Author's Note: This is Jessi (Aiteane) the other co-author. This is pretty short too, but longer than the first. She knows the hockey, I know the… uh… Read and review.
Disclaimer: Disney owns MD, I co-own Portman with Kaila… she owns Banksie and Conway, I also own Fulton in all his disgruntledness. Maybe not. Sue and you'll get whatever Kaila mentioned last chapter, plus a trumpet, sheet music, notebooks, Hamlet, random sci-fi/fantasy books and such from me… man I'm a dork…
~*~
Your selfishness is wearing thin.
Alone and strong, not giving in
To selfishness to anyone.
If anything turns inside out
Look through the cloudiness in your mind
Turning anger to your friends
Blaming things on them
Breaking Rules of promisesBlaming faces...undone
-Selfishness, Rufio
Dean Portman smashed his fist through the head of his bed, wood splintered under his hand. The sight of his own blood drove him further behind the red glare. A kick sent one of their desk chair flying, shattering against the wall; a dent marked its death. Clawing at his mattress and tearing apart books and papers, nothing was safe from his rage. Amber shards of several beer bottles lay on the floor waiting to be crushed into sand by heavy combat boots.
"Dude? Look, I'm sorry for pu-" Fulton started as he walked in the door. Grabbing him by his hair, Portman pushed his diaphragm into his knee, punching him away. Kicking out at his roommate, he was surprised when Fulton retaliated, tackling him to the floor. Portman grunted in pain as pieces of the transparent glass scraped their way into his back. With the height and weight advantage, he soon had their roles reversed. Him on top, pushing all the punches, Fulton unable to recover enough between blows to retaliate.
"Hey guys, wha-" Charlie stopped to blink at the bash brothers. Regaining his sense, he tried to pull Dean off of his friend only to receive a punch in the stomach.
"Fuck. You stu!" With guy and Dwayne, the captain managed to get the Bash off of his Bro.
"What the hell was that?" Fulton yelled holding his nose, "What's your fucking problem dude?" Portman fought the three guys, still blinded by his rage.
"Gerroff, I'm not gonna fight him." He growled. Charlie reluctantly let go. "Get out Conway."
When the door had shut behind them, Portman turned to Fulton. "You, you're my fucking problem. You just prance around the school like a nancy gay ass thinking your life was a bitch. 'oh pity me! Pity me! My father beat me and my mom was addicted to some bad shit!' Well fuck off man because you're not the only one who had a crappy childhood. Mine wasn't exactly a frolic through the daisies. Get a fucking life Fult and quit trying to live mine."
Without another look at his roommate, Fulton grabbed his blades and slammed the door behind him. Dean grabbed another beer from their stash and chugged the rest of it down.
*~*~*
Barely able to pull his skates on, Fulton bladed towards no particular place. Did he really mean that? Was he just a whiny bitch to him? A fuck toy. Port was drunk off his ass and Fulton knew it, but that really wasn't an excuse for Dean. Every good lie has a grain of truth. When did Calla get resurrected? G-d he couldn't even accept that she had been dead for seven years.
He realized he was in front of the lots where they played street hockey. Skating around the lot, he suddenly wished he had a stick and a puck.
Portman would forget half of what he said tomorrow, say he was sorry and there was no harm meant by it. They would have make up sex and it would be "forgotten" another pothole in their relationship. The road would become unbearable soon. Really, he never had forgotten anything Portman had said to him. He was clumsy in bed, he sucked at guitar, and hockey, and sucking. He had no life. He was just a white dumb fuck. Exhausted from his wounds and skating, he dropped to the ground and curled up near the bin they always used as a goal.
*~*~*
Dean woke to a throbbing ache behind his eyes. Breathing in, he caught a whiff of hockey equipment and oranges. Fult. Somehow he had fallen asleep on Fulton's bed, and he wasn't nude. Interesting. Reaching over expecting to find him close by, his hand came up empty.
"Fult?" he rasped. Clearing his throat again, "Fulton?" no one else was in the room. Sitting up he looked around. The room was trashed. Shit. He had drunk too much again.
Dean Portman never said he could control his anger; it just got out of hand more when he was shitfaced. A lot more. Never as a kid had he learned to control his anger. He was always at an extreme. Happy? Bouncing off the walls. Bored? Almost dead. Angry? Could be the Hulk, only less green, less square, and less purple (though he did own a pair of purple boxers) Last night probably hadn't been pretty. All he remembered was getting mad at Fult for wanting to take a chance with telling the rest of the team. Fulton had stormed out, and he had reached into their stash of alcohol, hidden behind a peel of plaster in the closet. Looking to the floor he realized how much he had drunk, by the sheer amount of broken glass. Wood, paper, blood, cotton, clothes, hangars, broken tapes, and vinyls covered the floor as though a typhoon had ripped through the room, though the beds and the closet were relatively intact. The last time he got angry was… last week, but the last time it had been this bad was fourteen at the Goodwill Games. With Stanson's ugly mug smirking at him in the smuggest fashion as he was led off the ice. He should have taken him out too, if he was already out of the game. I didn't hurt anyone did I? he worried to himself as he groped his hockey bag for Advil. Just as he swallowed the pills dry, Fulton walked in.
Barley able to hold his skates, he limped into the dorm. A black eyes and a bruised jawline protruded from his face. A sharp crimson line snaked down his left cheek. By the way he walked, Portman could tell he was hurt in more than his face.
"I didn't-" He started.
"Fuck you Portman, you know what you did." Pulling his shirt over his head, Fulton collapsed onto his bed back down. An old puckered scar snaked off of his shoulder just under his collar bones, but what was new to Portman were the bruises under Reed's ribs.
"I'm sorry dude, I didn't mean…"
"Oh but you did, do me a favor and fuck off Dean?" Fulton sighed heavily. Defeatist tone settling across his voice as he turned towards the wall on the mattress Portman was just lying on. The bash stared at Fulton's head for a while, before going out to find a broom too clean his mess. I always do something I'll regret.
*~*~*
His bed smelled like him. Portman had slept there last night, he could tell. G-d that bash is worse than a chick with his mood swings. He just wants in your pants, that's why he's being all chummy. But he didn't really believe that. He wanted to believe they had some semblance of a relationship. Best friends to fuck buddies, well, whadaya know? Sometimes it became so hard to deal with him. He never knew how Dean was going to react to what he said. It did bring color into the relationship, but still, consistency would be nice.
Portman walked back in, combat boots clunking on the wooden floors. He was…sweeping? Fulton strained his ears to confirm. Yup, sweeping. What the hell is his problem? Beating up on him, and then he expects Fulton to just take him with open arms and fuck him? No! fuck buddy? Fine. But he wouldn't stand to be a fuck toy, a bitch. Fulton loved him, but hated him at the same time. Hated him for being what he was, white trash, and living the name down, with mood swings and rage. Lots of rage. It erupted frequently.
"You goin to class man?" Portman asked softly
"No. I don't feel well."
"Sorry Fult, I can't-"
"I know. Give me space dude."
The door closed behind the other Bash Brother.