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Ico x StrayMarch 13, 2025 11:54 AM


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Damiano barely reacted when Alexandre cracked his little joke. He just exhaled sharply, a dry, unimpressed sound, and shifted in his seat. He wasn’t surprised the room stayed silent. These were the kind of people who didn’t laugh unless they were the ones with the upper hand. The kind who saw humor as a distraction from whatever grim agenda they had lined up.

The general manager, Mr. Moretti, leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table. “You’d do well to take this seriously, Mr. Avery.” His voice was slow, deliberate. The kind of tone people used when they were used to being listened to.

Across from him, the head coach, a heavyset man with a permanently furrowed brow, sighed and shook his head. “We’ll cut the bullshit,” he grunted. “There’s no point in us pretending we didn’t know this trade was gonna be a problem.” His eyes flicked between them. “We brought you here to see if this is a problem—or if it’s one that needs to be solved before it festers.”

The room was quiet for a beat. Damiano crossed his arms.

“We’re fine,” he muttered, knowing full well that wasn’t an answer they’d accept but not giving a shit.

Moretti didn’t look convinced. His gaze shifted to Alexandre, like he was waiting for him to contradict it. The government official—one of the higher-ups who oversaw the team’s operations—cleared his throat. “Fine is not exactly what we’d call breaking into a fistfight on the first day of camp.” His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his voice—something calculating.

Damiano didn’t flinch. “It’s hockey,” he said flatly. “Shit happens.”

The head coach let out a dry chuckle. “Sure. And I don’t care if you two beat the hell out of each other in practice—as long as it doesn’t affect the game. But what we do care about is whether we’ve got two guys who are supposed to be leading this team and can’t stand being on the same sheet of ice.” He turned to Alexandre. “That a problem?”

There was a pause. Damiano could feel Moretti watching them both like a hawk, trying to read between the lines.

Then the government official spoke again, his voice smooth and weighty. “Because if it is a problem,” he said, “we’ll fix it.”

There was something in the way he said it that made Damiano’s skin crawl. The way his tone was just a little too casual, like he was talking about disposing of an inconvenience rather than working through it.

Damiano clenched his jaw. His gut told him to push back, to tell them to fuck off, but he knew how this worked. The league in New Rome wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t just about winning games. It was about control. And when the people in charge decided someone wasn’t worth the trouble, they didn’t hesitate to get rid of them.

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not a problem.”

Moretti raised a brow. “Prove it.”

Damiano held his gaze, then finally, with effort, turned his head slightly toward Alexandre. He didn’t look at him directly—just enough for it to be acknowledged.

“We’ll handle it,” he said, his voice steady.

It wasn’t exactly a promise. It wasn’t exactly a lie, either.

It was enough.

For now.

Moretti leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing them both like a man assessing a losing bet. His fingers drummed against the table in a slow, measured rhythm. The government official remained still, watching with the kind of unreadable expression that made Damiano’s skin crawl. The head coach, at least, looked satisfied enough—for now.

"Good," Moretti finally said. "Because here's the deal, boys. We didn’t just bring Alexandre in to skate a few shifts and look pretty for the press. We expect results. We expect a team that works." His gaze flickered to Damiano. "And as captain, it’s your responsibility to make sure that happens."

Damiano's jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. He knew better than to push back in a meeting like this. The real consequences wouldn’t come from a bad scrimmage or a few punches thrown at practice. The front office didn’t care about that. What they cared about was control. The moment they thought he couldn’t handle his role—couldn’t keep the team in line, couldn’t perform on the ice, couldn’t sell the product—he’d be just as expendable as anyone else.

The government official, who had been silent for most of the exchange, finally spoke. "This city isn’t forgiving to those who fall out of favor," he said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks. "We’ve given both of you a unique opportunity. Don’t squander it."

The room went still. The weight of the words was impossible to ignore.

Damiano had heard the rumors before. Players who left New Rome and were never heard from again. Players who had outlived their usefulness and disappeared overnight. Maybe it was just the paranoia of a league built on corruption, or maybe it was the ugly truth everyone ignored. Either way, it was a warning.

He forced his posture to stay relaxed, despite the tension curling in his muscles. "Understood," he said.

The meeting didn’t last much longer after that. A few more questions—mostly directed at Alexandre, since the front office was still feeling out what kind of player they’d actually acquired—and then they were dismissed.

Damiano didn’t say a word as they left the office. His strides were long and deliberate, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his suit pants. The air in the hallway felt colder than before.

The city was like that. This team was like that.

It got into your bones.

As they neared the exit, the low hum of conversation from deeper in the building drifted through the corridors. Security guards stood at their usual posts, impassive and armed, as always. The world outside these walls was just as dangerous as the one within them.

Damiano finally stopped at the doorway, glancing back just long enough to see Alexandre beside him. He didn’t look at him for long. He didn’t need to. He just exhaled sharply and pushed the door open, stepping out into the night.

New Rome stretched out before them, sprawling and unwelcoming. The neon glow of signs flickered against the wet pavement. Voices echoed in the streets, some drunk, some desperate, some angry.

Damiano rolled his shoulders and started walking toward the team’s housing. He didn’t check if Alexandre was following.

He already knew he was.

Clingy bastard.

Ico x StrayMarch 15, 2025 11:51 PM


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Alexandre | 61 | Callus, Damiano

Alexandre found himself smirking at the concept of the pair of them being ‘fine,’ a certain smugness spread across his countenance that spoke more loudly than any words could have. By the end of the intervention meeting, which had felt like it had been hours long, the dark-haired figure was slumped in the chair, long legs stretched out nearly all the way across the table. He was leaning slightly to the side that Damiano was on, and if he let himself shift any more, he might’ve been touching shoulders with the captain. However, it didn’t take a genius to map the other man’s rigid posture and make the assumption that the contact would not be received well, so he remained where he was, arms crossed loosely across the open pockets of his team sweatshirt.

He almost allowed himself to react to the comment about looking ‘pretty’ for the press, but ultimately just continued to fidget with his hands and shift in his seat, keeping himself silent and on Damiano’s nerves, if the little side glances were anything to go by. It wasn’t his fault he struggled to keep his attention in one place, nor that he couldn’t sit still. It was half of what gave him an edge on the ice, although it didn’t necessarily benefit him in situations like these. It wasn’t like it was the first time someone had referred to his good looks in a negative light. In fact, it was the most common chirp he received on the ice. He never really minded–was it really such a crime to look this good? Yet, something about the front office saying it struck a chord with him, and he found himself tuning out a barrage of potentially empty threats in lieu of processing it further, only coming out of his trance when his elbow brushed up against Damiano’s side and caused him to turn, which in turn made Alexandre sit up a little straighter in his seat, shifting to mirror the captain’s obvious efforts to avoid contact.

After the man beside him had said enough convincingly pretty words to the people who had elected him captain, they allowed the pair to leave. It was almost miraculous, Alexandre thought, that someone who lacked so much charisma had somehow managed to single-handedly weasel the pair of them out of the situation without so much as a required team building activity or a disciplinary consequence of some kind. With no help from him, he noted, in a manner that was surprisingly self aware. As everyone began shuffling out of the room, the dark-haired figure followed behind his captain like a lost puppy, wondering if these eerie, labyrinthine tunnels ever became less haunting. He wasn’t sure he’d ever find his way around them like Damiano did, but, then again, he had a penchant for getting lost. Most of the time it was something he could simply roll with, but in this particular case, he was concerned that getting lost would cause him to find himself in a situation that he didn’t want to be in. He wasn’t sure what went on in these tunnels, and he knew that only bad things could come from seeing things that weren’t meant for his eyes. He found himself continuing to study Damiano to give his eyes–and short attention span–something to do. He noticed the way the shorter man’s clothing was neat and seemingly lacked wrinkles, the way he walked with purpose, the way he turned back every so often to reassure himself that Alexandre was still behind him, then made an expression of annoyance as if he were frustrated to receive that reassurance. It was perplexing, he thought, that he seemed to both desire the man’s presence and abhor it.

At last, the pair returned to a familiar area of the facility, and Damiano turned once more, giving a particularly thorough look at the man behind him. Alex wondered what was going on in his brain at that moment, although he knew that, even if he asked and his captain answered, it wouldn’t be a satisfying enough answer for him. He continued to be on his best behavior, saying nothing about the meeting or provoking the Italian until they had arrived back to the team housing. As Damiano entered the code to open the door, Alex used the sheer force of his body to check him into the door, allowing him to turn to face him as he continued to press his weight into him, his hands leaning against the wall, inches from Damiano’s head. Although he was physically intimidating, all of this was a joke to Alexandre and his actions weren’t purposefully threatening. He simply enjoyed the physical contact and the fun of throwing his weight around, and he had an even match in Damiano.

Leaning in just slightly, Alex voiced in a low tone, “how do you suggest we ‘handle things,’ Captain?” As usual, he hadn’t exactly thought about the fact that the implications of this statement were far from innocent until they left his mouth. Still, he didn’t mind, and he released Damiano from this hold after a matter of seconds, hearing the security features finally disarm and allow the pair of them in. As they began to walk up the stairs together, he continued, “I saw there’s no fun team activities on the itinerary for the week. Is there anything fun to do in this city, or am I going to have to drop the gloves with you every time I’m bored?”

✦✧✧

Following the interactions with Damiano, Alexandre said goodnight to his captain and let himself into his lonely apartment, feeling lost and out of place in the sterile environment. He really needed to get some advice from someone on furniture shopping, and soon. His quality of life was significantly improved by bright colors and plants and chaos, and this apartment lacked any of those elements in dramatic fashion. It didn’t help that he’d somehow managed to forget which apartment Callus lived in, although he remembered it was on the same floor as Damiano’s. Which would have been infinitely more helpful if he knew which floor Damiano lived on, or had any more information regarding that than the fact that they both lived somewhere above him.

Alexandre paced the apartment for over an hour before leaving his room simply to walk the hallways, hoping someone would be out that he could convince to keep him company for a while. He never slept well without someone else in close proximity, and the thought of other teammates being a wall away from him wasn’t as comforting as it should’ve been. He’d managed to get his friend drunk enough the night prior to ensure a companion that day, but it wasn’t a lasting solution. He wandered the halls until security approached him and told him he needed to be in his room during the city’s curfew, which he surrendered to, but failed to sleep nonetheless. There had to be another option than failing to sleep every night. Maybe he could go out into the city and find a girl to keep him company. That’d work. For a while.

✧✦✧

The next day, Alex was the second person to arrive at camp behind his captain. Luckily, the silence between them did not linger for long, as other teammates began to trickle in during the moments that followed. Alex was obviously exhausted and his face continued to throb in retaliation of Damiano’s punches, but the third day of camp was a fairly calm one, and the dark-haired man was beginning to feel like a member of the team. Although he wasn’t doing much to integrate himself into the team dynamics, he’d had a positive interaction with the starting goaltender for the team, the only other man who stood at 6’6 on the roster. He’d wanted to pick Alex’s brain about his play the day prior and what he’d done to disguise his shot placement on one of the rookie goaltenders. Obviously, having gotten four goals past him, he’d done something that had caused the rookie to go to the veteran for advice, and he’d used it as an opportunity to break the ice between them.

The day was a fairly calm one, another day of reviewing the play from the year prior. In fact, it was rather curious that they had chosen game footage from the last time the Hellcats had played the Cyclones, and copious jokes were made throughout the day by the defensemen regarding the fact that, rather than review their mistakes against him, they could make new mistakes against Alexandre on the ice whenever they wished. He didn’t particularly mind the attention, although the lack of sleep he’d received caused him to be a bit less hyperactive and a bit more sullen than normal, simply content to sit in the back of the room and reminisce on what he’d had in Crete before he lost it all. Soon the early morning had faded into an afternoon of drills, followed by a scrimmage where he’d been elected one of the captains based on his performance from the day prior. Teams were pre-decided by the coaching staff, and, as he found out, had been stacked significantly in Damiano and Cal’s team’s favor. They’d essentially played all of the veterans against Alex and the rookies to see what would happen. They fell, 4-1, with Alex doing all of the heavy lifting on the one goal they did get. They elected to do a shootout at the end of the game for fun anyway, and he was also one of three to score in the shootout out of his entire team. Perhaps if he’d had more energy, he would’ve been able to carry his team to the victory, but he didn’t, and they lost. Somehow, their goaltender was better than the veteran goaltender in the shootout, however, and they managed to win that, although it was entirely for fun.

By the time the dark-haired figure had undressed, put his gear away, and returned from the showers dressed in team gear, he was ready to go home and annoy Cal until he gave in and watched movies with him until they fell asleep again. Yet, when he emerged, Damiano began accusing him of stealing something from him in a prank. In fairness, he had pranked one of the rookies earlier in the day by taping up his gear and hanging it from the balcony of the press box, but he had insisted that he hadn’t done this, and had been so adamant about this that he had offered to stay behind and help him look for his dumb necklace, primarily so that he could say ‘I told you so’ when they eventually found it. Cal stayed behind too, primarily because of a poorly-concealed fear of what might happen if the pair of them were left alone together for any amount of time, although he was less willing to help with the actual search for the item. They didn’t even notice when the doors clicked shut and all security measures were enforced for the night in accordance with the city’s curfew.

✧✧✦

It had been a few hours by the time the necklace fell out of the emergency pocket of Damiano’s gear bag when he’d taken everything apart and shaken it for the third time. At this point, Alexandre wasn’t even smug anymore, he was simply tired, and barely reinforced his point before sprawling out on the floor of the gear room, lying back in defeat. Cal nudged him with his foot idly, sighing softly and saying, “well, I think I need a drink after that. Anyone care to join me?”

Of course, as they tried to exit, all three were met with the harsh reality of the time of night it had become, and the fact that they were no longer allowed to leave the building. The blond was halfway through his explanation of the team bunker situation when a revelation hit him, and he paused mid-sentence to ask Damiano about some alcohol that the pair of them had confiscated from the rookies recently, which had apparently been stashed somewhere in the facility for safekeeping. Within minutes, the pair were sprawled out on the floor of one of the rooms meant for living and sleeping, passing a bottle of alcohol between them as they lazily moved through a few games of cards which became increasingly incoherent as time went on.

Before long, Alexandre was drunk enough that he’d transitioned from casual touches and pushes against his friend to directly climbing in his lap, almost crushing the blond from the weight. Cal was only about 5’10 and, though he was more muscular and big-bodied than Alex as a defenseman, the dark-haired man’s length was unmatched, his long legs stretching far off the smaller man’s lap and supporting some of his weight.

“God, you’re like an oversized dog,” the blond whined, doing nothing to push the forward off of him, and instead shifting his weight to accommodate the new body that he was cradling horizontally in his lap.

“Hold me,” Alex murmured incoherently, more than half gone from the mix of alcohol and overwhelming sleepiness that had been threatening to take over for the majority of the day. He nestled his head into the blond’s shoulder, enjoying the warmth of another body in such a cold and damp place, but his eyes continued to linger on the figure across from him. In a sense, it was more comfortable for him to fixate on one thing in particular with the room spinning as it was, and Damiano wasn’t that horrible to look at, after all. There was a wide-eyed innocence in Alex resulting from his current state that seemed almost boyish, something endearing and immature all at once. At the first sign of physical touch, all of the restlessness that seemed to control his body throughout the day simply stopped. It was as if Cal’s calmness had penetrated Alexandre’s hyperactive exterior, sending a quiet gentleness rippling through him in his subdued state.

By the last game of cards, Cal was basically playing both of their hands, forcing Alex to continue to hold his but physically manipulating the younger man’s hand with his own to put down one set of cards separately from the other. He was maintaining an easy conversation with Damiano, nothing too deep or serious, but it wasn’t difficult for the blond to see how his captain’s gaze faltered and fixed on the sleepy man pressed against his chest every so often, trailing off his response as he physically forced himself to tear his gaze from the dark-haired figure. What an odd dynamic, the defenseman thought, noticing the reaction that Alex seemed to illicit from their captain after what seemed like the thousandth time that he watched it happen. They were all too intoxicated and exhausted for pretenses, and even if they hadn’t been, Cal seemed confident that Alex would’ve managed to get a reaction out of him one way or the other. Even after the man in his lap had fallen asleep and Cal had needed to adjust the way he was cradling his extremely oversized baby like a tired father, Damiano was still taking interest in his sleeping form, even if he was continuing the internal struggle between staring and keeping his eyes fixated anywhere else. Even as he himself drifted off to sleep, the defenseman considered the curious actions between the pair, and wondered what would come of them in the days that were to follow.

Ico x StrayMarch 16, 2025 12:50 AM


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Damiano tore through his gear bag with a frantic energy, his breath coming short and fast as his hands upended every piece of equipment, every strap, every crumpled sock that had been shoved carelessly inside. His gloves hit the floor first, then his pads, then his jersey, and still—nothing. His heart pounded so loudly he could hear it in his ears, a sickening rush of panic crawling up his throat as he shook out the bag again, hoping that by some miracle, the small, worn leather cord of his necklace would tumble free.

Nothing.

Damiano cursed under his breath, barely registering Cal’s halfhearted attempt at reassurance. It wasn’t just a necklace. It wasn’t just some random trinket he could replace. His little brother had made it for him years ago, a simple strand of faux leather tied around a tiny glass jar filled with catshark teeth—something he’d been obsessed with as a kid. It was one of the only things he had left from a time when things were easier, from a person who still thought of him as something more than the cold, hardened thing he had become. The idea of losing it sent a sick twist through his stomach, and his fingers dug into the gear bag with renewed determination, pulling at the lining, flipping it upside down as though he could shake the damn thing out by sheer force of will.

He was already dreading the moment when he’d have to accept that it was gone. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. The thought sent his pulse hammering harder, a sharp, anxious heat burning beneath his skin. It was that same fear he’d always had—of losing something important, of being too careless to hold onto the things that mattered. His jaw clenched as he scrubbed a hand down his face, shaking out every last piece of fabric from his bag onto the floor.

And then—there. A faint, almost imperceptible clatter against the tile as something tumbled free from the emergency pocket of his bag. The glass jar caught the dim light of the locker room, sending a flicker of relief racing through his chest so fast it nearly made him dizzy.

Damiano snatched it up immediately, rolling the familiar weight of it between his fingers, his breathing still uneven from the spike of adrenaline. His hands were shaking. He exhaled sharply, trying to suppress the tremor as he unclipped the necklace and fastened it securely around his neck again, fingers lingering over the worn cord like he could imprint the relief into his skin.

“Jesus, finally,” Cal muttered, nudging at the scattered mess of Damiano’s gear with his foot. "Well, I think I need a drink after that. Anyone care to join me?"

Damiano barely processed the words, still staring down at his hands, flexing them like he could force the residual tremors to stop. His heartbeat was still too fast, his chest too tight, but at least the panic was receding, leaving only a dull ache in its wake. It was fine. He had it. It was fine.

So why did he still feel like something had cracked open inside him?

He didn’t have an answer for that. But when Cal mentioned the alcohol they had stashed away, Damiano latched onto the idea with more enthusiasm than usual. It was something to drown out the lingering restlessness, something to take the edge off the clenching feeling in his chest. He didn’t often drink to excess—he could handle his liquor well enough, and he rarely let himself get too far gone. But tonight? Tonight, he didn’t pace himself.

The three of them sprawled out on the floor, passing the bottle between them as the night wore on. Damiano drank without thinking, without care, each sip burning pleasantly down his throat, numbing the frayed edges of his mind. The cheap liquor made everything feel a little hazier, the sharp fluorescent light of the facility casting an almost dreamlike quality over the scene. Cal was the first to start leaning against Alex, shoving at him, laughing when the taller man barely reacted, already half-draped across him. And then Alexandre practically collapsed into Cal’s lap, stretching out like an oversized cat, his long limbs hanging off at odd angles, the kind of casual, thoughtless closeness that Damiano could never quite grasp for himself.

Damiano watched the scene unfold with something akin to confusion at first. And then—something else. Something sharper.

He took another swig from the bottle, but it didn’t dull the strange, bitter feeling that settled in his gut, a twisting sort of jealousy that he couldn’t even fully comprehend. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him. It shouldn’t. It didn’t mean anything. But there was something about the way Alexandre just let himself be held, the way Cal’s arms instinctively adjusted to cradle him, as if it was second nature. The way Alexandre relaxed at the first sign of warmth, his restlessness disappearing into the security of another body.

Damiano didn’t know what to do with that feeling.

He looked away, but his eyes kept dragging back, catching the way Alexandre's dark lashes fluttered, the way his body melted into the touch, the soft, barely-conscious murmur that left him before he went still. It was ridiculous. Damiano wasn’t even sure what he wanted, only that something about the sight of them tangled together sent a sharp, unwelcome pang through his chest.

It wasn’t fair.

The night stretched on, the alcohol settling deep in his bloodstream, making the edges of the world blur. He barely registered when Cal’s voice started to fade, when the blonde’s grip slackened with sleep, when the last round of cards lay forgotten between them. It was only when the room went completely quiet that Damiano realized he was still awake, staring blankly at the ceiling, feeling oddly cold despite the warmth of the liquor in his veins.

The ache in his chest hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had settled in deeper, threading through his ribs like something permanent. He didn’t understand it.

Without really thinking, he moved.

The alcohol made everything feel looser, his inhibitions blurred enough that he didn’t second-guess himself. He rolled over, slow and deliberate, pressing his forehead into the cool fabric of the mattress beneath him. And then, in a lazy, half-conscious motion, he crawled over to where Alexandre and Cal lay tangled together, his limbs heavy, his body sluggish but determined.

He barely thought about it as he slid in behind Alexandre, wedging himself between Cal’s legs, his body curling instinctively around the other man’s. Alexandre was warm. Damiano could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight of him pressing back against him. It was grounding in a way he hadn’t expected, in a way he hadn’t let himself need.

His arms slid around Alexandre's waist, his fingers curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt, holding on—not tightly, not desperately, but with the quiet insistence of someone who didn’t quite know how to ask for what they wanted.

He buried his face against Alexandre's shoulder, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of alcohol and sweat and something else, something familiar. His legs tangled with Cal’s, the three of them a messy, drunken knot of limbs and heat, but Damiano didn’t care.

For the first time in a long time, he felt still.

And then—finally—he let himself sleep.


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