Author's Note- I didn't even have to harass Jessi like I usually do for her to write the following Bash/Adam scenes. :cheers: The little piece of filler at the end is more or less what I did tonight with some guys from an old team… :thinks: I'm too dehydrated and been beat in the head with a broom too many times to really think clearly. Oh yes… I was reading others fics and stumbled across this problem with OCs. I don't know who they are. I know the OCs I use play a minimal role in the fic, they're side characters who are friends and/or roommates with the Ducks, for reality's sake, but I suppose it can still get confusing. So if you'd like me to make a separate short list explaining who and what the OCs are, descriptions, personalities, which Ducks they interact with, I can do that, just let me know.
And one more thing. Sorry to use this as ranting grounds, but if you write a fic and aren't American and/or don't play hockey, please attempt to use proper terminology. I'll even beta for you if you need it. I'm Canadian but don't have the Ducks running around saying mum and talking about their percentages instead of GPAs and going to formal instead of prom. Maybe it's because I live in the states right now and am aware of the differences, it just irks me when we have Minnesotans going to balls and the cinema. And hockey terminology? Even worse. For the first and last time. An enforcer is not a hockey position. It's a nickname given to goons on the team (mostly defenders) who sometimes have the job of watching out for the smaller players, especially the ones who tend to get hammered frequently. No hard feelings though and my offer for betaing is still up. There's nothing wrong with not knowing the right words or phrases or ideas, just please make an attempt! Just e-mail me.
And just for the sake of making this note longer, I was notified by e-mail that 'Handbook for the Sellout' is up for the Best Angst fic. So if you too enjoy this, you can nominate us here, , and then eventually vote. That is all.
Disclaimer- :yawns: If you don't understand this by now you deserve to be shot. Ducks are property of Disney, Charlie sleeps next to (or with) me, OCs belong to themselves (they're real people) and Vannatta Ball belongs to none other than the Vannatta brothers, my brother and myself.
~*~
Fulton stirred as the bed shifted.
"G'way, it's Sat-mmpph." Soft lips, he knew well, cut him off. Fulton melted into the kiss, not worrying about morning breath or the fact that he was just wearing boxers (not that he hadn't seen more than that) Portman's tongue possessively took control of his mouth pressing and twisting.
Dean smiled at the small noise his roommate made in the back of his throat, a cross between a purr and a groan. Pushing the long dark, somewhat ratty, hair away, he moved from his mouth (with a protest from Fulton) to the place where his ear met his jaw. Trailing kisses down his jaw line, to his neck, he worked his hands to the waistband of Fulton's ducky boxers.
"Hi." He smiled stopping for a second to look at his panting roommate.
"Shut up." His bash brother growled flipping them so he was on top. Portman laughed, dark eyes carrying that glint that made Fulton practically orgasm.
"Feisty today are we?" he managed before… Good G-d where the hell did he learn that?
"Holy Shit!" the Chicagoan gasped.
"Like that?" he grinned maniacally.
"Oh Fuck, do that again and the whole floor will think someone's fucking in here."
"Someone IS fucking in here."
"Right." Abruptly pulling Fulton up to face level, he dug his hands into his stringy hair and kissed him. Hard. Who cares if they came out of it with bruised lips?
***
Adam blinked to the too bright room, and large, probably fake boobs directly above his eyes on the ceiling. It was 9:37.
"G-d, why does Orion make practice on Saturday mornings?" he groaned realizing Conway wasn't in the room.
'Shit. Charlie's gonna get busted by coach if he doesn't show up, but Casey'll probably drive him down.'
Rolling out of his roommate's bed, Adam went searching through the piles of junk for his tennis shoes.
Grabbing his bag he walked out, slightly disappointed at the empty room. 'I hope Julie's less pissy than last night.'
The halls were quiet and deserted. Making his way to the stairwell he winced at the loud echo-y click, as he pounded his way down the concrete stairs, dirty trainers boomed louder than the door. He hesitated at the second floor. 'Might as well save a trip back.' He shrugged to himself. Setting his bag down next to the door, he walked down the hall, it's carpet, and walls were the exact same as the fourth. Instinctively he walked up to a familiar door with the words "Bash Brothrs." etched onto the door (a remnant from a drunken night). Knowing they never locked their door, he walked in saying, "Hey Fult, Port, we have prac- WHAT THE FUCK?!" He stared disbelievingly at the bash brothers.
Portman whirled around to the door falling off of Fulton's bed.
"Shit." He groaned from the floor. Fulton just stared wide-eyed and messy haired at Adam.
~*~
Guy stumbled groggily into the locker room, bag propped ineptly on his back swaying awkwardly with every step. Collapsing onto the bench he hazily remembered the events of last night. He spent seven hours on the couch in the commons, gazing unconsciously at the horror movie marathon that was being played, hand wrapped tightly around his cell phone waiting for Connie to call as she had promised.
For the infinite hours he sat clutching the phone anxious for her response. As the clock that was mounted on the back wall rolled around to nine he thought that the family she was staying with may eat late. Around eleven, he repeated to himself that they had gone out. As the hours' hand hit one and the room was mostly deserted, leaving him alone, he justified her silence, saying she must have not been feeling well, altitude sickness or something, and had gone to bed. Finally at two one of the staff who had been unlucky enough to been stuck with weekend duty, pried him from his cocoon on the couch in front of the blank TV screen and forced him up to his dorm.
He spent the next three hours laying on his bed, gawking aimlessly at the pictures of him and the brunette next to his bed, oblivious to Ian, his roommate's pleas of "obsessive co-dependant bitch" when he stumbled in around 2:30. He stopped watching the clock at 4:47, and must have drifted off into a restless slumber shortly after. All in all it had not been a good night.
He put his pads on monotonously, eyes bloodshot and dazed over. His fingers shakily pulled on his equipment picked at his laces numbly. He'd passed logic many hours ago, passed the questioning of his own stability as a man. All he could do was wonder what Connie was up to.
If he had been less sleep deprived and in question of why his girlfriend hadn't called, he may have noticed Portman and Fulton's gawky movements with one another and their silence, which was so unlike their usual locker room antics. Or perhaps he would have caught on to the looks of utter disgust Adam kept shooting them from across the room, but not for too long before he'd turn away nauseated. Or if he had another hour of sleep he may have been aware that Charlie wasn't in the locker room and never ended up showing up at practice at all.00
But he didn't.
He had only one thing on his mind, far from practice, far from Orion's lecture and far from his teammates.
~*~
The group of six congregated down a secluded hallway a short distance away from the Dining Hall, full of students scarfing down lunch. Clad in a disarray of hockey equipment, some with jocks some with helmets and some with mismatched gloves and shin pads, they all held either a broom or a field hockey stick. An impish aura clouded the silence, adding to the tension that something was about to unravel. Or as some would say, shit was about to hit the fan.
A shorter squat figure masked by a red hockey helmet and who donned only two gloves holding a broom cleared his throat.
"Sons of Eden Hall," he announced in a crisp whisper. "I see a whole army of my schoolmates, here in defiance of tyran-"
"Dude, there's only ten of us," he was interupted by a short figure who wore a helmet and a jock strap over his baggy cargos. The red helmeted figured continued without looking in his direction or acknowledging his comment.
"You've come to fight and play as free men, and free men you are. What will you do without freedom?! Will you fight?!"
"Sure," the general consensus mumbled apathetically, except for a tall lanky figure who stood at the back sniggering.
"Thanks Wallace," he chuckled voice rich and drawling. The red helmeted figure glared in his direction, silencing the stifled laughter, giving him a more serious demeanor. "But why are we fighting? Against that? No. We will run and we will live," he shrugged melodramatically swinging his field hockey stick.
"Aye you hick," he growled firmly in response. "Fight, and you may die. Run, and you'll live. At least awhile. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days, from this day to that, for one chance, just ONE chance, to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take OUR FREEDOM!" ending on the powerful chord he turned holding his broom high above his head, a tennis ball in his other hand and charged towards the dining hall, his group following with as much of a deafening roar that six teens could make.
~*~
Julie shoved a spoonful of what appeared to be mac and cheese into her mouth.
"How can you eat that regurgitated plastic?" Billings spat, rolling his eyes. She raised an eyebrow, needing not to say anything but to glare at him. "Fine," he shrugged biting into an apple. "But when you die of clogged arteries at age 19, don't come crying to me."
"Oh rest assured, I won't," she snapped, eyes gazing around the dining hall that in all honesty was a fancy name for cafeteria. Her and Nick were at their usual corner near the door, far from the ruckus and socialization of the other students.
"So anyway, how what schools have you sen-" the brunette fell silent in mid-word as screams erupted from the centre of the room. A group of guys in hockey equipment carrying what appeared to be field hockey sticks and brooms had charged to the first table in what appeared to be a mutated mixture of an invasion and a new form of floor hockey. In a sundry form of shock and amusement he watched never the less intrigued as a short and stocky hockey equipment clad figure slid across the long lunch table overturning salads and flipping plates of mac and cheese and spilling sodas with a broom. When he reached the end of the table and the group of students now covered in their lunches had sprung up shrieking and sprinted out of the room, he turned around getting into a goalie stance. A taller unknown came charging at him across the table carrying a tennis ball with a field hockey stick. As he wound up to take a shot, another person came running at full speed, slide tackling him at the knees taking him out into the muddle of lunches. Another guy with a broom had taken possession of the ball, hopped off the table and attempted to take a shot at the stocky player, missing. Apparently upset with the outcome he sprinted towards what must have been the goalie, jumping on his back, attempting to bring him to the ground.
More students had begun to flee to room as more "players" of the strange game darted in. What erupted was a chaotic mixture of a food fight and a hockey game. The participants who had charged the lunchroom appeared to have gotten hands on brooms and field hockey sticks and attempted to use the entire lunchroom for their no rules court. As the frenzied atmosphere spread, everyone decided to run screaming from the room, as though instead of sticks the masked perpetrators held guns. While at the same time the fleeing crowd had to fight through the unorganized game of full contact "hockey" and overturned lunches. As the mass of students had finally cleared out, the group that had started the ruckus followed suit, grabbing their ball and sticks and following the mob, to continue their game elsewhere.
Nick finally turned his head back around facing Julie who had apparently been devoid of what had happened, taking her last bite of food.
"Scripps and Stanford," she replied without question of what had just occurred. "Far, far away from here."
~*~
Author's Note 2- If that didn't make sense I understand. I played 6 hours of roller today and am slightly out of it. I reworked it from what I originally sent to Jessi because she couldn't decipher any sense out of it. I hope it flows better and makes more sense but I can't find a good beta at midnight. If demanded I'll include an explanation of what happened next time.