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2minsforslashingtitle: A Moving Day
involves: Marc-André Fleury/Ty Conklin
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: UFA Day is real. Pain is real. Sadness and disappointment and loneliness are real. What I see from it, is still in my head. I see what I want to see from what I don't want to see.
notes: Please, continue crushing my dreams, Detroit. By all means. You do certainly know your talent.
This was actually written yesterday.
July 1 is Moving Day in Montréal. All of the leases expire and there's chaos in the streets as people try to make their way from one place to another, carting their lives, their baggage, even large appliances with them. Movers make a killing. It's a crazy decision to arrange for such a large exodus entirely on the same day, but that's the way it is; it won't be changing anytime soon.
Or so I'm told.
I mean, I'm not from Montréal; I'm from fucking 'sti d'Sorel, where no one ever goes anywhere.
Except me, I suppose.
Right now I sit here and I look at myself in the sweater of another team because that's what he's left me with.
His fucking Oilers jersey.
"You'd be one of very few people who wants to even recall I was there," is what the note said, even though it's not like it's the one from the Carolina game. It's blue, not white, and there's no Cup patch. "I know where I was."
He was wearing 29 then, too, switched from 1. Funny, Ty. --"Not funny, Marc," how many times did you tell me? -- but I suppose it just happens that it coincides with his worst time there; the hockey gods have interesting senses of humour too.
Why not from the Penguins? I think he knows me better than that -- he damn fucking better well know me better than that -- knows I don't want to see his name or 35 anywhere near a black or a white or a gold or a fucking blue skating penguin anytime soon. (I'm pretending Barrasso never fucking existed, Ty, you hear me?)
I know he was here. I don't need to see his sweater to know everything he did here. Every single damn thing he did while he wore it, even if I'm wishing I could forget half of it right now.
"Dany, Dany could've gone anywhere; anywhere else and we would still be friends, but you....you're just going to leave. I could have said something to Ray, but you didn't even want to try to stay, did you."
"Marc, I had to go. It wasn't a choice I wanted to make."
Did you? There?
Back and forth from the minors, fucking Hartford, even, what did you feel that year, even before it all came crashing down?
You're telling me people move on, change teams, have to, though I wouldn't know that? I won't know that, not for years and years, though someday I might be somewhere else, too? Change teams and remain...what?
"I'm going home next month for a few days before camp starts. Come and see me then. If you want to."
"What, in Anchorage?"
"I think you can afford the plane fare." He smiled. "You can stay with my parents. Or not. My brother would flip out."
"Your-"
"Yeah. Sid. My little goalie brother. The one at Shattuck."
"It gets dark there then?"
"Yeah, it gets dark." He turned his head to the side; I couldn't tell where he was looking. "Yeah. Anchorage in August is pretty much like any place else." He looked back at me. "You'll still be there for the tourists."
I looked down, rested my forehead on the side of my fist. "I don't know...I don't know. Why the hell exactly do I want to see you again?"
"I said 'if you want to'. You might understand things better. And things change whether you come or not, so you could at least have a few more days before you go back to despising me for the forseeable future."
"I don't despise you. I want to kill you, but I don't despise you."
I've got shorts on. I don't have a shirt. Compared to what you usually wear with this, I'm basically naked. And no one, no one is ever, ever going to see me wearing it.
Maybe I'll bring it to Alaska and throw it back in his face.
He left his old black and gold pads by the back door, and those are harder to throw. Gloves are pretty painful, though, if you catch one in the head.
"Marc, I love you." He pulled me in close and held on, and I hated his guts and wished he wouldn't let go. Can we just stand there till training camp starts? "I really, really love you."
Being inside this jersey is not the same.
I look different, I feel...adrift. I've got Bob Dylan stuck in my head. To be on your own, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone, how does it feel, baby, how does it feel?
"Yes, you stupid bastard. That's why this hurts."
I don't care where he goes, if I don't let him go, then he's still mine.
à suivre (to be Continued)
involves: Marc-André Fleury/Ty Conklin
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: UFA Day is real. Pain is real. Sadness and disappointment and loneliness are real. What I see from it, is still in my head. I see what I want to see from what I don't want to see.
notes: Please, continue crushing my dreams, Detroit. By all means. You do certainly know your talent.
This was actually written yesterday.
July 1 is Moving Day in Montréal. All of the leases expire and there's chaos in the streets as people try to make their way from one place to another, carting their lives, their baggage, even large appliances with them. Movers make a killing. It's a crazy decision to arrange for such a large exodus entirely on the same day, but that's the way it is; it won't be changing anytime soon.
Or so I'm told.
I mean, I'm not from Montréal; I'm from fucking 'sti d'Sorel, where no one ever goes anywhere.
Except me, I suppose.
Right now I sit here and I look at myself in the sweater of another team because that's what he's left me with.
His fucking Oilers jersey.
"You'd be one of very few people who wants to even recall I was there," is what the note said, even though it's not like it's the one from the Carolina game. It's blue, not white, and there's no Cup patch. "I know where I was."
He was wearing 29 then, too, switched from 1. Funny, Ty. --"Not funny, Marc," how many times did you tell me? -- but I suppose it just happens that it coincides with his worst time there; the hockey gods have interesting senses of humour too.
Why not from the Penguins? I think he knows me better than that -- he damn fucking better well know me better than that -- knows I don't want to see his name or 35 anywhere near a black or a white or a gold or a fucking blue skating penguin anytime soon. (I'm pretending Barrasso never fucking existed, Ty, you hear me?)
I know he was here. I don't need to see his sweater to know everything he did here. Every single damn thing he did while he wore it, even if I'm wishing I could forget half of it right now.
"Dany, Dany could've gone anywhere; anywhere else and we would still be friends, but you....you're just going to leave. I could have said something to Ray, but you didn't even want to try to stay, did you."
"Marc, I had to go. It wasn't a choice I wanted to make."
Did you? There?
Back and forth from the minors, fucking Hartford, even, what did you feel that year, even before it all came crashing down?
You're telling me people move on, change teams, have to, though I wouldn't know that? I won't know that, not for years and years, though someday I might be somewhere else, too? Change teams and remain...what?
"I'm going home next month for a few days before camp starts. Come and see me then. If you want to."
"What, in Anchorage?"
"I think you can afford the plane fare." He smiled. "You can stay with my parents. Or not. My brother would flip out."
"Your-"
"Yeah. Sid. My little goalie brother. The one at Shattuck."
"It gets dark there then?"
"Yeah, it gets dark." He turned his head to the side; I couldn't tell where he was looking. "Yeah. Anchorage in August is pretty much like any place else." He looked back at me. "You'll still be there for the tourists."
I looked down, rested my forehead on the side of my fist. "I don't know...I don't know. Why the hell exactly do I want to see you again?"
"I said 'if you want to'. You might understand things better. And things change whether you come or not, so you could at least have a few more days before you go back to despising me for the forseeable future."
"I don't despise you. I want to kill you, but I don't despise you."
I've got shorts on. I don't have a shirt. Compared to what you usually wear with this, I'm basically naked. And no one, no one is ever, ever going to see me wearing it.
Maybe I'll bring it to Alaska and throw it back in his face.
He left his old black and gold pads by the back door, and those are harder to throw. Gloves are pretty painful, though, if you catch one in the head.
"Marc, I love you." He pulled me in close and held on, and I hated his guts and wished he wouldn't let go. Can we just stand there till training camp starts? "I really, really love you."
Being inside this jersey is not the same.
I look different, I feel...adrift. I've got Bob Dylan stuck in my head. To be on your own, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone, how does it feel, baby, how does it feel?
"Yes, you stupid bastard. That's why this hurts."
I don't care where he goes, if I don't let him go, then he's still mine.
à suivre (to be Continued)
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Date: 2008-07-03 02:15 am (UTC)eightsix times a year instead of once?Methinks not.
as it happens, detroit is closer to pittsburgh than most places in the eastern conference. *who knows....*