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There is, Ovi thinks, something to be said about the whole don't meet your idols refrain. Something that sort of dances down the line of, well, clearly, none of them were talking about his idol, Shane Hollander.
And like, here's the thing: Ovi had practiced so fucking hard in the hours between the game and dinner. He'd only burst into nervous tears twice, tripped once, and had to wrestle Breezy out of his custom-made Shane Hollander pajamas four times.
Los had agreed, for both of them, to do the majority of the talking, because half the time when Ovi thought about opening his mouth, all that came out was a shrill keen of nonsense. Breezy kept stuttering; they both were a fucking mess.
And that was just at home.
It was even worse in person.
Because Miss Jane is funny in a shyly clever sort of way, as if he's unaccustomed to being listened to by more than one person. His face is expressive and still unreadable, and, of course, mind-bogglingly handsome, and he's clearly the most competent man who's ever fucking existed. And, as if that's not enough, he's kind and gracious, and he and Cap are so fucking in love it makes Ovi's whole heart hurt.
Even as his whole world falls apart—which, holy shit, what the fuck is Montreal doing—he's in control.
Even as he confronts Cap, he's sleekly in charge, dizzyingly enchanting with his clear connection to a higher power, relentlessly held to some loftier standard that he's still meeting on his own accord. Frankly, Ovi comes away from the kitchen thinking, unsurprisingly, Shane Hollander is unreal.
But then, they're away from the kitchen. Without Cap, or the only other person who absolutely knows what the fuck is going on. And as it often does, when they're missing their fearless leader, all hell breaks loose.
"What the fuck," Marley says, as soon as they're back in the living room; he's one of the loudest voices but is by no means alone—Ovi can hear seven other distinct voices over the poorly contained din. "I thought—hang on, he's cursed?"
"So all the games he played, all the—fuck. What the hell is Montreal doing?" Mamrie asks, like any of them know.
"Do you think Pike and Boiziau know?" Carmie asks, before the rest of his words are overtaken by everyone else yelling about what to do next.
"Is he cursed?" Breezy asks, so quiet it's almost lost to the room, even as Ovi and Los both lean in to hear him. "I mean, I thought people who were cursed were incapable?"
Ovi turns his eyes to Los, who's their little expert. Los looks uncomfortable, and Ovi's opening his mouth to tell him he doesn't have to answer, when a hand settles down on Los' shoulder, Sainty peering at them.
"Los, what the fuck was the spell he did?" Sainty asks, worry coring through the sharpness of his words. He narrows his eyes, gesturing haphazardly, as if he can encompass the mess of what they left behind in the kitchen, though Ovi's fairly certain that none of them—even Los—actually understand it. Listening to Cap and Miss Jane felt like decoding some cypher that was half-ruined at the start. "Ritual? Does the name matter?"
Los shrugs, flushing as the majority of the room's attention settles on him. "It was a version of a thankfulness ritual, I think," he finally says, his gaze darting around the room. "But he sure as shit wasn't thanking Montreal." His face screws up, his whole mouth turning sour, as if he's sucked on a lemon. He makes the same expression in practice, when he thinks he needs to run a drill eight thousand more times to perfect it; the familiarity settles the barest edges of Ovi's nerves. "I think those rumors of the Metros feeding the devil for hockey might be fucking true."
"But thanking the magic for what?" Breezy asks—which, thank god, because Ovi has no idea what the fuck that even means—and Los shrugs again.
"It's not for us to know," he says ominously, and rolls his eyes at the grumbles that rise from the tangled crowd of them. "I'm being fucking serious, assholes—if we do know, then things are getting really fucking bad."
Los is almost shouting at the end of it, his voice the loudest it's been all day as it cuts through the majority of the noise.
"Is it because of the Contract?" Ovi asks, into the lull. The words feel odd in his mouth, fumbled gracelessly. He's not sure what he's even looking for, aside from some way to help Miss Jane. Fuck, he feels so unprepared. What fucking videos did Miss Jane mean from earlier? Were they supposed to be attending some sort of magic class? He didn't even know they had magic classes, he thought everyone was just supposed to politely ignore that three teams have some weird deal with the transmundane. Fuck, this isn't good. "Like, he's not supposed to be able to say anything, and that's woven in? Or, something else?"
"It's whatever the Contract is," Los says, and crosses his arms with a huff. "It's like—okay. You know when it gets really foggy in the bay, and everything's smothered in gray, and then there's nothing but the barest hint of a shape of all the skyscrapers in the clouds that only shows up when the sun hits it just right? It's like that, except the gray smothering clouds is the Contract, and the buildings are Shane Hollander."
Dread buzzes in Ovi's veins with every word Los speaks. The weight of knowing an unknown possibility drags at his limbs as he settles back onto the ground, uncaring that he's sitting between a circle of legs. How the fuck is he supposed to know what he doesn't know? Can he even know what he doesn't know? What does not knowing look like when he knows that he's missing something? He feels like he's staring at the edge of a puzzle, the middle part completely empty, a bag of pieces scattered around the room, the reference image torn to shreds. His head already hurts, and he just found out about this.
Breezy joins him on the floor almost immediately, looking vaguely panicked and sick. His hands are trembling, like they always are before a game, but this time they're nowhere close to a rink; Ovi has no idea what's going to help Breezy now, but he reaches over and tangles their fingers together anyways.
"Wait," Zads says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "What?"
Los groans. "You guys are impossible."
Ovi squints at the fire, his mind spinning as he slowly turns everything over in his brain. "So, hang on, we don't know anything about Miss Jane, except for what his Contract that he signed when he was a rookie, hasn't stolen? Covered?"
Los throws his hands up into the air. "No! No, the whole point of the analogy was that we don't know shit."
"Well, why the fuck didn't you just say that, rook?" Seb asks, exasperation clear. "I think we all know none of us know shit."
"But the other point is that if we do know it, that means the Contract is broken—and since we all know that he's signed to play for Montreal for four more years, that means that something fucking fundamental has gone wrong," Los says heatedly, before pinching his nose, his brow furrowing. "Maybe I'm catastrophizing, but something feels really fucking bad about it. Like deadly bad."
"I feel bad about it, too," Ovi says, even as he carefully doesn't think about deadly. The only other time Los has ever sounded so serious was when he had been on the phone with someone Ovi didn't know, his voice couched low and grave. Ovi hadn't wanted to interrupt, despite the growing pit of worry in his stomach, and he'd been too shy to bring it up again later. "Miss Jane is cursed?"
Los shrugs, chewing on his bottom lip. "I don't—I mean, Cap really thinks he is, so. I'd trust that read of the situation."
"You don't think Cap is jumping to conclusions, because it's his boy who's on the other side and he tends to lose like, all common sense, whenever anything even moderately annoying happens to the people he loves?" Marley asks, clearly looking for a confirmation that this isn't as bad as it seems, though Ovi doesn't know how well the idea of Cap being so completely off the mark would help. Los shakes his head immediately, though, and Marley deflates, frowning.
"So," Con says, after a moment of silence. "What do we do? Do we kill Montreal?"
"If Montreal is the one who set it up, killing them would make it worse, because no one would gain anything, except for the magic," Los recites, like it's a possibility that they could kill Montreal. "But I don't know what the fuck that means, or what it'd do, so." He plops himself down next to Ovi, close enough to feel the warmth of him. "The whole thing just fucking sucks."
Ovi immediately leans into him, unashamed to be so obvious with his need to be touched, and shivers as Los scratches a hand through his hair. He follows the gentle tug, twisting until his head is in Los' lap, watching the frown deepen on his face. Breezy shifts with him too, and curls up, next to them, restless until he follows Ovi's beckoning hand and sets his head on his stomach, still clinging with his other hand.
As if the sight of the three of them is the last bit needed for the rest of the Bears to chill the fuck out, everyone else settles in around the three of them. Ovi's completely unsurprised when Con and Sainty bracket Los, even as his gaze stays fixed on Los' frown.
"Maybe I'm being stupid," Breezy mutters. "But I thought that something like this was just in the movies. Who the hell turns a Contract into a curse? And why the hell would you do it to your best player?"
"And, what is it?" Sebbin says. "Because that's the most important piece, right? We don't even know what it's doing."
"I don't think we should speculate," Con says, his voice awash with fear. "Isn't magic all about intent? What if it takes what we've said as a suggestion?"
"Contracts are sealed," Smithy says, instead of Los, like Ovi's expecting. "They're less liable to be influenced by intent, unless you're one of the people signed in. If it's a standard contract, that would make the influence limited to the mediator and then both sides. In arcanic law, magic acts as the judge, jury and executor of all."
The room is silent for a long moment, before Vos clears his throat. "Dude," he says. "Wait, were we supposed to just, like, know that? What the fuck?"
Smithy rolls his eyes. "You're all idiots. Shan's doing her Masters in History, which you all should know. She's been really into her class, Mundaning the Arcane, which is just like Contract law and shit from ye olden times."
"Call her," someone says, before the room erupts back into noise, everyone arguing about what to do. In the explosion of sound, Ovi watches as Sainty pushes himself up, sliding over to Marley, their heads bending together. He drags his gaze back to Los, who shrugs, before they both turn their attention back to the mess of their team.
"Don't call her, what are you crazy?"
"—even be a secret? I mean, what could we—"
"—no way it's possible—"
"I told you, asshole!"
"—enough of a pull?"
"And, we're magic, now, so—"
"—hang on, I don't want to see ghosts—"
"Do you think we can just return it?"
Los groans under his breath, shaking his head, and Ovi glances up at him, vaguely concerned.
"We can't put the magic back," Los mutters, scratching over Ovi's scalp a little harder, before he starts to twist the ends of his hair over his fingers. "Even if we were to try to like, I don't know, fucking release us from its grip, it wouldn't work, because magic is a goddamn infection."
"What?" Ovi says, his brows furrowing. "Wait, so we're all magical now?"
Los shrugs, chewing on his bottom lip. "You know when you toss a bunch of mentos into a coke bottle and it explodes?"
"I'm going to explode?" Ovi squeaks, fear rushing through him. Breezy tightens his grip, clearly listening in, even as he stays quiet. "Los, I'm too young to die. I have more hockey to play."
"No," Los snaps, tugging on his hair. Ovi goes still, his eyes fixed on Los' stern brow, the sharp look in his dark, brown eyes. He ruffles a hand through his curls, and shakes his head, peering back at Ovi. "You aren't the coke or the mentos, Ovi. That's just magic, how it works; once the seal has been broken, it rushes to fill all the empty spaces. So you're maybe not magical per se, but you aren't the same inert person you were before seed started to grow."
"It made itself at home," Breezy murmurs. "So it's going to stick, even when it's been washed out. Like neural pathways, right? It's going to stay with us, because it's been activated in one big swoop, and then it'll stay, at least a little active for as long as we're on the team." He laughs, a soft, tiny huff of amusement, though Ovi thinks it sounds a little sad too, as if Breezy is grieving who he was before. "But those paths are there, even in the aftermath, aren't they? It rewired us, at least a little." He makes a little explosion noise. "Poof. No more bog-standard human, huh?"
There's a pause, as Ovi lets the loud chatter of everyone else wash over him, before he squeezes Breezy's hand as tight as he can. "Dude," he says. "What the fuck? How did you even make that connection? That was fucking brilliant, Breezy."
Breezy squirms, his cheeks flushed. "It was nothing," he mutters. "How Los was talking about it reminded me of a book I read ages ago, that's all."
Ovi rolls his eyes. "You're a smarty and you know it," he mutters, before turning back to Los. "Wait, but if the connections are bad, if they're rotting, or whatever the fuck Montreal is doing…?"
Los shrugs, his eyes still worried, even as he stares at some point on the ground. "I think that we won't ever get an answer for that, or, like, not now, while Miss Jane is sealed in." He chews on his lip. "I mean, we haven't even touched the fact that we've got a clanmagic now, which is a whole other issue."
"What's the difference?" Breezy asks, fidgeting with Ovi's hand. "I don't know if I want to blood-swear something, especially not after everything that Miss Jane's going through."
"I mean, I'm not a mage," Los starts, "so don't take my word as law, but I'm pretty sure the focus of clanmagic is the community built within it, like, we've welcomed the thread home by accidentally being idiots and opening up that channel with a ghost, right? And we sort of, uh, are all bound by non-magical contracts, and typically, as hungry as magic is to infect, it'll follow the paths laid before it." He shrugs, an awkward, stuttering motion. "So go us? For being a good team?"
Ovi snorts, his mouth twisting into a wry smirk. "We've always been the best at being a team," he mutters, flushing even as he continues. "Have you seen some of the other teams on the ice? It's like they're blind to their own teammates."
"Okay, cocky," Los says, grinning at him, before he tugs at his hair. "The arcane measures things differently than we do, though. So, for it to be genuinely invoked, I think it means that we all actually do want to build a real team, want to actually grow together." He shrugs again, looking almost wistful. "It's kind of nice to know it, you know?"
"Yeah," Ovi murmurs. "I know."
Los opens his mouth to continue talking, only to snap it shut and elbow Con hard in the ribs, as Ovi glances over at the doorway and stills at the sight of Cap standing in the doorway.
Con doesn't even snap at Los, nudging Sebbin, and Ovi doesn't have to watch to see the thumping that spills through the mess of them until they're all silent and staring, staring at Cap. Even Marley and Sainty are attentive, despite having slid out of the group of them.
For a beat, no one says anything, before Roz slouches back against the doorframe. "Movie time?" he asks, holding up a hand to stop the barrage of questions. From his position against Los, Ovi can see about ten open mouths that all slam shut at his silent order. "Shane will probably fall asleep, but he has asked for Mulan."
"Anything he wants, Roz," Marley murmurs, to a wave of agreement. "And I, uh—or, well, you know—actually, you know what, never mind. We can, uh, figure the rest out later?" He gestures at Sainty. "We've got your back, Cap."
Roz inclines his head, gratitude flashing across his face, before he fixes them all with a look that, to Ovi's eyes, reads as pride. "You are the best team in the world," he says, very, very quietly. His words spill through the air with an unexpected weight, sinking straight into Ovi's heart. "Things will be changing, yes, very drastically, but still." He meets all of their eyes, one at a time. "If there is a team that will rise to the top of this occasion, I know it is us. I have no doubts."
"It's all 'cause of you," Smithy murmurs, and Ovi nods eagerly in agreement, as the rest of the vets chime in with their own comments.
"We trust you," Breezy says, his face serious and drawn, scant traces of fear still visible in the lines of his mouth. "Thanks for leading us, Cap."
Roz nods, his lips curling up into a fond smile. "Always," he murmurs, as if this is another thing he can promise, though, to Ovi's eyes it almost seems as though the golden hue of his curls is a bit brighter, shining with a faint, ethereal light. Warmth slides into his veins, buzzing and gentle, as Roz bobs into an odd almost bow. "I will go get Shane, yes? Movie will be starting before we get back?"
"Yes, Cap," Sainty says, snapping off a ridiculous salute that sends half the room into muffled laughter, a pressure valve of release. Ovi can feel the tension in his own spine loosening even as he only manages a grin. The stutter of fizziness persists, dropping through his stomach, washing over his limbs. "We can keep the sing-along for next time. Hollzy deserves to see you wailing to a Disney classic."
Roz rolls his eyes, flipping him off. "You are just jealous that I am the best at everything I do, Sainty." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "We will work on this, yes? Checks and balances—I hear they are very important."
Con groans at his retort, some old joke that Ovi can't be bothered to chase down, but before anyone else can jump in, the team settles into quiet, an odd liminal space as Roz looks over them all again.
"I love you all," he says, even softer than anything else he's said tonight. He splays his palm out, over his heart, broad and callused. Ovi lifts his gaze, stilling at the sight of his eyes, glinting as though something ancient is peering out through them. The weight of it brings to mind old, mossy forests, the scent of snow in the wind, flint and tinder catching the first sparks of fire; blood and change and growth. There is something primordial in his gaze; the vast, far reaches of vitality beyond humanity. In Ovi's body, something echoes back, a string plucked in the cavern of his ribs, reverberating out. "My team, forever, yes?"
"You know it, Roz," Marley says, as everyone nods. Los' fingers tremble against his head, and Ovi knows that he caught the same bewildering force in Cap's gaze; Ovi can tell that Breezy hasn't looked above Cap's shoulder, prey-still. "Go get your boy. We'll start the movie."
Roz nods back and turns away, the odd spell holding even as he disappears from view.
"Jesus," Carmie mutters, Smithy fumbling with the remote. "Of course, magic had to make him even more goddamn enticing."
Marley snorts, reaching over to pat him on the back. "Hollzy's locked him down, Carm. It's a little too late to realize that."
Carmie shoves at him, groaning, and the room settles back into a thinly veiled calm, an odd beat of dissonance still churning underneath, despite their best efforts to pretend otherwise. The others splinter into their own conversations, but none of them stop glancing at the doorway, eager to see Cap again.
Carmie is right, Ovi realizes, when he snaps out of glancing at the doorway for the third time in thirty seconds. There's something nearly alluring about Cap now, a distinctive need to see him, some animal instinct unearthed. It sings in his veins, but Ovi can't tell if it's the rabbit-heart intuition of prey, or the thrumming compulsion of worship.
Either way, he wants Cap back in the room. The sooner, the better.
"Floor time?" Breezy asks, when Los sighs underneath Ovi, dragging him from his wandering thoughts. "We sticking it out here, boys?"
"Why not," Los mutters as Con tosses a pillow at his head, clearly only half-listening as he leans further into Sebbin, nodding along to whatever he's murmuring about. Los snatches the cushion out of the air, bracing his back against the loveseat they're piled up by. "You'd get cranky without it."
"Oh, fuck you," Breezy says, as Los rolls his eyes. Ovi shifts between them, tension skittering up and down his spine as he tries again to get comfortable. "Acting like you're not the fucking same."
"Just so you both know, I'm going to freak out tomorrow," Ovi announces, ignoring their snorts. "In case that wasn't clear."
Los tugs at his hair again, and Breezy squeezes his hand. "Dude, obviously," Breezy mutters as someone flips the lights mostly off and the first notes of the movie begin under the rustling of the team as they all crowd in even closer, the murmurs of other voices fading. "Trust, I've already made a note. Freak out: scheduled, my guy."
Ovi huffs, but doesn't bother to argue, his gaze drifting back to the empty doorframe. He'd feel more self-conscious about his longing if he couldn't feel the way Los keeps twitching to look as well, how Breezy has been shifting his head, craning it back every so often to peer at the empty space.
For a moment, the whole room feels stagnant, crushed in the pause of waiting. Ovi strains his ears, searching for any sign of their return. Air rattles in his lungs as Cap reappears, on silent feet, Miss Jane muttering something that's indistinct under the movie, before he snaps his mouth shut, his shoulders rising, faint embarrassment bleeding onto his face.
The weight of the room eases, all at once, as the two of them slip by, settling onto the couch. Ovi gives them a few moments of reprieve, before he twists to glance, flushing as he meets Cap's gaze, before he drops it to find that Shane Hollander is somehow nearly already asleep, his brow smooth, tucked securely under a fuzzy blanket that Cap's always hoarded before.
He looks terribly young, the flickers of Mulan washing over his placid face, as if the dense cloud of arcanic pressure of Montreal has lifted from his shoulders, and Ovi shudders at the gentleness of Cap's touch as he runs a hand over the edge of Shane's ear, smoothing over his cheekbones, carding through his hair. Ovi lets his gaze drift upwards, watching as the light changes in Cap's eyes, shifting from devotion to a deeper, sharper expression, as if an ineludible suture has bloomed between them in the serene touch.
Ovi blinks, and in the gaps between his lashes, in that dark flutter of shadow, he knows that something has changed, that with the touch, with the tenderness, a lock has been broken, steadfastness set free.
He's fairly certain everything has changed; the world that he knows, redone in hues of love and fear and blindingly clear want. He's also pretty sure that this change actually has happened years ago, at the first brush of Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. He's just catching up now.
They all are, really, but what an honor to be trusted with this. To be permitted to see the truth in the muck and the haze, in the unrelenting crash of reality.
"You okay?" Los whispers, reaching out to run his thumb under Ovi's eye. "You're tearing up, Ovi."
"Yeah," he manages back, sinking into the warmth of him and Breezy. "'Course I am. Got you two, don't I?"
Breezy squeezes his hand and Los hums, dragging his hand up to scratch at his head, but Ovi lets himself drift, safe and content; easily following that thread of sleep down the same, worn path as Miss Jane.
It's funny, he thinks, in a distant, strange way; he's spent all this time chasing that high, following those thin, precise lines on ice, in the aftermath of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, their towering accomplishments, their resolute pursuit of accolades and Cups, and yet, this is now what he wants. All of them piled up in Cap's home, safe and happy and at ease, or as close to it as they can come.
"Love you," Breezy murmurs, Los echoing it, and, finally, Ovi lets himself relax, and follow those words down into the blissful warmth of sleep.