he was still around, Dan comfortable with most of his team. The Leafs, that is. They're not his team any more.
But Dan can't handle this thinly veiled animosity, the glowering twins glowering, Grayson shooting him looks, half the team uninterested in meeting his eye. Marc gets lured into conversation by Bovard on his other side, and Dan attacks his steak with a vengeance, the only thing grounding him the hand Marc has resting on his thigh under the table.
You Could Make a Life Page 15