Faltering

By Kay

Disclaimer: If I owned Mighty Ducks, there would be a disturbing amount of Fulton-hair-touching going on there. *coughs* So pretty... eheh...

Author's Notes: Well, it's my fifth MD fic, but the first one I've posted. I don't even know why I'm posting it. I hate it. x_x I like my unfinished ones better, but this was done, so it's getting posted first. For some reason, my characterization went downhill in a fit of melodramatic stuff here. Fulton's decided to turn into a dramatic, weepy girl in this-- and instead of being just cute, he cries and remembers badly written smut. But I'm uploading it anyway. Somebody might enjoy it. ^^;;

Please excuse the extraordinary amount of rambling, run-on sentances I'm probably using. *grins* Thanks!

SLASH-- this means male/male people!

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When Fulton gets his Letter, he doesn't even try to pretend that it doesn't hurt.

Outside of his bedroom, he knows that his mother is telling one of the Ducks-- probably Charlie, the others had either been too nervous to seek out Fulton's home, or gave up a long time ago on getting him to see them-- that he's not seeing anybody, but please come again because he may have changed his mind next week. Except Fulton knows as much as everybody else that he won't be changing his mind anytime soon. Oh, eventually he may go to one of the team get-togethers, play some rough hockey, but it seems like a distant dream in his mind, always out of reach and far from touch.

A week since the Letter, but no phone calls. He doesn't even know why he's hoping for one, anymore.

He doesn't like to get out of bed much this week. He's locked the bedroom door so that no one will burst in and interrupt his thinking, but to be honest, there is no thinking going on here. His brain keeps jumping from moment to moment, loading up on the seconds where things seemed right with the world, but all it takes is one look at the piece of worn paper grasped tightly in his hand to tell him different. His father has pounded on the door more than once, bellowing at the top of his lungs, but Fulton has learned to utterly ignore him. Strange, how all his life he's wanted to do that, wanted to put his father's angry face out of his head forever, and all it's taken is this stupid Letter to do it. Because now he can't think about his father's bad habits or disapproval, just about words printed in a scrawled style.

His mother sometimes brings him food. He eats, but it all feels dull on his tongue. There is no taste, just bitterness, like he's eating an entire plate full of it and it's getting stuck to his faltering lips, and soon all he'll be able to say is something bitter.

'Dear Fulton,' it says on the first line. The Letter.

And Fulton keeps asking thin air, keeps wondering out loud why it changed so much. Because once upon a time, the Letter would have said something like, 'Hey,' in the beginning, because they never needed to put down names. There was never anyone else to write to except each other.

He's staring up at the cracked and stained ceiling tiles, watching the white fade into murky ivory, and his back hurts from the jabbing points on his mattress. It feels like he hasn't moved forever. His hand is hanging off the bedside, Letter clenched in his fingers and ripped slightly at the edges from use, but it's safe from disrepair now because Fulton has memorized every single line. His professors would have loved him if he paid so much attention to his homework. The thought brings a caustic laugh, dry and raspy in the damp air.

'Dear Fulton,' it says.

'This isn't easy for me, man.'

No shit, well, it isn't a picnic for Fulton either, he thinks to himself. But the brief flare of anger dies quickly, smothered by the pains in his stomach that eat away at him. In time, he thinks that maybe he can read the Letter without feeling sick, but now it just hurts. Hurts, and he never realized anyone could do that to him.

'I know you'll be pissed off at me. That's okay, I would be, too.'

He is, he's very pissed off, but that isn't the part that hurts. He never believed it could hurt like this. All his life, he's been the one who knows about pain-- he's breathed it in for years. His father had slapped him across the face, a neat little backhand that had sent the eight year old into a bruised and battered pain for days. He already knows the pain of hitting the sideboards during a game, the rush and adrenaline shot straight down his system when he feels the skin at his elbow rip a little. He thought that surely he understood pain, could handle anything by now.

But Portman had always been able to shatter his defenses. Barrel right through into the softer parts of him. They've been left open, welcoming the shot that just felt like it completely destroyed his inner-organs, leaving him as one big gaping, bleeding wound in the world.

It hurts, and Fulton doesn't know how to fix it.

'I've been sitting in my room all summer vacation, wondering what it'll be like when I get to Eden Hall again. Wondering what we're gonna do. And I know this'll suck, but I don't want to leave you hanging for another month until it happens, so I wrote this. And…'

'Look, I'm really sorry, bro.'

Fulton wishes he couldn't feel that grief coming off of the Letter. But he does, and he knows just how sorry his best friend is, which makes it hurt even more. He can't be angry with him when he sounds like that. When he writes, reluctant, words that he hates to use-- though Fulton's not sure if it's because he was upset, or just upset that Fulton would be upset.

Of course, it doesn't matter. It still hurts. He wishes he could tell the Letter to shut up, but it isn't likely to happen anytime soon. The words echo in his head like a ricochet bullet bouncing off of walls, over and over and over, one dent after another going into his brain.

'I'm really, really sorry. You're my best bud. We're the Bash Brothers, remember? We're awesome together, the best, the greatest thing that's ever happened to me…'

Fulton lets out a cough that's more like a sob. He curls over slightly in the bed, burrowing his aching face in his pillow, screaming at himself to shut up, just shut up, because he's already cried too much to be acceptable. He's not weak, he's not a girl, but the hot tears gush over his eyelids and burn trails down his face, and he can't stop them anytime soon.

'We're perfect, but… but it's not going to happen like that again.'

He wonders if his mother can hear him cry through the doorway, but can't work up the shame in light of his twisted insides.

'We'll always be friends, dude. I still want to be your roommate, I still want to play on the ice with you, and I'll always wanna be the guy that listens to rock music and snickers over the preppies in the school with you. But that's it. I can't handle anything else, and it was kind of a mistake-- but don't think that I meant to hurt you, 'cause I didn't, bro…'

Of course he hadn't. Portman never tries to hurt anything.

Fulton thinks he's going to be sick.

'It was good and all, it was great, but I'm not really like that…'

Going to be sick, violently ill, and he presses his pale knuckles against his mouth as though he could stifle whatever new whimper or retch could appear there. He doesn't want to react, wants everything to be as easy as Portman thinks it could be…

'I just hope we can get past that night. I'm really sorry, Fulton.'

He's sorry, too, so sorry that it's ripping him apart. Because Fulton can tell himself every lie on the planet, but it wouldn't work. He knows himself too well for that. Every time he tells himself that it will be okay, he sees an image in his mind, whereupon returning to Eden Hall, his best friend's usually outgoing face will be closed and shuttered to him. For every illusion that they can return to being friends like before, he sees himself watching Portman sleep in the night, sprawled over his bed and breathing soft, and he can't stop wanting or needing him anymore. A switch has been turned on somewhere inside of him, and he can't go back.

'I didn't mean for it to happen, and we were kind of drunk, remember? I know you might be thinking the same thing…'

They've always been able to read each other's minds almost, but not this time. Or, if they can, Fulton hopes he's projecting every ounce of misery back through their feedback.

Of course they'd been 'drunk,' that was a convenient excuse. Fulton remembers seeing Portman knock back a few-- he stole some from an upperclassman somewhere, taking it upon himself to 'confiscate' a few bottles for safekeeping-- but he hadn't touched a drop, never liked alcohol, except the way it tasted in Dean's hot cavern of a mouth, and the way his breathe tasted and reeked of it…

'…but I wanted to clear things up and make it right again. Things have been weird this summer, and I hate it. We're too good of buds for that, Fulton.'

Weird had been how a thrill went up Fulton's spine that night, when he looked across the room and saw Portman staring at him like he'd never seen him before. The intensity of his dark eyes, the way he seemed like he was focusing his entire world on Fulton-- and Fulton had never felt that before, but would never feel it again. It was over. Over, over, and the Letter he hated was still in his hand, like if he held onto it long enough it would disappear in a puff of smoke.

Over. No more days where they could hang out together, playing air guitar on their hockey sticks and annoying every dorm residence on the floor with their loud music. No more late night ice cream trips, where Portman would have to have a different flavor every time, and Fulton always stuck to his vanilla and strawberry combination. No more 'studying' together when they were really making cracks at how the teacher was wearing a toupee, and they should liberate it from his head in front of the class one day. No more listening to Portman's heavy, slow breathing as he falls asleep, drowsy and comfortable in a way he's never been before, just to be across the room from him.

'You're my best friend. You deserve better than that.'

No more winning games as the Bash Brothers, skating and moving together on the ice as though they were born to do it, always highly aware of every sharp, miniscule movement from each other. When the buzzer sounded in the end, Fulton wouldn't stumble over to Portman to lunge at him for a victory chest bash and clap on the back. He'd never have that moment again-- perfect, dizzy second of time-- where Portman was all around him, embracing him in the catcalls of the crowd, and Fulton could always feel the dampness of his hair on the nape of his neck where his fingers curled against his best friend's warm skin. Heady, too much, gone in a second, but it was always back in the next game--

But not anymore. Never again.

'It'll be weird at first, but we just have to put it behind us, okay? I know you probably wanna forget as much as I do…'

Portman can make all the excuses in the world, but Fulton knows that it can't be 'put behind' them. It's over and done with, because he can never go back to those fantastic, awesome days. The times when it was just him and Portman, the Bash Brothers, together and perfect. He's been given a glimpse of something else entirely-- seen a Dean and Fulton-- and now he can't forget about them, the two confused boys in the middle of a humid May night that awkwardly stumbled their way into something bigger than either of their six foot frames.

He tries to tell himself for a while that he can trust Portman's unshaking belief that they can go back to what it was like. He tries, but the illusion fades into the harsh welding of reality-- maybe his friend can play it cool, climb back from the edge, but he's been long lost to it. For every time that he'll see Portman, he'll remember an unexpected weight pressing his mattress down, and an even more unexpected kiss. It had been shocking and heavy, clumsy and slightly over presumptuous, but Fulton knows he'll never have another as good as that.

Nothing can recreate it. Not with the same hot breathe washing over his cheek, the taste of cheap beer and licorice and sleep that mingled together when Portman's mouth was pressed demandingly over his own. The tight grip of fingers shoving his hands deep into the bedcovers, grasping a wrist and rubbing the flesh there as if ensuring he was real. And when Fulton had answered in something less than words, 'I'm here, I'm real, you're real, so much more real…'

'I hate the idea that I could've taken advantage of you or something. It wasn't cool, man, I just… I mean, I never would've done it if I was thinking.'

And all Fulton ever thinks about anymore is hard kisses, impatient hands shoving up into the warmth of his shirt, and how good it felt, so good-- because no one had ever touched Fulton Reed quite like that, like he meant something-- like he was wanted for something.

'I'm sorry this is so awkward. I hope you're doin' okay. Hey, only a month left until we can hit the ice again!'

He dreams about it sometimes when he sleeps, unable to stop remembering the sensation of slightly cool hands running over his ribcage and the soft spots of his stomach. His arm pressed against the sheets, one untangling free to wrap its shaking fingers in Portman-- no, Dean's-- dark hair, at the nape of his neck that he knew so well.

'Yeah, I got a cool new trick to show you when we get back, bro. It'll be great.'

Great, great is the ache that runs through every part of his body, flushing his face when he thinks about that night. He tries not to, but it never stops torturing him. It's always Dean, Dean, Dean, and the way he felt draped over Fulton's frame, pinning him down and settling all over him, hands everywhere at once. They'd been taking off his shirt, gently brushing the sweatpants material at his thighs, gripping at his hipbones. Fulton feels like he's swimming in his scattered thoughts because he can't hold onto anything for half a second. There are flashes of the moments when they were so tangled up in each other that he couldn't tell up from down, and Dean swallowed every sound he made, took all of him, the good and bad and different and same.

There had been heat, tiny gasps, and muffled groans, and Dean had the strangest, most careful look on his face when he combed Fulton's inky black strands of hair from his eyes afterwards…

He loves the strangled sound of, 'Dean,' from his lips. Loves the feel of his fingers on his face. Loves teeth catching at the juncture of his throat and collarbone. Loves it, and that's so wrong it's not funny.

'You'll see, it'll all work itself out soon. So don't worry, we'll talk more at school and stuff. I just wanted…'

Fulton wants to see that look again, though. He's scared and angry right now, and so hurt, but he can forget that if he could only see Portman's face with that indescribable look on it again.

'…wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings or hard feelings.'

Because they hadn't talked about it after that night, but Fulton had always thought…

'Because I was worried about you.'

Always fooled himself into…

'Write back or call, if you get a chance, okay?'

Into believing… so stupid, though, so stupid. He knows better now, but it hurts even more. Despite that pain, however, he feels oddly detached. Removed.

'Hope you forgive me. It was just that stupid alcohol-- I'm not even into guys, it's not like that…'

It had been so unreal, the way Portman had looked at him that night, when he felt boneless and tired and incredible. The way he pulled the strands of charcoal black from Fulton's face, staring down at his drowsy, content expression with something close to fascinated amazement. The way he had kissed him then, again-- and it had been slow and sweet, unlike any of the earlier ones-- before settling down to sleep.

'I'm really sorry.'

Fulton wishes he could erase those words form existence.

'It was a huge mistake.'

He's never felt so lost, so unbelievably miserable. He keeps waiting for the phone to ring, for a deep and laughter-boomed voice to be on the other line, telling him some wild story from Chicago. He keeps listening to his mother tell his friends that he's not feeling well, and the sounds of his father's mocking, vicious concerns. H keeps holding onto the Letter like it will say something else in another minute.

'Look, we'll talk later in depth. I just wanted to break the ice (bad pun, sorry, bro) and get it into the open so that we could talk later.'

Fulton wants to hear the phone ring. It was probably a bad idea to unhook that connection cord, then.

Part of him is laughing weakly at that.

'I also wanted to make sure you were okay.'

And he knows he shouldn't feel so devastated and abandoned, yet it hurts and he's not willing to ignore it. No matter how weak or stupid it makes him, Fulton can't lie to himself.

'So I'll see you soon.'

He knows what he wants now, but it's too late. It's all so screwed up that he wants to chuck something at the wall. Wants to scream and hit something. Wants to call up Dean Portman and lie through his teeth, tell him how much he hates him right now, how they can go back to being best bros and everything will be right with the world.

'Portman.'

Fulton thinks he could hurt him, but the Letter is heavy as stone in his hand and he could never deny his best friend peace of mind. By the time school rolls around, he'll have to think of something-- anything-- to say to make it right again. Something that will let them fall back into their usual patterns, even if he's still burning up inside of himself, turning every poisonous thought to ash. Something to say to make it wrong again.

All he wants to say, though, is the faltering, 'I think I love you,' on his lips.

And there's no one to hear it anymore.

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Well, that was a lovely little cliche fest. *coughs* ^_^;; Sorry. I'm being sarcastic today.

Next time, I'll post something more in character and better, I promise! ^_^

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