The Argument (Douglas Murray / Evgeni Nabokov)

[sherlockelly]

Title: The Argument
Author: sherlockelly & revuko
Pairing: Evgeni Nabokov / Douglas Murray; San Jose Sharks
Rating: R for major swearing and content.
Disclaimer: Real people, fake story.
Summary: Douglas and Evgeni fight for the first time in front of the team.



“You said-”

“It dhoesn’t matter what I said, Iya changed my mind!”

The two distinctly accented voices boom from down the hall, one accusing and the other defensive. Marc-Edouard Vlasic hides his grimace at the anger in the two men who are usually so loving and tender toward one another. The young defenseman bites his lip and shuffles in closer to his stall, not wanting to get caught in the middle of the fight.

“What?” Douglas nearly shrieks, and Marc-Edouard feels the pain in the yell deep inside him, the echo of the exclamation rattling in his bones. The knot in his stomach grows larger with each footstep the two men take, nearly at the same time, complementing each other perfectly just like everything else that is apart of their relationship.

Marc-Edouard would know; the two are soul-mates. He wanted to tell them so on a strange surge of whimsy one day, but then he recalled Douglas’ nice right hook, so he decided to keep it to himself. Unsaid just like every other thing that popped into his head which could get him hurt.

He thought before he talked, which is the reason why he and his girlfriend have been together so long, but he couldn’t tell the guys that that, because Devin would hear and just say something mean. Marc-Edouard didn’t want Devin to make fun of him… actually, his teammate had yet to make fun of him, contrary to popular belief, but he knew it was coming. Someday.

“I don’t fheel like French food right now.”

Now that was a silly thing to say, Marc-Edouard thought with a laugh, of course people couldn’t feel like food! He wasn’t going to tell the Russian man that though. Nabby could believe whatever he wanted to believe after a loss.

“But-but!”

Oh jeez, Douglas never stutters, this definitely isn’t good. Marc-Edouard hates to see people fight; it made him want to cry (which he only actually did twice). But to hear Douglas and Evgeni fight? That was all wrong, and Marc was beyond the point of wanting to cry for the married two.

“I made reservations! Ya can’t jus’… n-not go!” Douglas scoffs, making many of his teammates cringe at the sharp tone, unsure if they should intervene or not; something like this has never happened before, and if they were anything like Marc-Edouard, they could have thought arguments didn’t even occur between the two. But apparently they do, just like every other couple, shattering the young defenseman’s hopes that he isn’t the only one who avoids conflict.

“I’m nhot going!” Evgeni huffs, his skates grating against the carpeted floor as they finally make it into the locker room.

Chancing a quick and foolish glance over his shoulder, Marc-Edouard is met first with his frozen teammates, their eyes flickering between the couple and the other openly incredulous faces. Then after a moment, he sees what everyone else is staring at.

Evgeni is stalking over to his stall, arms crossed over his padded chest and a scowl painted over his flushed face. Following not far behind is an irate Douglas, his helmet in his hand as he waves his arms around hysterically, going off on another tangent, his words lapsing into Swedish before Evgeni stops and spins around with a flurry, plopping himself down, his nose pointing in the air.

Marc-Edouard knows he will most certainly be killed if he ever told Nabby this, but the man gives off the air of a spoiled princess sometimes. But he’s never going to tell anyone that, so it’s not much of a problem. He still felt bad for thinking it though.

He jumps when Douglas throws his helmet to the ground with a clatter, Marc-Edouard unable to take his eyes off the scene. It is just like the soap opera he watched with Martine last week. He just hopes that one of the two isn’t pregnant with their ex’s child like in the daytime drama. He doesn’t really think that’s possible, but with all the times that Douglas sneaks out of their shared hotel room, he and Evgeni might have tried enough to make it possible. But they already had Abigail, and Marc-Edouard was pretty sure they adopted her.

“Stop actin’ like this! I can’t believe you sometimes!”

“What are yhou talking about?” Evgeni huffs back, his eyes narrowing as he strips himself of the wet jersey. “We can go have a nhice dinner there anytime! Iya don’t see what you’re so angry about,” the man grumbles as he shoulders past Douglas (possibly on purpose, to Marc-Edouard’s horror) to toss the dirty sweater into the hamper.

“S’not ‘bout dinner, dammit!”

“Then what is it abhout!” His hands press into his hips as he spins around, marching back to his stall. Evgeni looks absurd and imposing at the same time, still draped in his bulky equipment. “I can’t read yhour mind, you know,” he snaps. Douglas follows him back across the room, face getting redder.

“You! Ya always do this! ‘M sick of it!”

Evgeni flops back to sitting, working to unlace his skates. He chances a glance up at the other man, rolling his eyes at the words. Douglas growls with annoyance, his voice getting impossibly louder.

“Oh, grow up, Nabokov!” The man’s name spits sarcastically from his tongue. “You’re bein’ ridiculous right now!”

“Jhust because I don’t want to go out tonight, yhou think I’m acting lhike a child?” Evgeni looks incredulous, scowling visibly.

“You are! Ever’thing we do hasta revolve ‘round you ‘nd what you want! It’s incredible how self-centered you can be, ya know that?”

“Well, if that’s how yhou fheel, you’ll be happy to hear that I. Am not. Ghoing.” Evgeni finishes off of his words with a piercing stare, corners of his mouth twitching in a teasing smile, meant only to aggravate the other man further. “So have a good time by yhourself, since yhou won’t have to worry about selfish me, ruining your night.”

Douglas fists his own sweater roughly, yanking it over his head and flinging it in the general direction of the laundry.

“Gah, look at you. Such a fuckin’ princess. Jus’ spare me yer self-righteous bullshit, all right?”

All trace of the contemptuous look disappears from Evgeni’s face, his eyes darkening furiously. “Dhon’t you dhare call me that.”

“What? ‘Princess’? Ya are, aren’t ya?” Douglas lets out a mocking laugh, glowing as he struck a nerve. “Always havin’ to get your way,” he revels in having the first upper hand in their argument, knowing he’s pushing Evgeni’s buttons. “Isn’ that how it is? If you’re not happy, no one can be happy? We’re all s’posta bow down fer you, what it is that you want. If that’s not the behavior of an arrogant, narcissistic princess, what is?”

Marc isn’t sure that Evgeni knows what ‘narcissistic’ means, but the man knows an insult when he hears one.

“Fhuck you,” Evgeni’s words spit from his mouth like venom, and the entire momentum of the argument changes.

The whole room goes silent, even though no one was even making any noise before. It is like the two men have sucked up all the sound, so that they could use it explosively for their use only.

“Really?” Douglas scoffs, his head shaking and his wet hair twirling around his shoulders. “Yur gonna be like that? Fine, we’ll play yur way.”

Evgeni’s eyes flicker to the side, Marc-Edouard glad that the man was showing some remorse for his mean words. But the look is gone in a flash, and Evgeni continues to take off his gear. His breezers fall to the ground, revealing the slim man beneath, when Douglas speaks up again.

“You didn’ seem to mind me callin’ you that on ‘alloween,” he hisses, his face coming in close to Evgeni’s, his reproachful finger digging into the chest pad. “Liked it a lot when I fucked you into ‘er couch.”

This is like the soap Marc-Edouard watched. He doesn’t like that one bit.

Evgeni’s face flashes many different things: disgust, terror, embarrassment, until he settles on a very enraged look. His fists curling and his sides, he shoots up from his spot and matches Douglas’ glare. “Yhou’re going to bhring this up in front of the team?” he growls, indicating their audience for the first time, though his stare doesn’t even waiver.

“S‘not like it’s much of a secret, is it? Why not? I think they ‘ave a right t’know! Teammates and all that shit, right?” With those words, he wipes Evgeni’s growing smirk off his face. Spinning on his heel, Douglas throws out his arms out to his teammates like a priest giving a sermon, and booms “Nabs here ‘n I fuck everyday, seein’ as he loves havin’ my cock in ‘is ass.” He turns back, his challenging sneer met with a look of hurt disbelief.

“Stop it,” Evgeni whispers, his sharp features melting into something meeker and more reserved. His eyes flash about the room, meeting skirting glances, except for Marc-Edouard’s, who forgot to look away. They lock eyes just for a moment, but Evgeni flushes and tears away first. “Please? Can’t we save this for lhater?”

He’s done arguing, at least in front of the team. It’s obvious that Evgeni wasn’t expecting their fight to turn into this. But Marc rooms with Douglas, and he knows from the bared teeth and flashing eyes that the other man isn’t ready to call it quits.

“Oh, so yur embarrassed now?”

Evgeni meets Douglas’ gaze again, face resolving in a fierce stare, but Marc-Edouard can see the moisture brimming in Evgeni’s eyes from where he stands. “Yhou’re embarrassing yhourself,” he spits out.

Douglas steps in closer, his body language aggressive and intimidating.

“Nothin’ for me ta be embarrassed about,” his jaw sets. “‘M not the one routinely takin’ it up the ass. Beggin’ for it. Princess.”

“S-shut up,” Evgeni sounds small and humiliated, and Marc-Edouard really wishes he were somewhere, anywhere else. He can see the man trying to blink back his tears. Douglas snorts contemptuously.

“That all ya got?”

“Fhuck you,” Evgeni repeats his words from earlier, this time with more hostility.

“No, wrong, Nabokov. I’m the one who fucks you.” Douglas punctuates his words with a sharp jab to the goaltender’s chest pads, knocking him back onto his ass in his stall. Evgeni collapses onto the hardwood bench with a demoralized and defeated sound, on the verge of a sob.

Evgeni looks down at his feet, eyes staring wide at his sopping wet socks. The room returns to a pregnant silence, before Douglas breaks it with a loud scoff when Evgeni doesn’t respond to his words.

“‘N I’m damn good at it, too; seein’ ‘ow you keep asking for more.” Douglas moves closer, until his knees are bumped up against the other man’s. He towers over Evgeni, who fidgets in his spot, for the first time unable to match the other man’s eyes. “But s’not like I have to do any work wit’ you being so eager to fuck yourself.”

Marc-Edouard can’t see Evgeni’s face after he’s buried it in his hands in a meager way to hide himself from the rest of the world, but even his ears are flushed red, and everyone can tell he is mortified.

“Why are you gettin’ so embarrassed?” Douglas yells, obviously too blinded by his rage to notice his husband’s full body trembling. “You ‘eren’t even like this when you sucked me off in my ‘otel room when Vlasic was there! Culdn’t wait until when we were alone, ya said. Begged me, begged me, to get naked fer you. Saidja needed it so bad you culd taste it already.”

Marc-Edouard blanches at the confession, and he would have thought about being offended if Evgeni hadn’t spoken back up. “Please stop talking,” he chokes out, his fingers twitching as they hide his face from imploring eyes. “If yhou still want me to love yhou, please stop talking. You jhust can’t tell everyone about these things!” his voice cracks and he lapses into silence once more.

“What, that yur-”

“A whore?” Evgeni whispers, the two words almost nothing in the large locker room; but everyone hears it: the absolute and undeniable hurt that he feels when he says it. He inhales a shaky breath, but continues, “A slut? A cocksucker? That I’m what, Douglas?”

Evgeni pulls his hands away from his face, shielding no one from the tears streaming down his pink cheeks. “That Iya do whatever it is yhou want me to? Anything that yhou’ve ever asked of me?” He shakes his head in disgust, but Marc-Edouard can’t tell for whom. “The first time I did that, did yhou know how scared I whas? Or how violated I felt when yhou yelled that at me?” Douglas’ eyes widen at the confession, evident worry breaking through his cracking mask of anger when he sees his husband crying.

It’s then that Evgeni breaks, pulling his legs away from where Douglas has trapped them and tucking his feet up onto the bench, burying his head in his knees as his arms wrap protectively around his bent limbs. The sob rips from his chest, wracking every part of him, sweaty tufts of dirty blonde hair poking out across his head.

Marc-Edouard sees Douglas’ shoulders slump defeatedly, his own hands coming up to rub at his face. He thinks for maybe a moment that he sees the larger man flick away a few hot tears gathering at the corners of his own eyes, but he isn’t sure.

Evgeni’s strangled cries are muffled by his body and they disappear into the quiet of the room. Douglas seems frozen to the spot for a few seconds before he turns on his heels and walks to his stall, carelessly shaking his sopping equipment from him body.

No one else in the locker room dares to stir, the only motion coming from the trembling body of the goaltender and the quick strip by the defenseman. Douglas slinks off to the door of the showers, towel dragging behind him, and soon the piercing hiss of the faucet turning on cuts through the room, drowning out Evgeni’s hushed cries.

Marc-Edouard’s skin itches from the drying sweat, but he is well aware that no one will be following the man into the shower tonight, a thought confirmed by the quick refolding of towels by his teammates, still mostly immobile in discomfort.

Those closest to the goaltender’s stall look pleadingly around at the others for a hint of what to do. Marc-Edouard watches as Torrey turns slowly, himself collapsing onto his seat, elbows resting on his knees as he looks painfully lost toward the floor. He casts a cursory glance to the folded man next to him and exhales, palm rubbing his nose and sniffing.

A small pressure of a hand on his shoulder causes Marc-Edouard to jump nearly a mile off the ground, and when he turns, heart racing, to see Patrick looking worriedly at him. Only then does he realize that he’s crying, too.

“I’m… I’m going to go take a shower,” Marc-Edouard whispers shakily, ignoring the wide-eyed stare from the man he still saw as captain.

“You sure…?” Patrick trails off, his hand falling from its perch on his shoulder.

But Marc-Edouard forces out a grin, choosing not to laugh, in case the others took it the wrong way. He nods and turns around, shedding himself of the heavy equipment, listening to Patrick’s retreat, and then his hushed voice as he actually begins talking to the shivering goaltender.

“Let’s get you outta here, eh? Reporters’ll be coming in soon.”

Grabbing his towel and sucking in a deep breath, Marc-Edouard pushes forward and soon finds himself in front of the showers’ door.

He isn’t sure what he’s doing, why this seemed like a good idea. But Douglas is his roommate, has been for some time. He’s always thought they got along quite well, even if they were incredibly different. He knows the man has a dominant streak to him, has heard him talk to Evgeni like a petulant child, but he’s seen Evgeni act like one, as well.

And god, he hates that his name was mentioned, hates that it makes him look oblivious; he hates that he doesn’t know what the other guys might be thinking about that one night that he still remembers, the way he’d heard their hushed whispers when he was trying so, so hard to fall back asleep but couldn’t, because they were making just a little bit too much noise.

And how he’d tried to stretch casually, make them think he was stirring, but they’d not even noticed. And how he’d closed his eyes so hard and covered his ears with his hands and wanted them to just stop. And how he was mad at them for days, in secret, for not caring that he was in the room, even if they did really, honestly think that he’d been asleep.

But they were so perfect together, he knows they’re soul-mates, couldn’t have stayed mad much longer than that because he thought that maybe he did sort of know what it was like to genuinely need somebody and not care about anything else.

But it all just makes Marc-Edouard sad and angry now, how Douglas could do that to Evgeni, say all those hurtful things. Even though he did admittedly agree Nabokov could act like a spoiled princess, it wasn’t any right of Douglas’ to tell anybody anything. His face is flushed hot with rage but his cheeks are still wet from crying and this has to be the most confused that he’s ever been.

The steam from the one running shower has fogged the window too much for Marc to know what he’s in for, but he braces himself just the same and pushes open the heavy door with a dull creak before he can convince himself otherwise.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find, but it certainly isn’t what greets him. Douglas is sitting on the shower floor, back pushed up against the wall, legs curled up to his head, much like Evgeni. The water falls over his slumped form, pushing his hair down over his face.

The man’s face is buried in his wide hands, and though he can’t hear him over the shower, Marc-Edouard knows that he’s crying.

“D-Douglas?” He tries hesitantly, too quiet to even hear in his own ears. “Doug?” He tries again.

When the man looks up, Marc is overwhelmed by a new wave of nervousness. He looks sick, his face a deathly pale. The sight of Marc-Edouard makes the other man scrunch his face up in another surge of tears, clenched fist pressing hard into his forehead as he fights to keep the sob from erupting.

It doesn’t work, and Douglas is putting his head back into his hands when Marc gets close enough to sit down next to him.

He thinks this should be weird, the two of them naked, slumped together in the team showers. He thinks he should want to run away, call Martine and apologize for some fictional infidelity; but really, he just feels… horrible.

“I-is he okay?” Douglas sounds broken, and Marc wants to fix it instantly.

“I don’t know,” he picks at something invisible around his fingernail and curses the fact he’d chewed them all off the night before watching some thriller movie with Martine.

“Why did I say that? Any of that?”

“I-I don’t know.” He doesn’t think he’s being helpful. The water is splashing off Douglas and misting over Marc-Edouard in a warm spray. He can feel his hair starting to curl from the humidity.

“Do ya think that,” Douglas swallows hard and loud, “that ‘e hates me?”

“I don’t know,” and very uncharacteristically, it comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“Fuck! Do you know anything, Pickles!” The loud sound echoes around the empty tiled room and a sick feeling in Marc’s stomach is bubbling up into his throat and hollowing out his belly.

“I’m sorry.” He looks down at his lap and feels exposed, folding his hands over himself to hide.

Douglas’ head slams back into the tile hard enough to make him jump with the unexpected smack and Marc-Edouard knows that it must’ve hurt like hell, but Douglas just sits there dumbly, eyes squeezing closed as a new stream of tears is forced out, mixing with the shower water pulsing down his face.

“I jus’ need t’know he doesn’t hate me,” Douglas runs a hand through his long hair and looks away. His voice is so soft that Marc is surprised that the burly man can even talk this gently. “‘Cause I love ‘im so much, and I never meant t’hurt him.”

Marc knows that isn’t true, though he can’t say. There’s a new wave of tears prickling behind his eyes, but he also finds himself wanting to smile. He doesn’t, worried that Douglas will turn around and see it, but he’s glad to know that he heard the powerful words, that he can feel the truth in them.

“Well,” Marc-Edouard begins, his throat scratchy from his tears. “Did you mean that? Any of it?” It wasn’t completely eloquent, but at least it was something other than his idiotic ‘I don’t know’.

Douglas shrugs, his head still turned away from the other, his legs uncurling out from being pressed against his chest. “I…” the man folds his hands in his lap, a thumb ghosting over his knuckles, but Marc glances away from that quickly, flushing at the thought of what the folded hands are covering. “ He does act like the world revolves around ‘im sometimes, but he’s just… I dunno.”

Marc-Edouard feels like a psychiatrist the moment he says it, but he lets it slip from his mouth anyway. “You really don’t know?”

“No… I do,” Douglas huffs, shifting in his spot awkwardly and looking forward, his downcast eyes watching as he held out a cupped hand, water droplets splashing in his palm. “It’s jus’ the way he is. Never let it bother me before, doesn’ make ‘ny sense why ‘m getting mad now, but we’ve just been arguing all day. And I…” He looks tired, and Marc doesn’t know what to do.

“I know how he gets after a loss,” he admits, words that seem so unbefitting of the man pour effortlessly from his lips.

“I shouldn’t have expected ‘im to jump at the chance of going out to dinner after, I mean hell, he gets himself sick sometimes, when he gets so f’ustrated.” He pours the water gathering in his hand onto the tiled floor, tiny plops adding to the music of the shower’s heavy spray. He smiles fondly, a faraway look in his eyes. “I ‘member this one time, when he worked ‘imself into a fever by the time we got home, Abby ‘ad the sitter make some soup for ‘im before we even got there.”

“So you’re not mad about dinner?” Marc asks hesitantly, caught up in the ramblings of his teammate.

“‘Course not, we can ‘ave dinner anytime.”

“Well, um,” Marc blushes and balls his hands in a discrete way of gathering the courage to ask the next question. “Do you think the other things?”

“Huh?” Douglas looks to Marc for the first time since he sat down, and suddenly he feels so small.

“Think that he’s a-a whore, I mean.”

“Um, s-sometimes he likes when I call ‘im that,” Douglas whispers, and Marc thinks he catches sight of a matching blush on the other man. He sighs and shakes his head violently “I mean-no… n-not like that. Christ, I didn’ mean ta make ‘im feel violated. I swear it,” Douglas brushes again at his face to wipe away new tears. “I didn’ mean it like that, really; I know thass what it sounded like. But s’not true. He’d never even been with another guy ‘fore me. An’ none after either, ‘sides Mitchy-,” Douglas’ face gets even paler. “Shit.”

The minute the words are out of Douglas’ mouth and made their way up to his brain, Marc-Edouard knows he wasn’t supposed to hear them. Not ever in his life. Douglas covers his face with his hands in renewed indignity, swiping his palms over his skin and sniffling loudly in disbelief of his own loose tongue.

“It’s not like…! Please don’ ever tell anybody that,” Douglas pleads, and it’s scary for Marc to hear him so helpless.

“I won’t.” He turns his gaze to the wall in front of him, studying the pattern of a small crack forming from the constant moisture. “But, if it’s not true, you know, if you don’t really think that, why’d you say it? In front of everybody, I mean.”

“At the time?” He sounds disgusted with himself. “Really, I jus’ wanted ta hurt ‘im. I was jus’ so over the fightin’ that when I… realized that was the only way to work him up, I kept doin’ it.” He signs with his confession. “Worst part is that I’d’ve probably said the same things in fronta nobody.”

“Abby?” Marc cringes at the thought, but it draws the larger man’s eyes back to his.

“God, I ‘ope not. ‘Ope I wouldn’t’ve stopped…” he trails off. “I don’ know for sure, though.”

Marc-Edouard shivers at the thought, and first the time at least, he’s grateful it happened in the team locker room and not at home. The two sit there in uncomfortable silence, the splatter-spat of the shower bouncing off the hard floor.

“He’s gunna leave me,” Douglas’ voice barely reaches his ears.

“He’s not,” and Marc doesn’t really know for sure, but he believes himself when he says it, and he thinks that has to count for something. He watches Douglas twist his wedding band around his finger idly.

Marc wonders what kind of luck Patrick is having in the stalls.

“I’d leave me, if I ‘ere him. Who’d want to live with someone who says such ‘orrible things?” He grasps his wedding band so tight that his knuckles turn a sickly white.

“But he loves you so much,” Marc whispers so quietly that Douglas doesn’t even acknowledge the words at first.

The larger man waits, sniffling quietly, and gazes imploringly at Marc-Edouard’s flushed face. “Why wouldju say that?”

His face grows hotter under the intense scrutiny, but he hates to see his friend like this. “The way he acts around you I guess. Like, when it’s real quiet and not a lot of guys are hanging out, you two are able to sit next to each other sometimes. And he just smiles when you put his arm around him… did you know he still blushes when you do that? It’s like you just started dating or something.”

Douglas’ lips curve somewhat into a smile, but he looks away fast. “And how d’ja know that’s love, Pickles? What if he’s jus’ embarrassed by me?” he sounds so sad, actually beginning to believe his own words.

“Um,” Marc-Eduard pauses; surprised that he has said so much in the first place. “I guess it’s because I still do the same around Martine. And I-I know I’m certainly not embarrassed by her; far from it.” Marc taps his fingers on the tops of his knee caps nervously, thinking over his rushed words. “‘M not much of a good speech-giver, sorry,” he grumbles into the skin of his thigh, his head bowing to hide himself from the other man.

“He’s a spoiled brat sometimes, but I would give ‘im anything so he’d be ‘appy; he’s my everything.” Douglas swallows another wave of tears before starts softly. “He’s my reason for wakin’ up in the morning. He’s the first thing I see; and ev’ry time I feel ‘im next t’me of all people, I fall in love with ‘im all over again.”

“I can tell you love him.” Douglas sniffles and looks over, his eyebrow raised. “Well, you can get pretty cranky on the road sometimes,” he answers the unasked question. “I can tell when you’re sore. Or when you just miss having him near you all night.” Marc is worried for a moment that he’s overstepped an invisible boundary.

“How can you tell that from ‘ow I wake up?”

“Well, when you’re sore, you take a really long time in the shower the next morning,” he wants to giggle, but doesn’t. “But when you miss him, you take a really long time in his shower,” Douglas looks over to find Marc smirking. He chuckles a little despite himself. “But really, when you miss him, it’s obvious. And it happens a lot.”

The smile on Douglas’ face fades and he looks incredibly somber once more. “Where do I even begin to fix this? Sure ‘m the last person he wants to see right now. Can’t blame him.”

Marc-Edouard knows this is a good question. The only one he doesn’t have a clue of an answer for.

“I can’t say,” he finally settles on being honest. “I mean, talking to him soon as you can might be a good idea; don’t let it fester, you know?

“I can’t say just sorry, ‘cause that’s not gonna fix anything I said. He told me to stop, told me that he loved me, but I didn’t. Why didn’ I jus’ listen?”

“Because you were angry, it happens sometimes.”

Douglas laughs; it is hollow and humorless, and Marc can’t help but shiver at the barking noise. “I never wanted to hurt his feelin’s like that before, what if want to again? It was scary, havin’ that anger grow inside me; and it s’not like I did anything to stop it. What if the team wasn’t there, Marc?” Douglas chokes on the name, rarely spoken from his lips. And for the first time, Douglas looks scared. “I’m… I’m so much bigger than ‘im. What culd I ‘ave done if I didn’ stop getting’ angry? Marc… god. I culd’a hurt him so bad”

Marc has a horrible twisting feeling in his gut; he knows that Douglas isn’t talking about the emotional hurt. Swallowing dryly, he takes in the size of the man’s arms in the corner of his eye, easily as thick as his neck, fearfully knowing the whispered words to be true. “H-have you ever… wanted to? Hurt him I mean? L-like that?”

If it is even possible, Douglas’ crumbled features become even gaunter at the words. “No! I can’t-not even-thas jus’ horrible to think about.” His white face tinges with green to prove his point, his eyes watering again. “I wuld never lay a finger on ‘im. I can’t even… no.”

Thankfulness spreads over Marc’s entire body, the sincerity in Douglas’ tone washing away any of the worry that might have grown inside him at the mention of domestic abuse. “Then why are you so worried about it? It didn’t happen, and you don’t want it to happen. Why d’you think you’d do it now?”

Douglas seems to struggle to find the right words, his first tangent running off into thousands of different directions, all of his worries pouring out of him at once. “I never thought I’d get that mad with ‘im, y’know? I’ve never made ‘im cry before; I’ve never seen ‘im that scared a’me,” Douglas rubs his scruffy face with one of his large hands, his words muffled by his palm.

“Guess ‘m assuming the worst, yeah? Scared of what I culd’a done to hurt ‘im even more… I’m just worried ‘bout him all the time. I need ta protect ‘im from everythin’ ‘cause I can’t stand it when he’s in anything less’an perfect condition.” Douglas laughs, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls and echoing in Marc-Edouard’s ears. “‘N now s’like I need to protect ‘im from me, even b’fore I even do anything, if that makes any sense.”

Marc’s lips quirk in a sad smile. “That’s because you love him. You want to keep him safe.”

“I can do that, but I ‘ave no idea ‘ow I can make up for this.”

“You could start with you’re sorry, I think he’d want to hear that first.”

“There’s just so much I ‘aven’t been able ta tell ‘im ‘cause he’s so much more than any words I can think of, y’know?”

He fells the same around Martine all the time; that he can’t find the words to tell her how much she means to him. He smiles wistfully, “Yeah, I think I do.”

The water is freezing by now, but Douglas doesn’t move to change it. Breaking the moment as subtly as he could, Marc twists his body around, pushing the tap with his fingers until the temperature sooths over his emerging goosebumps.

“You can tell him that, then.”

“If he even listens t’me.”

“Well, he’ll never know you’re sorry unless you try.” And that, Marc-Edouard thought to himself as the other man looked at him quizzically, was the best advice he could have given. “I think he’ll forgive you if you say the right things.” He chances placing a hand on Douglas’ knee, but he keeps it there, trying to convey his support. “You two are soul-mates you know, Evgeni is too smart to give that up, even if…” the words that were about to tumble out of his mouth caught in his throat not a moment too soon. But Douglas prods him on.

“‘Even if’ what? S’alright, I said more than enough shit t’day, I can take it.”

Marc-Edouard nods and replaces his hands in his lap. “Even if you said some pretty heartless things.” He squirms and raises his hands defensively. “But I don’t think that now! Sorta don’t, anyhow.”

When he looks back, the scowl he is imagining on Douglas’ face is not there, instead, he looks pensive, contemplating everything the Marc has just said. When he opens his mouth, he looks about as happy as Marc has been that day. “Y’know, Vlasic, yur pretty smart. Not ivy league smart, but smart when y’need to be.”

Marc can’t keep the smile from growing on his face. “You’re welcome.” Douglas sighs heavily, a shiver speeding down his spine. “And it’s going to be okay, you know?”

“Hope so,” Douglas grunts as he moves to his feet. “‘M gonna go talk to him. Didju want,” he gestures toward the running water.

“No, no,” Marc waves him off. “Just came to check on you, really.” Douglas turns the knob and the water shuts down, several last drops dribbling out from the showerhead.

“Naked?” Douglas raises an eyebrow, but offers a hand to help Marc to his feet. The younger man blushes furiously and sputters. “‘M kidding, Pickles,” his face falls back in a sad smile. “Thank you. Fer following me.”

“You’re welcome,” Marc grabs for his towel as Douglas does the same, shaking his hair out like a dog before headed for the door.

Douglas pauses with hand on the handle, poised to leave. He looks back over his shoulder, brows knit in question.

“Um… will you come with me? N-not to talk to him or anything like that, jus’… walk out with me?” Marc-Edouard hears the fear in his voice, and it is decidedly out of place in the usually fearless man. This is why he agrees, nodding softly and padding over to the door, towel hanging loosely off his hips.

The two of them enter back into the locker room, mostly empty except for a few straggling teammates, most of whom move to leave as soon as they catch sight of Douglas. Marc’s eyes shoot to Evgeni’s abandoned stall, his equipment still in a pile on the floor, skates discarded haphazardly. Patrick’s stall is tidy, but his things are still on the shelf behind his seat.

Then he notices Patty and Joe, talking in hushed whispers in the corner, faces twisted in uneasy concentration.

Douglas moves from his side to his own stall, tugging on a pair of sweats before moving over to the goaltender’s empty stall, squatting to pick up some of the disheveled piles. He hangs the man’s skates and tosses his pads in the disinfectant pile. He doesn’t seem to notice anyone else in the room, only focused intently on the absence of his husband.

Marc scurries to his own stall, wiggling into his jeans, sliding impossibly slow over his wet calves and thighs. A gentle tap on his shoulder makes him jump, startled at the intrusion.

It’s Patrick again, and Marc sighs heavily. “Gotta stop doing that,” he huffs quietly, hand grasping his chest.

“Sorry. Just wanted to see how you were doin’?” Marc looks over the man’s shoulder to see Joe fiddling with something in the corner, pretending not to notice Douglas or anyone else. Douglas is folding Evgeni’s UnderArmour into tight little squares, smoothing them out and placing them on the bench to be taken home and washed.

“I’ll be all right,” he smiles sadly and opens his mouth to ask about Evgeni, but Douglas his clearing throat to get their attention from the other side of the room. He looks painfully sheepish and uncomfortable, his damp hair dripping down to his shoulders and chest.

“Where’s ah-,” he nods toward the goaltender’s stall, his fingers fiddling together.

Patty casts a questioning glace at Marc-Edouard, but he bobs his head in assurance.

“He’s in the equipment room,” Patrick speaks softly.

“Do you think I could, um, talk ta ‘im?” Marc-Edouard can tell he feels silly asking to see his own husband, but Patrick looks concerned and hesitant, mulling it over in his head.

He and Joe meet eyes and have what can only be described as an entire conversation telepathically, emphatic eyebrow movements and all. Marc swears sometimes those two might as well be an old married couple themselves the way they can communicate nonverbally.

“Yeah,” Patrick finally agrees, his voice croaking hesitantly.

“Thanks,” Douglas ducks his head and slinks toward the door, looking up briefly to meet Marc’s eyes. He gives the man a small smile of encouragement and watches as he raps lightly on the sturdy wooden door.

“S’me,” Douglas says quietly, and Marc-Edouard doesn’t know if he’s answering a question from inside or just announcing his arrival. The door doesn’t open, and Douglas doesn’t do more than rest his hand on the lever handle.

All remaining eyes in the room are fixed on the water-flecked man standing, head bowed, at the entrance to the equipment room. Marc-Edouard’s heart starts to pound faster when there’s no answer, aching for man standing dejectedly at the outside.

Finally, after about a minute of thick silence, the knob jiggles with a clink and rotates out of Douglas’ waiting hand, allowing the man access.

The first thing out of Douglas’ mouth before he even makes to move inside is “I am so sorry.” He sounds about as small as he did when Marc-Edouard first found him in the showers, and the fact that Douglas’ confidence is dwindling makes Marc very nervous. The man was growing into his usual confidence when they were confessing in the showers, but the appearance of his husband seems to have made Douglas’ tremble.

Evgeni Nabokov is the only person in the world who could intimidate Douglas Murray, and for this reason, Marc-Edouard knows they belong together.

“I bet yhou are,” Evgeni snaps, his voice still waveringly fragile, even from a distance.

Marc glances to Patrick, still hovering at his side like a worried parent. He looks back, his mouth pursing together with worry, unable to express the encouraging smile that is always on Patrick’s face just for him. Marc cocks his head in silent question, eager to know what had happened while he was with Douglas, but he only receives a quick shake of the head, the word ‘wait’ mouthed from Patrick’s lips.

Douglas’ shaky sigh pulls him back to the broken couple, the larger man staring with doleful eyes at his husband, whom Marc has still yet to see, but from the angle of Douglas’ eyes, can tell is somewhere on the floor. “Can I come in?” even his whisper seems more pathetic than the crying he was doing in the showers.

He stands there for the longest time, not one of the men in the main section of the locker room daring to move from their spot, as if the conflict has ensnared them in a trance. But Marc assumes that everyone is just as keen to see the outcome as he is. They are a team, and when one player hurts, they all feel it. And speaking for himself, Marc-Edouard is still shaking off the slime-like emotion of heartbreak.

Finally Douglas offers a hopeful smile to the man inside, only to have it wiped off his face in an instant; but he is at least admitted into the equipment room, the door snapping shut the moment he walks through.

Douglas disappears, and suddenly Marc finds himself hounded on by his remaining teammates.

Hushed whispers attack him from all sides, but Patrick is the one standing right in front of him, so he waves everyone else off, giving his full attention to the quiet man.

Marc-Edouard opens his mouth, but is cut off by a muffled sob, followed shortly by an equally heart wrenching “I can’t believe yhou!”

Douglas’ baritone is heard, but none of his words can be picked out. Evgeni’s frantic voice settles after that, but he continues to talk.

Focusing back on the man he could hear without straining himself, Marc coughs and shrugs, not exactly sure what to say. “He’s sorry.”

Torrey pipes up; his face crumbled with concern, and asks for him to explain. Marc blushes, and he’s not sure if he can look at Torrey the same way again, but puts that off for now.

“He knows he messed up, he and Nabby have been arguing all day ‘bout something. He just, I guess, snapped. He’s never been that angry at Evgeni before. He didn’t know why he couldn’t stop getting even angrier, and he told me that he was afraid that it could happen again, what… what he could do if it did. He… he was crying when I found him.” Marc rubs at his neck nervously, his eyes glued to the floor. “Douglas loves him so much; he just doesn’t know how he’s going to say sorry.”

The silence is overbearing as he lets his teammates soak in what he told them, he shifts his weight from foot to foot, trying to catch pieces of the conversation in the other room but to no avail.

“And Nabs? How is he?” Marc finally asks, his eyes drawing up and seeking Patrick’s.

“Well, humiliated, fer one. An’ furious, absolutely furious.” Patty pauses to bite his lip. “He’s pretty crushed.”

Honestly, Marc had expected as much. The only sound he can pick out now from the other room is gut-wrenching sobbing, so painful that he’s worried it could even end in dry-heaving, the way his littlest brother had cried with colic when he was a baby.

“But did he say anything?” Marc really hopes that he hadn’t been wrong when he told Douglas that Evgeni wouldn’t leave him.

“He barely spoke,” Patty shakes his head sadly. “Just enough to tell me,” he swallows the lump in his throat, “that his heart is broken.” Patty looks to the floor and Marc gets that pit back in his stomach. The voices rise again in the other room.

“…I love you, Yevi. I love you so fuckin’ much I don’ even know what to do with it all.”

“No, you dhon’t! How could yhou possibly love me? After all, I’m jhust a whore, aren’t I?”

“No, Yevi, please. You’re everything t’me. You’re my ‘usband! The father of my child!”

“Well, apparently, Iya dhon’t love you. I’m jhust in it to get my ass pounded, isn’t that rhight? That’s the only reason that Iya married yhou? So I could get a free fhuck? Certainly nhot because I loved yhou! Oh, of course not!”

The voices lower again, back to indistinguishable protestations and apologies. Marc is just frozen with fear at Evgeni’s usage of the past tense for his love.

Joe is looking at him with a quizzical expression that makes Marc nervous, but the man doesn’t get the hint. “Did, ah, we’re ya really there when they we’re, ya know…” he trails off, hoping that Marc-Edouard knows what he’s referring to, and unfortunately he does.

“I guess I was asleep,” he lies, eyes sweeping the room, catching strange looks from a few other guys, before settling back on Patrick, currently shooting Joe a glare.

He feels uncomfortably naked without a shirt on, surrounded so close on all sides. He excuses himself the half-step to his stall, tugging the cotton t-shirt over his head. Part of him wants to put his ear up against the door and listen, but the other part doesn’t want to know what else they might be saying. He hopes Douglas has some of his confidence back.

When everyone is settles down, they can hear it when Douglas begins to talk softly.

“I am so sorry.”

Evgeni’s words aren’t nearly as hushed, and he sounds on the verge of hysteria. “Y-yhou already s-said that-don’t fhucking touch me!-if yhou were sorry, you never whould have said those things.”

“Baby, trust me, I wish I never did.”

Marc’s eyes dart to the ground as he sits himself gingerly onto the bench, his gut tying into knots, hoping beyond hope that he wasn’t wrong about Evgeni’s feelings toward Douglas. But how could he? He wasn’t blind, he saw it everyday. He wasn’t deaf either. After those two got busy when they assumed him asleep, Marc could hear Evgeni’s whisper of ‘I love you so much I can hardly stand it,’ even though he was pretty sure that Douglas was truly sleeping by that time.

“Then why? Why say them at all?”

The remaining members of the team all look to Marc-Edouard at the muffled question, wanting to know the answer themselves. The young defenseman is flustered at having all the piercing stares on him, even though the only people in the room other than himself are Patrick, Joe, Torrey, and a handful of others. Playing in front of 18 thousand fans strangely isn’t as nerve-wracking as sitting in front of a few teammates, expecting him to talk.

But Douglas is loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I… I don’t know why, I wasn’ thinkin’.”

“Douglas…” the utterance of simple name sounds so pained and revolted and miserable, all at the same time, Marc can feel his chest lurch with sadness. “How do yhou even expect me to forghive you? …You called me a whore.”

“No I-that’s not-!” Marc cringes as the explanation flies from Douglas’ voice, but the other man recovers, hopefully understanding that his excuses can only damage their relationship further. “I know thass what I sounded like, but I… god, Yevi, I didn’t mean it, and you know I don’t.”

“No, I dhon’t actually know. And I’m sure you can imagine that it’s hard for me to see where it wasn’t yhour intention, since you yhelled in front of our entire team!”

“Baby, I don’t know how I can tell ya how much I’m sorry.”

“Iya don’t care how many times yhou say it!” Evgeni bursts out suddenly, his voice shrill once more. “Yhou can’t fhucking tell people those things! I’ve given myself in so many different ways to show you my love for yhou, prhivate and personal! And yhou just throw it all ahway by telling everyone? To win a fight? I whould never do that to you.” The last part is hissed dangerously, but everyone in the room can hear it, its deadly intent palpable.

“I know y’wouldn’t, baby, thass why I feel so terrible. It kills me that I could’a hurt you so much.”

There’s silence for the longest time, and then: “How am Iya ehver supposed to trust you again?” There comes a sharp intake of breath and a shaky sob, “I dhon’t know if I can be with… with somebody who could hurt me lhike that. I jhust…”

Torrey gasps a little and Marc is just as shocked that Evgeni said it. It is as if a bucket of ice water was just dumped over his head, the cold fear of the next moment seeping into his bones, making him shiver with the ill feeling that settles in his stomach.

“Don’ say that,” Douglas’ voice is scarily even, but timid. “Please, please Yevi, don’ say that.”

There is silence again, and then a shuddering cry, different from Evgeni’s, more remorseful, but just as broken.

“Please don’ say that,” his words squeak out between pitiful sobs. Marc-Edouard can feel the sting of tears fighting to escape again. He wishes he’d been a scratch tonight, or injured, or in Worcester, anywhere but in this position, to hear this conversation; but at the same time, he weirdly knows he’s needed.

“Douglas,” Evgeni finally speaks, loud enough to be heard over the weeping, his voice imploring.

“No. Please, don’ leave. I can’t, Yevi please. I’m sorry. ‘M so sorry! Please just-”

“Douglas!” It comes more forcefully the second time.

“I can’t live without you! I can’t! I’d…there’s jus’, nothing. God, I’d be nothing!”

Marc is sure he’s never heard anyone beg like this before; maybe he has once or twice in a movie or something, but never in person, let alone Douglas. And until just a few long hours ago, he wasn’t even sure that Douglas had ever cried, possibly not even as a baby.

“I’m nhot.” And it’s quiet and severe, but he knows that he heard it. A chance look around, and he knows he isn’t the only one. “I’m nhot leaving, Douglas, calm down.”

“‘M sorry.”

“You keep saying that,” Evgeni snaps again, any and all tenderness in his voice gone once more. “Bhut imagine how I feel. Have yhou even thought about that? What if Iya told ehveryone about yhou? All the things you’ve asked me to do for yhou? Things Iya wouldn’t dho! Isn’t there a reason we dhon’t invite them to jhoin?”

Marc-Edouard looks down at his feet, avoiding Torrey’s blush. His skin itches again with a new sort of strange grime he can’t even put his finger on.

“Yhou made me feel so cheap. Lhike ’m nothing to you! Lhike my only worth is sex! Nothing else!”

“You’re not nothin’, Yevi. You culd never be nothing to me. I-I’ve never loved anything s’much as I love you. Nothin’ in my whole life! Not even…” he trails off, defeated. “Yur everything t’me, always.”

There’s no way not to hear them, not with as loud as they’re speaking, but Marc still feels like he’s spying somehow. Like he should plug his ears and hum until the door opens again and the two reemerge, either together or apart, he can’t tell at this point.

“Please, Yevi. Please still love me.” His voice is submissive and earnest. “Need t’hear you say it. Know I didn’ ruin us.”

Even the air in the locker room has stilled by this point, stagnant and suffocating until the other man says the words that Douglas needs to hear. Marc-Edouard holds his breath, the words becoming vital for his own ears to catch as well.

Evgeni’s voice is soft when he finally begins talking, the tears back in his voice, and if the people in the room weren’t as still as they are, Marc wouldn’t have been able to hear it.

“Iya hate how much I love yhou. I hate that I love yhou so much, that when you hurt me, it fhelt like my world was ending.” He says one last thing, but his voice is too quiet now even for the team’s inquiring ears.

Marc’s stomach flips and he wipes his palms on the thighs of his jeans, twittering around to occupy himself as what Evgeni just said buzzes around like a hive of angry bees inside his head. That didn’t sound like a very happy statement, but he did say that he loves Douglas.

“Thas’a yeah?” Douglas’ voice cracks with emotion, the smile in his voice nearly tangible.

“Yes. Ghod help me, but yes. But jhust because I love yhou, it doesn’t mean I’m nhot completely furious with yhou.”

“I know. B’lieve me, I know. Fuck, ‘m furious with myself. I jus’ love you too much to ever see y’go.” Douglas sniffles loudly, and their volume lowers again, too much for anyone to hear.

Joe clears his throat suddenly in the silence, and half of them jump. Good to know he’s not the only anxious one, Marc thinks. He watches for a bit as Torrey shuffles from foot to foot, arms laced over his chest. Patty turns to sit in his stall, head resting in his hands. He looks so old when he’s worried, Marc notes, seeing for the first time the gleam of peppered grey along the man’s temples.

His cell phone vibrates invasively in his pocket, and Marc-Edouard hurries to silence it, the vibration rattling loudly in the quiet room. He smiles a bit when he sees Martine’s name.

‘Saw the score on the web. I’m sorry, love. :( Gonna be home soon?’

He thinks it’s cute that she still can’t watch the games live; too worried he’ll get injured or smashed. He really wants to go home, but he knows he’ll probably never speak of word of the evening to her. It’s too personal to repeat, he thinks, most of it never should have been said in the first place.

‘Just a team meeting. Don’t know how much longer. I love you.’

His finger hovers over the send button before he turns his phone off and sits down himself. He can hear Patrick sigh. For the first time, he sees Devin lurking in the corner, back propped up against the corner of the room. Even he seems depressed. Marc supposes that he’s probably only still there because Torrey is, since they usually drive together to games, but it surprises him that the man seems just as consumed with the situation as the rest of them. Then he feels guilty for thinking of Devin that way. They cared, all of them.

The quiet is all-consuming again, just muffled whispered from the equipment room; some clearer words here and there, but none that make sense without context. Marc studies his hangnail again.

“Can yhou…” Evgeni is barely audible, and Marc-Edouard has to strain to hear. The man sounds far away and lost as his words trickles off. “Jhust,” he pauses, his voice delicate and pleading, “jhust hold me.”

There’s shuffling coming from the equipment room, and Marc’s brief surprise quickly turns to disappointment; feeling oddly left out when he didn’t get the chance to hear Douglas’ answer.

But fragmented mumbles reach Marc’s ears, Douglas’ not-quite-whisperings of “Now put your-yeah, perfect, there y’go,” and he can’t help but smile fondly, the image of the two of them hugging on the floor swimming into Marc’s head.

It’s odd, that the private goaltender and the brawny defenseman could open up to each other, of all people. Marc himself would find it to be strange too, if he hadn’t already seen their secret touches when they think no one is watching, and the shy, unrestricted laughs they only share with themselves. If anyone saw them as Marc sees them, then their devoted delicacy toward one another wouldn’t be out of place at all; in fact, it fits them perfectly.

Devin’s hushed voice is heard in the background, something about asking Torrey if they could leave, knowing now that the two were going to be just fine, but Torrey snaps back with a curt no, effectively shutting the other man up.

Marc understands how Torrey feels, to an extent anyway, but they are probably thinking along similar lines: if he doesn’t see those two walk of the equipment room together first hand, he might not believe they actually made up either. He just wonders how long that can take.

No one makes to move after another twenty minutes of complete silence from the entire remaining team; not even Devin tries to rouse Torrey from the seat of his stall.

Suddenly, there’s a distinct wet sound cutting through the heavy quiet, and Marc-Edouard blushes furiously.

He knows a kiss when he hears one; in fact, he’s seen the married couple share a few with their sweet and simple public displays of affection.

What Marc and the rest of the team are hearing is most definitely not one of those reserved pecks.

What he’s hearing reminds Marc of what he shares with Martine after a long day, just the two of them, laying together on the bed, their limbs intertwined and their lips touching in long, drawn-out kisses; not searching to make it sexual, but certainly not appropriate for the eyes of others.

The discomfort of the rest of the team is nearly tangible, and Marc is sure there isn’t a single un-flushed face in the crowd. Devin scuffs his dress shoe on the carpet and his keys clack in his hand. Torrey clears his throat and looks just past Devin’s fidgeting form, most likely regretting not leaving when he’d asked.

A quiet murmur of mournful pleasure drifts through the empty air, and Marc-Edouard can still hear the sniffles from the two men just behind the thick door.

“M’ so sorry, Yevi.”

“Iya know,” and Marc is grateful to hear the man finally admit it. They all know Douglas is sorry as he could ever be for what happened. “Please, can’t we jhust go home?” He also thinks that he hears Evgeni yawn between a few more sloppy kisses. It must be contagious, because next he knows, he’s yawning too, jaw popping quietly as the muscles stretch after a long few hours of stressful cramping.

Reluctantly, Torrey returns to his stall, ready to gather his belongings and head home with Devin, and Marc slowly turns to pack up his things. He’s sure Martine is beginning to worry, or at least get lonely. All he really wants is to go home and shower properly, sink down into his sheets with her and be thankful.

The rustling is loud enough that no one notices the click of the doorknob turning open, and the two men padding in bare feet awkwardly out to the public of the room.

Marc doesn’t know who looks up first, but he knows it isn’t him.

“Hmm? Oh!” Patty’s surprised grunt is what forces his gaze to the slouched figures in the center of the room.

For the first time since following Douglas out of the room, Marc-Edouard finally gets to check on the condition of Evgeni with his own eyes.

Clad in only his boxer-briefs and a loose grey cotton tee-shirt, the goaltender hunches his shoulders under the intense gazes from around the room, a blush creeping up his neck, the memories of what was exposed to his teammates in the past hour not all forgotten. His face is pale, tear tracks still shining on his blotchy cheeks. Evgeni’s hair is disheveled, as if he ran his hands through his dirty-blond tresses one too many times. Both he and Douglas look worse-for-wear, but one look at their slightly upward curled lips and Marc sighs in relief.

They stand close together, Douglas’ hands at his sides and Evgeni’s crossed defensively over his stomach. Glancing down to the smaller man, Marc watches in suspended awe as Douglas brushes his knuckles up and down the other’s bicep, flexed with apprehension. Evgeni unravels at the mere touch, his shoulders relaxing, and his head coming up from its dejected bow.

What is left of the team wait for the announcement that is to come, obvious from the way Douglas was looking around the room, trying to catch the eyes of everyone else. Everything in the locker room melts into unimportance as Marc allows his interest to be caught by the two standing awkwardly on the center of the room.

When Douglas holds everyone’s undivided attention, he coughs, fidgeting from foot to foot. Consciously or not, Evgeni leans in barely an inch closer to his husband, their arms brushing together in a sign of reassurance. Douglas understands the message, even if Marc does not, and the larger man instantly calms. “‘M sorry I made a scene,” he mumbles, uncomfortable with the prospect of apologizing.

He flushes and looks around the room once more, his wide eyes catching Marc’s. The contact remains strong for seconds, and before he even realizes that he is doing it, Marc is nodding, if only slightly, and Douglas cracks a smile.

“I didn’ mean t’look like a complete ass in front’a ev’rybody, and, um… it was ‘orrible for me t’say those things… so if you wanna furget I said ‘em… that’d be nice, you guys. And, y’know, I mean, yeah. I love Evgeni, and I dun’ want to make that not seem true.”

It is the most absurd apologies that Marc has ever heard, between Douglas’ ramblings, and the plain uncomfortable look that dawned his features. He has never heard Douglas ramble before tonight, nor has he ever seen Douglas look anything but intimidating, happy, or frustrated. Tonight has been full of surprises, it seems, and Marc is sort of glad it was. Well… some parts more so than others.

The way Evgeni hides into Douglas’ size is the last thing that Marc needs to see in order to know that everything will be all right. He knows the man is embarrassed; he’s still embarrassed for him, but the look in his eyes is no longer that of pure hurt and anger.

“So…” Douglas is still struggling for words. “We’re um, gunna go home now.” Marc-Edouard catches Patrick nodding his head and Devin grabbing Torrey’s wrist, inching toward the door.

Douglas and Evgeni duck into Evgeni’s stall, both helping each other to pack his remaining things, Evgeni redressing quickly. Marc turns to his stall to pack, and glances back over his shoulder after a few quiet moments. Douglas is helping Evgeni comb through his tangled hair. Evgeni’s eyes are still puffy and red from crying, and with each pass of the comb through a stubborn knot, his wincing forces a few stray tears. Douglas works his way through the worst of it; bending down to kiss Evgeni’s closed eyes when he’s through.

“When we g’ home, you can take a proper shower, yeah?” With soothing strokes to his arms, Douglas comforts the smaller man.

Evgeni nods, his body already collapsing in on itself as exhaustion begins to claim him as he slumps where he stands.

“Oh!” Douglas squeaks, his hands coming up swiftly to right the other man, his thumbs rubbing circles into the undeniably stiff muscles in Evgeni’s neck. Marc stills his packing, knowing that it is impolite to stare, but at the same time unable to pull himself away for even a second. Douglas whispers, and Marc thinks that he’s the only one still enough to hear what he says.

“I love you.” Douglas’ eyes are shining with sincerity as he touches his forehead to that of his husband.

Marc smiles, and the happiness inside him grows even bigger when he watches Evgeni nod his head tiredly in confirmation.

“Me too,” Evgeni sighs, his red eyes cracking open, staring into the other man’s face. He tries to take his bag from Douglas’ hand, but the other man’s grip doesn’t loosen, and Evgeni stops trying. “Let’s go.”

Shaking himself momentarily, Marc skims his eyes around the room, surprised to find it barren of the other players beside himself. He blushes, sure that he looks like a fool, hanging around as the married couple share a private moment.

He tries to leave quietly when he realizes his invasive position, gathering his things in his arms with little trouble. Before he even moves, Douglas calls his name, “Marc.”

“Y-yeah?” Marc asks, sure that he will be called out for sure.

“Thanks.” Douglas looks down to the man at his shoulder, both smiling shyly at each other. “I mean it.”

Throat tightening, Marc has no idea what to say; he can only smile, glad that he stayed to hear it.

They head toward the exit as Marc stays rooted to his spot, Douglas throwing his bag over his free shoulder as they pass by his stall. Hovering as the man moves the large baggage around, Evgeni sniffs occasionally, his hands coming up to rub into his wet face.

Finally, Douglas stands up and mutters something to Evgeni, who nods and laughs breathlessly. With one last glance in Marc’s direction, Douglas allows the other man to lead the way to the exit, his hand brushing Evgeni’s, searching for his touch.

Looking down at the prodding hand, Evgeni continues to walk down the hall, but fingers curl around Douglas’ and he slows to match the other’s pace. Douglas pushes the door open for the both of them, holding it open as Evgeni steps out into the cool nighttime air first.

Douglas leans his head down before following, and it is obvious what he’s searching for. When Evgeni stands in his tiptoes to press a tender kiss to Douglas’ lips, Marc-Edouard knows that they are going to be just fine; besides, they belong together. They’re soul-mates.