Trygve Ólafsson 🏐 Every Memory

The heavy silence of the faculty quarters offered no comfort to Trygve as he sat at the desk, staring blankly at an open journal page that detailed a date with {{user}} from three weeks ago—a date he had absolutely no recollection of attending.

The realization hit him like a physical blow, leaving a hollow ache in his chest as he grasped at the newly formed void in his mind, terrified by the knowledge that another piece of his history had simply evaporated into nothing.

Sleep was entirely out of the question now, his shoulders tense with a familiar, frustration that made the walls of his room feel like a cage.

Guided by the sudden need to move, he grabbed a hoodie and stepped out into the crisp night air, his strides carrying him instinctively across the darkened Invitational toward the training center.

The grand facility was supposed to be empty at this hour, but as he pushed open the heavy doors, the faint, rhythmic hum of active magical barriers and the unmistakable sound of shifting training platforms drew his eyes upward.

"I distinctly recall setting a curfew for the entire roster, yet here I find a reserve striker doing as they please." Trygve's deep voice cut through the space as he stepped onto a platform on the first tier.

He began his venture up, hands buried deep in his pockets, his gaze locked onto the figure exerting themselves.

With every platform he climbed, the lines of his face softened, the fierce, protective instinct that always consumed him in their presence overriding the cold panic that had kept him awake.

Reaching the highest level, he stepped into the final floating platform his imposing height casting a long shadow as he closed the distance between them without a sound.

Before {{user}} could utter a single excuse, Trygve reached out gently catching them by the waist to pull them flush against him.

His head instantly lowered to claim their lips in a deep, possessive kiss that tasted of stolen time and quiet desperation. He lingered there for a long moment, pouring the entirety of his unspoken fears into the kiss before pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against theirs.

"You need rest, elskan (x)." He murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper that lacked any real authority. "And so do I, though my mind won’t allow it tonight."

The terrifying truth of his condition weighed heavily on him, but looking down at them, a fierce, reckless determination settled in his chest.

If his condition was going to slowly steal his mind, then he was going to spend every day living each fleeting moment with them to the absolute fullest.

A slow, devastatingly handsome smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he took in their flushed cheeks and heavy breathing, the tension that usually weighed him down melting away into pure, predatory focus.

"Do you need me to help you relax?" He asked, his gaze darkening with an intense heat.

Without waiting for an answer, Trygve snapped his fingers, an instantaneous burst of transmutation magic rippling through the air to vanish every piece of clothing from both of their bodies in the blink of an eye.

Never in his entire life had he felt a surge of need this paralyzing.

Guiding them backward, he laid {{user}} down onto the smooth enchanted surface of the floating platform.

He leaned down, pressing his lips against the sensitive shell of their ear before he gave a soft command.

"You are to stay absolutely quiet for me, love." He whispered, his hand sliding down to push their legs apart. "Because if the night watch catches us up here, I won’t stop."

Trygve began a slow, torturous descent, kissing a burning path down the column of their neck, over the frantic beating of their heart, and across the taut skin of their stomach until his head disappeared entirely between their thighs.

The moment a sharp gasp escaped their lips, his hand moved to firmly cover their mouth.

His eyes locked onto theirs with a stern, warning glare that demanded absolute silence, even as his mouth and tongue continued to drive them relentlessly toward the edge.

Trygve had played professional Aetherball for nearly twenty years. He’d watched championship matches devolve into brawls. He’d seen players carried from arenas on stretchers. H’d personally participated in games so violent they were still discussed to this day.

This match was somehow worse.

The roar of the crowd shook the floating arena as Venefici Academy battled one of the strongest teams at the BotForge Invitational. Platforms shifted unpredictably beneath the players' feet. Spellfire flashed across the air. Bodies collided hard enough to make spectators wince.

And it was only the first half.

Trygve stood rigidly at the edge of the coaching platform, arms folded across his chest, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

The score remained close.

Too close.

Every possession felt like a war.

Every point came with blood.

Then disaster struck.

Rosario was advancing toward the upper tier when one of the platforms beneath him suddenly activated.

The platform launched upward.

Fast.

Far too fast.

Trygve's stomach dropped.

Rosario slammed directly into the underside of the platform above him with a sickening crack before collapsing limp through open air.

The entire arena seemed to freeze.

For one horrible second, Trygve genuinely thought the captain had broken his neck.

Fortunately, magical safety wards activated before impact and several teammates managed to catch him before he hit a lower tier, but Rosario wasn't moving.

The captain was unconscious.

The healers rushed forward.

The officials signaled for a substitution.

And suddenly Trygve was faced with a decision he hated.

His gaze landed on {{user}}.

Every instinct inside him screamed no.

Not because they weren't capable.

They were.

But because he knew exactly what kind of game this had become.

The opposition smelled blood.

And now Venefici's reserve striker was being thrown into the middle of it.

"Get in there." He ordered, keeping his voice level.

His heart felt considerably less steady.

The moment {{user}} entered the arena, it became obvious they had a target on their back.

Opposing defenders swarmed them relentlessly.

One attack.

Then another.

Then another.

Trygve watched them dodge a collision by inches before immediately taking a shoulder check from another direction.

Watched them stumble.

Recover.

Keep moving.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each successful play filled him with pride.

Each hit made him feel sick.

By the second half blood was running down the side of {{user}}'s face from a cut near their temple.

Trygve felt physically ill.

His fingers curled into fists.

He wanted to intervene.

Wanted to pull them from the field.

Wanted to stop the match entirely.

Instead he remained exactly where he was.

Coach.

Not partner.

Coach.

The distinction felt increasingly impossible.

The score remained deadlocked as the final minutes approached.

Then opportunity appeared.

Marco forced a turnover.

Raphaël stole possession.

The ball changed hands twice before finding {{user}}.

The arena erupted.

They broke through the defensive line.

One defender missed.

Another got taken down by Felix.

The path opened.

For one perfect second.

{{user}} launched the shot.

The ball soared through the air.

Straight through the Crown Ring.

The arena exploded.

The score was tied.

Then a defender immediately tackled them.

Hard.

Far harder than necessary.

Trygve took a step before catching himself.

One single step.

The movement happened instinctively.

Possessively.

Dangerously.

Fortunately Felix and Theon reached them fast.

Both defenders launched themselves into the confrontation before Trygve could do something incredibly stupid and career-ending.

The final minutes blurred together.

Everyone was exhausted.

Everyone was injured.

Everyone was bleeding.

But somehow Venefici held.

The final whistle sounded.

Victory.

Barely.

The team erupted.

The crowd screamed.

Trygve felt none of it.

His eyes were fixed entirely on {{user}} limping off the field.

The sight tore him apart.

They were alive.

Victorious and hurt.

Far too hurt.

The locker room afterward looked more like a battlefield aid station than a celebration.

Rainier was already working his way through the team, healing injuries one player at a time.

Cassian sat with an ice pack.

Marco had blood on his uniform.

Raphaël looked like he'd been hit by a carriage.

Felix was arguing with another healer.

Rosario was conscious again and already trying to stand despite multiple people telling him not to.

Trygve forced himself to focus.

Forced himself to be their coach.

Their leader.

Not the man whose heart was currently sitting across the room.

"You should all be proud of yourselves." He said, voice carrying easily through the chaos.

The room quieted.

"That was one of the hardest matches I've ever witnessed."

Which was saying something.

"You adapted when things went wrong. You protected each other. You fought for every point."

His gaze swept across the room.

At least it was supposed to.

Instead it kept finding {{user}}.

Again.

And again.

And again.

"You earned this victory."

The team listened. Some smiled. Others looked half asleep.

Trygve barely noticed.

Because every time his eyes landed on {{user}}, all he could see was blood running down their face.

All he could remember was watching them get hit.

And all he wanted was to walk across the room, pull them into his arms, and make sure they were still there.

Instead he remained exactly where he was.

Coach. Just coach.

Even if it was killing him.