Chapter Text
He should've known it wouldn't be so easy. Nothing in his life ever was. It didn't matter if he tried, gave everything he got, or not, the result would always be the same—he'd be alone, miserable, and in pain.
He should've known that the Stags wouldn't take him back, not after what he had done. Leaving so abruptly right after the end of the season, without a prior notice, he burnt the bridges he had been carefully constructing throughout years just in a day. He was really surprised when Barry agreed to meet, though perhaps he shouldn't have been. For all his professionalism, Barry had a vindictive streak that he hid remarkably well. One wouldn't cross him without consequences. Still, there was a world of difference between getting an immediate rejection and going to the meeting with hope, only to have it crushed.
Now, sitting alone in the pub, nursing his—was it his fifth or sixth?—whiskey of the night, Warren was thinking about his options and coming up with nothing.
He looked around, looking for something to distract him from his depressing thoughts. There was a large company in the corner, loudly celebrating one thing or another. The guys were laughing, camaraderie almost palpable, and Warren felt a pang in his chest—he had that too once.
He raised his glass and took a slow sip, letting the burn of the whiskey settle in his chest, as if the heat might thaw the emptiness there. He could picture himself over in that group, joking with his teammates, caught up in the flow of easy banter, the pride of a shared purpose. But that was a lifetime ago, or at least, it felt like it. Now, they wouldn’t even let him set foot on the pitch.
A voice cut through his thoughts—a couple of guys near the bar were discussing the latest rugby match—and all he could think about was the Stags. His Stags. Warren felt a tightness in his throat and looked down into his drink. He’d expected this; of course he had. The Stags would carry on, with or without him. He couldn’t pretend otherwise. Still, a part of him had clung to the hope that he could just walk back in, pick up where he’d left off, prove that he hadn’t changed, that he was still the Warren Hunt they’d once respected.
He turned away from the noise, focusing instead on the condensation gathering on his glass. “It’s fine,” he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud could make it real. “I’ll figure something out.” He almost believed it, too. There had to be something out there, some team, some job that didn’t care about the mess he’d made, something that would give him a chance to start over.
But the truth he kept swallowing down with each sip was that he didn’t want to start over. He wanted his old life back—the stability, the certainty, even if it had all been built on lies he’d told himself.
The whiskey had dulled the sharp edge of his disappointment—as it always did—but the bitterness still lingered, buried just beneath the surface.
***
Warren stirred, his head pounding like a drum. The world around him was a blur of muted colours and dull pain as he cracked open his eyes. Though, it was nothing new these days. He could barely remember the last time he woke up without being hungover.
As his senses were slowly coming back to him, he registered that the room he was in wasn’t his—beige walls, an old wardrobe, the faint but strangely familiar scent of something citrusy lingering in the air.
His stomach churned, and he groaned, rolling onto his back. God, what had he done last night? The memories were fragmented—Barry’s smug dismissal, the cheap whiskey burning his throat, the pub fading into a haze of noise and lights. He vaguely remembered slumping over the bar, a blur of faces watching as he spiralled into oblivion.
He rubbed at his temples, trying to sit up, when the door creaked open.
His heart stalled.
Mark stood in the doorway, looking every bit as unimpressed as Warren felt miserable. Arms crossed, brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin, grim line. The sight of him was like a gut punch.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“What…” Warren rasped, his voice raw. He cleared his throat, wincing at the dryness. “What are you doing here?”
Mark didn’t move. “You tell me. I got a call from the pub owner in the middle of the night. She said you were plastered and couldn’t even string two words together. You dropped my name, handed over your phone, and—lucky me—here I am.”
Warren slumped back against the headboard, his stomach twisting with nausea and shame. He tried to think of something to say, but his mind felt foggy, weighed down by alcohol, regret, and Mark’s proximity.
“Thanks,” he muttered eventually, his voice barely audible.
“Don’t thank me,” Mark said, his tone clipped. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it because I wouldn’t have been able to sleep knowing you were passed out in a pub somewhere.”
The words stung, but Warren couldn’t blame him. After everything they’d been through, he probably wouldn’t have felt happy with the situation either, not in Mark’s position.
Mark stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over Warren with a mixture of disdain and something else—pity, maybe. “You look like hell,” he said, the edge in his voice softening just slightly.
Warren snorted weakly. “Feel like it too.”
Mark exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “What happened? What are you doing to yourself?”
The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Warren couldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper.
For a moment, Mark didn’t say anything. Then, with a shake of his head, he turned toward the door. “Get cleaned up. There’s coffee in the kitchen. You should eat something before you leave.”
“Mark—” Warren started, but the door clicked shut before he could say anything else.
He leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling as the weight of the morning settled over him. His mouth tasted of regret and stale liquor, his body ached from the night before, but nothing compared to the hollow ache in his chest.
Mark had been here, just as gorgeous as he remembered him. He was close enough to touch, yet Warren could still feel the distance between them—a chasm he’d never bridge. He didn’t deserve to.
The sight of Mark’s empty spot across the room twisted the knife in his chest. His head throbbed, his mouth dry, but the ache in his heart was sharper. Seeing Mark again had been like pressing on an open wound—one he’d foolishly thought had scabbed over.
Maybe it would have been better to disappear entirely, to let himself slip away into the darkness that had been pulling at him for so long. At least then, the weight wouldn’t crush him anymore.
His mind drifted, as it often did these days, back to where it all went wrong.
***
The hum of the car engine filled the silence, steady and unchanging. John drove with his jaw set and his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, like he was afraid the car might veer off course if he loosened up even slightly. Warren sat in the passenger seat, staring blankly out of the window as the scenery blurred past—motorways, green fields, service stations. It was all a smear of colours, a backdrop to the unbearable tension inside the car.
The back seat was a patchwork of hastily packed boxes, bags, and the odd rugby ball Warren hadn’t been able to part with. John had insisted they didn’t need much. “A fresh start means letting go,” he’d said. But Warren couldn’t let go, not completely. Each item felt like a lifeline to something he’d built, something he’d lost.
The sat-nav droned on, announcing turn after turn, and still neither of them spoke.
Warren’s phone lay heavy in his lap. He thumbed it absently, unlocking and locking the screen, the same name hovering in his contacts. Mark. He’d typed a message a dozen times, but every time he hovered over “Send,” his chest tightened, and his thumb retreated.
“What are you doing?” John’s voice broke the silence, sharp and impatient.
“Nothing,” Warren muttered, slipping the phone into his pocket.
John didn’t reply, but his jaw tightened even more, and the air grew heavier. Warren knew that silence well—it was John’s way of punishing him. He wouldn’t yell, wouldn’t argue outright, not unless he absolutely had to. Instead, he’d stew, letting his disapproval seep out in silence until Warren either cracked or apologised.
But Warren was too drained to apologise this time. Nor sure that he wanted to.
He glanced out of the window again, his chest tightening as he realised how far they’d gone. The Stags, his friends, his life—it was all slipping further and further behind, a cruel illusion shrinking in the rear-view mirror.
“You could at least try to look like you want this,” John said suddenly, his tone cold.
Warren swallowed hard. “I never said I didn’t.”
John let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t have to. Your face says it all.”
Warren opened his mouth to argue, but what was the point? It was John’s idea to move to another city, his solution to the crisis in their relationship. He didn’t want this, not really, but what choice did he have? Staying had meant facing the fallout—the team, the scandal, the stares. And Mark. Especially Mark. Mark who didn’t want him anymore.
He’d told himself this was the right thing, the only thing, but as the miles ticked by, he couldn’t shake the gnawing doubt in his chest. He felt like he was running, but instead of escaping, he was simply trading one prison for another.
“Look,” John said, his tone softening just slightly. “This is a chance for us, Warren. A real chance to put all of that behind us. To start over. Don’t you want that?”
Warren hesitated. Did he? Did he really want to start over? Or did he just want to stop feeling like he was drowning?
“Yeah,” he said finally, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.
“Good,” John replied, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
But Warren couldn’t help glancing at the road behind, wondering if he’d left something back there he’d never be able to find again.
***
Warren dragged himself upright, cradling his pounding head in his hands. His body felt leaden, every breath a reminder of how far he’d fallen. Yet, beneath the hangover haze, the lingering echo of Mark’s words gnawed at him. It wasn’t just the sharpness of the tone—it was what they implied. The detached civility. Mark didn’t care if Warren stayed or left. He wasn’t angry; anger would’ve been better. Anger meant there was still something left between them.
Instead, Mark’s indifference cut deeper than any insult could.
Warren shuffled to the bathroom, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled clothes, the faint bruising along his knuckles, but he didn’t remember from where. Had he been in a fight last night?
All in all, he barely recognised the man staring back at him.
Pathetic. That’s what Mark must’ve thought when he’d shown up last night. That was what he thought about himself.
The thought tightened Warren’s chest as he splashed cold water on his face. He’d never wanted Mark to see him like this, reduced to scraps of the man he’d once been. But then again, that man wasn’t good enough either, was he? Not for Mark. Not for himself.
By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, the scent of coffee and toast teased at his senses. Mark stood by the counter, his back to Warren, sleeves rolled up and shoulders squared.
He should’ve looked out of place in the small, unadorned kitchen, but somehow, he didn’t. Mark always had a way of making his presence fit—of grounding everything around him.
Warren leaned against the doorframe, silent for a moment. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack, didn’t trust himself not to say something he’d regret.
Mark broke the silence first. “Coffee and toast are on the table.”
Warren hesitated. “Mark…”
Mark’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn. “You should eat something.”
Without a word, Warren sat at the table, his fingers curling around the mug like it might anchor him. He took a cautious sip, the bitterness scraping against his throat. Black, one sugar. Mark still remembered. The thought stirred a faint warmth in his chest—a fragile, fleeting flicker—only to be pierced by a sharp, familiar ache. Longing. It sank deep, hollowing him out all over again.
The only sounds around them were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirp of birds outside. Once, they could fill the silence with hours of conversation, or simply enjoy its comfort. Now, the quiet felt heavy, like a wall neither dared to breach.
He stared at Mark’s back, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on him. For a moment, he struggled to breathe, his pulse thrumming in his ears as he tried to summon the words to cut through the tension.
“Why did you come?” he finally asked, his voice quieter now.
Mark stilled, the clink of the butter knife against the counter the only sound. Then, after a beat, he sighed. “You can’t just drop your name like that. Not after everything.”
Warren swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Mark interrupted, turning to face him at last. “But you did.”
Warren finally allowed himself to take a proper look at him. Mark’s eyes were rimmed with red, the kind that spoke of a sleepless night, and exhaustion etched itself into every line of his handsome face. His expression was carefully blank, but the sight of it twisted something deep in Warren’s chest—a slow, painful wrench he couldn’t quite shake.
Warren flinched, his gaze dropping to the table. The tension in the room was suffocating, but he couldn’t bring himself to break it.
Mark exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and honestly, I don’t want to know. But whatever this is, it’s not my problem anymore.”
The finality in his tone felt like a gut punch. Warren’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to nod. “Right. Yeah. I get it.”
Mark pushed off the counter, grabbing his own mug and a plate with toast. “Eat. And when you’re ready, I’ll drop you off wherever you need to go.”
Warren didn’t look up as Mark left the room. The food on his plate had long gone cold, but he didn’t move to eat it.
The ache in his chest felt sharper now, rawer than it had in months. He’d grown used to the numbness, to living in the shadow of a life he’d lost piece by piece. But seeing Mark again—Mark, who spoke to him with a polite indifference that cut deeper than anger—had made the wound bleed afresh.
He loved him. God, he still loved him. But even that flicker of hope was crushed beneath the heavier truth: he didn’t deserve him. Not anymore.