*So, looks like I'm not dead, after all. Oh, well, I'll live. ^__^ (Look!
My first one!) Sorry about the long delay, you guys; October is such a busy
month for me. Between midterms and film festivals and especially hockey
season, I've had less than no time to write. If this isn't the Canucks
year, then it's coming soon. We picked up a new player, #21, Magnus
Arvedson. We've already got #44, Todd Bertuzzi. Now, if that isn't a good
luck charm, I don't know what is! On a sadder note, Quimby, my longest-
running, most loyal reviewer ever, is gone from the fanfiction universe, at
least for now. This never fails to get me down when I think about it, so if
there's anyone out there who has been reading this story, but has yet to
review, please drop me a line. It would cheer me up immeasurably to see
that my fics are reaching a larger audience then they had when I began this
crazy game back in January. Anyway, enough of that, here are some notes
before we begin:
WeBuiltThisCityOnRockAndRoll: Because I can't remember the last time I typed your name out in full... I wholeheartedly agree that preppy bitches lick monkey testicles in the most abhorrent fashion, and I would love to see them try to blow your non-existent dick. I might even pay money for it. You're right, something will have to happen on the Clayton front, but you must wait to find out what it is... mwah ha ha. What you don't have to wait for any more is the hockey showdown; it's coming next chapter. A fellow Stephen King fan, eh? I'm a total hardcore; I've been his since I was nine, and I first read Skeleton Crew. I own every last one of his books, and love them all. The ending to Pet Sematary kicks ASS, baby! And Swing Kids? You're kidding, right? I bawl my fucking eyes out every time Arvid kills himself, but the ending is even worse (Swing hail, Peter! Swing hail!). I fell in love with that movie when I was ten, and haven't been able to extricate myself since, even though it's technically a pretty bad movie. I'm like that. Once I fall in love, it's just about impossible for me to fall out of love. Take Fulton. Fell for him at age eleven, fast forward eight or nine years, and here I am, in love all over again. You'll get that, I guess. What do you think all us obsessives will be like when we're fifty?
QteCuttlfish: Glad you're enjoying this universe of mine; I am too. A little too much, probably, but that's beside the point. I loved your cuttlefish story; those guys are the coolest, aren't they? Colour-changing fish... trippy.
Anne: Guy's just such a little cutie, isn't he? Wanting to keep Fulton out of trouble. Good luck, is all I can say.
Grasshopper: Fulton as Scarlett O'Hara, hm? Very nice... I see him in a high-necked red velvet dress, myself, with tall leather boots and maybe a hint of eyeliner... Is that wrong? And pet names are the epitome of disgustingly cute, aren't they? I just can't seem to stay away from them, when it comes to my Bashes.
Star: It seemed cold to leave you out just because you didn't stroke my ego with a review, so I won't. But now I can't think of anything to write, so we're back where we started. Fuck. My apologies. More Shoebox!
Schizzum jizzum: Man, your review for last chapter was the coolest thing ever, m'dear! I have to admit, I thought the Portman stripping was a nice touch. Don't worry, I'll leave the pedophilia to you and Q... What do you say? Should I write the Terminator into the story? Maybe he could act as a catalyst, or something... *grins* Gym teachers as the children of those who escaped the Nuremberg trials... I like it. Explains a lot, too, so many of them are raging right-wing bigots. And yes, I was paying homage to Freak the Mighty with Fult's basement paradise. Got to get up pretty early in the morning to pull one over on my Schizzoid, isn't that right? I live in constant fear of your violent presence, have I ever told you that?
Portman's POV:
Fulton slept like the dead. No joke; he told me once that when he was six, he slept through a fire that nearly burned down his entire apartment complex. He'd had to be lifted out his fourth-storey window by a "smiling, curly-haired firefighter." That was the first time I ever got jealous, when I saw the way his eyes glowed when he spoke of his childhood hero (he'd wanted to become a firefighter for years after that), and the feeling wasn't alleviated when he told me I reminded him of the guy. It felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. I wanted nothing more than to find this man-whore, wherever he was, with his dopey grin and Brillo-pad hairdo, and feed him his spleen.
Now, in a normal relationship, that was exactly the kind of thing that would cause a rift between two lovers. I'd have stewed over it for weeks, finally releasing all my pent-up rage and insecurity on my unfortunate better half. But Fulton has always had this knack for knowing exactly what I was feeling, sometimes before I even knew it myself. I was sitting there, all in a huff over this firefighter guy, and he just smiled at me, wrapped his arm tighter around my shoulders, and said that I was his hero now.
How cute is that? But we're not quite there yet, are we? We're still in junior year, early December, I believe, and at the tail end of the "just friends" phase of our relationship. I had dropped by Fulton's place that morning, and when he didn't respond to my calls, I let myself in. Now I was sitting on the stool beside his bed, waiting for him to wake up. He lay on his stomach, his face buried in his pillow, his hair splayed out across it, framing his head with a halo of sorts.
Finally, I'd had enough of waiting. I leant over, until my lips brushed his hair. "Mornin', sunshine," I sang out cheerfully.
He didn't open his eyes. "Ss'not morning. Fuk-off," he murmured.
"It is too, morning, you little shit. Now get your ass up. It's a beautiful day out there." I shook his shoulder. He groaned, and rolled over onto his side.
"Nice try, genius. Only I can hear the rain from here."
Damn. So I kept poking and teasing him until he finally got up, threatening to mould me into Play-Doh pasta.
"What's up with you, anyway?" he muttered, as we climbed the stairs to his apartment. "Is something wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean it's barely nine o'clock."
"So?"
"So... thy earliness doth me assure, thou art uproused by some distemperature. Or if not so, then here I hit it right: our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight."
My eyes widened at that; though I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else. Slipping anything past Fulton, even a sleep-deprived Fulton, was the approximate equivalent of duping a crack team of top KGB agents or something. That, and the fact that I was still wearing yesterday's clothes probably tipped him off.
"Shakespeare? Are you throwing Shakespeare at me?"
"Of course not. That was Dean Koontz."
"Who?"
"Forget it."
In the kitchen, I sat down on one of the metal tubular chairs at the small, Formica-topped table. Fulton started hunting through the cupboards for something to eat, eventually procuring a single apple, which he gave to me-- "I'm not the one with a hockey game in an hour and a half," he said--and a half-eaten box of Sugar Crisp. There was no milk, so we ate handfuls of the sticky-sweet puffed wheat straight from the box. After that, he took the first of the shower runs; I had been using his all week, since ours was busted.
While I was waiting for Fulton, I went into the living room, which always looked like the morning after a frat party. Crumpled beer cans covered most of the carpet, and cigarette butts spilled out of the overflowing ashtrays that had been placed around the room. An enormous, battle-scarred leather easy chair with a sunken bottom bled stuffing from several gaping wounds. It was positioned directly in front of the TV, and it didn't take a genius to see that it belonged to Fult's dad. I'd never seen the man, but given the size of the indentation he left in his recliner, I was willing to bet he was the genetic source of Fulton's enormity.
I had just noticed the TV tray that stood beside the easy chair, when Fulton came in. He was fresh-faced from his shower, his hair dripping water down his soft, rounded cheeks and onto the shoulders on his Judas Priest t- shirt. Other than that, he wore only boxers, navy blue, and the pallor of his white legs was emphasised by the black hairs that sprouted from them. I must have been staring, because he shuffled his bare feet uncomfortably.
"What is it?"
'I don't know,' I thought to myself. 'But it's something.' Of course, all that came out was, "Just spacing." I gestured to the TV tray. "Your dad really likes to party, huh? I thought that was more your mom's thing."
I was pretty sure that Fulton was trying to keep me from running into his father whenever I was over at his place; either that, or he avoided him whenever he could. Probably that last one. I'd met his mom a few weeks ago, though, and had seen her pretty often since then. Each time, she'd been out of her head on something or other, though she always smiled at me, and said hello, and made small talk with the two of us, even if a lot of it made little sense. She'd called me Portman from the beginning, which was something parents never did, and I loved her for it. In return, she asked that I never refer to her as Ms. Reed, but only Lila. I was only too happy to oblige; I hated titles. They seemed like the kind of thing you had to earn, but nobody ever did.
Fulton looked down at the tray. On it were a shaving mirror, a razor blade, an empty Baggie, and a bunch of crumpled Kleenex caked with blood and snot. He rolled his eyes, and nodded. "Yeah, but dad'll binge on coke or crystal if one of his friends comes into some. Never lasts that long, though, and he never seems to get hooked."
"More of the drinking type, is he?" I spoke casually, but my mind kept filling itself with nasty memories I'd hoped were long forgotten. If he was hurting him...
Fulton sighed. "Yeah."
"Fulton, I--" I began, but I was cut off by a high-pitched scream that issued forth from down the hall, followed by the sound of glass breaking, then a quiet sobbing. Fulton shot me a look that clearly meant "stay here," and hurried off in the direction of the sounds. I stayed put like a good boy for a few minutes, before curiosity got the better of me, and I went down the hall to see what was up.
Fulton's mom was in bed. Her bright red hair stuck up wildly in places, slicked to her skull by sweat in others. She was shrieking and kicking, and Fulton sat on the bed, holding her tightly, trying to calm her down. She looked so small and delicate in her son's arms, like a wounded bird. I saw broken glass in one corner of the room, below a patch of wall that was dripping with water.
"Who are you? Get out! Get out! Leave me alone!" she kept yelling.
I felt bad, just standing there, so I went into the kitchen, and came back with a dustpan and another glass of water. Fulton noticed me this time, and beckoned me inside. I sat down opposite him, so that his mother was between us.
She was trembling violently; her eyes were red and streaming, and she smelled kind of rank, but at least she'd stopped yelling.
I smiled at her, and handed her the glass. "Hi, Lila."
Fulton disappeared for a moment, and came back with a bottle of pills. He shook a couple of the large white tablets into his palm, and passed them to her. "This is Portman, mom. Do you remember?"
"Portman... of course I remember," she whispered hoarsely, between great gulps of water. "You're here to take my boy away."
At the time, I didn't think anything of her words. She passed out soon after that, thanks to the barbiturates Fult had given her. We cleaned up the glass, and headed down to the hockey rink. Neither of us spoke on the way down there, and I kept reminding myself to be grateful that my mother, for all her faults, wasn't a sketchy, pill-popping addict like Fulton's. We got to the rink a little early, so we sat on the curb while we waited for the rest of my team to show up. We were playing the Hawks for the first time since I'd defected, and I was really looking forward to crushing those fuckers like ants. Fulton had brought his hockey stick along, since he liked to practice his shooting in the alleys while we warmed up. He tossed it back and forth between his hands, which were covered with the same cropped-tip motorcycle gloves he'd been wearing that night I first saw him, in the alleyway behind my house.
"You know..." I began, but Fulton was wise to me.
"Don't start," he broke in.
"But why, Fult? I don't get it. I mean, you can skate now."
"The why is insignificant. What matters is that it's not going to happen, so you might as well just shut up about it."
I'd been bugging Fulton to join the Swordfish for weeks now. I had taught him all I could about skating, and now we were working on enforcer skills, but what he really needed was a chance to show his stuff to other people, in a real game. The thought of a shot like his going to waste was sickening, but Fult would have none of it. I found out later it was due to a paralysing fear of being rejected by the hockey team that meant so much to him, but at the time, I thought it was just him being shy and antisocial. I knew there was more to this hockey/skating thing than I was getting, but I figured he would tell me about it eventually, which he did, though it took, as it so often did, a significant amount of prodding on my part. I didn't mind; he was Fulton, and idiosyncrasies were part of his appeal.
At this point, I was still trying to piece together Fulton's life from the excerpts I'd witnessed first hand, and the tid-bits I'd gleaned from Fulton himself. It was strange, and sad, and beautiful at the same time. Beautiful because, in spite of all the shit he'd had to deal with, he'd managed to become this amazingly kind, complex person, nonetheless. He never moped or whined about the raw deal he'd been given, and I found that the more time I spent with him, the less I ever wanted to leave his side.
Now, I knew there was something not quite normal about feeling like that. It was like we were moving into the Twilight Zone, but I didn't care. I'd never been much good with temptation; ask anyone. If it felt good, I did it. We were all going to die, some of us sooner than others, and I guess I never saw much point in denying myself, and it turned out Fulton felt the same way, once you got past the layers of painful insecurity, anyway. Thank god for that, or things might have turned out very differently, indeed.
Sometimes, when I was with him, it felt like I was doing a hundred down a windy mountain road in the middle of the night. Like Angel and the others all over again, only different, too. And better. So much better.
I want it on record that I knew what I was getting into from the beginning. I know Fulton thinks I had no clue, but he's wrong, for once. I may not have known the details of his life, all the little things he hid from everyone, but I knew they were there, waiting to be uncovered. Just because I jumped in with both feet where no one else wanted to go, didn't mean that I was jumping blind, and if it took me a while to understand exactly what it was I was feeling, then I'm sure you can forgive me, for I was young, and foolish, and I'd never been in love.
Fulton's POV:
"Holy cow, I think I got one, here / Now just what am I supposed to do? Got a number of irrational fears / That I'd like to share with you. First there's rules about old goats like me / Hanging around with chicks like you. But I do like you, and another one: / You say 'like' too much. But I'm shaking at your touch / I like you way too much. My baby, I'm afraid / I'm falling for you. I'd do 'bout anything / To get the hell out alive Or maybe I would rather / Settle down with you."
--"Falling for You" by Weezer
*I chose this quotation back while I was writing The Bash Brothers in Love. Apart from being an excerpt from one of the best songs on one of the world's best albums (Pinkerton, forever!), it also perfectly encapsulates Fulton's frame of mind for much of this story. Plus, I fool around a bit with the Madam Butterfly references, as you guys may or may not notice. I wanted to set the last scene in a Japanese restaurant to complete the theme, but I don't think they have fortune cookies, so Chinese it is. I've never actually seen the opera performed, but I love the deconstuctionist play.*
"Hey McGillis! Heard your wife got the clap. Bummer, huh? Good thing you're not at risk, but what about the rest of Minnesota?"
I was laughing so hard, tears were running down my face. Portman was in the penalty box for a dubious roughing call, and was voicing his opposition by hurling insults at any Hawk who ventured into earshot, the coach included. Though the Hawks were ahead, having taken full advantage of the Fishies' lack of goaltending talent, the game belonged to the Swordfish, Portman in particular. Even those who normally cheered for the Hawks were rooting for #21, as he shot out of the penalty box and tore straight for the net. He was held up in the slot by the Hawks' defence, who were double-teaming him, but he flattened them both and got right up beside the net. When Conway made a beautiful cross-ice pass to Guy, he took a shot, but the Hawks had collapsed in front of the net, and it couldn't make it through. Portman managed to hook the puck, though, and, swatting aside the only Hawks brave enough or stupid enough to try to check him, he flipped it up over the goalie's glove.
The period was over. It was 2-2. I watched Portman, who was laughing loudly with Guy as they headed into the locker room. My stomach had twisted itself into a knot, and my palms were clammy. I felt pride, bemusement, fear and longing; but more than anything else, I felt the thing that felt like love. I rubbed my face vigorously, like I was trying to make myself wake up, but the feeling persisted.
"Fult," I muttered to myself. "You are in *way* over your head."
Johnny's POV:
Most people go their whole lives without ever witnessing a miracle. I feel for them, I really do, but I am not one of them. Not anymore.
I had some stuff to take care of at my cousin's that day, and I arrived at the rink as the first period was ending. Portman was just getting off the ice. He saw me coming, and waved me over.
"Hey, Johnny. I didn't think you could make it."
"And miss the bloodshed? Are you kidding? How many have you hospitalised so far?"
Portman grinned wolfishly. "Well, Coombs is out for the rest of the game, at least, and they're not sure if Walker will make it back, either."
"I suppose you're proud of yourself?" I teased.
"Got that right. They were both legal checks."
"Good to hear." I scanned the bleachers. "So, where's your mystery boy? I figure, today's the day I introduce myself."
"Top corner, left hand side. That's where he always sits."
I looked in that direction. "There's no one there now. You sure?"
"Yup. He's probably gone to the john, or something. If you don't have any luck with him, meet me by the locker room after the game. I'll introduce you; it might help."
"Help how?"
"To get him to trust you. You'll have a hell of a time talking to him, otherwise. Look, Conway's calling me. I got to go. Offer him weed, if you have any. It helps calm him down."
"Right. See you after the game. Good luck."
"You too."
I hurried to position myself so as to have a good view of the area Dean indicated, without being in the line of sight. Within moments, he arrived. He was exactly as Portman had described him, a show of contrast. His football linebacker's body contrasted with his soft, sad face; his impossibly pale skin seemed almost translucent when held up against the rink's bright lights, and the shadows cast across his face by hair as black as mine (black hair and whiter than white skin? Was that even genetically possible?).
From all I had heard about him, it seemed inappropriate to merely stroll up and introduce myself; I should wait for the right moment. So I sat, feeling like one of those stuffy British entomologists waiting for the butterfly (though in Fulton's case, he turned out to be Butterfly herself) to do something noteworthy. I didn't have to wait long.
I'd seen Portman play before, so I was used to his style, but that day was something special. He walked away with the game, though he only scored once, and his team ended up losing. I was still trying to grasp many of hockey's nuances, but even I could see that when Portman was on the ice, he was the only thing worth watching. He played with all the energy of a class five hurricane. He was so much bigger than everyone else, that he was literally pushing them aside with one hand, all the while keeping hold of the puck. The best part was the way he antagonised the other team, yelling things that made even me want to blush. It was pure Portman, on top of his game, and on top of the world.
As much as I was enjoying myself, however, Fulton looked about ready to burst. He leant forward, slouching, his arms resting on his knees. His eyes followed Portman around the rink with an intensity I didn't understand at first. I thought he was furious at him, from the way he stared, like he was focussing all his energy into transforming him into a warty toad. With eyes like that, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd succeeded. Every now and then, he'd give a great shudder, or bury his face in his hands. I'd never seen anyone act like that before; it was a pretty heady experience, the surrealism of which was doubtless propelled by the high levels of THC that were coursing through my bloodstream at the time. Though if you know me at all, you know that that is basically my resting state, and would not consider it to be a judgement impairment. I was completely transfixed by this kid for most of the second period. What was wrong with him? I toyed with the idea of his being seriously disturbed, but rejected that when I remembered Portman, and all he'd told me of his friend.
Portman was changing before my eyes, and this kid was the catalyst. It was imperative not to judge him prematurely. His mom was big into drugs, apparently, and Dean thought he got hit a lot at home. Just then, one of the Hawks got his stick up in Portman's face and he went down. Before this could even register properly, Fulton let out a furious bellow, and tore down the staircase on my right. Portman was getting to his feet, and when he saw Fulton, he skated up to the glass, and they exchanged a few words. Blood was running down the side of Dean's face, but he was clearly okay. He was talking animatedly, waving his hands, when Fulton broke off. He threw himself at the penalty box the offending player was in, and started to vault himself over the edge. Portman, being separated from him by the boards, couldn't reach him to pull him down. Instead, he jumped into the penalty box, shoved its occupant aside, and grabbed Fulton by the arms, whispering to him frantically. After a moment, Fulton relaxed, then dropped back to the ground and, after a few more words with Portman, trudged back up the bleachers.
As he passed me, he caught my eye, and in that moment, I knew. I knew what I had been watching all this time, why Fulton looked so tired and flushed and pained. He sank into his seat, his head dropping once more into his hands, and I could see he was trembling all over. So help me God, I was watching him fall in love with Dean Portman.
Up until then, my interest in Fulton had been more or less clinical, but love, as you may have noticed, has a tendency to change everything it touches. I needed to know more, needed to know if what I'd seen was real. I walked over and sat down beside him. He looked up in surprise.
"You're Fulton, aren't you? I was wondering when we'd meet. I'm Johnny Sheffield. Portman's told me a lot about you."
His initially cloudy expression cleared somewhat, and he smiled slightly. "Likewise."
Remembering Portman's suggestion, I offered him some of my homemade chocolate chip cookies. Heavy on the hashish, just the way my grandmother used to make them. They must have worked, because for the rest of the game, we swapped stories about our common interest: Portman. When he told me about Dean stripping on the soccer field in fifty-degree weather, I nearly wet myself. By the time the game was over, I was hearing wedding bells. Portman hadn't been exaggerating when he extolled this kid's virtues. Fulton was sweet, funny, sarcastic, and fiercely intelligent. They were perfect for each other.
"He's single, you know," I said as I watched Fulton ogle Dean on his way to the locker room.
"I know," he responded, without averting his eyes.
"In fact," I continued, having for some reason to get this out of my system, to let this lovesick boy know that I was aware of how he felt. "He hasn't really been with anyone since he broke up with Angel. That was about the time he met you, isn't it?"
Now Fulton turned that piercing gaze of his back to me. He didn't say anything, but he was clearly trying to read me, to figure out what I was thinking. I decided to lay all my cards on the table.
"I love him too, you know."
I've never seen anyone look so mortified. Fulton's face immediately flushed a deep, cherry red, and that was followed by a small coughing fit. When he recovered, he turned back to me, and his eyes were pleading.
"I... I..."
"Don't say anything. I just wanted you to know that's it's okay what you're feeling." He raised his eyebrows at that, but I was adamant. "Normally, I'd be worried about getting your hopes up, but since you look like you're about to pull out the hara-kiri sword, I guess there's little chance of that: Portman's not necessarily off-limits. Just because he's never been with a guy, doesn't mean he never would. You know as well as I do, Portman's not hindered by convention of any sort. Right now, he loves you like a brother, but that could easily change into something more. If he wants you, he's not going to agonise over it. He doesn't really know how to hide his feelings."
"I know. I like that."
"Me too. You don't see that much these days."
"Sure don't."
I saw Portman coming out of the locker room, hair damp from his post-game shower, an enormous sports bag slung over his shoulder. We went down to meet him, and before I could open my mouth to tell him what a great game he'd had, he started rattling off excitedly to Fulton. Something about accepting a challenge, the result of which was a showdown to be played between the Hawks and the Swordfish. Not just the Swordfish, though, but anyone they could find who might help them win.
I expected Portman would have his work cut out for him, getting Fulton to play, but he agreed almost instantly. Guess he had a vendetta against those guys, as well. To me, it all sounded like something out of one of those sappy sports films; I was far more interested in the possibility of a modern-day love story emerging between these two.
"Come on guys," I pleaded. "You can talk hockey with each other later. Let's go get something to eat. I know this great Chinese place; come one, I'm buying."
***
"Damn, Fulton, did you eat ALL the moo goo gai pan?"
"Uhh... no."
"Liar. Wipe the soy sauce from your mouth, you thief."
It just kept getting better and better. They were adorable; they teased each other like the oldest of friends. When he was actually with Portman, instead of just watching him, Fulton's pining Romeo thing fell away, and you'd never know he was madly in love with the guy. Until, that is, we finally finished our meal--it was all-you-can-eat, and between the two of them, they consumed enough to feed a normal person for a week, maybe two-- and Portman got up to go to the bathroom. While he was gone, the waiter came back with three fortune cookies. Mine said: 'Your life will be healthy and peaceful.' That was already pretty much the case, but it was nice to know I had more of the same to look forward to.
"What'd yours say?" I asked Fulton. He was holding the tiny slip of paper between two massive fingers, and was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He showed it to me. 'The object of your love is within your grasp.'
Portman came back to the table, and sat down. "Let's see what the future holds for me," he snickered, cracking open his cookie. "'You will find true happiness in the most unlikely of places.' Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to find it in the same old spot." He dropped it onto the table as he stood up. "Those things are such a crock of shit. What'd yours say, Fult?"
"Uh... mine was empty."
Portman laughed. "Well, that's a bit of a gyp, isn't it? Here, you can have mine. I've got all the happiness I need right now." He handed Fulton the fortune, and I watched as he slipped them both into his jacket pocket, the strangest little smile on his face.
Would you laugh if I said my life was never the same again?
WeBuiltThisCityOnRockAndRoll: Because I can't remember the last time I typed your name out in full... I wholeheartedly agree that preppy bitches lick monkey testicles in the most abhorrent fashion, and I would love to see them try to blow your non-existent dick. I might even pay money for it. You're right, something will have to happen on the Clayton front, but you must wait to find out what it is... mwah ha ha. What you don't have to wait for any more is the hockey showdown; it's coming next chapter. A fellow Stephen King fan, eh? I'm a total hardcore; I've been his since I was nine, and I first read Skeleton Crew. I own every last one of his books, and love them all. The ending to Pet Sematary kicks ASS, baby! And Swing Kids? You're kidding, right? I bawl my fucking eyes out every time Arvid kills himself, but the ending is even worse (Swing hail, Peter! Swing hail!). I fell in love with that movie when I was ten, and haven't been able to extricate myself since, even though it's technically a pretty bad movie. I'm like that. Once I fall in love, it's just about impossible for me to fall out of love. Take Fulton. Fell for him at age eleven, fast forward eight or nine years, and here I am, in love all over again. You'll get that, I guess. What do you think all us obsessives will be like when we're fifty?
QteCuttlfish: Glad you're enjoying this universe of mine; I am too. A little too much, probably, but that's beside the point. I loved your cuttlefish story; those guys are the coolest, aren't they? Colour-changing fish... trippy.
Anne: Guy's just such a little cutie, isn't he? Wanting to keep Fulton out of trouble. Good luck, is all I can say.
Grasshopper: Fulton as Scarlett O'Hara, hm? Very nice... I see him in a high-necked red velvet dress, myself, with tall leather boots and maybe a hint of eyeliner... Is that wrong? And pet names are the epitome of disgustingly cute, aren't they? I just can't seem to stay away from them, when it comes to my Bashes.
Star: It seemed cold to leave you out just because you didn't stroke my ego with a review, so I won't. But now I can't think of anything to write, so we're back where we started. Fuck. My apologies. More Shoebox!
Schizzum jizzum: Man, your review for last chapter was the coolest thing ever, m'dear! I have to admit, I thought the Portman stripping was a nice touch. Don't worry, I'll leave the pedophilia to you and Q... What do you say? Should I write the Terminator into the story? Maybe he could act as a catalyst, or something... *grins* Gym teachers as the children of those who escaped the Nuremberg trials... I like it. Explains a lot, too, so many of them are raging right-wing bigots. And yes, I was paying homage to Freak the Mighty with Fult's basement paradise. Got to get up pretty early in the morning to pull one over on my Schizzoid, isn't that right? I live in constant fear of your violent presence, have I ever told you that?
Portman's POV:
Fulton slept like the dead. No joke; he told me once that when he was six, he slept through a fire that nearly burned down his entire apartment complex. He'd had to be lifted out his fourth-storey window by a "smiling, curly-haired firefighter." That was the first time I ever got jealous, when I saw the way his eyes glowed when he spoke of his childhood hero (he'd wanted to become a firefighter for years after that), and the feeling wasn't alleviated when he told me I reminded him of the guy. It felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. I wanted nothing more than to find this man-whore, wherever he was, with his dopey grin and Brillo-pad hairdo, and feed him his spleen.
Now, in a normal relationship, that was exactly the kind of thing that would cause a rift between two lovers. I'd have stewed over it for weeks, finally releasing all my pent-up rage and insecurity on my unfortunate better half. But Fulton has always had this knack for knowing exactly what I was feeling, sometimes before I even knew it myself. I was sitting there, all in a huff over this firefighter guy, and he just smiled at me, wrapped his arm tighter around my shoulders, and said that I was his hero now.
How cute is that? But we're not quite there yet, are we? We're still in junior year, early December, I believe, and at the tail end of the "just friends" phase of our relationship. I had dropped by Fulton's place that morning, and when he didn't respond to my calls, I let myself in. Now I was sitting on the stool beside his bed, waiting for him to wake up. He lay on his stomach, his face buried in his pillow, his hair splayed out across it, framing his head with a halo of sorts.
Finally, I'd had enough of waiting. I leant over, until my lips brushed his hair. "Mornin', sunshine," I sang out cheerfully.
He didn't open his eyes. "Ss'not morning. Fuk-off," he murmured.
"It is too, morning, you little shit. Now get your ass up. It's a beautiful day out there." I shook his shoulder. He groaned, and rolled over onto his side.
"Nice try, genius. Only I can hear the rain from here."
Damn. So I kept poking and teasing him until he finally got up, threatening to mould me into Play-Doh pasta.
"What's up with you, anyway?" he muttered, as we climbed the stairs to his apartment. "Is something wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean it's barely nine o'clock."
"So?"
"So... thy earliness doth me assure, thou art uproused by some distemperature. Or if not so, then here I hit it right: our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight."
My eyes widened at that; though I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else. Slipping anything past Fulton, even a sleep-deprived Fulton, was the approximate equivalent of duping a crack team of top KGB agents or something. That, and the fact that I was still wearing yesterday's clothes probably tipped him off.
"Shakespeare? Are you throwing Shakespeare at me?"
"Of course not. That was Dean Koontz."
"Who?"
"Forget it."
In the kitchen, I sat down on one of the metal tubular chairs at the small, Formica-topped table. Fulton started hunting through the cupboards for something to eat, eventually procuring a single apple, which he gave to me-- "I'm not the one with a hockey game in an hour and a half," he said--and a half-eaten box of Sugar Crisp. There was no milk, so we ate handfuls of the sticky-sweet puffed wheat straight from the box. After that, he took the first of the shower runs; I had been using his all week, since ours was busted.
While I was waiting for Fulton, I went into the living room, which always looked like the morning after a frat party. Crumpled beer cans covered most of the carpet, and cigarette butts spilled out of the overflowing ashtrays that had been placed around the room. An enormous, battle-scarred leather easy chair with a sunken bottom bled stuffing from several gaping wounds. It was positioned directly in front of the TV, and it didn't take a genius to see that it belonged to Fult's dad. I'd never seen the man, but given the size of the indentation he left in his recliner, I was willing to bet he was the genetic source of Fulton's enormity.
I had just noticed the TV tray that stood beside the easy chair, when Fulton came in. He was fresh-faced from his shower, his hair dripping water down his soft, rounded cheeks and onto the shoulders on his Judas Priest t- shirt. Other than that, he wore only boxers, navy blue, and the pallor of his white legs was emphasised by the black hairs that sprouted from them. I must have been staring, because he shuffled his bare feet uncomfortably.
"What is it?"
'I don't know,' I thought to myself. 'But it's something.' Of course, all that came out was, "Just spacing." I gestured to the TV tray. "Your dad really likes to party, huh? I thought that was more your mom's thing."
I was pretty sure that Fulton was trying to keep me from running into his father whenever I was over at his place; either that, or he avoided him whenever he could. Probably that last one. I'd met his mom a few weeks ago, though, and had seen her pretty often since then. Each time, she'd been out of her head on something or other, though she always smiled at me, and said hello, and made small talk with the two of us, even if a lot of it made little sense. She'd called me Portman from the beginning, which was something parents never did, and I loved her for it. In return, she asked that I never refer to her as Ms. Reed, but only Lila. I was only too happy to oblige; I hated titles. They seemed like the kind of thing you had to earn, but nobody ever did.
Fulton looked down at the tray. On it were a shaving mirror, a razor blade, an empty Baggie, and a bunch of crumpled Kleenex caked with blood and snot. He rolled his eyes, and nodded. "Yeah, but dad'll binge on coke or crystal if one of his friends comes into some. Never lasts that long, though, and he never seems to get hooked."
"More of the drinking type, is he?" I spoke casually, but my mind kept filling itself with nasty memories I'd hoped were long forgotten. If he was hurting him...
Fulton sighed. "Yeah."
"Fulton, I--" I began, but I was cut off by a high-pitched scream that issued forth from down the hall, followed by the sound of glass breaking, then a quiet sobbing. Fulton shot me a look that clearly meant "stay here," and hurried off in the direction of the sounds. I stayed put like a good boy for a few minutes, before curiosity got the better of me, and I went down the hall to see what was up.
Fulton's mom was in bed. Her bright red hair stuck up wildly in places, slicked to her skull by sweat in others. She was shrieking and kicking, and Fulton sat on the bed, holding her tightly, trying to calm her down. She looked so small and delicate in her son's arms, like a wounded bird. I saw broken glass in one corner of the room, below a patch of wall that was dripping with water.
"Who are you? Get out! Get out! Leave me alone!" she kept yelling.
I felt bad, just standing there, so I went into the kitchen, and came back with a dustpan and another glass of water. Fulton noticed me this time, and beckoned me inside. I sat down opposite him, so that his mother was between us.
She was trembling violently; her eyes were red and streaming, and she smelled kind of rank, but at least she'd stopped yelling.
I smiled at her, and handed her the glass. "Hi, Lila."
Fulton disappeared for a moment, and came back with a bottle of pills. He shook a couple of the large white tablets into his palm, and passed them to her. "This is Portman, mom. Do you remember?"
"Portman... of course I remember," she whispered hoarsely, between great gulps of water. "You're here to take my boy away."
At the time, I didn't think anything of her words. She passed out soon after that, thanks to the barbiturates Fult had given her. We cleaned up the glass, and headed down to the hockey rink. Neither of us spoke on the way down there, and I kept reminding myself to be grateful that my mother, for all her faults, wasn't a sketchy, pill-popping addict like Fulton's. We got to the rink a little early, so we sat on the curb while we waited for the rest of my team to show up. We were playing the Hawks for the first time since I'd defected, and I was really looking forward to crushing those fuckers like ants. Fulton had brought his hockey stick along, since he liked to practice his shooting in the alleys while we warmed up. He tossed it back and forth between his hands, which were covered with the same cropped-tip motorcycle gloves he'd been wearing that night I first saw him, in the alleyway behind my house.
"You know..." I began, but Fulton was wise to me.
"Don't start," he broke in.
"But why, Fult? I don't get it. I mean, you can skate now."
"The why is insignificant. What matters is that it's not going to happen, so you might as well just shut up about it."
I'd been bugging Fulton to join the Swordfish for weeks now. I had taught him all I could about skating, and now we were working on enforcer skills, but what he really needed was a chance to show his stuff to other people, in a real game. The thought of a shot like his going to waste was sickening, but Fult would have none of it. I found out later it was due to a paralysing fear of being rejected by the hockey team that meant so much to him, but at the time, I thought it was just him being shy and antisocial. I knew there was more to this hockey/skating thing than I was getting, but I figured he would tell me about it eventually, which he did, though it took, as it so often did, a significant amount of prodding on my part. I didn't mind; he was Fulton, and idiosyncrasies were part of his appeal.
At this point, I was still trying to piece together Fulton's life from the excerpts I'd witnessed first hand, and the tid-bits I'd gleaned from Fulton himself. It was strange, and sad, and beautiful at the same time. Beautiful because, in spite of all the shit he'd had to deal with, he'd managed to become this amazingly kind, complex person, nonetheless. He never moped or whined about the raw deal he'd been given, and I found that the more time I spent with him, the less I ever wanted to leave his side.
Now, I knew there was something not quite normal about feeling like that. It was like we were moving into the Twilight Zone, but I didn't care. I'd never been much good with temptation; ask anyone. If it felt good, I did it. We were all going to die, some of us sooner than others, and I guess I never saw much point in denying myself, and it turned out Fulton felt the same way, once you got past the layers of painful insecurity, anyway. Thank god for that, or things might have turned out very differently, indeed.
Sometimes, when I was with him, it felt like I was doing a hundred down a windy mountain road in the middle of the night. Like Angel and the others all over again, only different, too. And better. So much better.
I want it on record that I knew what I was getting into from the beginning. I know Fulton thinks I had no clue, but he's wrong, for once. I may not have known the details of his life, all the little things he hid from everyone, but I knew they were there, waiting to be uncovered. Just because I jumped in with both feet where no one else wanted to go, didn't mean that I was jumping blind, and if it took me a while to understand exactly what it was I was feeling, then I'm sure you can forgive me, for I was young, and foolish, and I'd never been in love.
Fulton's POV:
"Holy cow, I think I got one, here / Now just what am I supposed to do? Got a number of irrational fears / That I'd like to share with you. First there's rules about old goats like me / Hanging around with chicks like you. But I do like you, and another one: / You say 'like' too much. But I'm shaking at your touch / I like you way too much. My baby, I'm afraid / I'm falling for you. I'd do 'bout anything / To get the hell out alive Or maybe I would rather / Settle down with you."
--"Falling for You" by Weezer
*I chose this quotation back while I was writing The Bash Brothers in Love. Apart from being an excerpt from one of the best songs on one of the world's best albums (Pinkerton, forever!), it also perfectly encapsulates Fulton's frame of mind for much of this story. Plus, I fool around a bit with the Madam Butterfly references, as you guys may or may not notice. I wanted to set the last scene in a Japanese restaurant to complete the theme, but I don't think they have fortune cookies, so Chinese it is. I've never actually seen the opera performed, but I love the deconstuctionist play.*
"Hey McGillis! Heard your wife got the clap. Bummer, huh? Good thing you're not at risk, but what about the rest of Minnesota?"
I was laughing so hard, tears were running down my face. Portman was in the penalty box for a dubious roughing call, and was voicing his opposition by hurling insults at any Hawk who ventured into earshot, the coach included. Though the Hawks were ahead, having taken full advantage of the Fishies' lack of goaltending talent, the game belonged to the Swordfish, Portman in particular. Even those who normally cheered for the Hawks were rooting for #21, as he shot out of the penalty box and tore straight for the net. He was held up in the slot by the Hawks' defence, who were double-teaming him, but he flattened them both and got right up beside the net. When Conway made a beautiful cross-ice pass to Guy, he took a shot, but the Hawks had collapsed in front of the net, and it couldn't make it through. Portman managed to hook the puck, though, and, swatting aside the only Hawks brave enough or stupid enough to try to check him, he flipped it up over the goalie's glove.
The period was over. It was 2-2. I watched Portman, who was laughing loudly with Guy as they headed into the locker room. My stomach had twisted itself into a knot, and my palms were clammy. I felt pride, bemusement, fear and longing; but more than anything else, I felt the thing that felt like love. I rubbed my face vigorously, like I was trying to make myself wake up, but the feeling persisted.
"Fult," I muttered to myself. "You are in *way* over your head."
Johnny's POV:
Most people go their whole lives without ever witnessing a miracle. I feel for them, I really do, but I am not one of them. Not anymore.
I had some stuff to take care of at my cousin's that day, and I arrived at the rink as the first period was ending. Portman was just getting off the ice. He saw me coming, and waved me over.
"Hey, Johnny. I didn't think you could make it."
"And miss the bloodshed? Are you kidding? How many have you hospitalised so far?"
Portman grinned wolfishly. "Well, Coombs is out for the rest of the game, at least, and they're not sure if Walker will make it back, either."
"I suppose you're proud of yourself?" I teased.
"Got that right. They were both legal checks."
"Good to hear." I scanned the bleachers. "So, where's your mystery boy? I figure, today's the day I introduce myself."
"Top corner, left hand side. That's where he always sits."
I looked in that direction. "There's no one there now. You sure?"
"Yup. He's probably gone to the john, or something. If you don't have any luck with him, meet me by the locker room after the game. I'll introduce you; it might help."
"Help how?"
"To get him to trust you. You'll have a hell of a time talking to him, otherwise. Look, Conway's calling me. I got to go. Offer him weed, if you have any. It helps calm him down."
"Right. See you after the game. Good luck."
"You too."
I hurried to position myself so as to have a good view of the area Dean indicated, without being in the line of sight. Within moments, he arrived. He was exactly as Portman had described him, a show of contrast. His football linebacker's body contrasted with his soft, sad face; his impossibly pale skin seemed almost translucent when held up against the rink's bright lights, and the shadows cast across his face by hair as black as mine (black hair and whiter than white skin? Was that even genetically possible?).
From all I had heard about him, it seemed inappropriate to merely stroll up and introduce myself; I should wait for the right moment. So I sat, feeling like one of those stuffy British entomologists waiting for the butterfly (though in Fulton's case, he turned out to be Butterfly herself) to do something noteworthy. I didn't have to wait long.
I'd seen Portman play before, so I was used to his style, but that day was something special. He walked away with the game, though he only scored once, and his team ended up losing. I was still trying to grasp many of hockey's nuances, but even I could see that when Portman was on the ice, he was the only thing worth watching. He played with all the energy of a class five hurricane. He was so much bigger than everyone else, that he was literally pushing them aside with one hand, all the while keeping hold of the puck. The best part was the way he antagonised the other team, yelling things that made even me want to blush. It was pure Portman, on top of his game, and on top of the world.
As much as I was enjoying myself, however, Fulton looked about ready to burst. He leant forward, slouching, his arms resting on his knees. His eyes followed Portman around the rink with an intensity I didn't understand at first. I thought he was furious at him, from the way he stared, like he was focussing all his energy into transforming him into a warty toad. With eyes like that, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd succeeded. Every now and then, he'd give a great shudder, or bury his face in his hands. I'd never seen anyone act like that before; it was a pretty heady experience, the surrealism of which was doubtless propelled by the high levels of THC that were coursing through my bloodstream at the time. Though if you know me at all, you know that that is basically my resting state, and would not consider it to be a judgement impairment. I was completely transfixed by this kid for most of the second period. What was wrong with him? I toyed with the idea of his being seriously disturbed, but rejected that when I remembered Portman, and all he'd told me of his friend.
Portman was changing before my eyes, and this kid was the catalyst. It was imperative not to judge him prematurely. His mom was big into drugs, apparently, and Dean thought he got hit a lot at home. Just then, one of the Hawks got his stick up in Portman's face and he went down. Before this could even register properly, Fulton let out a furious bellow, and tore down the staircase on my right. Portman was getting to his feet, and when he saw Fulton, he skated up to the glass, and they exchanged a few words. Blood was running down the side of Dean's face, but he was clearly okay. He was talking animatedly, waving his hands, when Fulton broke off. He threw himself at the penalty box the offending player was in, and started to vault himself over the edge. Portman, being separated from him by the boards, couldn't reach him to pull him down. Instead, he jumped into the penalty box, shoved its occupant aside, and grabbed Fulton by the arms, whispering to him frantically. After a moment, Fulton relaxed, then dropped back to the ground and, after a few more words with Portman, trudged back up the bleachers.
As he passed me, he caught my eye, and in that moment, I knew. I knew what I had been watching all this time, why Fulton looked so tired and flushed and pained. He sank into his seat, his head dropping once more into his hands, and I could see he was trembling all over. So help me God, I was watching him fall in love with Dean Portman.
Up until then, my interest in Fulton had been more or less clinical, but love, as you may have noticed, has a tendency to change everything it touches. I needed to know more, needed to know if what I'd seen was real. I walked over and sat down beside him. He looked up in surprise.
"You're Fulton, aren't you? I was wondering when we'd meet. I'm Johnny Sheffield. Portman's told me a lot about you."
His initially cloudy expression cleared somewhat, and he smiled slightly. "Likewise."
Remembering Portman's suggestion, I offered him some of my homemade chocolate chip cookies. Heavy on the hashish, just the way my grandmother used to make them. They must have worked, because for the rest of the game, we swapped stories about our common interest: Portman. When he told me about Dean stripping on the soccer field in fifty-degree weather, I nearly wet myself. By the time the game was over, I was hearing wedding bells. Portman hadn't been exaggerating when he extolled this kid's virtues. Fulton was sweet, funny, sarcastic, and fiercely intelligent. They were perfect for each other.
"He's single, you know," I said as I watched Fulton ogle Dean on his way to the locker room.
"I know," he responded, without averting his eyes.
"In fact," I continued, having for some reason to get this out of my system, to let this lovesick boy know that I was aware of how he felt. "He hasn't really been with anyone since he broke up with Angel. That was about the time he met you, isn't it?"
Now Fulton turned that piercing gaze of his back to me. He didn't say anything, but he was clearly trying to read me, to figure out what I was thinking. I decided to lay all my cards on the table.
"I love him too, you know."
I've never seen anyone look so mortified. Fulton's face immediately flushed a deep, cherry red, and that was followed by a small coughing fit. When he recovered, he turned back to me, and his eyes were pleading.
"I... I..."
"Don't say anything. I just wanted you to know that's it's okay what you're feeling." He raised his eyebrows at that, but I was adamant. "Normally, I'd be worried about getting your hopes up, but since you look like you're about to pull out the hara-kiri sword, I guess there's little chance of that: Portman's not necessarily off-limits. Just because he's never been with a guy, doesn't mean he never would. You know as well as I do, Portman's not hindered by convention of any sort. Right now, he loves you like a brother, but that could easily change into something more. If he wants you, he's not going to agonise over it. He doesn't really know how to hide his feelings."
"I know. I like that."
"Me too. You don't see that much these days."
"Sure don't."
I saw Portman coming out of the locker room, hair damp from his post-game shower, an enormous sports bag slung over his shoulder. We went down to meet him, and before I could open my mouth to tell him what a great game he'd had, he started rattling off excitedly to Fulton. Something about accepting a challenge, the result of which was a showdown to be played between the Hawks and the Swordfish. Not just the Swordfish, though, but anyone they could find who might help them win.
I expected Portman would have his work cut out for him, getting Fulton to play, but he agreed almost instantly. Guess he had a vendetta against those guys, as well. To me, it all sounded like something out of one of those sappy sports films; I was far more interested in the possibility of a modern-day love story emerging between these two.
"Come on guys," I pleaded. "You can talk hockey with each other later. Let's go get something to eat. I know this great Chinese place; come one, I'm buying."
***
"Damn, Fulton, did you eat ALL the moo goo gai pan?"
"Uhh... no."
"Liar. Wipe the soy sauce from your mouth, you thief."
It just kept getting better and better. They were adorable; they teased each other like the oldest of friends. When he was actually with Portman, instead of just watching him, Fulton's pining Romeo thing fell away, and you'd never know he was madly in love with the guy. Until, that is, we finally finished our meal--it was all-you-can-eat, and between the two of them, they consumed enough to feed a normal person for a week, maybe two-- and Portman got up to go to the bathroom. While he was gone, the waiter came back with three fortune cookies. Mine said: 'Your life will be healthy and peaceful.' That was already pretty much the case, but it was nice to know I had more of the same to look forward to.
"What'd yours say?" I asked Fulton. He was holding the tiny slip of paper between two massive fingers, and was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He showed it to me. 'The object of your love is within your grasp.'
Portman came back to the table, and sat down. "Let's see what the future holds for me," he snickered, cracking open his cookie. "'You will find true happiness in the most unlikely of places.' Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to find it in the same old spot." He dropped it onto the table as he stood up. "Those things are such a crock of shit. What'd yours say, Fult?"
"Uh... mine was empty."
Portman laughed. "Well, that's a bit of a gyp, isn't it? Here, you can have mine. I've got all the happiness I need right now." He handed Fulton the fortune, and I watched as he slipped them both into his jacket pocket, the strangest little smile on his face.
Would you laugh if I said my life was never the same again?