Rating: PG-13
Original Date of Completion: May 2008
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone, but I wish I did. This is all fake, conjured in the confines of my demented little mind. So please, don't sue me.
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As he did with most things, Marc arrived early for lunch. That was as much routine as most things in his life; it was a combative against spontaneity, he was always prepared for what lie ahead, ready for any sudden changes to his plans. On most occasions, he did it almost subconsciously, his mind automatically adding 15 minutes, a half hour into any plans he had. Today was no exception to that, though this time he was more than aware what he was doing when he left his hotel room. Unlike Brent, who left his home in a black Mercedes at the same time.
Brent wasn't the same perpetually early person that Marc was, he was quite the opposite. The circumstances in which he lived made him so; his wounds took increasing time to hide each day, his alarm clock wasn't loud enough to break through forced unconsciousness, or the haze of too many painkillers. The exact reason was rarely the same day to day, but they all led to the same consistent tardiness. It was beyond his control on most occasions, something forced upon him by the evils of his life; just like them, he'd given up fighting that long ago.
But that day, like the previous one, was different. After Marc's phone call, Brent had forced himself to get ready, crawling into the bathroom, then into the shower, where he let the water beat down on him for 20 minutes before he could even stand. Once to his feet, the rest of his morning routine went quickly; he was showered, dressed, with his wounds adequately concealed with time enough to leave an hour early. That was nothing he considered however, opting instead to take half that hour to let another handful of painkillers kick in. The remaining fifteen before he left were spent calming the ulcer in his stomach, caused by that very routine one time too many.
He'd become an expert at hiding discomfort, though. Most times an outside observer would be none the wiser that he was in absolute agony at any given moment. He smiled and laughed through his pain, and fooled those around him with a happy, shiny facade. Marc, however, was not so easily deceived.
When Brent arrived at lunch, Marc sat waiting in a booth at the window, so he could see Brent arrive. When he did, what he saw gave him an instant feeling that something wasn't right. Brent walked stiffly toward the restaurant, his eyes on the floor beneath him, tugging at the front of the blue t-shirt he wore beneath his suit coat. There was nothing overly alarming about it, he could've been sore from the previous night's game, or sweating in an unseasonably warm St. Louis day before he reached the airport. Those were logical explanations, but neither satisfied completely the feeling Marc had, there was something still that flagged his concern. He couldn't explain why that was, but with the events of the previous day, that seemed almost normal. So like the other questions he'd had, he pushed that feeling away, hoping in time that it, and they, would be explained.
Brent hadn't been as successful with his questions, he was reminded quickly of that as he stepped into the restaurant. Marc greeted him immediately with a soft "Brent, over here," and a warm smile; a warm smile that sent Brent reeling, back to the hazy visions he'd awoke to that morning. For the briefest of moments, he was lost again in that world, in the feelings it had given him, the questions it had raised. He could feel again the warmth of Marc's smile, even as he stood across a crowded restaurant, and just as it had in the dream, it brought with it a feeling of complete relief. In that instance, he was completely at ease, as if everything that troubled his world ceased to exist. It was a feeling he relished, one he wished so desperately to be real. But he knew even through the joy of that feeling that it wasn't real. His conscious mind knew they were just at a restaurant, waiting to have lunch together. But subconsciously, in a part deep down, that dream had come to life in that moment. And that was a feeling Brent couldn't shake, even as he broke from his daze and joined Marc at the table.
"Here I thought I was getting here early," Brent said with a grin as he sat down.
Marc laughed softly, and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm always early, it's a bad habit I have,"
"That's one I need," Brent laughed softly, reaching for the menu from the center of the table. "I'm always late. Explains my career,"
Brent snorted a laugh, smirking slightly behind his menu. Marc laughed faintly, his brow furrowing a bit, caught off guard by that comment. His mind flashed back to the previous night's game, and the argument they'd had after it. His first reaction was to comfort, to say what he'd lost in anger last night: everyone has bad games, it doesn't change what kind of player you are, it's part of being a goalie. But he remembered quickly of their conversation afterward, and the similar comments that had been sparse throughout it. Every one had seemed a joke at the time, something to lighten the mood. But this time there was a difference in Brent's voice, the previous sarcasm was no longer there. Marc wondered now if Brent really believed what he said, and if he did, what made him feel that way with the career he'd had.
"What do you mean?" Marc asked with a faint smile.
Brent glanced up over his menu, flashing a brief, lopsided grin. "Just saying," He spoke softly, shrugging a shoulder. "I'm always too late getting over, too late to react..."
He trailed off, clearing his throat and glancing back at his menu, shielding his eyes from Denis's. Silently he cursed himself, angry for what he'd said. He made disparaging comments about his play often, it almost put him at ease with his situation, but he never elaborated. Most didn't care for explanation, those that did were always left with questions. But this time, like seemingly everything with Denis, was different. And like everything with him, Brent still couldn't explain why that was.
Since he had met Marc the night before, his mouth had seemed to work opposite his mind. The things he thought, what not to say, how not to act, were uttered and done before he could stop them. It was nothing he had ever experienced before; he was methodical when speaking, almost calculating, his guard always on high alert. When it came to his play, that usually increased two-fold. But there was something in Denis that changed that, something about him that smashed that guard down, and turned off his tongue's usual patience. He was unsure what it was, he didn't bother to even guess. He only wished, fervently, that it was just a temporary effect. He had spoken too much for his liking already.
"I don't really get that," Marc said softly, his brow furrowed. "I don't think you have any problems with either of those things."
Brent smiled faintly, shrugging a shoulder as he closed up his menu. He met Denis's gaze momentarily, but quickly glanced away, searching hopefully for the waitress. He had stopped himself this time from replying, from explaining further what was best left unsaid, but he had done it in the form of awkward silence. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, his throat tightening in nervousness, for a moment he felt like he was on the ice, in net, staring down a big shooter in overtime. But with that searching gaze, and inquisitive mind, Denis was to Brent more intimidating than any shooter he had ever faced; he had already broken through Brent's defense, and his weaknesses had been laid out plain. Brent's only hope in this case was the final buzzer, but "Now boarding Flight 319, non-stop to Columbus" was a horn that was still long away.
He would've settled for 'Can I take your order?'
Neither came, however, and he was left in awkward agony for what felt like hours. In reality it was only a few excruciatingly long seconds, before his mind rejoined his mouth, and the perfect subject change was born of the reunion.
"I don't know, maybe it's my pads," Brent chuckled, flashing a lopsided smirk. "How are the Blockades working for you?"
Marc laughed faintly, flashing a weak smile. He recognized the subject change clear as day, and part of him didn't want to accept it, to keep probing into Johnson's thoughts, to get a real explanation for the things he'd said. But Marc was nothing if not observant, he could see through Brent's dodging his uncomfortableness, even if he couldn't see the cause for it. There was no question in his mind Brent had meant what he said, the question was if he had meant to say it. That was an answer Marc was anxious to get, but one Brent was obviously intent on hiding. And that just posed another question; why?
Even more so than the other, Marc wanted that answer, to grab a better understanding of the man sitting across from him. Since he had met Johnson the previous night, he had struggled to truly understand him. Every time he thought he had, an off the cuff remark slipped from Brent's mouth, leaving Marc bewildered and taking him back to where he started. He begrudgingly accepted the fact that it was hard to completely understand someone in one day, in the short time they'd spoke, under the circumstances in which they had. But he couldn't bring himself to give up trying, curiosity had grabbed hold of him and refused to let go. That was becoming a slow and brutal torture, Johnson's defenses seemed to be made of barbed wire, dripping with not so subtle subject changes.
Marc was persistent, however; much like his life on the ice, he never gave up without a fight.
"The Blockades are great," He said softly, shrugging a shoulder as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. Pausing, he locked his eyes onto Brent's, peering deep into the pale blue as he continued. "But I don't think you need new pads. There's nothing wrong with the way you play."
"Good afternoon, gentlemen, are you ready to order?"
The interruption from the waitress was welcomed by Brent, and he nearly sighed with relief for the distraction. Marc's eyes were still focused on him, but Brent refused to look back. He needed to collect his thoughts, he needed to find a way to take the attention off of himself. The moments they would take to order lunch would be sufficient--at least, that's what he was hoping.
"I think I know what I want," he responded, averting his eyes down to the menu in front of him. He really didn't have a clue, so he ordered the first thing that caught his eye. "I'll have the New Orleans seafood."
Brent didn't really care for seafood that much, but for now, he was just hoping to get Denis' focus off of him, and hopefully on the lunch they were here to enjoy.
Brent didn't listen while Marc ordered, he just kept staring at his menu and breathing deeply. The distraction of ordering was quickly dissipating, and Brent had to be prepared with a new topic of discussion once the server had left the table.
All too soon she disappeared, and Brent folded his menu, no more certain of what he could say than he'd been when he arrived. Marc, however, was still watching him attentively, his dark eyes holding some emotion Brent wasn't sure he wanted to put a name to. Marc opened his mouth to speak, surely he was going to try, in vain, to compliment Brent's play again, but Brent had no desire to be patronized.
"Did you get into any trouble for getting in late last night?"
Marc blinked in disbelief, though he supposed he couldn't be surprised that Johnson had so rapidly changed the subject again. He was clearly uncomfortable discussing goaltending, and yet Marc couldn't find a reason why. It was their trade, their passion. Marc had been told on quite a few occasions to shut up because he wouldn't stop explaining angles, positioning, rebound control...it was often a thankless job, and he knew that, but it didn't make him love it less.
He had to wonder what had made Brent so unwilling to discuss it. He just wasn't sure how he would uncover that answer.
"The only one who knows I was out is my roommate," Marc explained, allowing the topic to be changed. He was curious, but he wanted Brent to be comfortable, and he could practically see the way the tension slipped from Johnson's body when he answered his question without hesitation. "He's usually the one sneaking in past curfew, so he owed me anyway."
Brent smiled, but it didn't seem quite genuine. Just as he'd felt all day, Marc couldn't shake the sense of uneasiness. Why was Brent so uncomfortable with subjects that should be commonplace?
"What about you? Does anyone on your team know you were out late with the enemy?" Marc asked, a wicked grin punctuating the question.
For the briefest moment there was something unreadable in the deep blue eyes of the man across the table from him, before Brent's lips twisted in a smirk, and his gaze went neutral again. "I was at home last night, I didn't have to worry about a roommate to catch me."
The waitress returned at that moment with their beverages, and when Brent looked up at her and flashed the smile Marc was growing accustomed to, he realized just how false it was. It was excellently executed, the grin Brent kept flashing. If someone wasn't paying enough attention, it seemed genuine. But Marc found he was unable to take it at face value, and he was determined to get to the heart of the forced cheerfulness, one way or another.
Brent, meanwhile, had slipped back behind his defenses. The moment Marc had made the comment about spending the night with an enemy, Brent realized what this was. Marc was a nice guy, perhaps--but he was a guy nonetheless.
This wasn't about friendship. Marc simply wanted what any other man might have expected from someone he picked up in a bar. Denis had offered compliments, reassurances about Brent's play on the ice, had given off an air of confidentiality, of security. He had led Brent to believe that he was a friend, that he could be trusted, and all of it was a farce. He simply wanted to get something else, maybe sex, maybe just the opportunity to further humiliate his rival.
Even as something deep inside screamed in protest, Brent allowed the conversation to continue, to topics inane and superficial, and fortunately Denis didn't press for more revelations of Brent's inner self-confidence issues. Despite the promise that Brent had allowed himself to get caught up in, reality seemed determined to step in yet again and bring him back to earth. He was simply going after something else that he wasn't good enough for. Something else that he didn't deserve.
Brent was so caught up in his thoughts that he never noticed they were being watched.
A firm hand clamped on his shoulder, specifically placed to put pressure on a particularly gruesome bruise that was left from the night before. Brent couldn't quite hide the wince, and he only prayed that Denis hadn't noticed. "I was wondering where you had run off to this afternoon, Johnny."
In an instant, Brent's already weak appetite was completely lost, and he fought to keep the faint smile on his face. Scott didn't give him a chance to speak up, he simply reached a hand out to Denis, introducing himself. "I had no idea Johnny here was such good friends with our division rivals," he told Marc, and Marc laughed, clearly taking it as a joke.
Marc obviously didn't catch the look in Scott's eyes as he said it.
"We'll see you at the gate shortly, Johnny," he said as he left, clapping Brent hard on the back. Brent clenched his teeth and just barely kept himself from recoiling at the touch.
The rest of lunch went by quickly, or at least it seemed so to Johnson. He couldn't get his mind off of what lay ahead. He could only imagine the punishment that would come from this simple lunch. It was one of the stupidest things he'd done in a long while--he hadn't just failed to protect himself, he'd managed to set himself up for abuse.
He'd let confused thoughts and half-lucid dreams convince him that someone like Marc could possibly care enough to help him through the hell his life had become. He'd failed yet again, and he knew he would pay the price.
***
Marc watched Brent walk away from him, toward the gate for his team's flight out of St. Louis. He wasn't sure exactly what had just happened, but he knew something wasn't right. He just wished he knew where he'd gone wrong--he wished he knew what had taken the light out of Brent's eyes.
It seemed to happen around the time when Mellanby walked into the restaurant, but that couldn't be it. It would be too easy an explanation, too expected. He just couldn't figure out anything else.
Or maybe Jody was right, and Marc had just pursued things too quickly, and had scared Brent off. He just hoped he got a chance to explain himself better the following day in Columbus.
The same questions ran through his mind for the entire flight back home, and continued to plague him as he walked into his house, got ready for bed, and laid there trying to sleep, staring at the ceiling.
He hoped Brent would call. Even if it was late, he didn't care. He just wanted to hear something from him. He wasn't sure if it was because he wanted Brent to be interested in him, or if he just wanted the confirmation that Brent was okay.
In any case, his phone lay on the bedside table for long hours, silent. The call never came.
***
Brent's phone lay just out of reach. Scott had left his room an hour ago, promising a return, and Brent wanted to be gone when he came back. One way or another, he wanted to leave.
Unfortunately, he was in no condition to go anywhere.
Scott had made sure Brent felt the effect that his lunch with Marc had brought on. He had been more brutal than usual, which was saying a lot. Brent found himself sprawled on the floor next to the still neatly made hotel room bed, though now it had a few blood splatters on it. Brent's head ached, a combination of the stress tightening the muscles in his neck and the way he'd banged his head off the wall when Scott knocked him down the first time.
His clothes were torn and stained with blood, Scott hadn't even bothered trying to fuck him tonight. "Who knows where Denis' cock was before he stuck it in you?"
Brent had almost verbally protested that. He'd nearly told Scott that Marc wasn't like that, that Marc was a good guy. He hadn't needed to, the look on his face was apparently enough.
Scott had snorted and rolled his eyes, and pulled his fist back before connecting another punch to Brent's jaw. While Brent slumped against the wall and tried to get the blackened dizziness to clear from his vision, Scott had reminded him how useless he was, what a failure, what a whore.
And even now, laying here on the ground, his body protesting even the simple movement of breathing, all he wanted was to get away. He wanted to see Marc. He didn't care if Marc just wanted him for sex...being used had to be better than this. Anything was better than this.
This morning, while he'd lay in a heap on the floor, his phone hadn't stopped ringing. Marc had called then. But now his phone was quiet. Marc never called. In the span of a day, Brent managed to lose someone who might have become a friend, an ally.
It was just another failure to add to the list.
© 2008 Triple X
Read On: FOUR: Could It Actually Be Different This Time?
