Archive of Our Own

Claude jerks awake when something collides heavily against the door of his hotel room. He sits up in the bed, his sleep-fuzzy brain trying to figure out what woke him up. Someone starts giggling drunkenly at the other side of the door. Claude groans, flops back on the bed and waits.

It takes a few tries but Seguin manages to slot his card in and get the door unlocked. He heads for his bed, paying Claude no mind, shrugging off his jacket and tearing at his shirt as he stumbles past. Seguin manages to get only partially undressed, falling asleep while struggling to get his shoes untied.

Claude waits a few moments until he hears Seguin’s breathing even out and then flicks on the small reading lamp on his nightstand.

Fat chance getting any more sleep tonight, he might as well grab his earbuds and watch some film.

The light catches on Seguin’s back as he lies on his belly, sprawled like a starfish, revealing the dark lines on his skin. Not all of them are tattoos and Claude has to force his eyes away.

He can barely focus on the film, stealing glances at his current teammate every few minutes. He can’t get over how blasé Seguin is about showing his marks.

Claude hasn’t taken off his cover in six years if you don’t count the brief minutes it takes him to change the stripe and make sure the mark beneath isn’t getting infected.

As a kid he couldn’t wait to finally get the mark and learn the name of his soulmate.

Twelve days into the new millennia he turned twelve and he was so fucking proud when the name started forming on his wrist. The letters weren’t legible – it took full three months of daily checking until the ink solidified and darkened enough for him to read it.

And when he realized that the letters aren’t changing and that no, he didn’t read it wrong, well, then it all went to hell.

Claude looks down at the cover and lets out a long breath. After the first horrifying week, he’s never let anyone see what’s forever engraved into his skin.

“Would you stop tossing?” Seguin suddenly hisses from the other side of the room. “You keep waking me up.”

“Sorry.” Claude says, shoving his marked hand under the bed covers and his other hand behind his head, gazing at the ceiling. The sun has already risen, the sky is lit in pale blue.

“No use now,” Seguin grumbles as he slips out of his bed. “I’m already awake.” He doesn’t even have the decency to look hangover, the little fucker.

Claude sees with the corner of his eye as Seguin yawns and stretches, the muscles flexing, the naked skin revealing the inked names. Seguin is completely unaffected, not an ounce of shame in him as he rummages around the room with no shirt on.

“You keep waking me up when you get in late,” Claude says. “You’re asking for trouble. Someone’s going to catch you and you’ll be sorry.”

Seguin, bent over to grab a clean shirt from his drawer, pauses and looks over his shoulder. “You’re gonna rat on me?” He throws in an disarming smile and Claude is so fucking done with the whole tournament he can’t even manage a reply.

Seguin picks his shirt, parades to the shower and doesn’t bother closing the door properly. Claude. Is. So. Fucking. Done. “The front door lock keeps an automatic count on our entering!” he yells when he gathers his thoughts.

Seguin pokes his head out of the bathroom, not even two minutes later, catching Claude staring at his own cover again. Claude bristles. “What?”

With a knowing smile, Seguin gestures to Claude’s hand. “You know, I could help you with that. I’ve got experience with shitty marks.”

Just when Claude was thinking his morning couldn’t be going any worse. “What?” he repeats, tone flat.

“Not offering, you idiot,” Seguin laughs, disappearing into the bathroom again. The water tap runs for a few seconds and when Seguin reappears, he’s got a toothbrush in his mouth and is still talking. “’U kno’ I’va’ be’n’n Eu’p beefo, aig?”

Claude blinks and hazards, “Yes?”

Seguin rolls his eyes, takes a step back into the bathroom to spit. “I’ve been in Europe before,” Seguin calls out, “and I know someone who could help you out with that thing. You just ask for Didier and he’ll make it work for you. I’ve first learned about it in Basel but they’ve got this agency in Paris – and I’m leaving for Paris when we win the gold.”

“What kind of an agency?” Claude drawls, voice dangerously low. Damn it, he would have been better off rooming with fucking Crosby.

Seguin probably isn’t a total nimwit because he picks up on the hostile tone. “Oh, hey, no! ‘U kno’ I didn’t b’lieve’n that shit eith’r. I still don’t b’lieve’n those one-true-match ag’nc’s. This is diff’r’nt, I swear.”

“How is this any different?”

“They g’t ‘u a numb’r, ‘u fill’n what ‘u want, they fix ‘u up wi’ anoth’r numb’r of their guys. They’re discreet.”

Claude didn’t know the word was in Seguin’s vocabulary. “Huh.”

Seguin peeks out again, gnawing on the toothbrush. “’U g’nna laik’et!”

“Yeah, you wish.” Claude shakes his head and focuses on keeping his eyes on Seguin’s face. “Dude,” Claude says with a suspicion, “which toothbrush are you using?”

“Err, the blue one, like always? Wait, have you been using mine this whole time? Eww, man, that’s so not cool.”

“Yours is the green one, you dipshit!” Claude roars, jumping on his feet and quickly shoving his legs into his slippers.

Seguin locks himself in the bathroom and starts singing, horribly off-key.

Claude bangs on the door. “Hey! Get back here! I’m not done talking to you!”

Ah, heck, it was probably too late to demand Seguin bunks up with Spezza instead.

The agency has a lovely office in an unassuming brown stone building in one of the streets not far from the Panthéon. Claude would have missed it completely if Segs didn’t tell him about it. In details. In vivid details.

It takes four flights of stairs to walk up into the office – the building is old and doesn’t have a lift – and Claude almost talks himself out of doing this about a hundred times. He ends up going in mostly because he doesn’t want to be taken in for suspicious behaviour if there were any cameras on the staircase.

There is a receptionist with short black hair and a purple bra that’s showing through her blue dress and who smiles at him and tells him to wait a moment when he tells her why he came. He barely has time to read through one of the many leaflets in the lounge before he’s ushered into one of the private rooms.

No one asks for his name or his personal data. All they ask is if he already has a generated number – he doesn’t – and if he used any services of their sister companies anywhere in Europe – he didn’t. Then he fills in his preferences and in half an hour he is back on the streets of Paris but this time with six numbers that matched his criteria. None of the guys would ask any questions and no one would ever mention the mark or demand he takes off the stripe that covers his mark and shit, he’s not thinking about Danny again.

He calls in the first number from his list and arranges for them to meet the very same evening. It’s all he could ask for, given his situation.

Meeting the first guy is not an experience he’d like to recall often. The guy isn’t really his type and he opens up with ‘call me Andrew’ and Claude scrambles his brain for a fake name that doesn’t sound utterly stupid. Like Inigo or Waldo. Shit, brain, focus. He thrusts out his hand like a moron because it’s a reflex he doesn’t get in check quickly enough and then the jerky motion of his hand would look just plain weird. The whole meeting is more awkward than arousing and Claude can’t relax. It’s been forever since he let himself unwind – any relationships out of the bonds are frowned upon.

He needs to say, though, the guy never once mentions the cover and is careful not to touch the wristband. Just that fact is enough for Claude to seek out the experience again the next day. He is that desperate. Segs said there are no agencies like this in the States and if someone has been looking for the loopholes, it’s Segs. Claude should better enjoy Paris while he can.

The second guy Claude calls is… better. He’s not trying so hard and Claude isn’t so desperate either. He’s willing to meet up the next day, too.

By the time Claude grows tired of the second guy, Segs is no longer in France. Claude doesn’t have anywhere to rush back to. He might just as well enjoy this while it lasts. It was another season to forget for the Flyers but at least Claude did well for Canada. European summer is looking up for him right now and he sees no reason for cutting his vacation short.

The fifth guy – and it’s not like he’s trying to make his way through his list, really. It’s just that none of the four guys was quite what he was looking for. God, he hopes his subconscious isn’t looking for a bond-like relationship.

The fifth guy is something else entirely. They hit it off right away.

He’s tall, dark and handsome and he’s also running ten minutes late. Claude picks up on his presence immediately and the guy also has no trouble finding him in the crowded street.

“Oh shit, you’re already here?” the guy pants, stopping a few steps short from Claude. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m so sorry, I swear this doesn’t usually happen to me. Not often, anyway.”

The guy is perfect. Sun-kissed skin, dark hair, sharp features and a roguish glint in his eyes. Claude takes in the athletic build and the broad shoulders, he listens to the rich, slightly nasal tone of voice and he knows right then how much he wants him. His lips curl up in a genuine smile. “It’s fine. I haven’t been waiting long.”

“Sorry. Let’s go.” The guy runs a hand through his hair, leaving it tousled. It makes Claude feel less conscious about his own unruly mane.

Claude follows, shoving his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t do something silly like launching at the guy right here and now. There’s this pull he can’t quite ignore. “It’s not far from here, is it?”

When the guy looks at him, his dark eyes are full of promises. “No,” he murmurs.

“Good,” Claude says simply, equally breathless.

The guy stirs awake when Claude tries to sneak out of the bed, and yawns. “Don’t you want breakfast?” Another yawn. “To make it up for being late?”

“You’ve more than made it up to me.”

“Oh, c’mon. Indulge me. How do you take your coffee?” The guy laughs, catching Claude’s hand as he tries to hurry past him to the door.

Claude won’t hold it against the guy – especially since his face turns absolutely horrified and he keeps apologising profusely – but the guy’s fingers brush against Claude’s cover.

The jolt is instant, Claude can feel the shiver run down his spine, followed by prickles of warmth and the sense of a perfect calmness that momentarily overpowers him.

He must be imagining things again. It’s just that no one else has touched the stripe since he was a kid.

“No, thanks. Gotta run or I’ll – I’ll miss my plane.”

The door falls shut behind him with an audible click and Claude races out of the building.

He doesn’t have a plane to catch. He gets back to the hotel room he’s staying at, he wrenches his cover off and stares at the harsh lines of his own name etched into his skin.

He climbs into his bed and bows his head in defeat, overwhelmed by the feeling of loneliness.

He’s heard of people not having soulmarks at all. It’s rare, but it doesn’t mean they don’t find a bond. He’s heard of people having really inconvenient soulmarks of family members or having more than one mark – but none of them are alone.

Claude knows that in the whole world, there isn’t anyone for him. No one he could care for and cherish, no one he could rely on and love.

He’s stuck with the scribble of his own fucking name and the terrible longing for something that’s he’s not meant to have. He’s condemned to his own company.

He needs a drink. Or ten.

Claude can’t bring himself to call the guy again.

It’s been too close to be what Claude always wanted. Unsettlingly close, because he knew it wasn’t true. The way they just clicked, it was almost magical. It was how Claude had imagined things would be like with a soulmate, back when he was a little naïve kid and a hopeless dreamer.

He spends the last few days in Paris sightseeing. He circles back to the first four guys. He tries the sixth guy, too.

There is never any spark.

He puts on a nondescript hoodie and hides his face behind sunglasses. He picks one passer-by on a busy street and bumps into him so that their hands touch and the guy’s fingers brush against Claude’s cover just for a fleeting second and Claude feels – big fat nothing is what Claude feels.

He always suspected falling in love had nothing to do with the stupid marks, anyway.

In the end he flies back home and tries hard to forget about Paris.

It doesn’t help that everyone he meets wants to talk to him about the Worlds. His family in particular is way too perceptive for their own good and his sister dear won’t stop bugging him about why he’s so upset when the tournament couldn’t have gone any better for them.

He snaps at her when he finally can’t take it anymore – “It’s my mark, okay? Just let it go.” He knows it’s a low blow because she gets this pinched, pitying expression and her kind face grows all sad and it’s making him miserable as well. But she leaves him be and she must say something to the rest of the family because the issue is dropped.

They all like to pretend Claude’s mark doesn’t exist. Well, fine by Claude. Most days, he likes to pretend he doesn’t have a mark either.

Claude has a momentary lapse of judgement, once, and calls the guy again. Asks if they can meet up tomorrow.

“Tomorrow?” the guy echoes.

Claude can hear it in the tone of his voice before the guy says anything.

“I can’t make it tomorrow. I’m – I’m not in the country. Sorry.”

Claude isn’t ‘in the country’ either. He doesn’t mind where he flies out. “But you’re still in Europe?”

There is a pause. “In England. But listen, I really can’t make it tomorrow.”

The guy doesn’t offer to meet up the day after tomorrow or over the weekend and Claude tries to hold on the last threads of his dignity and doesn’t ask again. “Okay, never mind.” He hangs up before the guy can start apologising again.

He’s nearly over it – he only thinks about it once or twice a day tops – when a call wakes him up a few minutes after three in the morning. “’lo?” he croaks into the phone.

There is an achingly familiar laugh before a husky voice says. “Good morning. Did I wake you up?”

“Yes,” Claude admits, feeling wide awake by the second.

There is that laugh again and Claude grips his phone a little tighter.

“You sleeping in late, eh? Listen, are you here in Paris?”

Claude closes his eyes and when he opens them again, the room is still dark except for the light of his phone and so cold and so fucking empty that Claude breathes out, “Yeah, why?”

“I’m sitting here, having breakfast all by myself and I’m thinking I still don’t know how you take your coffee.”

“Hot and sweet,” Claude rasps.

“Good,” the guy chuckles. “I’ll remember that. When do you want to meet?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be perfect.”

“Okay then,” Claude says and his traitorous heart is alive again.

Claude doesn’t realize how often he’s flying overseas until the airline offers him a loyalty program before Christmas.

There is a direct flight that leaves after six in the evening and brings him to Paris in time for breakfast. It’s as if he was seeing someone in Montréal and travelled there by a car. It’s not insane. Inconvenient, maybe. But not insane, Claude tries to convince himself.

Claude is so used to catching up on his sleep on planes he starts falling asleep the moment he hears the buzz of the aircraft engines. The guys on his team never stop making cracks about it when he’s out cold in seven seconds flat on every interstate flight.

Come to think about it, it feels like he spends half of his life flying.

He wouldn’t want it any other way.

The spark that he felt the first time they met is still there. Maybe it’s because they don’t ask for names, maybe it’s the way the guy towers over Claude or maybe it’s the absolutely fantastic sex they have. The guy knows how to touch Claude to drive him insane within minutes and he knows how to make it last until Claude’s begging for the sweet release.

Whatever is the secret, it works.

(It works until it doesn’t.)

It’s enough.

(Until it isn’t.)

“Good morning,” Claude says one lazy morning the moment the guy opens his eyes. “You should call me G.” He gets it out in a rush and then sucks in a breath and waits for the reaction.

The guy blinks sleepily and reaches out his hand to Claude. “Nice to meet you, G.” Claude snorts but shakes the offered hand. The familiar warm sensation that starts flooding in the moment their hands touch helps to settle his nerves. There is a pause, then the guy adds, “I’m Olivier. Oli for short.”

Surprised to be actually getting a reply, Claude glances up and watches Olivier’s eyes blaze. “Good,” Claude croaks around the lump in his throat.

Claude’s sure that if there were supposed to be any boundaries, him and Olivier always ignored them all. Right from that first night when Claude didn’t up and disappear the moment they were done, from the moment Olivier smiled at him and asked how Claude took his coffee.

It may have started slow and small but now this thing with Olivier feels less and less like an arrangement and more and more like a relationship. It’s fucking with Claude’s head.

He feels like he’s known the guy forever. But he hardly knows anything about him. About his regular job, his friends, his family, his life. Claude wants to know everything but he knows he doesn’t have the right to ask.

He still asks.

He waits a few weeks but the questions are gnawing, poisoning his mind and he feels his focus slipping.

“How can you keep doing this?” Claude chooses the trickiest question when they next meet up for lunch.

Olivier doesn’t spit out his drink and storm off. He arches his eyebrows and asks, “Which part?”

Claude taps his own wristband pointedly. “This part.”

“Ah. You get used to it.”

Claude isn’t getting used to it.

There is a tension between them, one that Claude sure as hell isn’t causing but one that he can’t seem to overcome. There is just this weird, tense air around Olivier and it physically hurts.

Claude sits up from where he was pressed up against Olivier’s chest, tongue lapping at the hollow of Olivier’s collar bone. He remains straddling his hips, hand lightly stroking Olivier’s cheek. “Oli, is everything all right?”

Olivier gives him a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yes.”

It’s a lie. Olivier’s mind is distracted, he’s not as attentive as Claude is used to him being, he is guarded. Claude doesn’t like it at all. “I know something’s eating you. Out with it.”

“It’s just… I like this.” Olivier makes a gesture between them.

Claude withdraws completely, folding his legs underneath himself on the bed. He makes an understanding noise. “Yeah, me too.”

“I really like this, G,” Olivier sighs. “And I hate keeping it from you because if this is going somewhere, you should know. I don’t expect you to do anything but I think you need to know.”

“Yeah? Know about what?”

Olivier takes in a deep breath and says, “My mark. I’ve been thinking and I need to show you.” Olivier’s fingers are playing with his wristband, slipping one finger in and wiggling the stripe until it eases off from its grip on the skin.

“No. No, Olivier, no. You don’t have to do this. I don’t want to know.” Despite his words, Claude can’t tear his eyes away.

Olivier shakes his head slightly. “We need to talk about it if we want to move forward. It’s really bad and I hope you won’t freak out–”

“I won’t,” Claude assures him immediately. He cradles his own stripe protectively in his lap, covering it with the palm of his hand in an unconscious gesture. His insides turn at the thought of letting anyone know his secret. He is sure Olivier’s mark won’t be anything pretty either.

“–because I’d hate to lose you.”

Claude admires Olivier’s courage to share his mark and revels at the level of trust Olivier clearly has in him. “You know I like you no matter what is your mark, right?”

Olivier grumbles something under his breath. Claude doesn’t catch it but before he could ask, Olivier goes on.

“You asked me the other week how I can do this when I have a soulmate waiting for me somewhere. You asked how can I do it this to them. And you deserve an honest answer, G.” The stripe comes off with Olivier’s next words. “I know there isn’t anyone waiting for me.”

Claude’s eyes widen when he sees the letters on Olivier’s arm.

It’s like getting crosschecked from behind so hard he loses his footing. It’s worse than the feeling of utter despair when he first realized his own mark was what it was.

He feels the bile rise in his throat. He swallows one, twice. It doesn’t help anything.

Olivier’s mark is the same scribble as his own. The loopy, careless letters that form the initial of the given name and the surname of one’s soulmate. It’s not Olivier’s mark, it’s Claude’s own. Claude doesn’t have to keep looking, he knows every little part of the lazy swirls. From the first ‘c’ that almost forms a full circle to the flourish of the last letter.

Claude’s heart beat is skyrocketing. He hasn’t felt the jagged stab of betrayal since Danny – Shit. Now he really feels like he might throw up.

He scrambles off the bed but Olivier follows his suit. Claude glances at his face for a second. Olivier is really good at this, Claude has to give him that, because the emotions that flicker across the taller man’s face look gut-wrenchingly genuine. But Claude knows they’re not. They’re really, really not. Fuck. Shit.

Because Olivier is not his soulmate, because his ‘mark’ if as fake as they come and because the fear and despair in Olivier’s face are well-practised expressions.

Claude wishes it was true, wishes it was really his handwriting marking the skin on Olivier’s wrist and binding them together, wishes that in turn the mark he’s had all his life wasn’t in his own nondescript handwriting. Olivier is all he could ever want. It. Is. Not. Fair.

He shoves hard against Olivier’s chest when the man tries to block his way out of the apartment. Olivier stumbles, probably caught by surprise, and Claude doesn’t hesitate to leave the room.

He doesn’t look back because he doesn’t want to know if Oli is still keeping up the pretence just in case Claude looks or if he already knows the jig is up and is looking angry.

The faint buzzing in his ears won’t stop for hours and his heart keeps racing. He wanders the now familiar streets of Paris alone, getting caught in a sudden downpour because he never bothers bringing his own umbrella. He could always huddle under Olivier’s.

For the first time in forever, Claude doesn’t fall asleep during the flight to Philadelphia. The hours drag one by one by one and despite the miles covered, it feels like he isn’t any closer to home. It’s an endless torture.

His mind is grasping at contradicting thoughts and he can’t make any sense of why Olivier would try to pull this shit after all they’ve managed to become. What Claude thought they’ve become. Olivier could have been pretending since the very first time they met. Claude wouldn’t have been any wiser, he flew into this mess with his arms wide open. He can’t be sure about anything anymore.

Although, there is one thing he is absolutely sure of. He’s going to kill Segs.

Claude doesn’t end up killing Segs. He doesn’t end up doing much of anything for the next two weeks. He has a truly miserable time, a lot of sleepless nights and over a gross voice messages Olivier leaves on his phone.

They’re utterly heartbreaking – Claude listens to every single one – and they make him physically sick.

He doesn’t get how Olivier could have pretended to have Claude’s soulmark. He really doesn’t. Not to mention that Olivier shouldn’t even know what Claude’s mark looks like. (The thought of Olivier having caught a look at Claude’s shameful mark of his own name on his own wrist makes Claude feel sick.)

When Claude can’t fall asleep, he sometimes indulges in letting himself think about what it would be like. If Olivier was really his soulmate and Claude just didn’t have Olivier’s mark back. If they formed an unrequited bond – one that wouldn’t be unrequited, after all.

It’s scary how easy it is to imagine the relationship working out.

Claude manages to go on for another half a week, then he breaks.

After a particularly awful evening practice, he gets back home, picks up his phone, bites on his lip and dials Olivier’s number.

Olivier picks up right away. “G?”

“Hey, let’s talk.”

“Thank God,” Olivier breathes out shakily. “When can I meet you?”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Olivier sighs, “It’s always tomorrow with you.”

“The flight alone basically takes eight hours.”

There is a long silence. “Christ. Where are you actually from?”

Claude pinches the bridge of his nose. “We can talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay… G? I’m really glad you called. I thought you’d never want to see me again.”

“Yeah, that was a valid option.” For maybe five days tops.

Claude can hear Olivier gulp.

“I shouldn’t have fucking told you. I’m sorry, okay? I told you you’d be disgusted with the mark.”

Claude lets his hand fall from his face. “The ‘mark’ isn’t really the problem,” he says quietly.

There is some rustling, as Olivier settles. “I know I’m a freak. You’ve been… I’m sorry but I wanted to tell you so badly.”

“I really don’t know why you did it but I’ll hear you out tomorrow.”

“Thanks, G. I thought you were done with the fuck-up who has his own name for a mark. I’m glad you’re trying to see past that.”

“Your own name,” Claude echoes, mind going blank.

“…G?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll be there, I promise,” he forces out.

He hangs up first.

Olivier is waiting for him at a small café terrace tucked near the corner of the street leading to Olivier’s flat. Claude has a feeling he might find him there, nibbling on his croissant and dunking it into his coffee. Call it a hunch.

Claude is right – as he nears the street, he spots Olivier, wearing jeans and a red shirt, sitting with his back to Claude. He has his white headphones on and is nodding his head to a beat only he can hear.

It takes only a moment and then Olivier is swivelling around to look straight at Claude. Their eyes meet and Olivier pulls down his headphones.

“Before you say anything,” Olivier starts the moment Claude is within a hearing distance, “I want to say I’m sorry and that I’m–”

“Jesus, shut it.” Claude rapidly closes the distance between them to hiss at Olivier. “Let’s get somewhere more private – your place?”

“I didn’t want to assume,” Olivier grins cheekily.

Claude waits just enough to let Olivier pay for his coffee, then he’s grabbing Olivier’s elbow and steering him away from the busy streets. Olivier lets himself be dragged along, probably also glad for any kind of physical contact between them.

“As I was saying,” Olivier says when they step over the threshold of his flat, before the front door even has time to close shut, “I’m sorry and I know marks are private matters and I shouldn’t have shown you. I just wanted you to see that even if I have a mark I’m not technically taken because it’s just my own name. And I’m sorry if it’s freaking you out.”

Olivier says it all in one long breath and when he’s done he crosses his arms and raises his chin, obviously waiting for Claude to start arguing.

Instead, Claude shrugs off his jacket, puts it on the hanger near the door and invites himself further into Olivier’s flat. Olivier follows and Claude catches their reflections in the mirror. He has dark circles under his eyes and looks like he hasn’t slept in days – which he hasn’t, not properly – and his hair looks like it is on a strike, all that’s missing are little banners with ‘En grève!’ written all over. Olivier is half a step behind him and he’s smiling fondly at the little rebellion.

Claude gets into the living room, turns to Olivier and squares his shoulders. He’s doing this. And it will be perfectly all right.

He takes in a breath, opens his mouth – and he can’t get a word out. Olivier’s brow furrows, creating a deep, worried crease in the middle. Claude huffs and instead of trying to come up with the right words that won’t be misunderstood, he undoes the binding of his stripe, pulling off the cover in quick effective tugs.

“I owe you this much.”

“You don’t,” Olivier chokes out but by that time the mark is out there in the open, dark swirls of Claude’s own name marring his wrist in clear line of sight for Olivier to see.

“Oh my god,” Olivier breathes out. “I don’t get it.”

He’s grabbing his own cover and pulling it off, frowning as he glances between the two hauntingly similar marks. But Olivier sees it. The little differences, the way the very last flourish is made differently in his own mark than in Claude’s.

“Look,” he says, stretching out his hand, holding it next to Claude’s wrist. “they’re not the same.”

“Oh, fuck me.” Claude’s voice is shaking, his eyes are scanning every inch of Olivier’s wrist, bitterly regretting not paying a close enough attention to the detail the first time he got the chance instead of jumping to conclusions.

“I think,” Oli says reverently, his dark honest eyes staring at Claude’s mark and the line of his lips softening, “that it might be my initial and my name. It’s a very sloppy handwriting.”

“So is mine,” Claude reminds him.

That earns him a chuckle. “No shit.” Olivier pointedly waves at his wrist with his other hand.

“Good point,” Claude has to admit.

“There is one way to find out.”

“I’m not sure I want to do it,” Claude says but then adds hurriedly, when he notices how Olivier’s expression closes off, “No, I mean, I want to, of course I want to. But if you’re wrong and we won’t bond, I don’t want to face the disappointment.”

“You wouldn’t want me without the bond?”

“I–” Claude trails off. He has already wanted Olivier, bond or no bond. He’s always wanted Olivier, even back when he thought they could never bond. “I would,” he admits aloud. He knew it already if the months of pining were anything to go by. He just didn’t let himself think about it before.

Claude’s honesty is rewarded by a beaming smile.

“Let’s do this,” Claude whispers hoarsely, reaching his marked hand out to Olivier.

“Okay,” Olivier takes his hand and turns it palm up, looking down at the letters. Tentatively, he brushes the pad of his thumb against the loop of a ‘G’, making Claude shiver. “Let’s find out.”

Olivier aligns their hands as if they were going for a handshake but they both grip the other’s forearm instead, and the inner sides of their wrists press against each other, the marks finally touching ink to ink.

The bond sparks to life.

It’s a sensation like no other. It’s all Claude’s been taught about at school when he was a little kid, all his sister feverishly talked about when her bond surfaced. It’s nothing like he could have expected.

He’s so very aware of Olivier it almost hurts. It’s like he could reach out and touch the golden warmth of emotions pouring from Olivier into the bond. Claude is already familiar with the feeling. It’s been there each time they touched but it’s been muted. Now someone cranked it up full volume and it’s so loud and there it’s dizzying.

Claude lets out a startled grunt, his lips falling apart. Olivier pins Claude’s hands above their heads and intertwines their fingers.

Olivier reaches to him through the bond, slowly, tentatively and before Claude knows what he’s doing, he answers him in earnest, opening the connection on his side and letting Olivier in, equating the bond between them.

The world goes a little fuzzy then.

After a few moments Claude can focus on the gentle fingers carding through his hair and the hand cupping his cheek. Claude glances up at Olivier whose pupils are blown wide. He’s panting heavily, cheeks flushed.

Their fingers are laced together, their palms pressed together, their marks feeding off the bond between them.

“Well, that settles it, then,” Olivier chuckles. He leans down to Claude but pauses, his lips just inches shy of touching Claude’s. Claude can feel the soft puffs of Olivier’s breath on his face.

“Oli,” Claude moans, tilting up his head to close the gap.

The bond soars, pleased.

“You know, I always wondered…” Oli starts to say sometime later.

Claude pokes him with his elbow. “Yes? C’mon, talk to me.”

Oli sighs. “How did you found out about the agency in the first place?”

“Segs told me.”

“What?”

Claude snorts. “A guy I was rooming with at the Worlds. He’s got…” Claude trails off. Him and Segs might not be on the same team anymore but it’s still not his story to share, about the marks. “He’s got a complicated bond, too. Used his time in Europe during the lockout differently than I did,” Claude adds with a soft chuckle. “He told me about the service.”

Oli leans in for a kiss and Claude is more than happy to accommodate him. The bond is still new and vibrant, the novelty sending a loop of feelings bouncing back and forth between them and Claude has a hard time telling apart his feelings from Oli’s. It’s not like it matters right now.

“That teammate of yours,” Oli pants, pulling away just enough to rest his forehead against Claude’s. “How would he feel about a fruit basket?”

“Absolutely not,” Claude manages when he’s done laughing. “Maybe a box of one hundred toothbrushes.” He sets himself off again and has to kiss the confused expression off Oli’s face. “I’ll tell you some day, it’s a long story. And he’s not a teammate.”

“We’ve got time,” Oli hums, fingers tracing the mark on Claude’s wrist.

Claude glances down at the letters that have been mocking him all his life and for the first time since they set into his skin, the sight doesn’t make him sick.