so close, once more
Sep. 8th, 2009 02:54 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
eggybread.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
2minsforslashingtitle: the goalies' (re)union/both sides now
involves: Marc-Andre Fleury/Ty Conklin
rating: R
disclaimer: I want this to be true. Does that make it true....?
....Last I checked, I had to settle for the outcome of the series.
summary: Two goalies walk intoa bar. a box. détente. the aftermath of a Stanley Cup win...
word count: ~3000. omgwtficlightmaf
notes:feel free to get drunk and sing-along! large, potentially unwieldy picture at the end...
à mon amie suprème,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nofaves, for the beta - and the screenshots! from the last two seasons - Je t'embrasse!, and for guitargirl39, because this may be about the closest she gets to my 'screenplay talking about'...something. ♥ ♥ And 'cause she loves them.
And, to everyone who does. this magnum opus is for you.
Ty Conklin and Marc-Andre Fleury, June 4, 2008....Marc-Andre Fleury and Ty Conklin, June 12, 2009.
This has 'been being written' since 6/13/09.
...Disney wouldn't have made this movie.
Somehow, in the middle of the celebration overflowing with people and alcohol and ecstatic disbelief and triumph, my mind started overlapping.
I could see us all in the room last year; everything like a grave, most of us crying, all of us in our own little islands of defeat and agony and disappointment. Except...
Why were you there so quickly?
Like time ran out and all I saw was you, so I had something to focus on.
...Did it make you feel better to ignore your pain, and concentrate on mine?
I knew you knew how I felt, when the whole world turned into torture, like I was back in Helsinki, like you were back in Carolina...so I listened to you talk to me, tell me it was okay to lose -- and I believed you because how could your existence not be? "It's OK...you'll get there...just hang on...I'll be there when it happens."
So right now do you feel like I think you do?
I realized I needed a break from the festival.
I found Marylène, told her I was stepping out, told her I needed to speak to someone...because she understands me, and she'd either figure out a way to keep people from noticing I was gone, or persuade them to not really care until I got back. Je t'aime, ma cadette...
I actually didn't have to look hard to find an unopened six-pack. I stuck it in a plastic bag with some loose cans, and headed down the hallway.
=+=+=+=+=
I kept rubbing my face; the air felt good but there was literally a weight off, with the beard gone.
I wasn't Marian. It wasn't 2006. I didn't have to do the "spectacular fuckup" interviews this year.
No one else cared about me.
Lot of ways it could have been worse.
"I told you I'd be there," is what I said to you in the handshake line, and you said "So can we talk now?" as you hugged me, but I didn't think you meant "now" to be whatever time it was you disappeared from the party to come find me.
Seriously, Marc? You just won the fucking Cup -- and you're looking for me. Exactly what degree of less-than-sober are we talking about here?
"Flower?" What the hell are you doing here? "Shouldn't you be over there?"
"I've been there. I realized...everyone else I'm going to be partying with for days. When am I going to see you?" he said rhetorically. "Right now, it's you I'd rather see."
"Why?"
"Because I kept thinking about you. Last year, right to the end, you helped me. Now I just wanted..." To help me. "I wanted to see you, Ty. All year, I wanted to see you." He broke into a strange smile. "...But you were always in Detroit."
He cocked his head towards the Wings' room. "And everyone in there's got a fucking ring too, or three, or four, so you can have them all feeling regretful for you and saying 'Sorry, man, it sucks,' ....or, you can come with me, because I want you...to." He held up the plastic bag in his hand. "At least I've got beer. You want a beer?"
"Yes, I do. Hand it over." I cracked it and sucked it down like the hole was in the bottom of the can, instead of the top.
"I've got more."
=== an enchanted moment, and it sees me through ===
"...You know, they really should provide alcohol for the losers, too." The hallways were a little crowded tonight, so after I phoned to say I'd be (even) late(r), we ended up marking this unique occasion by sitting (and drinking) in the one place goalies never go.
The penalty box.
Pretty sure it was the visitor's one.
"It hurt so much last year. You know..." I did know. "You were with me then. So how could I celebrate all night now when you're over here?"
"You're a good kid. You know that?"
"I'm not a kid, and don't call me one." He got a shifty, sarcastic look on his face. "I was always told men weren't supposed to do to children what you did to m--" I shoved him.
"Ow! Crisse! Now you want to hurt me? Fucking shit!" However, I think he was cursing 'cause he got soaked with cold, wet, wasted alcohol.
"Didn't you just say you were old enough to be abused? You don't need your arm for a couple months now, anyway. Drink and you'll stop feeling it." I was shaking my head at his unending need to be anything but innocent, and laughing all the same. "I take it back! You are without question, sans doûte -- right? -- a rotten, miserable little bastard." I paused. Took my own advice and downed some more beer. "I wasn't expecting to see you right fucking now, again, tonight, that's for certain."
"Rafalski came to see Sykkie," he shrugged.
"Raffi's got three rings already." I said it before I could stop myself.
"Ty..." He knew how much this hurt. I didn't have to remind him. "I'm not going to apologize for winning," he said, quietly.
"That's good, because I never asked you to." I scratched my neck. "I'm so happy for you. Do you believe me?" He nodded. "I mean, I hate you at the same time, just now, but..."
"I don't know what the hell this would be like the other way around. Except that I'd be on the plane back to Pittsburgh trying to see if exhaustion would stop me from crying and you'd be...I don't know. Drinking a lot more than this." He shifted on the bench, looked up at the shadows in the upper bowl, the red army of banners carpeting the ceiling at the Joe. He shot me a glance. "What would you be doing?"
"I don't know, Flower. I really don't. Aside from what you said. You know me; I don't do long-term planning. Or hypotheticals."
Strange, though, that the Pens' victory meant that sitting here and doing this, together, was possible.
But Detroit's win would have separated us.
I should have said I don't do hypotheticals for the future.
"No, I know I'd be happy for you. I would. But I don't think you'd remember me." He took a long swallow from the can. "Ty, that scares me."
=== it's enough, for this restless warrior, just to be with you ===
"I saw you with Osgood before the game." His face was oddly closed. He took a couple of deep, challenging breaths through his nose. "I thought I was the only one you talked to like that."
"What, are you jealous?" In retrospect, not the best stupid thing I could have said.
He narrowed his eyes. "You ask me if I do whatever with whoever's there at the time, then you go do the same things to someone else, the next guy you end up with."
"Well, it didn't work, did it?" The beer didn't temper the acid much. "Maybe you were better off without me. Maybe everyone is. At least in the finals."
He closed his eyes, shook his head slowly, then he looked down and caught hold of my hand, and took it in both of his, and started to kiss it. Slowly, but deliberately. He kissed the inside of my wrist and pressed my hand against his face, and I felt every intimate touch, every sexual thing we'd ever done, pass through his lips, and into my body. I stared at him, and he stared back. This was better than worrying about who had won and who hadn't, undoubtedly.
"No, Ty. No, I would not have been better off without you last year, and I don't give a shit about whether I'd have another ring right now. You were there last year, and I really wish you would have been there after the World Juniors..."
"I hadn't publicly fucked up at the worst possible place and time in 2004."
"You know what I mean. It isn't right that you aren't with me now. I know I won, but I know I was better last year. And I know why."
=+=+=+=
I knew why, and I didn't know why. Why did he keep me so much calmer? Why could I handle the puck much, much, much better?
Would any other goalie I sat and watched for so many weeks have done the same thing?
He thought -- and maybe I thought -- I wanted him because I wanted to do what he was doing and be where he was. And I wanted so much of him, and I wanted to be like a lot of what he did, but Ty, it wasn't a case of wanting my job back. I got it, I've had it, I've won with it -- and I wish for you still.
=+=+=+=
He was just as special to me, even if all we had was nothing more than magnificently gifted dumb luck from the hockey gods.
"I would still tell you that you would abso-fucking-lutely get there, because I believed it. I was right, wasn't I?"
"Then, why did you tell me it was okay to lose?"
"Because it has to be. Because most people don't win. Because there's too much luck involved and 'deserving' isn't good enough." I drained the rest of my current can.
"Flower, the truth of it all is...I'm not the kind of guy whose career will be defined by winning or not winning the Cup. It doesn't really matter. I'm lucky as hell I do what I do."
"We all are. But...Ty, anybody can win the Stanley Cup. Who else gets to be like you and me? Who else gets to do like we did? Who else gets to be us? Except us." His face was so earnest...yet I had a feeling it was still coming from more than just alcohol-fueled emotion. "Ty, if I ever have a year where I change that much again, I'll be Brodeur, or Roy, or get a Vezina nomination, or something."
=+=+=+=
He reached out and traced my hat, or started to, with his fingers.
"Nice hat," he said, and there was just enough of something in his voice to make me...oh shit...realize what was on it. I remembered the shirt, I forgot about the hat...
"I'm not going to apologize," I said again, eyes closed, and for some reason I could feel myself smile, just a little bit.
Suddenly I felt him touch my face instead of the hat, trace the lines there. I felt his fingers along the edges of my ear, the back of his hand stroke down my cheek; when he got to the hair on my lip and chin my stomach clenched. With actual pain. When I opened my eyes his thumb was over my mouth, and I... and I had a lot of thoughts go through my head...
"I can't touch the Cup." How did I forget mon sorcier had the power to make you forget anyone else existed? Maybe I just wanted to forget. "So I think I can touch the Cup winner." And the eyes that I didn't have words for in either language.
Magnets, maybe, because I didn't want to look away.
Suddenly I wanted to be much more undressed in the dark somewhere with his other hand on me, too...
I grabbed his wrist with my free hand and I kissed his hand like I had before, and it was an apology and it was me fighting back. When I stopped I left his fingers in the hollows of my neck, and I knew he could feel my pulse like I'd seen half a dozen of his teammates swarming me in the endless last minute. Or something. oh shit, shit, merde et calîsse.
Was it worse because I wanted to see him so badly, and not let him slip away?
Because I was so fucking grateful not to be the one losing again, not to deal with all the never-ending shit failing for the second year in a row would have meant, while he forgot all about me?
Apology. Not an apology. Apology. Not.
=== there's a rhyme and reason / to the wild outdoors / when the heart of this star-crossed voyager / beats in time with yours ===
One hand on Marc's warm neck and one hand around a cold wet can; it made for an interesting contrast.
I was sure if I put the can up against his neck I'd get another "Fucking shit!" out of him, or maybe he'd give me the subtitled version.
Did I go drinking with the guys from Maine after we lost the Frozen Final? (...and that was an entire fucking decade ago...) I doubt it, somehow. I don't remember doing it in Hamilton. Don't think I felt like it after the Hurricanes won, and there wasn't really anybody from Detroit that I wanted to see last year.
I wanted to see him, last year...
And I tried not to let myself miss him, this year, because I told myself it was absolutely pointless.
Did this mean more because he came over from the other side?
So would you have forgotten about him if the bounces had gone the other way tonight, Ty, like he's afraid of? Would you have traded what got you to that point, and love, and friendship, and happiness, for immortality with these other guys? Thrown over your lucky break to finally, finally be on the team that does it all?
You don't mean any less to him because he succeeded, but it wouldn't be true the other way around. Why is that?
Do you want an answer for any of these questions?
I remembered that we had to take a trip back across the ice to return to civilization.
I cared so little about that fact I popped another one open and tried fake-shotgunning again in celebration.
"Were they crying in there tonight?" Out of the quiet and nowhere.
"...a couple of guys, maybe. Right?" You know what it's like, Flower.
"Yeah."
"Mostly everybody's just stunned. Disappointed and tired."
"They don't know how to lose." His face twisted a bit, but I watched him drink, rather than smile.
I thought about it. "Yeah, yeah; you might be right. Winning is built into everything here."
"Which is kind of funny since they were, like, totally shit for so long."
"Hey, when you get good fast...You don't know anything about that, right?"
"We weren't shit for that long."
I realized it would be really funny if I got to pour a beer over his head.
So I did. ...But only about a fourth of a can. (No sense in wasting it.) "Are you going to cry tonight?"
He wiped the beer out of his eyes and used his shirt on his face. And just looked at me.
"Santé de gardien. Okay, now you can cry." He flashed a dangerous grin at me, and promptly tossed a good portion of what remained of his drink in my face. "And the score is still 2-1."
"Yeah. But I'm winning." And if I still had the beard, I wonder how much would have collected in there. I smiled. Despite the chilly dripping. "Maybe you'll bring me good luck." Again.
I felt him reach over and swipe down my cheek.
I watched him lick his fingers off. "Hey, at least this way, I didn't just waste it."
"My luck is a waste?" He wiped under my chin, and shook his head. Then he leaned down and gave me a solid two-armed ribcage of a hug. I hugged him back. He was warm, underneath all the liquid.
We were both soggy, and frankly, pretty disgusting.
The great thing about beer is, you really don't give a crap.
Actually, I was glad to have a chance to still be soaked and disgusting somehow, tonight.
...This felt much better than out at center ice.
He sat back, put out his hand, and took mine and held it. "Are you going to stay here?"
"I don't know, Flower. It would be nice. I got to play. They treat you well. I got to play. It's a great organization. I got to play." Getting to actually earn your salary, what a novel concept. "But probably not."
"You going to stay in the West?"
"I want to..." I dried my face with my sleeve.
"You're so fucking weird. Good. So you can have your conference, and I can have mine."
"And we can do this again next year."
"I hope not."
=== it's enough, for this wide-eyed wanderer, that we got this far... ===
All the cans were emptied, rattling around on the floor or in his bag. I hadn't quite kept track, but I had a feeling (namely, a pretty significant degree of less-than-sober...) that the consumption ratio had ended remarkably slanted in my favor. As was only just and proper. Damned if I didn't win something tonight.
I had no clue what time it was, but I hoped the Pens hadn't taken flight yet and decamped without their prize-winning goalie. Somehow, I thought there was a good chance Marc's ride home was safe. Now I just needed to remember exactly how to stand up again, to see about mine...
...But there you are with yours, and here I am with mine; so I guess we'll just be leaving it at this...
"We'll talk later, okay?" I said. "This...was probably about the best way to spend Stanley Cup-Losing Eve I would never have thought of. So thank you."
Then a thought occurred to me. "Maf...yeah, if you don't fuck up massively in Game 7...?" He looked at me all confused. "...Apparently I still love you. A lot. Not less. At all." Because it was true.
Whatever the hell he won.
I got one of his rare smiles, that was more 'sunrise' and less 'broad daylight'.
"Je t'aime toujours, Ty," he said, softly. "I really love you too. Je t'y veux, mon sorcier."
Because isn't that what we'd said all along?
=+=+=+=
~and the spirit/(s) of the evening~ (and caaaaaaaaaan you feeeeeel the love tonight.....?)
A/N!: Je t'aime, ma cadette -- "Love you, little sister."
Santé de gardien -- "Goalie's toast." (the non-bread variety). I made this up. But doesn't it sound like a great swear word? :D
Je t'aime toujours -- "I still love you." or, literally, "I love you always." (awwww....)
Je t'y veux -- ~"I want you there." ...This is bad French. Marc/I made it up because "I want you" in actual French is "Je te veux." You make the connection. No, it doesn't sound the same. But we're easily amused. And love...someone. :)
Bonus pic because Ty does squee so well.
involves: Marc-Andre Fleury/Ty Conklin
rating: R
disclaimer: I want this to be true. Does that make it true....?
....Last I checked, I had to settle for the outcome of the series.
summary: Two goalies walk into
word count: ~3000. omgwtficlightmaf
notes:
à mon amie suprème,
nofaves, for the beta - and the screenshots! from the last two seasons - Je t'embrasse!, and for guitargirl39, because this may be about the closest she gets to my 'screenplay talking about'...something. ♥ ♥ And 'cause she loves them. And, to everyone who does. this magnum opus is for you.
Ty Conklin and Marc-Andre Fleury, June 4, 2008....Marc-Andre Fleury and Ty Conklin, June 12, 2009.
This has 'been being written' since 6/13/09.
...Disney wouldn't have made this movie.
Somehow, in the middle of the celebration overflowing with people and alcohol and ecstatic disbelief and triumph, my mind started overlapping.
I could see us all in the room last year; everything like a grave, most of us crying, all of us in our own little islands of defeat and agony and disappointment. Except...
Why were you there so quickly?
Like time ran out and all I saw was you, so I had something to focus on.
...Did it make you feel better to ignore your pain, and concentrate on mine?
I knew you knew how I felt, when the whole world turned into torture, like I was back in Helsinki, like you were back in Carolina...so I listened to you talk to me, tell me it was okay to lose -- and I believed you because how could your existence not be? "It's OK...you'll get there...just hang on...I'll be there when it happens."
So right now do you feel like I think you do?
I realized I needed a break from the festival.
I found Marylène, told her I was stepping out, told her I needed to speak to someone...because she understands me, and she'd either figure out a way to keep people from noticing I was gone, or persuade them to not really care until I got back. Je t'aime, ma cadette...
I actually didn't have to look hard to find an unopened six-pack. I stuck it in a plastic bag with some loose cans, and headed down the hallway.
=+=+=+=+=
I kept rubbing my face; the air felt good but there was literally a weight off, with the beard gone.
I wasn't Marian. It wasn't 2006. I didn't have to do the "spectacular fuckup" interviews this year.
No one else cared about me.
Lot of ways it could have been worse.
"I told you I'd be there," is what I said to you in the handshake line, and you said "So can we talk now?" as you hugged me, but I didn't think you meant "now" to be whatever time it was you disappeared from the party to come find me.
Seriously, Marc? You just won the fucking Cup -- and you're looking for me. Exactly what degree of less-than-sober are we talking about here?
"Flower?" What the hell are you doing here? "Shouldn't you be over there?"
"I've been there. I realized...everyone else I'm going to be partying with for days. When am I going to see you?" he said rhetorically. "Right now, it's you I'd rather see."
"Why?"
"Because I kept thinking about you. Last year, right to the end, you helped me. Now I just wanted..." To help me. "I wanted to see you, Ty. All year, I wanted to see you." He broke into a strange smile. "...But you were always in Detroit."
He cocked his head towards the Wings' room. "And everyone in there's got a fucking ring too, or three, or four, so you can have them all feeling regretful for you and saying 'Sorry, man, it sucks,' ....or, you can come with me, because I want you...to." He held up the plastic bag in his hand. "At least I've got beer. You want a beer?"
"Yes, I do. Hand it over." I cracked it and sucked it down like the hole was in the bottom of the can, instead of the top.
"I've got more."
=== an enchanted moment, and it sees me through ===
"...You know, they really should provide alcohol for the losers, too." The hallways were a little crowded tonight, so after I phoned to say I'd be (even) late(r), we ended up marking this unique occasion by sitting (and drinking) in the one place goalies never go.
The penalty box.
Pretty sure it was the visitor's one.
"It hurt so much last year. You know..." I did know. "You were with me then. So how could I celebrate all night now when you're over here?"
"You're a good kid. You know that?"
"I'm not a kid, and don't call me one." He got a shifty, sarcastic look on his face. "I was always told men weren't supposed to do to children what you did to m--" I shoved him.
"Ow! Crisse! Now you want to hurt me? Fucking shit!" However, I think he was cursing 'cause he got soaked with cold, wet, wasted alcohol.
"Didn't you just say you were old enough to be abused? You don't need your arm for a couple months now, anyway. Drink and you'll stop feeling it." I was shaking my head at his unending need to be anything but innocent, and laughing all the same. "I take it back! You are without question, sans doûte -- right? -- a rotten, miserable little bastard." I paused. Took my own advice and downed some more beer. "I wasn't expecting to see you right fucking now, again, tonight, that's for certain."
"Rafalski came to see Sykkie," he shrugged.
"Raffi's got three rings already." I said it before I could stop myself.
"Ty..." He knew how much this hurt. I didn't have to remind him. "I'm not going to apologize for winning," he said, quietly.
"That's good, because I never asked you to." I scratched my neck. "I'm so happy for you. Do you believe me?" He nodded. "I mean, I hate you at the same time, just now, but..."
"I don't know what the hell this would be like the other way around. Except that I'd be on the plane back to Pittsburgh trying to see if exhaustion would stop me from crying and you'd be...I don't know. Drinking a lot more than this." He shifted on the bench, looked up at the shadows in the upper bowl, the red army of banners carpeting the ceiling at the Joe. He shot me a glance. "What would you be doing?"
"I don't know, Flower. I really don't. Aside from what you said. You know me; I don't do long-term planning. Or hypotheticals."
Strange, though, that the Pens' victory meant that sitting here and doing this, together, was possible.
But Detroit's win would have separated us.
I should have said I don't do hypotheticals for the future.
"No, I know I'd be happy for you. I would. But I don't think you'd remember me." He took a long swallow from the can. "Ty, that scares me."
=== it's enough, for this restless warrior, just to be with you ===
"I saw you with Osgood before the game." His face was oddly closed. He took a couple of deep, challenging breaths through his nose. "I thought I was the only one you talked to like that."
"What, are you jealous?" In retrospect, not the best stupid thing I could have said.
He narrowed his eyes. "You ask me if I do whatever with whoever's there at the time, then you go do the same things to someone else, the next guy you end up with."
"Well, it didn't work, did it?" The beer didn't temper the acid much. "Maybe you were better off without me. Maybe everyone is. At least in the finals."
He closed his eyes, shook his head slowly, then he looked down and caught hold of my hand, and took it in both of his, and started to kiss it. Slowly, but deliberately. He kissed the inside of my wrist and pressed my hand against his face, and I felt every intimate touch, every sexual thing we'd ever done, pass through his lips, and into my body. I stared at him, and he stared back. This was better than worrying about who had won and who hadn't, undoubtedly.
"No, Ty. No, I would not have been better off without you last year, and I don't give a shit about whether I'd have another ring right now. You were there last year, and I really wish you would have been there after the World Juniors..."
"I hadn't publicly fucked up at the worst possible place and time in 2004."
"You know what I mean. It isn't right that you aren't with me now. I know I won, but I know I was better last year. And I know why."
=+=+=+=
I knew why, and I didn't know why. Why did he keep me so much calmer? Why could I handle the puck much, much, much better?
Would any other goalie I sat and watched for so many weeks have done the same thing?
He thought -- and maybe I thought -- I wanted him because I wanted to do what he was doing and be where he was. And I wanted so much of him, and I wanted to be like a lot of what he did, but Ty, it wasn't a case of wanting my job back. I got it, I've had it, I've won with it -- and I wish for you still.
=+=+=+=
He was just as special to me, even if all we had was nothing more than magnificently gifted dumb luck from the hockey gods.
"I would still tell you that you would abso-fucking-lutely get there, because I believed it. I was right, wasn't I?"
"Then, why did you tell me it was okay to lose?"
"Because it has to be. Because most people don't win. Because there's too much luck involved and 'deserving' isn't good enough." I drained the rest of my current can.
"Flower, the truth of it all is...I'm not the kind of guy whose career will be defined by winning or not winning the Cup. It doesn't really matter. I'm lucky as hell I do what I do."
"We all are. But...Ty, anybody can win the Stanley Cup. Who else gets to be like you and me? Who else gets to do like we did? Who else gets to be us? Except us." His face was so earnest...yet I had a feeling it was still coming from more than just alcohol-fueled emotion. "Ty, if I ever have a year where I change that much again, I'll be Brodeur, or Roy, or get a Vezina nomination, or something."
=+=+=+=
He reached out and traced my hat, or started to, with his fingers.
"Nice hat," he said, and there was just enough of something in his voice to make me...oh shit...realize what was on it. I remembered the shirt, I forgot about the hat...
"I'm not going to apologize," I said again, eyes closed, and for some reason I could feel myself smile, just a little bit.
Suddenly I felt him touch my face instead of the hat, trace the lines there. I felt his fingers along the edges of my ear, the back of his hand stroke down my cheek; when he got to the hair on my lip and chin my stomach clenched. With actual pain. When I opened my eyes his thumb was over my mouth, and I... and I had a lot of thoughts go through my head...
"I can't touch the Cup." How did I forget mon sorcier had the power to make you forget anyone else existed? Maybe I just wanted to forget. "So I think I can touch the Cup winner." And the eyes that I didn't have words for in either language.
Magnets, maybe, because I didn't want to look away.
Suddenly I wanted to be much more undressed in the dark somewhere with his other hand on me, too...
I grabbed his wrist with my free hand and I kissed his hand like I had before, and it was an apology and it was me fighting back. When I stopped I left his fingers in the hollows of my neck, and I knew he could feel my pulse like I'd seen half a dozen of his teammates swarming me in the endless last minute. Or something. oh shit, shit, merde et calîsse.
Was it worse because I wanted to see him so badly, and not let him slip away?
Because I was so fucking grateful not to be the one losing again, not to deal with all the never-ending shit failing for the second year in a row would have meant, while he forgot all about me?
Apology. Not an apology. Apology. Not.
=== there's a rhyme and reason / to the wild outdoors / when the heart of this star-crossed voyager / beats in time with yours ===
One hand on Marc's warm neck and one hand around a cold wet can; it made for an interesting contrast.
I was sure if I put the can up against his neck I'd get another "Fucking shit!" out of him, or maybe he'd give me the subtitled version.
Did I go drinking with the guys from Maine after we lost the Frozen Final? (...and that was an entire fucking decade ago...) I doubt it, somehow. I don't remember doing it in Hamilton. Don't think I felt like it after the Hurricanes won, and there wasn't really anybody from Detroit that I wanted to see last year.
I wanted to see him, last year...
And I tried not to let myself miss him, this year, because I told myself it was absolutely pointless.
Did this mean more because he came over from the other side?
So would you have forgotten about him if the bounces had gone the other way tonight, Ty, like he's afraid of? Would you have traded what got you to that point, and love, and friendship, and happiness, for immortality with these other guys? Thrown over your lucky break to finally, finally be on the team that does it all?
You don't mean any less to him because he succeeded, but it wouldn't be true the other way around. Why is that?
Do you want an answer for any of these questions?
I remembered that we had to take a trip back across the ice to return to civilization.
I cared so little about that fact I popped another one open and tried fake-shotgunning again in celebration.
"Were they crying in there tonight?" Out of the quiet and nowhere.
"...a couple of guys, maybe. Right?" You know what it's like, Flower.
"Yeah."
"Mostly everybody's just stunned. Disappointed and tired."
"They don't know how to lose." His face twisted a bit, but I watched him drink, rather than smile.
I thought about it. "Yeah, yeah; you might be right. Winning is built into everything here."
"Which is kind of funny since they were, like, totally shit for so long."
"Hey, when you get good fast...You don't know anything about that, right?"
"We weren't shit for that long."
I realized it would be really funny if I got to pour a beer over his head.
So I did. ...But only about a fourth of a can. (No sense in wasting it.) "Are you going to cry tonight?"
He wiped the beer out of his eyes and used his shirt on his face. And just looked at me.
"Santé de gardien. Okay, now you can cry." He flashed a dangerous grin at me, and promptly tossed a good portion of what remained of his drink in my face. "And the score is still 2-1."
"Yeah. But I'm winning." And if I still had the beard, I wonder how much would have collected in there. I smiled. Despite the chilly dripping. "Maybe you'll bring me good luck." Again.
I felt him reach over and swipe down my cheek.
I watched him lick his fingers off. "Hey, at least this way, I didn't just waste it."
"My luck is a waste?" He wiped under my chin, and shook his head. Then he leaned down and gave me a solid two-armed ribcage of a hug. I hugged him back. He was warm, underneath all the liquid.
We were both soggy, and frankly, pretty disgusting.
The great thing about beer is, you really don't give a crap.
Actually, I was glad to have a chance to still be soaked and disgusting somehow, tonight.
...This felt much better than out at center ice.
He sat back, put out his hand, and took mine and held it. "Are you going to stay here?"
"I don't know, Flower. It would be nice. I got to play. They treat you well. I got to play. It's a great organization. I got to play." Getting to actually earn your salary, what a novel concept. "But probably not."
"You going to stay in the West?"
"I want to..." I dried my face with my sleeve.
"You're so fucking weird. Good. So you can have your conference, and I can have mine."
"And we can do this again next year."
"I hope not."
=== it's enough, for this wide-eyed wanderer, that we got this far... ===
All the cans were emptied, rattling around on the floor or in his bag. I hadn't quite kept track, but I had a feeling (namely, a pretty significant degree of less-than-sober...) that the consumption ratio had ended remarkably slanted in my favor. As was only just and proper. Damned if I didn't win something tonight.
I had no clue what time it was, but I hoped the Pens hadn't taken flight yet and decamped without their prize-winning goalie. Somehow, I thought there was a good chance Marc's ride home was safe. Now I just needed to remember exactly how to stand up again, to see about mine...
...But there you are with yours, and here I am with mine; so I guess we'll just be leaving it at this...
"We'll talk later, okay?" I said. "This...was probably about the best way to spend Stanley Cup-Losing Eve I would never have thought of. So thank you."
Then a thought occurred to me. "Maf...yeah, if you don't fuck up massively in Game 7...?" He looked at me all confused. "...Apparently I still love you. A lot. Not less. At all." Because it was true.
Whatever the hell he won.
I got one of his rare smiles, that was more 'sunrise' and less 'broad daylight'.
"Je t'aime toujours, Ty," he said, softly. "I really love you too. Je t'y veux, mon sorcier."
Because isn't that what we'd said all along?
=+=+=+=
~and the spirit/(s) of the evening~ (and caaaaaaaaaan you feeeeeel the love tonight.....?)A/N!: Je t'aime, ma cadette -- "Love you, little sister."
Santé de gardien -- "Goalie's toast." (the non-bread variety). I made this up. But doesn't it sound like a great swear word? :D
Je t'aime toujours -- "I still love you." or, literally, "I love you always." (awwww....)
Je t'y veux -- ~"I want you there." ...This is bad French. Marc/I made it up because "I want you" in actual French is "Je te veux." You make the connection. No, it doesn't sound the same. But we're easily amused. And love...someone. :)
Bonus pic because Ty does squee so well.
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incoherence
Date: 2009-09-09 12:24 am (UTC)And now I'm just going to quote lines at you and squee about them.
"I was always told men weren't supposed to do to children what you did to m--
Heeeee. older/younger pairings = my favorites EVER.
a solid two-armed ribcage of a hug.
now I want a hug like that.
Strange, though, that the Pens' victory meant that sitting here and doing this, together, was possible.
But Detroit's win would have separated us.
and I completely believe it. </3 fuck. I love them, I love you, I love this. And I have never had a fic dedicated to me before, so thank you ♥
Re: incoherence
Date: 2009-09-09 01:22 am (UTC)I retract my initial "not a Fleury fan" statement. XD
...actually you did that after they won, he swore on national tv, and then apologized for stuff at the parade. :D but you can keep trying. and hey. you *weren't* at the time! (I feel sad, you're now willing to read other people's MAF fics. ;__;) but you're allowed to have opinions. and change them!
Heeeee. older/younger pairings = my favorites EVER.
MAF's need to fill his "rotten little bastard" quotient obliges you. :)
But Detroit's win would have separated us.
it was like all the "we won the fucking Cup" feeling came back, in addition to "fuck, Ty didn't win the Cup."
Les Gods du Hockey do work in mysterious ways.... :/ Welcome to writing this.
"unfortunately", we all had to be very glad of that fact this year.(/torture)
true to real life, obviously, but I like that Ty is frank and snarky, because who wouldn't be in that situation.
well, ttrl is usually what I aim for... I guess my imagination must still be in decent working order. :)
and you're welcome. ^_^ Good job at feeling the love. :D
*gratuitous Ty-like glompage goes here* ;P
Re: incoherence
Date: 2009-09-09 01:44 am (UTC)*returns the gratuitous glompage, rereads fic* :D