Short days are very long ago.
title: Flowers in November
involves: Marc-Andre Fleury/Ty Conklin
rating: one bad word so...PG-13
notes: Detroit. November 11, 2008. JLA. It's Remembrance Day.
disclaimer: How the HECK would I know whether this happened?!?
summary: And now we lie.
Two goalies, one number, blocks of ice on their heads, heading in opposing directions.
And then they stopped, and the mutual masks came off by mutual agreement, and neither of them noticed or cared what insignia supposedly gave a different allegiance.
Deep brown reflected into unpolished silver. A pond in the woods before it freezes, for the winter.
And all the words were gone.
Once again get so dangerously close, and then closer, falling into it again, needing to tell your strange reflection what you still recognize....
[Expletive], I [expletive] miss you. [expletive]....
It hurts, and it's wrong when you're not around...
I remember how good it was, us together...
So...when you're out of words, can you resuscitate time?
It's surprisingly easy to communicate with no distance, no space, and no thoughts at all.
More honest this way, more direct, more intense, and more true.
You can't talk, you don't want to talk, but look what your mouth can do, with his...
So the inevitable, long, dizzying, delayed moment of warmth and closeness, and need, and acknowledgment. Shocking, weirdly gripping to the heart; this desperate drawn-out signal of change, refracting pleasure through the pain at what's not, not - can't be - a reunion.
Not being able to breathe seemed fitting.
"What...what...what...why?"
"Don't know. But it's a different season, isn't it?"
"I wonder if that's all we've got, now."
No, it turns out that much like the last time together in professional uniform, when everything hurt so much, you can sit. Comrades in the arms of each other, backs against the wall, leaning on each other, side-by-side, for support...and realize that you still can't say enough - or, anything, really - to make a difference, but that you just want to hold on while you can.
Just fucking around in the hallway isn't the same anymore.
involves: Marc-Andre Fleury/Ty Conklin
rating: one bad word so...PG-13
notes: Detroit. November 11, 2008. JLA. It's Remembrance Day.
disclaimer: How the HECK would I know whether this happened?!?
summary: And now we lie.
Two goalies, one number, blocks of ice on their heads, heading in opposing directions.
And then they stopped, and the mutual masks came off by mutual agreement, and neither of them noticed or cared what insignia supposedly gave a different allegiance.
Deep brown reflected into unpolished silver. A pond in the woods before it freezes, for the winter.
And all the words were gone.
Once again get so dangerously close, and then closer, falling into it again, needing to tell your strange reflection what you still recognize....
[Expletive], I [expletive] miss you. [expletive]....
It hurts, and it's wrong when you're not around...
I remember how good it was, us together...
So...when you're out of words, can you resuscitate time?
It's surprisingly easy to communicate with no distance, no space, and no thoughts at all.
More honest this way, more direct, more intense, and more true.
You can't talk, you don't want to talk, but look what your mouth can do, with his...
So the inevitable, long, dizzying, delayed moment of warmth and closeness, and need, and acknowledgment. Shocking, weirdly gripping to the heart; this desperate drawn-out signal of change, refracting pleasure through the pain at what's not, not - can't be - a reunion.
Not being able to breathe seemed fitting.
"What...what...what...why?"
"Don't know. But it's a different season, isn't it?"
"I wonder if that's all we've got, now."
No, it turns out that much like the last time together in professional uniform, when everything hurt so much, you can sit. Comrades in the arms of each other, backs against the wall, leaning on each other, side-by-side, for support...and realize that you still can't say enough - or, anything, really - to make a difference, but that you just want to hold on while you can.
Just fucking around in the hallway isn't the same anymore.