AN: Hi guys, welcome to We're just névé trying to harden into firn (those are just two terms I thought fit my summary, Wiki them!). Before proceeding, allow me to put forward what you're getting yourselves into by reading past this point.
Put simply, this is an attempt at an epic(ally long) slash story between Charlie Conway and Adam Banks, told from Charlie, Adam, and Jesse's perspectives. When I say epic, I mean epic, like 50 chapters (if I ever make it that far) with the timeline spanning from before the first movie to well after the third. Some of the story will be padding out or clarifying how I interpret some of the interactions seen in the movies –between all characters, not just my three favourites – while other parts will be completely original. Other planned pairings are Gordon/Casey, Scooter/Julie, Terry/Tammy, and probably Connie/Guy (because we all know Connie tops in that relationship).
This is pretty much the type of story I love to read. Hopefully, some of you will enjoy this as much as I do (and might even find a little time to throw a review :P). Enjoy.
Prologue: First times are closer than you think
Contrary to popular belief, and what his own memory told (or more accurately, didn't tell) him, the first time Adam saw Charlie Conway wasn't the District Five vs. Hawks game, wasn't when he'd slammed the boy into the boards for having the audacity to break through the Hawks' defence.
There was another day, a year earlier. His father had taken him to get his skates sharpened by a kindly old Scandinavian man named Hans, whose skate shop supplied most of the hockey teams –peewees up to pros– in the area. He'd opted to stay in the shop rather than brave the cold to accompany his father on an errand, sitting silently as he watched sparks fly off his blades in a steady spray of gold.
"These are well-worn skates," Hans had commented. "You must love the ice very much."
Adam nodded shyly.
"But you mostly skate indoors?"
"You can tell?" Adam asked, sitting up a little with surprise. His eyes wide as he stared at Hans, who just chuckled in reply. "I don't like the cold," Adam admitted, fiddling with the scarf he hadn't taken off when coming inside. He hadn't shed his coat either.
"Warmth does not come from heating and clothes, young man," Hans told him, touching a hand to his heart, and set the skates before Adam. "It comes from here. All done. Why don't you try them out?"
"But I haven't paid–" Adam tried a last-ditch protest, until Hans gave him a gentle push towards the door.
"There're more ways to pay than just with money. Go on."
So he'd taken steps that shivered with cold onto the pond outside, Hans watching him from the door of the shop. The ice was harder, more slippery than that of the indoor rink, and even with his newly sharpened skates Adam found himself working hard to keep moving. His eyes squinted through the blue-black darkness to watch for inconsistencies in the ice that were sometimes covered by drifts of snow, and he nearly tripped several times, fighting to keep his balance. It only made him more determined to conquer this strange new stage.
Before he knew it, he was warming up, head to toe. Before he knew it, he was flying.
"Adam!" his father's voice called; he looked in the shop's direction and spots his father, a large, dark shape standing next to Hans, waving him in. He skates back reluctantly until he stands before his father, breath puffing out in clouds of heat.
"I see that you've tested them already," his father observed, grinning. "How do they feel?"
Adam smiled and turned to Hans. "Thank you."
"The pond is solid until early March," Hans told him. "Feel free to come back anytime."
"I will," Adam promised, and followed his father to the car.
It's not until he's sitting in the front seat, with the heater blasting dry winds over his face and his feet back in boots that Adam sneezed, the contrast re-alerting him to the cold. His father opened the glove box to pass him a packet of tissues; when Adam sneezed a second time, he slowed the car down.
"How about we get a little evening snack?" he suggested. "Maybe some cocoa?"
The promise of hot chocolate had Adam nodding in agreement.
They drove into unfamiliar streets, cruising to hunt for signs of life. This late, the only place that appeared to still be open was a dingy little place with Mickey's Dining Car written in peeling paint over the door. Quite different from the cafés and restaurants they usually went to but Adam, scuttling across the snow towards relative warmth as his father parked the car, didn't really care.
A bell tinkled as he trotted through the door, breathing in the smells of deep fryers and coffee. He took the first available seat he saw, eyes so busy browsing the chalkboard that served as a menu he didn't notice the boy barely staying awake next to him until a blast of cold wind from the door startled him awake. And told Adam why his seat had been empty.
The boy shook his head vigorously, mumbling "Crap" under his breath as he bent over a small stack of papers. Curious, Adam glanced over at the page: decimals and fractions stared back. He watched the boy painstakingly write the working out for dividing 3.6 by 100, then, unable to help himself, remarked, "You can just move the decimal point two points to the right, you know."
His eyes were back on the menu the moment he realised he'd spoken; he heard the scratch of pencil on paper pause, and looked over when it didn't resume. A pair of brown eyes were sizing him up, staring a little. Adam tried not to colour under the scrutiny, probably with limited success.
He was saved from having to comment when a woman –late twenties to early thirties, pretty with brilliant red hair– came over with a cheerful smile. "What can I get you?"
"Cocoa, please," he answered politely, with another glance at the menu board. "Serve of fries, no sauce. Um…"
"Coffee, black, no sugar, to go," added his father, walking briskly through the door. He slapped a twenty dollar bill on the counter beside Adam, and said to him apologetically, "I need to make a call, so I'll be in the car."
Briefly Adam considered joining him –it would get him away from having to talk– but the prospect of trying to eat and drink with only two hands didn't appeal. "Okay."
His father left with the coffee and change first, leaving him to wait for his food. He dared a glance back at the boy's paper, to find that he'd finished the previous page and was now converting fractions to decimals, and vice versa. Catching him out, the boy looked up and offered a smile. "You'd think they'd tell you about useful shortcuts, huh?"
It struck Adam that the pretty woman from before was the boy's mother. They had the same smile.
"You're… not from around here, are you?" the boy remarked after a moment. Adam shrugged.
"I live up near the lake."
"You must be rich then," was the wistful supposition. "It looks like a nice area."
"Well, you can't go near the lake in spring, but otherwise it's good." Seeing the perplexed expression on the boy's face, he explained, "Flies."
The boy started to laugh, and was distracted when the woman brought over Adam's order, setting them down before him. His hands instantly sought the warmth of the mug –thank god, not one of those paper cups he couldn't drink from without spilling– even as he stared at the pile of fried potato before him; this was one serve? There was no way he could eat all that.
Catching sight of the boy trying too hard not to show interest in the plate, he slid it to halfway between them. "I can't eat all that," he prompted when the boy hesitated.
Grinning, the boy reached for the ketchup bottle. "Mind if I…?"
"As long as you keep it to your half."
Unfortunately that didn't happen as the boy accidentally squirted ketchup over the length of the plate, and smeared some onto his homework too. He'd left enough chips unmarred for Adam to be amused, not irritated, as he watched the boy swear, curly head bent as he tried to fix his homework (and inevitably made it worse).
He gave up eventually and shoved the papers aside. "So if you live up by the lake, what're you doing down here?"
"Helping maths idiots with their homework," Adam quipped without thinking; lucky for him the boy didn't take offence, though he still explained, "My dad owns an accounting firm, so I can do maths. Give me an English essay and I'm screwed though."
"Rich boy," the boy chortled through a mouthful of food.
"I was actually getting my skates sharpened. I want to make the hockey team next year, so I've been practicing everyday."
"You can skate?"
"You can't?" Adam failed to keep the shock from his voice, and felt bad when the boy made a face.
"Can't afford to go to the rink. And my mum won't let me go out on the pond. She doesn't think it's safe."
"It's safe," Adam assured with the authority of someone who'd just survived a half hour on it. "You should practice on it. Honestly, living here without learning to skate–"
"None of my friends really know how either. And my family only moved here a month ago." The boy paused, thoughtful. "Your parents still together?"
"Yeah," Adam replied, surprised by the question.
The boy nodded, and in a reverie, didn't say another word.
Glancing at the clock, Adam winced at how late it was, and hurriedly finished his hot chocolate, leaving the rest of the chips behind. As he was leaving, he heard the boy ask, "I'll see you around, maybe?"
Adam thought of skating on the pond again. "Sure."
He joined his father in the car, thoughts elsewhere as the engine started and the car rolled back onto the road. "Dad," he heard himself ask after a moment. "Rink time… it's not that expensive, is it?"
His father looked slightly confused, then said reassuringly, "If you make the team next year, it'll all be worth it."
He realised his father had misinterpreted what he meant and his motive for the question, but decided to let it go for the moment. His father was head of an accounting firm; the boy's mother worked in a diner. If his father's job…
"Oh," he muttered, belatedly realising why the boy would be doing homework in a chilly diner at night, not at home. Why he'd asked if Adam's parents were still together.
He took the scarf off his neck.
"Now there's a rare sight," his father observed, bemused. "Finally getting used to Minnesota?"
Adam grinned at the joke, feeling suitably warm. "I guess so."
**********
Sitting beside his mother outside the reception of his new school, Charlie hunched further into his jacket and shivered. Minnesota was a whole other world from sunny California, beautiful in its own way but very, very cold.
He tried not to notice his mother twisting her hands anxiously. She'd been this way since suggesting the move back to what had been her home during her middle school years, nerves and dread radiating from her when she thought of the reception she might get from people who actually remembered her…. if there was anyone left that did. But there had been anticipation too, a hope he hadn't seen much of since they'd left his father behind; he has one fuzzy memory of her looking carefree and relaxed, without the crease in her forehead as she laughed with his dad.
As much as he'd miss his friends he hadn't been able to argue with his own mother's happiness. Even if it meant giving up that tiny, buried hope he'd harboured, that maybe one day his dad might come looking for them, and everything might be alright.
He shivered at another blast of cold autumn when the door leading in opened and didn't shut all the way. A moment later he felt his mother's soft white scarf, warm with body heat and sweet with perfume, winding gently around his neck. He inhaled the scent, and grinned up at his mum disarmingly. "I'm fine mum. You wear it."
Her face –sad yet happy, so that tears stood in her eyes when she smiled– set heartache burning in his chest when she hugged him with one arm. "You'll love it here, you'll see," she whispered fiercely into his hair. "I just know you will."
He couldn't find anything to say, swamped in love and embarrassment, the latter doubling when the receptionist cleared her throat.
"Mrs. Conway, Principal Harper will see you now."
He felt rather than saw his mother tense briefly at the name; she'd reverted back to her maiden name, Jameson, after the divorce papers were settled, but left him with his father's name. She drew back, adjusting the backwards cap on his head as they stood. "I get my first paycheque from Mickey's on Friday," she tells him as they follow the receptionist to the Principal's office. "And as soon as we do, we're going to get you a proper coat, young man, and a scarf of your own."
"Do I get to choose?"
She smiled. "I think you're old enough to take responsibility for your own appearance now."
A small heater sputters crankily in the office, filling it with faint odours of wet wool and gasoline leak. After a few minutes in there, he began tuning out parts of the conversation between his mother and the principal in favour of wondering if the heater was merely mirroring the latter's disposition. Principal Harper certainly possessed a face sour enough to warp metal, her bushy brows twitching when she spoke in a deep, booming voice as she addressed the school's code of conduct to him.
Charlie did his best to curb the grin on his face, fingers already itching to cause havoc. He and Principal Harper were going to get along just fine.
Having dealt with the boring administration work, Harper got out of her chair; a moment later, having realised what the three of them were about to do, Charlie cringed. School tour… Like he wouldn't have enough fun being the new kid in his class, now the whole school had to know?
At the earliest opportunity, Charlie 'accidentally' turned a wrong corner and slunk off. He'd discovered long ago that 'lost' was the best excuse a ten-year-old could have.
Out of sight of his mother and Harper, he was faced with a dilemma. He wasn't particularly keen on waiting in the car, and didn't have his bearings on the city enough yet to just wander off. That would change, now. With the keenly honed experience of someone who changed schools regularly (as well as the instincts of a serial prankster), he started a trek through the building, keeping low and an ear out for other signs of life. Twice he was almost caught, by a teacher exiting her classroom and a girl wandering down the hall, clutching a paper slip and looking like the Wicked Witch of the West (or just like she was going to be sick).
An empty science classroom caught his attention, and he slipped in to get a better look at the jars of preserves lining one window shelf. Preserved brains, kidneys –all too small to be human, sadly– and a jar of whole rat, floating creepily… He stared at the last with morbid fascination until voices outside sent him scuttling under a desk to hide.
To his dismay, a trio of boys entered the classroom, eyes looking around beadily to ascertain that no one else was there; somehow, just by holding his breath and praying, Charlie managed to escape their notice. He watched, and then tried not to laugh as the smallest of the three –trying to look tough in a leather jacket and backwards cap– reached into the jar with the rat and pulled it out, replacing it with a stuffed rat the boy with glasses and curly red hair handed to him.
The third boy, a rotund guy who shuffled in a long coat rather than walked, abandoned his post at the door, giving Charlie an opportunity to sneak out. The muffled giggling in the room meant he didn't have to be too quiet as he crawled on his elbows and knees. The door drew closer, and he got to his feet with a chair for aid–
He heard a brief screech of wood on wood when he put too much weight on the chair's back too fast. Its legs caught on the desk's, the desk crashed into the one over with a spill of coloured pencils and books, and before he knows it he'd managed to tangle himself in amongst the pile of semi-splintered wood. "Ow," he muttered weakly, rubbing the back of his bruised head as he sat up.
The three boys were staring at him with a potent mix of surprise, awe, and plain mirth.
"Hi," he greeted, lifting a hand and doing his best to appear nonchalant to his state. "Charlie Conway. I'm starting here Monday."
Someone snorted, and that was all it took for the peals of laughter to start.
"Charlie Spazway, more like," the short boy sniggered, being the first to recover. He took Charlie's hand and pulled him up, surprisingly strong despite his size. "Peter Mark. That's Averman," he pointed to the boy with the glasses, "and Karp. Their first names are both Dave, so we just use surnames to save confusion."
"I suggested we duke it out for the right to use the name," cut in Averman. "But I'm willing to sacrifice my individual identity if I get to call the Karp-meister a fish for the rest of his life."
"Hey Karp, Averman said you were a fishy," Peter hollered at Karp, who'd been distracted by watching the toy rat start to sink.
Averman paled, freckles standing out when Karp turned, cracked his knuckles and growled, "What was that, Averman?"
Before Karp could deliver a blow, adult voices right outside the classroom had the four boys panicking as they tried to find a place to hide. Under the desks was out with the overturned desks drawing attention to the ground. The supplies closet wouldn't fit all of them (and was locked anyway), and there were no doors leading out. Desperate, they lined up along the wall next to the door, hoping it wouldn't open wide enough to hit them.
"You know," Charlie whispered, unable to help himself despite the situation, "you should have gotten one of those rubber mice that squeak when you squeeze them."
Averman's giggle turned strangled when the lock clicked forebodingly.
Before the door could open, a voice yelled, "Principal Harper! Principal Harper, come quickly! There's a riot in one of the classrooms!"
"Which one?" demanded the booming voice of their principal.
"Room 216. One of the students punched Mr. Walker!" At that, both adults broke into a run, their footsteps pounding down the corridor.
As soon as they could be sure the adults were gone, Averman ventured, "Aren't you supposed to be in maths right now, Karp? Any idea who it is?"
Karp nodded, standing, and the others followed suit. "Ten bucks that it's Jesse Hall. Nobody else's got the balls to hit a teacher."
"Jesse Hall?"
"What about that Fulton guy?" Averman was asking Karp. "Have you seen the size of him?"
"Have you ever seen him fight? If it's not Fulton, pay up."
"No way!"
"Guy in our year level," Peter answered Charlie's inquiry. "He's pretty hot-tempered, and he's got a mean right hook to match. Try not to do anything stupid to set him off, Spazway."
Charlie rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, then asked, "Won't he get in trouble for punching a teacher?"
"Walker had it coming," Karp spat, peering out the door to check that the coast was clear. "He's been picking on Jesse's brother Terry ever since school started. Let's go."
They trotted out of the building into the courtyard, from which Charlie could see his mum waving from the car. Turning to the other boys, he said apologetically, "I have to go now."
"Sure. We'll see you on Monday," Peter replied, then grinned. "Hope you're in our science class, we've got a little surprise prepared."
Charlie grinned back, and waved as the other three prepared to sneak back into class.
"Looks like you've made some friends," his mother commented with a smile as he climbed into the passenger seat.
"Yeah," he confirmed absently; his mind was still on the boy who would punch a teacher for his brother. He was impressed, not scared; despite Peter's warning, teasing though it'd been, he actually couldn't wait to meet the guy. He couldn't wait for Monday.
That was the first time he heard the name Jesse Hall. He already knew it wouldn't be the last.
**********
"Bro, you ready yet?"
"Nah, man. You head out first."
His brother shrugged and stepped out on the ice, skating slowly across the pond's surface to where the rest of their friends had gathered. The new kid who'd just moved from Cali –Charlie Conway– had joined them for the first time, his face flushed with excitement as Connie imparted the basics of skating to him.
Jesse watched their progress for a few moments, holding his breath as Conway slid one step, then two– And went sprawling, to the others' laughter. With a snort, Jesse returned his attention to his skates, gloved fingers slowed by the cold and his own thoughts as he methodically pulled each section of the laces tight.
He had on the more beaten set of secondhand skates his father had taken them to buy a few months prior, too big on his feet even with three pairs of holey socks since they were "still shootin' like weeds". His brother had the better pair with the sharper blades, but Terry was the one who'd wanted to join the District 5 hockey team next year in the first place and coerced him into coming along, at least to help him figure out how to skate.
Jesse finished with his second shoe and took a tentative step onto the pond, and fell back on the bench for support. Good job he was doing too, he thought sarcastically, getting up for round two.
"Hey Jesse." Connie wobbled up to him, trailed by a love-struck Guy Germaine who slipped onto his butt to avoid bumping into her. Jesse didn't bother to hide his snickers; he'd have held out against this whole hockey madness if his best friend hadn't defected to chase after a girl, even one as pretty as Connie Moreau.
"How's the new kid?" he asked her, trying a tentative circle around the bench.
"Alright, mostly," she replied, helping Guy to his feet and seemingly not noticing the bright smile he flashed her. "But he gets distracted easily, and then he falls."
"He's a hockey nut," Guy added helpfully, brushing ice off his clothes. "I heard that he's got the autograph of every ice-hockey player in California, and he's halfway through getting the North Stars' right now."
Jesse eyed his friend sceptically; Guy had a talent for reporting rumours as facts that was on par with his own. Still, the first piece of information piqued his interest a little. As far as he knew, his brother was the only one to take the whole hockey thing somewhat seriously, going so far as to tape games to analyse and covering his half of their room with team posters, while the rest of their friends were only in it to pass the time. It would be good –if only to get his brother off his back– for there to be someone to share Terry's obsession with him.
Seeing that Jesse was still reluctant to leave the bench, Connie and Guy skated off again to rejoin the 'game' occurring on the pond's other side. Jesse watched its progress for a few minutes, snorting at what he saw. Averman seemed more interested in playing commentator on the sidelines (at least he could stay on his feet for more than ten seconds that way) and Karp spent more time sliding on his belly than his feet. The sight of Peter trying to manoeuvre a stick taller than he was had him sniggering, as much in despair as amusement. This was the team they were going to be playing on next year?
Shaking his head, Jesse picked up the battered stick lying on the bench and skated after Connie and Guy, determined to forget his negative thoughts if only for the afternoon.
As the day grew darker, their group slowly decreased in size. Averman was the first to leave, picked up by his parents to attend some family dinner event. Next, Peter's older brother showed up to demand they go home ("So he can go out with his new girlfriend," Peter had stage-whispered with a roll of his eyes) and ended up giving Karp a ride as well. Guy walked Connie home as the sun began to set, careful not to say as much lest she deck him for treating her like a girl, though she was happy to let him carry her bag for her.
That left Jesse alone with the two hockey freaks, who were still duelling each other vigorously for the puck, unfazed by the two hours' they'd been out or how exhaustion and impending darkness were making them even worse skaters than before.
Still, Jesse couldn't begrudge them their passion for the sport, even if he didn't quite share it.
"We should get some kind of goal set up," he mused aloud when his brother and Conway were taking a breather on the ice. The puck had slid over to him; Jesse hit it back to Terry, hardly noticing when the puck skidded to a perfect stop before his brother. "That way you clowns can actually keep score."
"What's the use, we got no goalie," huffed Terry, standing. He made the mistake of offering Conway a hand up, and was promptly pulled back down.
Conway apologised profusely (though not without his own share of amusement) before saying, "Where I lived, they used to use trash cans for goals. We don't need goalies for those."
"You clearly haven't seen what's in our trash cans," Jesse snorted, glancing at Terry for support. "Who'd wanna dig pucks out of those?"
Momentarily lost in thought, Terry nodded before crowing, "Hey, wasn't Mrs. Fields trying to get Dad to help throw out an old soccer goal or something?"
"Mrs. Fields?"
"This crazy old bat that lives a few streets over from us," Jesse spat; he had strong feelings about the woman, who clearly though they were still living in the Confederacy or some other time when it was still acceptable to use the words 'slave' and 'nigger'. "Why's she throwing it out again?"
"The net broke or something," Terry shrugged, skating to the pond's edge to inspect it. "If we put the goal here–"
"Nah," interrupted Conway, pointing to a different part of the ice. "It'll be more like a real rink if it's on that side…"
Regretting his comment (they really would be out all night now) Jesse skated back to the bench. His feet were starting to kill him.
He's fitting his feet back into his sneakers, grimacing as his toes curl at the blast of cold coming through the split between sole and upper, when a dark shape and movement catches the corner of his eye. One glance at his brother and Conway tell him they're too engrossed to have noticed.
"Who's there?" Jesse demanded sharply, protectiveness and anger rising in him to quell the fear of the unknown. Worst case scenarios –mugger, kidnapper, axe murderer– flitted through his mind as he marched towards the shape, only to fizzle into relief when he spotted a boy his own age stepping back hesitantly at his approach.
He took in the boy's appearance, and scowled. This was no kid from his 'hood, with his thick, well-made coat and clothes and rollerblades on his feet. His hair could only be blond, lighter even than Guy's and much better groomed; his skin was as pale and translucent as the ice beneath their feet. In one hand was a hockey stick that would have Terry in fits of envy, and the other carried a gym bag heavy with gear.
"You lost, rich boy?" Jesse asked with a sneer.
He received a shrug. "No. I just came here to play hockey."
"With who?" Before the boy could answer, Jesse continued, "Your friends are back in Prepsville, that way. Why don't you go back to where you belong?"
Something flashed through the boy's eyes at that, though his voice was cool as he pointed out, "This is a free country. I can come here if I wish."
"You want to play hockey? Fine," Jesse snapped. "I bet you're on one of them cake-eater teams that have more money than talent. Just you wait, next year you're going down."
A hint of a smirk touched the boy's face as he regarded Jesse, and he simply said, "Alright. You're on."
The words riled Jesse up, but before he could act on them with a fist of poor judgement the boy turned and glided off, taking the hint. Jesse watched until he was well out of sight, bitterness rising in his chest and throat; of course the guy could skate gracefully, effortlessly, as well as having money. Some people just had to have it all.
He got home that night and asked his father about professional hockey on a whim over the dinner table, much to his brother's surprise. Jesse still wasn't that interested in hockey overall, and he hadn't proven thus far to be any hand at it, but he was astounded when he heard how far sport could take a person, provided they were talented and perseverant enough. It was something he tucked into the corner of his mind, something he didn't forget even as the District 5 peewee hockey team racked up their ninth consecutive loss.
Something he remembered even when he had forgotten that first time he'd spoken to Adam Banks.
**********