Chapter Text
Typically speaking, Markus Anderson isn't a fan of the cold. He loves the warm days of summer, with the sun high in the clear blue sky, and when the temperatures in Detroit stretch toward the mid-eighties to the nineties.
Days like today.
Today, it's warm and bright and sunny, and despite the smell of construction and building vent fumes, it's the type of day that fills Markus with vibrant energy. The bright, mid-morning sun warms his skin, and soon the smell of building exhaust is overtaken by a Tex-Mex food truck frying their spicy, seasoned meat.
With the city so full of life and vibrancy, Markus can't help but wonder why he's going to the Pizzarama Sports Complex of all places.
Down into the cold, into the frigid basement of the Sports Complex to sit in the ice rink. Out of the warm, skin-baking sun and into the icy, frigid, chill.
Okay, that's not exactly true. He knows why. He adjusts the strap of his leather satchel bag on his shoulder, then pulls his phone out of the front pocket. Lighting it up quickly, he takes a glance at the home screen to check the time and temperature.
Seventy-nine degrees at 8:45 in the morning.
He's fifteen minutes early.
The rest of the group won't show up until closer to nine, and some of them will probably be late, so Markus decides to take a seat on a park bench near the entrance and get his hand-stretches in before he actually has to get to work.
Life-drawing can be tough on the hands, after all.
Markus' art professor, artistic legend Carl Manfred himself, thinks Markus has the potential to make something great from his art. After the first few summer classes in Carl's wing at Detroit University, he pulled Markus aside and told him that his expressionist art is some of the best he's ever seen.
That it feels like he cuts his chest open and spills his heart onto the page.
But Carl also said not to limit himself to just expressionism. To explore every avenue he can find, and maybe he'll find something that speaks to him even more.
When a legend like Carl Manfred makes a suggestion, who would be stupid enough not to listen?
He stretches his arms up over his head, then turns to look up at the bright morning sky. It's a soft, elegant blue, close to the color of arctic ice with the early morning sun creeping up over the top of a few nearby buildings. The color of one of his favorite Manfred pieces, with the yellow rays of the sun creeping into his vision at the edges.
In fact, they're so similar that Markus wonders if the early morning sky was the inspiration for the piece. Maybe if he gets a little one-on-one time with his professor today, he'll ask.
For now, Markus lowers his head to see one of his classmates approaching the front of the building. Echo Rose, easily identifiable in a crowd from her trademark cerulean blue hair, steps off the bus, and digs through her tote bag. He's known Echo for years. They went to Central Detroit High School together, and were always in the same AP classes and art extracurriculars. They weren't exactly friends back then, but they were familiar enough to call themselves friendly.
Markus wasn't surprised to see her in an art class taught by the Carl Manfred. She may not consider him one of her main influences, but any artists worth the title would want to be in this class.
Echo glances at her phone, then hums and looks around the front of the building. When she spots Markus, she smiles and jogs toward the bench, waving happily in his direction. She stuffs her phone back into the pocket of her shorts on her way, then stops in front of him with a smile.
"I shouldn't be the least bit surprised that you're early," she muses as she takes a seat at the bench beside him. "You'd ruin your own surprise party by getting there early if you could."
Markus laughs. "Believe it or not, I've done that before," he remarks offhandedly. "When I turned sixteen."
The momentary flash of surprise on Echo's face quickly gives way to a bark of laughter and a roll of her eyes. "I believe it."
"North tried to throw me out of the house, because Simon was in there baking the cake, Hank was putting together 'tolerable' music from what I have on Spotify, Josh was cleaning the living room, and Chloe was on the phone, ordering a sushi platter for the group of us," Markus muses, shaking his head fondly. "I was about three steps away from the front door when Simon came back out, dragged me in, and asked for my help baking the cake. Which was code for 'take over for me because I don't know where I went wrong.'"
Echo blinks. "Wait." She pauses and laughs again. "So Old Lieutenant Anderson picked the music for your birthday party?"
Huffing, Markus shrugs and quips, "Something about 'when you turn eighteen we'll talk about you picking your own music.'"
"And you ended up baking the cake yourself?"
A smirk curls up one side of Markus' lips. "Par for the course when you have Hank and my friends planning your birthday parties."
"You know, I don't understand how Ripple hasn't cracked being the rookie on the force and Hank's partner," she muses, running a hand through her bright blue hair and crossing her legs at the knee.
With a quiet huff, Markus shrugs and teases, "Same way she hasn't cracked being with you for as many years as she has?"
Echo snorts, rolls her eyes, but nods. "You know what? That's fair," she remarks offhandedly and starts stretching her hands over her head. After a few seconds of silence, she glances over her shoulder at the arena and huffs. "I've gotta say, having an art class at an ice rink on a hot summer day is some kind of genius."
"You think?" questions Markus in mild doubt and suspicion. "I'd much prefer to be soaking up the sun than walking into a refrigerator."
Rolling her eyes, Echo slaps him on the shoulder and teases, "Oh you little summer baby. You sound just like Ripple." She peeks into her bag, then turns back to Markus. "It's gonna be really hot today, so you can enjoy the sun when we finish. It's only a couple of hours."
Markus hums in agreement. "I know," he muses. "Though I'm curious about what kind of sport we're going to be observing."
"An ice one?" quips Echo with a playful smirk.
Fixing her with a deadpan stare, Markus mutters, "Thanks. Couldn't have figured that one out on my own." He shrugs and clarifies, "I just mean… what ice sports are even in season right now? It's June. I know professional sports don't have off-seasons for practice, but… I'm just curious."
With a quiet hum, Echo folds her arms behind her head and leans against them. "Maybe it's a Thorns thing? They are a pretty big deal around here."
Markus shrugs. "I think their season ended a couple weeks ago," he reasons. "I remember Hank mentioning taking a big loss at the casino because he thought they were gonna take it all."
"Doesn't mean it's not some like… end of season shindig," she remarks offhandedly. "I don't know how hockey works."
Casting Echo a sidelong glance, Markus teases, "You just want to stare at the hockey players."
"Hey!" Echo snaps playfully. "I'm engaged not buried. Besides, Ripple understands and would absolutely take the chance to stare at any given Detroit Thorns player if given the chance."
Markus laughs airily. "I'll make sure to buy you guys Thorns tickets as a wedding gift, then," he riffs. "The couple that ogles together, stays together, right?"
With a wink, Echo fires a finger gun at Markus. "Now you're getting it."
From the corner of Markus' eye, he sees a few other people in their art class approaching from the nearby bus stop. People he doesn't really talk to, but he's silently appreciated their art skill on a few different occasions. They all go through the same routine that Markus and Echo did as they arrive—digging their phones from their pockets to check the time—before going about their business.
Another fascinating common ground among human nature, Markus supposes.
He turns back to Echo, who types a text on her phone, and quickly looks away to give her privacy. As his eyes fall back to the road, he's just in time to see an elegant-looking matte gray BMW pull up on the side of the road.
Out steps a familiar face—Carl Manfred's oldest child, Kara—who looks across the front of the Sports Complex with a smile and turns back to the car to speak to someone inside. She closes the driver's side door, then a few seconds later, the passenger's side door opens and a second familiar face steps out.
Carl's son, Leo Manfred, jogs around the car to get into the trunk. He pulls out a wheelchair and unfolds it, and Kara moves to his side to pass him the car keys. Leo passes the wheelchair to Kara, then moves around the car to the driver's side and leans in to say something to someone in the backseat.
Markus can only assume that he's talking to Carl.
"Just park in the garage and then come in, okay, Leo?" Kara calls over the top of the car, before leaning in quickly.
With a petulant eye-roll, Leo smirks at his sister and complains, "I know, Mom. Thanks."
Kara huffs as she stands back up straight. "I know you think you're all cool, but you really look like one of the petulant kids in my classes, Leo," she teases with a smirk. "Maybe if you start acting your age, you'll get treated that way."
A fond, amused laugh carries to the curb from behind the car. "She's got you there, Leo," Carl Manfred teases his son. "Act your age, not your shoe size."
"Dad, those jokes might've been cool in the nineties, but it's—"
"Hey, now they're retro," remarks Carl as Kara eases him up from the street side to the sidewalk. "Retro is just as cool as modern, isn't it?"
Kara smirks wildly. "You know better than to debate with Dad about what's cool and what isn't, Little Lion," she quips.
With a dramatic, teenager-reminiscent cringe, Leo yelps, "Don't call me that in public, Kara!" before ducking down into the car. "Someone might hear you!"
Humming curiously, Carl muses, "Yeah, Kara." He glances up at his daughter. "That's more of a kitten reaction than a lion."
Kara's unabashed laughter as Leo starts the car and carefully pulls into traffic pulls a tiny smirk across Markus' lips. It's obvious that the three of them love each other greatly. Even Leo has a tiny grin on his face as he drives toward the parking garage on the corner.
From the curb, Carl casts his eyes across the front yard of the arena, his smile growing as he sees the entire class standing in various places waiting for him. He glances over his head and murmurs something to Kara, who reaches into her handbag, pulls out a tiny, pocket-sized, megaphone and hands it to him.
What… on earth is he doing?
Carl brings the megaphone to his mouth and shouts, "Nice to see you all showed up!"
Beside Markus, Echo jumps and whirls her head toward the sound, then chokes on a breath of laughter. "What… the hell?!"
"That's one way to get attention," Markus muses as he climbs to his feet and shoulders his bag. He waves to Carl and Kara. "Good morning!"
Carl waves at Markus as Kara pushes him toward the front door. "C'mon, everyone. It's a long walk to the elevators on the far side of the arena."
After waiting for Echo to put everything back in her bag, they walk side by side to catch up with the rest of the group. The atmosphere is a mix between curious and excited. Carl never really told them why they were holding class at the Sports Complex, just that it was for life drawing objects in motion and learning to improvise.
They still don't know what sport they're going to observe, but as much as Markus would prefer to soak up the sun, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued.
He's been here a few times before. Hank has taken him to several hockey and basketball games since adopting him at seven years old. But he's never really taken the time to take in the aesthetic of the arena itself. He was always way too excited about whatever sporting event he was there to see.
Empty like this, it looks a little eerie.
Completely devoid of the usual bustle of a sports arena, aside from small pockets of life here and there. The only place that looks vibrant and active is the pro shop, and a few of the food stalls around the edges of the main hall. The walls are plastered with pictures of the Maniacs basketball and Thorns hockey logos, as well as some more obscure sports that Markus didn't even consider for this life drawing class like curling and figure skating.
He probably should have considered it, though. Knowing how off-the-wall Carl is, nothing should've been off the table.
The group of students walks behind Carl, who's being pushed across the floor by his daughter. Carl talks to a few of the other students and treats the situation like some kind of exciting mystery, while Kara listens in curious fascination.
Markus knows that Carl's daughter didn't follow in his artistic footsteps—opting instead to be a ballet and contemporary dance teacher to high school students—but he's sure that she's at least mildly interested in the art world. Any child of Carl's would have to be.
After all, Carl is an amazing artist, and wise as one would expect a man in his seventies to be, but he seems to find fun in some of life's most mundane things. Maybe that's something that comes with age. Markus wonders if maybe that particular aspect of aging passed by his own adoptive father.
Not that Hank is quite at Carl's age, but he's in his fifties now.
He has softened in the past decade or so, though. Finding fun in strange things in a manner similar to Carl. Most of those things consist of making fun of some of Markus' more modern music tastes and talking about how much better music was when he was in high school.
The thought pulls a fond smile across Markus' lips.
Annoying as Hank can be, he's still grateful for the man's influence on his life, and glad to be able to say that he's Hank's son.
As the group steps into a pair of elevators on the far side of the arena, Markus notices Echo's eyes on him. "You've been in some kind of trance ever since we got inside."
"In my head, I guess," Markus muses with a quiet chuckle as he leans back against the elevator wall. "The last time I was here, Hank was taking me to the 2016 Thorns playoffs."
Echo huffs. "Did he have money riding on the game?" she teases.
Parroting her huff, Markus shrugs and nods. "I think so, yeah. He's always pretty invested in sports stuff, but I've never seen him get that mad about a game going into overtime," he muses. "He must've ended up winning, though. I remember him splurging on a new easel for me the next day."
"Call the presses," Echo muses, holding her hands in the air like she's reading a news marquee. "Gruff old man has soft spot for son."
Markus half-smiles. "That's not news, though," he counters as they step out of the elevator. "Hank's… a lot of things, but he's always been good to me."
With a chuckle, Echo gently nudges him with her shoulder. "I know. I just like giving him shit."
Matching her chuckle with a wry grin, Markus agrees, "Me too."
When they get to a large pair of double doors, Kara stops and turns Carl to face the group. He offers them all a big grin, then gestures toward the massive, dull-red painted doors with a tilt of his head. "Once we get inside, you can pick wherever you want to sit. Whatever tickles your artistic fancy. Close, far, odd angles… I encourage you to get creative with it."
Nodding, more to himself than to Carl, Markus logs that advice away in the back of his mind.
"Today's lesson is more about improvisation," Carl continues. "The people you see in there are going to be in constant motion. You won't have time to memorize a single move they make, so… exaggerate them. Draw what they did, with your own spin on it. Don't be afraid to use your imagination."
As the first person in line pushes the doors open, Markus must still be carrying Echo's hockey thoughts in his mind, because he expects to hear sticks on ice and whistles and shouts for drills.
But he doesn't.
He hears the quiet lilting of classical music, and the very distant slice of skates on ice. He moves toward the door, falling a step or two behind Echo, who rushes inside when her own curiosity overwhelms her. But before he can step inside, he feels Carl's hand on his forearm. When he turns, Carl is looking up at him with a warm smile.
"I look forward to seeing what you come up with," offers Carl kindly.
Markus blinks. "Oh. Thank you, Professor—"
"Oh, don't call him that," teases Kara warmly from behind him. "He hates that."
With a smirk, Carl nods. "And I've told him that, too," he retorts. "Call me Carl. We're all artists here, Markus."
Laughing sheepishly, Markus nods and replies, "Right. Sorry, Carl."
Kara glances down the hall and flashes Carl a smile. "I think the wheelchair ramp is this way," she tells her father.
Nodding, Carl gestures toward the door as it closes behind him. "Go ahead in, Markus." He turns to Kara. "I think I'll text your brother on the way in to make sure he didn't get sucked into the pro shop like he always does."
As Kara retreats, she laughs and says, "I did ask him to pick up a new Thorns shirt for Luther, since his old one is so faded."
Their voices fade into the distance, and Markus reopens the door and—
Immediately, he's taken off guard by what he sees on the other side. He expected a massive group running drills or some kind of skating sprint, but instead, it's a small group of three or four people spread across the ice practicing things like… spins. Turns. Fancy, twisting footwork and high, spinning jumps.
Figure skating.
How was this not one of the first things he thought of? Figure skaters don't have off-seasons. They practice year round and have events and showcases the whole time. What better place to practice drawing unique poses and movements than a body that spins and doesn't stand still for even a second?
Markus casts his eyes across the ice at the few skaters, then glances around at the seats. A few people sit near the back of the arena, while some others have taken to points in the center and on the sides, but Markus decides to take Carl's advice about unique angles and viewpoints to heart.
He sees Echo near the exit row, and when she glances his way, he waves at her but passes her by.
Instead, he heads down the stairs toward the glass. He sits a few rows back, near the glass, where he has a perfect view of all the skaters. Once he settles in, he digs his sketchbook and his pencils out of his bag, then glances between the skaters again.
The first one he sees, a young woman with dyed-white hair and green eyes, is stopped near the edge of the rink, speaking to her coach. A few feet away from her, a pair of skaters practice lifts and throws, but nothing they do really speaks to Markus, beyond a mild admiration for the speed and strength it takes to pull them off.
When his eyes fall on the last person—
He freezes.
The last skater in the bunch is a male, who effortlessly chains a long glide on one leg to a kick with his free leg, into a fast, dervish of a spin that makes Markus dizzy to watch. His wild, chestnut curls whip around his head as his arms move from stretched out at his sides, to bent, to straight and hooked over his head.
It's hypnotic, and it feels like it goes on forever. At least five seconds.
But when he finally stops, he doesn't even seem fazed by the blinding speed of his spin. He quickly kicks off again, and zips around the pair, who stop at the bench to talk to their coach, before kicking onto the ice and leaping into the air.
He spins—Markus can barely track how many times, but he thinks he sees four turns—before landing on the ice on one foot.
All Markus can do is let out a quiet puff of breath, and remind himself to inhale again afterward.
He's… remarkable.
Inspiration strikes like a lightning bolt. Markus decides to do exactly what Carl advised and get creative with it.
The moment he touches his pencil to the page, it feels like the image comes to him in a whirlwind as fast as the skater's spin. A skater, tall, with wild curls exactly like the skater before his eyes. He tries to capture the spin exactly as he remembers it, drawing the skater in a whirling line with his arms directly over his head, moving so fast that Markus has a hard time feeling satisfied seeing him in still motion.
But behind that lone figure, the entire room is a blur of red, gray, and white, in the same shades as the rest of the arena.
He feels like he's been possessed by some kind of art spirit as he adds little details to the background of the image—blurs of color that are supposed to represent the people in the stands, including one small blur to represent him—lights, marks in the ice to represent skate marks, and blurs on the ice to represent the other skaters…
When he feels like he's finished, he stops just as quickly as he started and looks down at the page.
All he can do is laugh.
Usually, the only time he can lose himself in a piece like this is when he's painting expressionism. When he's putting his feelings onto a page with no restrictions beyond what colors he can conceivably make.
Drawing is usually much more limiting, but somehow, in mere minutes, Markus drew something he's actually proud of.
Thanks to this mysterious skater.
When Markus lifts his eyes again, he's just in time to see the skater slow down in front of where he sits. He glides for a moment, then kicks his foot and leans back, effortlessly falling into another warp-speed spin, this time on one leg. His back is arched, forming into the perfect 'C' shape with his raised leg. It's elegant and seems effortless, turning the skater into a moving, living work of art.
Markus feels like he's sitting in front of a hypnotist's pendulum.
And then—
The skater comes to a stop. He falls into a pose that rivals the most world-renowned statue or fashion model, the pale porcelain sinew of his arms on display, and hands stretching for something just beyond his reach.
His eyes open, and all of a sudden, he's leveling Markus with the most beautiful, earthy, chestnut gaze that he's ever seen.
They're frozen in a shared gaze for what feels like forever. Seconds pass like minutes but far too quickly at the same time. Markus isn't sure when he last inhaled, but as the skater falls out of his pose, his gorgeous umber gaze still locked with Markus', even breathing feels unimportant.
FWEEEEEEEP
A piercing whistle snaps Markus' attention from the skater's gaze. He startles suddenly and pulls in a sharp, gasping breath. Then, he whips his head up toward the sound, to see a taciturn-looking woman with dark hair and dark brown eyes shout. "Connor!" she calls from the bench, her chin raised.
The skater stops mid-stride, turning toward the bench to glance at her. "Yes, Miss Amanda?"
"Break time, dear." Her voice, stern but kind, carries all the way across the rink to reach the skater on the other side. "You've been at it for nearly an hour. You must be getting tired."
With a sheepish laugh, the skater reaches his hand up and pushes his unruly curls back from his face. "A little. I must've lost track of time," he replies as he turns away from Markus. "Sorry, Miss Amanda."
The woman laughs warmly, in stark contrast to her sharp disapproval. "How many times do I have to tell you not to apologize, Connor?"
In a sheepish voice, far too quiet to carry across the arena but just loud enough for Markus to hear, the skater replies, "However many it takes."
Markus watches, still entranced, as the skater makes his way toward the bench. The others move freely across the arena still, but none of them are enough to peel his attention from the beautiful, curly-haired skater. Even his basic skating strokes look elegant, like skating is easier than walking to him.
A throat clear from behind Markus snatches his attention, and he whips his head around to see Echo sitting behind him. "And you were giving me shit for wanting to ogle the Thorns," she teases.
The only response Markus can muster is a quiet, "Huh?"
"Stare any harder and this whole complex will go up in flame," continues Echo with a smirk.
Markus tries for a laugh, but it only comes out as a puff of forceful breath. "Sorry, I… don't know what came over me," he confesses.
Laughing quietly, Echo climbs over the seat and plops down next to Markus. "It's okay, I get it," she remarks. "He is pretty cute."
"It's not that." Markus pauses, then laughs again, then amends, "Well… not just that. It's just… the way he moves. I've never seen actual art in motion before but… it looked like magic. Like he was a model in motion, or a moving statue."
Echo pats Markus on the shoulder. "That's some poetic wax you're using, Markus."
With a faux-affronted scoff, Markus shrugs and retorts, "I am an artist, Echo."
Humming quietly, Echo looks into the sketchbook on Markus' lap. Her brows rise, and she quickly flicks her eyes back to Markus' face. "You did this? In this short amount of time?"
"How long has it been?" questions Markus, trying to hold back a quiet chuckle. "I lost track…"
Echo huffs. "Literally, like, twenty minutes!" she exclaims. "I came down here to see if your angle was better, and apparently it is, because… damn, Anderson. Carl's gonna lose his mind."
Half-smiling, Markus mutters, "You think so?"
"Markus, come on," Echo remarks with a chuckle. "You put together a masterpiece in twenty minutes."
All Markus can do is laugh softly.
That is, until Echo makes her next comment. With a smirk, she taps Markus' sketchbook and then glances across the rink at the skater. "I think you might've found your muse, Markus."
Once again, Markus laughs under his breath. He's sure Echo is just teasing him, like she's been known to do. It's way too soon to declare this mysterious skater a muse, but it would be stupid to deny the effect he had on Markus the moment he glided across the ice.
Still, he knows this was just a one-time exercise. Something Carl set up with the rink or the coaches.
Besides, it's not as though Markus struggles to find inspiration. He finds inspiration in everything. The hard part is picking just one thing to create at a time.
For now… he's glad that he'll have something to show Hank when he gets home from work tonight. Hank hasn't been pressuring him, but at least he'll be glad to know that the money he used to help get Markus into Detroit University of Art isn't going to waste.