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[demens-rosa.livejournal.com]

Title: Photograph
Pairing: *sigh* Paul Kariya/Teemu Selanne, mentions of others but nothing huge
Rating: R-ish?
A/N: This pairing was requested by kaatiya, and I hope I did a fair job with it.



Surgery on both sides of my hip makes pretty much everything entertaining impossible. Obviously no hockey except the updates I get and the games I watch on the television which do a lovely job of kindly reminding me that I'm not out there. I've seen what has been said about me by the “fans”. They say that I'm a waste of roster space, a drain of money, and all sorts of ugly things. I try to let it roll off me and don't spend hours a day wondering how the same people that welcomed me to St. Louis with similes and cheers can so easily switch to plotting ways to drop me. Injuries leave time for that kind of thinking, but I do what I can to forget it. I can't surf. I can't go for a jog. I really can't even care for my damned self, but I do what I can.

When other people come around and they come around quite often since a cripple can't be left alone after all, I can play Texas Hold'em usually. Recently though, they seem to be catching on that they will lose money as the face I use to lie to the media can easily be transferred to other uses. Just a table instead of a microphone, just friends instead of strangers, there's really no differences.

However, times like now when they are no others are when the injury starts to drive me insane. I try lifting my legs, smiling when I can move the both pretty easily and without too much pain. Then I realize that I'm smiling because I can kick my feet like any two-year-old can; so, I frown. I walk myself around my house for a movie or a snack or whatever I've chosen to distract myself with always feeling proud because I can before the shame crushes me when I realize I'm proud of such a simple task.

Anything would be a welcomed distraction. Anything to make it forget the pain, the failure, the defeat of injury.

So, that's how I got here, rummaging through old boxes that I had tucked away in hopes that someday I might remember why I bothered to save this junk in the first place. Some things I can almost understand-pucks from my milestones, trading cards of my brother, a signature that my sister gave me as a joke. Most of it though-old Christmas cards, a drawing some fan I can't remember gave me, a...is that a tooth?- doesn't make any sense anymore.

I've nearly finished my fourth box when my fingers brush something something familiar. The folded paper tucked under some book and just barely sticking out looks completely unimportant to my eyes; in fact, I'm not even sure what could be on it. However, my fingers recognize it as special as they twitch as they touch it, and my heart beat speeds up just a little at the sight of whatever it is. With care, I pull out what I now recognize as a photograph folded into fourths and delicately unfold it.

My breath catches in my throat and my hands shake as my lies come crashing down. I knew this would happen if I ever saw any one of them again. That's why I spent days- weeks!- searching through everything I owned for every last one. I made sure there were none left. I had checked and checked again. I left no evidence that it had ever happened; therefore, it didn't. We had lived our lives just as everyone thought we had. I made sure ever memento that suggested anything else- every letter, every cutesy valentine's gift, every goddamn picture- was trashed.

Yet, one escaped my grasp, it seems, to live just long enough to taunt me with my startled eyes and faint blush being covered somewhat by Teemu's smiling lips as they kiss my cheek while he holds up the camera to snap the vile picture that then made me chuckle since I didn't want to all out laugh which would draw attention and later haunts me as I wonder why I choose to pack it away and unwittingly save it.

I have pretended that I had imagined most of it ever since it was over. I never wanted to remember what was, what should be, what I had let slip away without so much a decent fight because I knew I would miss it so desperately, so completely that even the smallest reminder would bring it all back once I put it out of mind. I hate it when I'm right about my weaknesses.

It's not even that good a picture; it's off-center, horribly lit, and unflattering really. It's not even an important night; I can't even remember when exactly it was. It's not even that romantic a shot, and ,believe me, over the years several “romantic” pictures were taken. I still have plenty pictures of us hanging out, celebrating goals or games, and being us as everyone sees us, as we are now. I still have gifts he gave me for my birthdays and when he just felt like I needed a new shirt or whatever. I still have our friendship. None of that matters, because the photo is us as us. The photo is all the pictures and teddy bears and love that I got rid of.

I hate it. I hate the reminder of feelings. I fucking hate the memories it brings back.

Everything from the all-star game together when I watched him skate with a purpose other than finding a weakness, a flaw to when he swallowed repeatedly, over and over, like clockwork waiting for me to tell him I was sorry but refusing to back down from his accusation before with a sigh he walked away from us forever floods my mind.

I had forgotten how awkward his touch had been at the beginning and the moment of utter shock when I finally figured out that I was his first man.

I had forgotten the way he would nudge my side while we sat on the bench before saying “Mina" rakastan sinua” gruffly under his breath so that everyone else that heard would think he was cussing and the screaming “I LOVE YOU!” valentine's day balloon and matching card that were taped to my locker by a snickering “secret admirer” who was so going to get it when we got home.

I had forgotten his grin as he gripped me and lustfully growled and his laugh when I muttered we were going to get killed for this the first time we made love in the arena.

I had forgotten the way he'd hold me to him with more force than necessary after our goals before quickly letting me go to lightly tap the gloves of the rest of the team and the way he'd enter me with a gentleness I hadn't realized was possible from another man before smoothly starting to thrust into me so well I feared for my stamina and so hard I feared for my ability to walk.

I had forgotten how light his eyes were when he pushed me against the wall of my room and whispered “You should forget her. I do when I'm with you.”

I had forgotten the way I'd hold him to me with more force than necessary during our love making before quickly letting him go after it and the way he'd explained that he would stay whenever he could and I clarified mentally that he meant he wouldn't stay if I asked.

I had forgotten the muffled Finnish he muttered as he got out of bed to get dressed after I asked for the thousandth time if I was a better lay than his wife and the “I said FUCK THIS!” he screamed when I asked him what he had said.

I had forgotten his frown as I gripped him and angrily growled and his scoff when I muttered that I would kill him if he left me to go to her.

I had forgotten how dark my eyes were as I held the glass of whatever the guy had bought for me against my lips and texted “She should forget me. You do when you're with her.”

I had forgotten how sick I suddenly was when I woke up that morning after drinking, which I shouldn't ever do, to find a body in bed with me that wasn't his and how I told myself that I had been entirely faithful other than that night, and I owed Teemu no explanation.

I had forgotten how wonderful it felt to return to my apartment to find him there, clutching to me, swearing to me that I was always on his mind, telling me everything I wanted to hear, proving to me it was all worth it for this moment of togetherness. He smelt strongly of booze thankfully covering the smell of the nameless guy at the bar I, no doubt, had on me. I decided then that we were worth everything. All the heartache was healed with an embrace. All the thoughts of her were erased with a kiss. All the touch of him were cleaned with a grind. All the world was forgotten as we came honest-to-god together. Naked, connected, panting, relaxed, and happy right on the floor that left a rug burn the size of Canada on my back, we were okay, and I let go of the pain I caused due to my insecurities.

Then he was traded.

I had forgotten those five years together on the mighty ducks, but it all came back with just a simple piece of paper. A faded, forgotten, and folded piece of paper had reminded me of everything I spent so long pretending wasn't real.

I dump the box out scrambling through its contents. Ignoring the postcards I've gotten, the ring of some ancestor my mom gave to me, and everything that doesn't remind me of him, I am not sure what I'm looking for; some of the things I'm thinking about I distinctly remember disposing off.

There used to be pair of handcuffs I had brought to his hotel room one night when he was with San Jose. I walked in sheepish and full of explanations for the item. However, when he caught sight of me then it, I knew I didn't have to say anything. It saw more than its fair share of both of our wrists but wastes in a landfill now.

There used to albums of pictures taken by a camera left on the nightstand programed to snap a shot every thirty seconds. It had been his idea, and with a bemused expression I had to ask how he would keep it from her. He replied simply that I would keep it, and I found that I soon was similar to a porn librarian of our pictures and would send him whatever he asked for. They traveled quite a lot but are now ash.

There used to be a birthday letter with no return address and sealed with a dark red lipstick kiss. The second I got it, I called him full of laughter and asked which lucky lady in his life was sending me kisses, and, with a dark chuckle and a hint of challenge, he admitted that he did it himself. It inspired more than one bizarre bedroom game but was personally shredded by me.

There used to be a deck of cards which he said was our strip poker deck even though we played normal poker with it too. I had thought I was unreadable in a poker match, but he always seemed to see strait through me. I would have said he was stacking the deck if I weren't the dealer nine times out of ten. It was part of his attempt to get me other hobbies beyond hockey and went up in flames.

Then we signed in Colorado.

There used to be hope that we could do this, that we could survive,and I feel it again due to this photograph. A pathetic, painful, and peeling photograph have recalled the distance that I thought would kill us but ending up almost helping us stretch our relationship further.

I slump back now realizing I was almost as thorough with my disposal of all things us as I thought I was. This was the only thing that made it through after all.

Colorado began the end. With injuries plaguing me and unreasonable expectations drowning him, we began to drift from each other. Even when we shared a bed, a room, a team, a kiss, or a hug, we still found ourselves further apart than ever before. That's when it started going sour.

All the time we had together was spent alone. All the love we had for one another was rarely expressed. All the aspects of our lives hanged over us like shadows.

It was the first time he accused me. He pointed out our recent distance one night, and I agreed it was there. So, he asked if there was someone else. I paused for a moment as I almost considered telling him about the guy at the bar, but that had been years ago. It was unimportant, irrelevant. But the thought was enough to put a hint of lying in my “no”. He sighed and looked now before jolting back up and demanding,” just please tell me it's not Hinote.” I managed a “It's not anyone!” that sounded truthful enough to put him at ease again. I thought that fight was over, but I would be having it many times.

From then right up to the end, he had a new weapon. Whenever I complained about his wife, he countered with a snide comment concerning the guy he was paranoid I was sleeping with that week. The season ending, the lockout, his knee surgery, the lockout ending, my signing with the Predators, everything was undeniable proof I was with someone else, but he didn't seem upset or even like he thought about it until I mentioned her.

Some part of me knew he was just doing to make me leave his wife alone.

Some part of me knew that I was being irrational for getting mad about it.

Some part of me knew that it would stop as soon as I stopped it.

Some part of me knew it was a normal reaction.

Some part of me knew he had a point.

Some part of me knew I shouldn't have slept with Greg Johnson.

It was after a game, and I was so sick of everything. The ducks would in town soon, and Teemu and I had excitedly been discussing our plans for our “reunion”. Then I offhandedly said, “just leave your wife at home, alright? You're all mine when you get here.” To which he jokingly replied “just make sure Steven Sullivan isn't around when I get there, okay? I'm not into threesomes.” Both jokes, both teasing, both playful, but each hurtful in its own way. For me, hurtful enough for me to find myself tempted by a sweaty Johnson with adrenaline flowing in his blood so fast he would do whatever I wanted.

That's how we got to it. The “break-up”, that is. He saw the hickey the moment he saw me shirtless, and he stared at it forever. He looked so shocked. I knew he didn't really mean any of his accusations, but I couldn't predict the pure surprise on his face at the moment. He swallowed.

“Who?”

“I don't kiss and tell,” I said; I knew he'd kill Greg.

“When?”

“This one or the first one?” I didn't know why I asked that.

“When did it start?”

“Anaheim.”

“When you were in Anaheim?” He looked sad but understanding.

“When you were in Anaheim,” I said again without reason. Maybe I wanted to make him hurt. Maybe I wanted that night off my chest. I had only cheated twice this whole time- once with him, once with Greg- and I was so ready to let him know.

He swallowed, and I watched his adam's apple move. I could hear his breathing and my clock ticking. I saw his muscles flexing in anger and his eyes promising that he still loved me. He swallowed and waited. I could hear traffic outside the building and hearts beating inside chests. I saw him rock while waiting and his perfect eyes plead for me to say something. He swallowed and turned. I could hear his feet shuffle across the floor and his gorgeous eyes told me it wasn't too late to stop him as he looked over his shoulder. He sighed.

But I was done. I was done with his accusations, his attachments, his fucking wife, and him. I loved him, but I was done. So,even though the next week, I checked my phone like a junkie longing for his voice, even though I woke up crying after dreams of him, even though I made sure we remained friends, I went through everything I owned for all reminders of us and rid myself of him.

A tear drips down onto the picture in my hand,and even as ever fiber of my being protests the action I bring the paper to my lips and give it a soft peck. I would have gone forever waiting to remember what made me whole and tore me to pieces. I could have gone forever thinking it was perfect and unreal. I wanted to forget it all, but this picture reminded me.

Now, I stand to begin my new search. I scan my mantle and coffee tables. I peruse the walls and desks until I find what I need. The poor quality, abused picture finds it place at last with all my other memories after being missing for so long.

I don't think that frame has ever fit any other photograph quite as well.

A/N take 2: So, is anyone else a little too excited that Kariya is skating again? Just me? Okay.