Fourteen (Patrick Marleau, Joe Thornton)
Mar. 10th, 2009 11:11 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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2minsforslashingTitle: Fourteen
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sherlockelly
Pairing: Patrick Marleau, Joe Thornton
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Real people, fake story.
Summary: Patrick tells Joe the story of his first kiss.
Author's Note: This idea came to me randomly last night and my boyfriend insisted that I write it down. Then when he read it, he started crying. I don't know what to make of that, so I offer it up to you all. Also, awww at fourteen year old Patrick!
Patrick Marleau was sad that day. He always felt a little sad when he was playing hockey in Montreal. It reminded him a lot of home. It reminded him of a lot of things about home. Even though he wasn’t from Montreal. Thoughts like that confused him about himself. His eyebrows furrowed.
He sat on his hotel bed and looked over at Joe. Joe asked him Patty what’s wrong? He said you look like you’ve seen a ghost.
Patrick was always a little bit sad in Montreal.
++
He was a young fourteen, his mom always said, but Patrick didn’t know what that meant. He was tall for his age, he was big, he was a fast skater. But she would smile and ruffle his hair and kiss his cheek. She would tell him you are a young fourteen, Patrick. And he didn’t mind that.
But sometimes he thought she was right, even if he didn’t know what she meant. He looked in the mirror over the bathroom sink. He looked at his smooth face and moppish hair. He smiled at his reflection and looked at his teeth. He ran his fingers over his hairless chest. He turned to the side and sucked in his gut, then pushed it out. He flexed.
He looked down at the nest of new curly hairs that had sprouted last winter. He didn’t like that they itched when he skated. He didn’t like that they hadn’t always been there. He felt the same way about the stretch marks on his lower back. He shot up five inches one year and his dad had laughed when Patrick hobbled down the stairs and said his knees back hips elbows neck ached. He said don’t worry son, the rest of you will catch up to your bones.
He didn’t feel like he belonged in this body anymore.
The girls at school, the ones he’d known since he was a baby, they started to tease him and his brothers said that it meant they liked him. Patrick didn’t like them back. He wanted to, but he didn’t.
He didn’t like anyone like that. It made him worry. It made him worry that he was too young.
The boy that lived three houses and seven miles away was Patrick’s age. They had always gotten along. He was quiet and he laughed in sweet way that reminded Patrick of a little girl his mom used to babysit. The boy was always dressed neatly and he would open the door of the church for the old women and their canes.
Patrick liked him, and he thought that might be enough. Enough to maybe try and see and maybe the rest of him would catch up with his bones.
It was a hot summer when Patrick was fourteen and between skating and chores on the farm there wasn’t time left for anything but sweating. The boy came over one Sunday after church. The sermon had been about love and respect for fellow man, and when Patrick looked over at his mom, he could see that she was holding his father’s hand, and it made him smile.
When they got back to the farm, Patrick and the boy climbed the ladder in the barn and looked out at the fields through the loft window. The boy tried to find his house, but it was too far away.
They stayed there until lunchtime and their stomachs growled. Patrick was always hungry. It’s because you are growing the boy said to him. Patrick nodded, but he didn’t know why. He didn’t want to grow anymore. He didn’t want to be taller than his mom. It made him feel unsafe.
She served the boys lunch and she leaned down to kiss Patrick’s cheek. He didn’t mind the boy was watching.
After they ate, they climbed back up into the barn. Maybe we can see the sunset the boy said. He picked some of the hay threads off his shirt.
The hours moved slowly and they were together in silence for a long while.
Patrick sat cross-legged facing the boy. The barn smelled like straw and summer and he sniffled to clear his nose because it was whistling a little bit when he breathed in. That happened sometimes from the barn dust.
The boy sighed. It was a bored sigh and Patrick felt bad that he was a boring host. A fly buzzed by his ear and he swatted at it. The boy was wearing some of Patrick’s clothes, his own church clothes folded in a pile on Patrick’s bed. The boy didn’t want to get the newly pressed button-down dusty. The fly buzzed by Patrick’s ear again.
I’ve never kissed anyone, he heard himself saying. It sounded strange, like it wasn’t his voice. He didn’t know where it came from. The confession bubbled up inside of him and suddenly it was there, out loud.
Me either the boy said. Patrick was glad that he didn’t act like it was a weird thing to say. Instead he nodded, but he didn’t know why.
He really did like the boy. He had wanted that to be enough.
Their lips met between their bodies and it was messy and Patrick’s bones curled as he leaned down to kiss the boy. Patrick closed his eyes because that’s what people did on television, and he heard the boy make a sound in his throat.
And he tried very hard to make a sound like that himself, but Patrick didn’t feel anything, and it made him very sad.
When he pulled away, the boy was smiling and said I have always wanted to kiss you. Patrick nodded.
The boy came over the next week after church. They lived far and it was hard to see each other in the summer. The boy kissed Patrick again. Patrick was too scared to say not to.
On the third week, the sermon was about lying. He looked over at his mother and her brow was furrowed and she was nodding along. Patrick thought that maybe that’s what he was doing to the boy, lying. They sat in the barn that afternoon and the boy held his hand. Patrick let him kiss him again, and inside he felt terrible.
The fourth week, Patrick waited in the hall bathroom while the boy changed out of his church clothes in Patrick’s bedroom. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. The door opened a bit and the boy looked in and smiled. Patrick didn’t look away from the mirror. He watched his lips move. We can’t kiss anymore. The boy was confused and Patrick didn’t know what to say after that. The boy told him you can’t just do that. And he started to cry.
Patrick didn’t look away from his reflection. He watched his own eyes fill with tears and he hated this body that wasn’t really his.
They didn’t see each other any more after that. Patrick couldn’t help but feel guilty. He wanted to go back and shut himself up and take back everything that he’d done to hurt the boy. He cried for four days before his brother, the nicer one, told him that he needed to focus on hockey and not whoever it was that broke his heart. He didn’t ask questions and Patrick didn’t correct him. He nodded.
++
Patrick didn’t know why he told Joe that story. He had never talked about the boy before to anyone.
Joe was looking at him and he was very quiet. It made Patrick uneasy. There were footsteps in the hallway and he listened until they were gone.
And then he was crying. Loud, hard sobs that filled his lungs with stale hotel room air. He felt like he would never stop and it was getting hard to breathe. But then Joe was there by his side, holding him and telling him it’s okay Patty. You didn’t do anything wrong.
Patrick didn’t know what that meant, but it made him feel better. He wiped his eyes and sniffled because his nose was whistling a little bit. It was very quiet again and there were no footsteps to listen to.
For a moment, Patrick thought that maybe he wanted to kiss Joe.
But then he didn’t.
And Joe squeezed him in his arms, not in a tender way, but not in the way that he did after goals either. It was a different sort of hug that Patrick wasn’t sure about. Joe pulled away some and smiled a sad sort of smile and said you are an old soul, Patrick.
Patrick nodded. But he wasn’t sure why.
Author:
sherlockellyPairing: Patrick Marleau, Joe Thornton
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Real people, fake story.
Summary: Patrick tells Joe the story of his first kiss.
Author's Note: This idea came to me randomly last night and my boyfriend insisted that I write it down. Then when he read it, he started crying. I don't know what to make of that, so I offer it up to you all. Also, awww at fourteen year old Patrick!
Patrick Marleau was sad that day. He always felt a little sad when he was playing hockey in Montreal. It reminded him a lot of home. It reminded him of a lot of things about home. Even though he wasn’t from Montreal. Thoughts like that confused him about himself. His eyebrows furrowed.
He sat on his hotel bed and looked over at Joe. Joe asked him Patty what’s wrong? He said you look like you’ve seen a ghost.
Patrick was always a little bit sad in Montreal.
++
He was a young fourteen, his mom always said, but Patrick didn’t know what that meant. He was tall for his age, he was big, he was a fast skater. But she would smile and ruffle his hair and kiss his cheek. She would tell him you are a young fourteen, Patrick. And he didn’t mind that.
But sometimes he thought she was right, even if he didn’t know what she meant. He looked in the mirror over the bathroom sink. He looked at his smooth face and moppish hair. He smiled at his reflection and looked at his teeth. He ran his fingers over his hairless chest. He turned to the side and sucked in his gut, then pushed it out. He flexed.
He looked down at the nest of new curly hairs that had sprouted last winter. He didn’t like that they itched when he skated. He didn’t like that they hadn’t always been there. He felt the same way about the stretch marks on his lower back. He shot up five inches one year and his dad had laughed when Patrick hobbled down the stairs and said his knees back hips elbows neck ached. He said don’t worry son, the rest of you will catch up to your bones.
He didn’t feel like he belonged in this body anymore.
The girls at school, the ones he’d known since he was a baby, they started to tease him and his brothers said that it meant they liked him. Patrick didn’t like them back. He wanted to, but he didn’t.
He didn’t like anyone like that. It made him worry. It made him worry that he was too young.
The boy that lived three houses and seven miles away was Patrick’s age. They had always gotten along. He was quiet and he laughed in sweet way that reminded Patrick of a little girl his mom used to babysit. The boy was always dressed neatly and he would open the door of the church for the old women and their canes.
Patrick liked him, and he thought that might be enough. Enough to maybe try and see and maybe the rest of him would catch up with his bones.
It was a hot summer when Patrick was fourteen and between skating and chores on the farm there wasn’t time left for anything but sweating. The boy came over one Sunday after church. The sermon had been about love and respect for fellow man, and when Patrick looked over at his mom, he could see that she was holding his father’s hand, and it made him smile.
When they got back to the farm, Patrick and the boy climbed the ladder in the barn and looked out at the fields through the loft window. The boy tried to find his house, but it was too far away.
They stayed there until lunchtime and their stomachs growled. Patrick was always hungry. It’s because you are growing the boy said to him. Patrick nodded, but he didn’t know why. He didn’t want to grow anymore. He didn’t want to be taller than his mom. It made him feel unsafe.
She served the boys lunch and she leaned down to kiss Patrick’s cheek. He didn’t mind the boy was watching.
After they ate, they climbed back up into the barn. Maybe we can see the sunset the boy said. He picked some of the hay threads off his shirt.
The hours moved slowly and they were together in silence for a long while.
Patrick sat cross-legged facing the boy. The barn smelled like straw and summer and he sniffled to clear his nose because it was whistling a little bit when he breathed in. That happened sometimes from the barn dust.
The boy sighed. It was a bored sigh and Patrick felt bad that he was a boring host. A fly buzzed by his ear and he swatted at it. The boy was wearing some of Patrick’s clothes, his own church clothes folded in a pile on Patrick’s bed. The boy didn’t want to get the newly pressed button-down dusty. The fly buzzed by Patrick’s ear again.
I’ve never kissed anyone, he heard himself saying. It sounded strange, like it wasn’t his voice. He didn’t know where it came from. The confession bubbled up inside of him and suddenly it was there, out loud.
Me either the boy said. Patrick was glad that he didn’t act like it was a weird thing to say. Instead he nodded, but he didn’t know why.
He really did like the boy. He had wanted that to be enough.
Their lips met between their bodies and it was messy and Patrick’s bones curled as he leaned down to kiss the boy. Patrick closed his eyes because that’s what people did on television, and he heard the boy make a sound in his throat.
And he tried very hard to make a sound like that himself, but Patrick didn’t feel anything, and it made him very sad.
When he pulled away, the boy was smiling and said I have always wanted to kiss you. Patrick nodded.
The boy came over the next week after church. They lived far and it was hard to see each other in the summer. The boy kissed Patrick again. Patrick was too scared to say not to.
On the third week, the sermon was about lying. He looked over at his mother and her brow was furrowed and she was nodding along. Patrick thought that maybe that’s what he was doing to the boy, lying. They sat in the barn that afternoon and the boy held his hand. Patrick let him kiss him again, and inside he felt terrible.
The fourth week, Patrick waited in the hall bathroom while the boy changed out of his church clothes in Patrick’s bedroom. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. The door opened a bit and the boy looked in and smiled. Patrick didn’t look away from the mirror. He watched his lips move. We can’t kiss anymore. The boy was confused and Patrick didn’t know what to say after that. The boy told him you can’t just do that. And he started to cry.
Patrick didn’t look away from his reflection. He watched his own eyes fill with tears and he hated this body that wasn’t really his.
They didn’t see each other any more after that. Patrick couldn’t help but feel guilty. He wanted to go back and shut himself up and take back everything that he’d done to hurt the boy. He cried for four days before his brother, the nicer one, told him that he needed to focus on hockey and not whoever it was that broke his heart. He didn’t ask questions and Patrick didn’t correct him. He nodded.
++
Patrick didn’t know why he told Joe that story. He had never talked about the boy before to anyone.
Joe was looking at him and he was very quiet. It made Patrick uneasy. There were footsteps in the hallway and he listened until they were gone.
And then he was crying. Loud, hard sobs that filled his lungs with stale hotel room air. He felt like he would never stop and it was getting hard to breathe. But then Joe was there by his side, holding him and telling him it’s okay Patty. You didn’t do anything wrong.
Patrick didn’t know what that meant, but it made him feel better. He wiped his eyes and sniffled because his nose was whistling a little bit. It was very quiet again and there were no footsteps to listen to.
For a moment, Patrick thought that maybe he wanted to kiss Joe.
But then he didn’t.
And Joe squeezed him in his arms, not in a tender way, but not in the way that he did after goals either. It was a different sort of hug that Patrick wasn’t sure about. Joe pulled away some and smiled a sad sort of smile and said you are an old soul, Patrick.
Patrick nodded. But he wasn’t sure why.
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