[Fic: Hockey RPS] Parentheses all Clicking Shut Behind You; Ryan Malone/Mike Smith; PG-13
What is my life even? *sighs* For boltschick2612 who was happy to listen to me babble incessantly about this all damn day. ♥
Disclaimer: Completely fictional. Any resemblance to names, places, people, etc., is entirely coincidental. Title and part of the summary from a Richard Siken poem.
Parentheses all Clicking Shut Behind You
Ryan Malone/Mike Smith; PG-13
It's simple: it isn't over, it's just begun ... It's about moving on, despite not wanting to ...
Parentheses all Clicking Shut Behind You
Free Agency Day finds Ryan sitting on his couch aimlessly flipping channels. The house is quiet, seeing as how Abby left earlier with the kids. Ryan is momentarily distracted from watching the coverage when he gets Mike's text. He leaves it for a few minutes, settles for wandering off to the kitchen to grab a drink, before he comes back to the couch.
He reaches for his phone when out of the corner of his eye he sees Mike's picture flash on the TV screen.
Mike Smith signs a two-year deal worth four million with the Phoenix Coyotes.
Ryan's arm freezes midway towards the coffee table. He blinks, as if that simple action would be enough to erase the image of Mike's picture on his screen. He wants to believe this is a joke. Because, really, whether he was willing to admit it out loud, there was no possible way this was happening.
And, shit, when did his world start spinning? Was it even possible for someone to remain static while they watched the rest of their world spiral out of control?
He wants to leave it alone. He even thinks he can. Until he finally breaks down and picks up his phone.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 01:57:58 PM EST] Thanks for the heads up, asshole.
--
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 02:11:45 PM EST] Check the time stamp on my last text
--
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:13:54 PM EST] Don't even. Don't even.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:22:34PM EST] I mean, jesus fuck, Smitty. What even …
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:34:50 PM EST] and now you're ignoring me. I mean, what the hell, Smith.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:45:29 PM EST] three.fucking.years. and all i get is a fucking seven word text. Jesus fucking Christ.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:53:33 PM EST] … you are ignoring me. Fucking hell, Smitty. I'd even settle for a one word response now.
--
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 03:03:01 PM EST] Are you quite finished?
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 03:11:02 PM EST] never. Whatever … you still in Tampa?
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 03:12:00 PM EST] y?
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 03:19:59 PM EST] so I know whether or not I need to buy a plane ticket to Ontario so I can kick your ass.
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 03:20:01 PM EST] …
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 03:20:05 PM EST] I'll leave the door open.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 03:22:09 PM EST] that's what I thought.
-»«-
The drive to Mike's is rage-fuelled. Ryan is not even sure how he manages to watch the road, he's so utterly consumed with anger. Anger with Mike for signing with the Coyotes. Out of all the teams, the Coyotes? Mike may as well just pack up his belongings and tell him he was moving to fucking Australia. Ryan was half-waiting for the other shoe to drop. He felt like he was in some dreamlike state, and the only way out was for him to wake up.
This had to be a bad dream.
Ryan hears his phone buzz, and he glances briefly at the name that flashes on the screen.
He ignores it.
Because, as much as he hated to admit it, hearing Vince and his 'I'm captain of the Tampa Bay Lightning, I have to set an example' intonation was not what he needed at the moment.
What he did need was when he got to Mike's for Mike to tell him this was all a joke. Some elaborate, half-baked joke.
Ryan grits his teeth as he stares up at the red light. The red mirroring the rage that was currently building up in his system. His phone rings again.
"Jesus fuck, Vince, what?" he says through gritted teeth.
"I take it you know."
Ryan scowls, and nearly floors the gas pedal as the light turns green. "No, I'm just full of sunshine and rainbows." He resists the urge to hurl his phone out the window, and settles for navigating Tampa's streets to Mike's house.
Vince sighs. "Bugsy, I -"
"Don't!" Ryan snaps, as he angrily pulls up in front of Mike's, and kills the engine. "Don't you fucking dare tell me you know how I feel, just don't."
There is silence on the line, but Ryan can hear Vince as he inhales sharply.
"Just don't do anything I wouldn't," Vince says softly, before the call is disconnected.
Ryan stares at his phone in disgust. Don't do anything I wouldn't do … Yeah, like Vince had any idea what he would or wouldn't do.
-»«-
Mike is standing in the doorway as Ryan heads up the walkway. His eyes are looking anywhere but directly at him, Ryan realizes. It makes him irritated. Ryan notices the myriad number of emotions crossing Mike's face, and flickering in his brown eyes.
"I'd invite you in, but I kind of think that's a moot point."
Ryan narrows his eyes at him, and resists the urge to shove Mike back inside his house. He keeps his eyes stormy, and hard as he steps across the threshold.
"Look, Bugsy, I -"
"Three fucking years, Smitty, and all I get is a seven word text?" Ryan's jaw is so tight, he is surprised he doesn't have a headache by now. "I mean, what the actual fuck is your problem?"
"I … I don't know what you want me to say here."
"Never mind, it's clear it's easy for you to forget about three years worth of history," Ryan mumbles.
"I haven't cornered the market on forgetting, Bugsy."
Ryan's eyes snap up to meet Mike's. The blue of his irises are challenging, and angry. "Enlighten me on how you think I've forgotten. I'm not the one leaving!"
"They offered me a starter spot! I mean, motherfucking fuck … what goalie in the NHL doesn't want that? Tell me about one goalie who reaches the NHL only to wish they could be a fucking backup for the rest of their career!"
"The Coyotes, Smitty? Really?" Ryan's eyes flickered briefly, and Mike was sure there was something more than anger boiling in the blue depths. If Mike had to hazard a guess, it looked like hurt. "You'd take a starter position with a team in the middle of fuck ass nowhere?" Ryan ran a hand through his hair, his lips stretched in a thin line. "I'm sorry, Smitty, but your logic behind this is ass backwards."
"No, what is ass backwards is how we were so close to the Cup, and …"
Ryan scoffs. "Right, and I'm sure you're going to win like a fuckload of Cups playing in the fucking desert."
Mike stares at him for a full minute. He sighs, and sinks onto the couch, exasperation and hurt warring for control as he stares up at Ryan. His brown eyes are like liquid cinnamon as they assess Ryan's expression. His mouth goes dry, and he reaches a hand out to Ryan.
"That hurts," Mike whispers.
"I'm in no mood to play fair." Ryan sits down heavily next to Mike.
"I'm sorry," Mike whispers, and watches Ryan and his bright-blue eyes as they gaze back at him. The blue so undiluted, and pure, Mike's sure he could get lost for days if he let himself. He wants to reach out and trace his fingers down Ryan's cheek, feel the delicate bones in his cheekbones. He wants to let his fingers ease the tension from Ryan's clenched jaw, wants to whisper against his skin that everything will be all right, but he can't.
He can't bring himself to be that vulnerable. Being that vulnerable would be enough to make him want to rip up the contract, where his signature is still fresh. He ponders whether being that vulnerable would be such a bad thing.
"I don't want this to be the end of us," he finally admits.
Ryan shrugs. "We're going down either way."
Mike leans his head back against the couch, turns his head. Dark eyes expressive, and so overfull with everything he cannot bring himself to say out loud. I can't bear the thought of seeing you like this. I don't know how to make this better. It's impossible to think about how hurting the ones you love the most is the most incredibly fucked up logic in the world, but at this moment, it just fits.
There were mere inches separating them, but it may as well have been a fucking canyon as far as Ryan was concerned. He can't bear to look away from Mike's face. He wants to commit to memory every possible detail he can. He even tries to imagine a world in which they don't exist as this cohesive, functioning unit, and he comes up empty every time. He feels like he is watching a house burn down, and he is powerless to do anything except watch it burn.
"So …" Mike's voice breaks Ryan's reverie. "Where do we go from here?"
Ryan blinks, and sits there in stunned silence for a minute, before he's reaching over with one hand, and hauling Mike across the space separating them. He kisses him. It's impulsive, but it holds every impossible word Ryan can't bear to speak aloud.
It's hot, demanding, impulsive, and toe-curling. He can't let go. And, Christ, he can't think straight …
-»«-
He stares up at the ceiling, Mike hovering over him, brown eyes wide, and almost doe-like as they gaze down questioningly at Ryan.
Mike's name is stuck in the back of his throat, but he can't think of any other way to say what he feels.
Instead, he settles for grasping Mike's hand. His palm is warm against his.
"Where do we go from here?" Mike asks again.
Ryan squeezes his hand, can't bear to let go.
"It's fine if you don't have an answer now," Mike mumbles.
They eventually drift off to sleep. Mike's face pressed against Ryan's shoulder. Ryan knows it's the end. Has known from the very moment he saw Mike's picture flash on the TV screen.
"Stay …" he whispers. It sounds like a benediction. A prayer for the dying. And, he can't stop grasping Mike's hand. But, really, it's fine.
It's fine. It's enough.
Disclaimer: Completely fictional. Any resemblance to names, places, people, etc., is entirely coincidental. Title and part of the summary from a Richard Siken poem.
Parentheses all Clicking Shut Behind You
Ryan Malone/Mike Smith; PG-13
It's simple: it isn't over, it's just begun ... It's about moving on, despite not wanting to ...
Parentheses all Clicking Shut Behind You
Free Agency Day finds Ryan sitting on his couch aimlessly flipping channels. The house is quiet, seeing as how Abby left earlier with the kids. Ryan is momentarily distracted from watching the coverage when he gets Mike's text. He leaves it for a few minutes, settles for wandering off to the kitchen to grab a drink, before he comes back to the couch.
He reaches for his phone when out of the corner of his eye he sees Mike's picture flash on the TV screen.
Mike Smith signs a two-year deal worth four million with the Phoenix Coyotes.
Ryan's arm freezes midway towards the coffee table. He blinks, as if that simple action would be enough to erase the image of Mike's picture on his screen. He wants to believe this is a joke. Because, really, whether he was willing to admit it out loud, there was no possible way this was happening.
And, shit, when did his world start spinning? Was it even possible for someone to remain static while they watched the rest of their world spiral out of control?
He wants to leave it alone. He even thinks he can. Until he finally breaks down and picks up his phone.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 01:57:58 PM EST] Thanks for the heads up, asshole.
--
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 02:11:45 PM EST] Check the time stamp on my last text
--
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:13:54 PM EST] Don't even. Don't even.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:22:34PM EST] I mean, jesus fuck, Smitty. What even …
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:34:50 PM EST] and now you're ignoring me. I mean, what the hell, Smith.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:45:29 PM EST] three.fucking.years. and all i get is a fucking seven word text. Jesus fucking Christ.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 02:53:33 PM EST] … you are ignoring me. Fucking hell, Smitty. I'd even settle for a one word response now.
--
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 03:03:01 PM EST] Are you quite finished?
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 03:11:02 PM EST] never. Whatever … you still in Tampa?
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 03:12:00 PM EST] y?
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 03:19:59 PM EST] so I know whether or not I need to buy a plane ticket to Ontario so I can kick your ass.
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 03:20:01 PM EST] …
Mike Smith to Ryan Malone
[07/01/11 03:20:05 PM EST] I'll leave the door open.
Ryan Malone to Mike Smith
[07/01/11 03:22:09 PM EST] that's what I thought.
-»«-
The drive to Mike's is rage-fuelled. Ryan is not even sure how he manages to watch the road, he's so utterly consumed with anger. Anger with Mike for signing with the Coyotes. Out of all the teams, the Coyotes? Mike may as well just pack up his belongings and tell him he was moving to fucking Australia. Ryan was half-waiting for the other shoe to drop. He felt like he was in some dreamlike state, and the only way out was for him to wake up.
This had to be a bad dream.
Ryan hears his phone buzz, and he glances briefly at the name that flashes on the screen.
He ignores it.
Because, as much as he hated to admit it, hearing Vince and his 'I'm captain of the Tampa Bay Lightning, I have to set an example' intonation was not what he needed at the moment.
What he did need was when he got to Mike's for Mike to tell him this was all a joke. Some elaborate, half-baked joke.
Ryan grits his teeth as he stares up at the red light. The red mirroring the rage that was currently building up in his system. His phone rings again.
"Jesus fuck, Vince, what?" he says through gritted teeth.
"I take it you know."
Ryan scowls, and nearly floors the gas pedal as the light turns green. "No, I'm just full of sunshine and rainbows." He resists the urge to hurl his phone out the window, and settles for navigating Tampa's streets to Mike's house.
Vince sighs. "Bugsy, I -"
"Don't!" Ryan snaps, as he angrily pulls up in front of Mike's, and kills the engine. "Don't you fucking dare tell me you know how I feel, just don't."
There is silence on the line, but Ryan can hear Vince as he inhales sharply.
"Just don't do anything I wouldn't," Vince says softly, before the call is disconnected.
Ryan stares at his phone in disgust. Don't do anything I wouldn't do … Yeah, like Vince had any idea what he would or wouldn't do.
-»«-
Mike is standing in the doorway as Ryan heads up the walkway. His eyes are looking anywhere but directly at him, Ryan realizes. It makes him irritated. Ryan notices the myriad number of emotions crossing Mike's face, and flickering in his brown eyes.
"I'd invite you in, but I kind of think that's a moot point."
Ryan narrows his eyes at him, and resists the urge to shove Mike back inside his house. He keeps his eyes stormy, and hard as he steps across the threshold.
"Look, Bugsy, I -"
"Three fucking years, Smitty, and all I get is a seven word text?" Ryan's jaw is so tight, he is surprised he doesn't have a headache by now. "I mean, what the actual fuck is your problem?"
"I … I don't know what you want me to say here."
"Never mind, it's clear it's easy for you to forget about three years worth of history," Ryan mumbles.
"I haven't cornered the market on forgetting, Bugsy."
Ryan's eyes snap up to meet Mike's. The blue of his irises are challenging, and angry. "Enlighten me on how you think I've forgotten. I'm not the one leaving!"
"They offered me a starter spot! I mean, motherfucking fuck … what goalie in the NHL doesn't want that? Tell me about one goalie who reaches the NHL only to wish they could be a fucking backup for the rest of their career!"
"The Coyotes, Smitty? Really?" Ryan's eyes flickered briefly, and Mike was sure there was something more than anger boiling in the blue depths. If Mike had to hazard a guess, it looked like hurt. "You'd take a starter position with a team in the middle of fuck ass nowhere?" Ryan ran a hand through his hair, his lips stretched in a thin line. "I'm sorry, Smitty, but your logic behind this is ass backwards."
"No, what is ass backwards is how we were so close to the Cup, and …"
Ryan scoffs. "Right, and I'm sure you're going to win like a fuckload of Cups playing in the fucking desert."
Mike stares at him for a full minute. He sighs, and sinks onto the couch, exasperation and hurt warring for control as he stares up at Ryan. His brown eyes are like liquid cinnamon as they assess Ryan's expression. His mouth goes dry, and he reaches a hand out to Ryan.
"That hurts," Mike whispers.
"I'm in no mood to play fair." Ryan sits down heavily next to Mike.
"I'm sorry," Mike whispers, and watches Ryan and his bright-blue eyes as they gaze back at him. The blue so undiluted, and pure, Mike's sure he could get lost for days if he let himself. He wants to reach out and trace his fingers down Ryan's cheek, feel the delicate bones in his cheekbones. He wants to let his fingers ease the tension from Ryan's clenched jaw, wants to whisper against his skin that everything will be all right, but he can't.
He can't bring himself to be that vulnerable. Being that vulnerable would be enough to make him want to rip up the contract, where his signature is still fresh. He ponders whether being that vulnerable would be such a bad thing.
"I don't want this to be the end of us," he finally admits.
Ryan shrugs. "We're going down either way."
Mike leans his head back against the couch, turns his head. Dark eyes expressive, and so overfull with everything he cannot bring himself to say out loud. I can't bear the thought of seeing you like this. I don't know how to make this better. It's impossible to think about how hurting the ones you love the most is the most incredibly fucked up logic in the world, but at this moment, it just fits.
There were mere inches separating them, but it may as well have been a fucking canyon as far as Ryan was concerned. He can't bear to look away from Mike's face. He wants to commit to memory every possible detail he can. He even tries to imagine a world in which they don't exist as this cohesive, functioning unit, and he comes up empty every time. He feels like he is watching a house burn down, and he is powerless to do anything except watch it burn.
"So …" Mike's voice breaks Ryan's reverie. "Where do we go from here?"
Ryan blinks, and sits there in stunned silence for a minute, before he's reaching over with one hand, and hauling Mike across the space separating them. He kisses him. It's impulsive, but it holds every impossible word Ryan can't bear to speak aloud.
It's hot, demanding, impulsive, and toe-curling. He can't let go. And, Christ, he can't think straight …
-»«-
He stares up at the ceiling, Mike hovering over him, brown eyes wide, and almost doe-like as they gaze down questioningly at Ryan.
Mike's name is stuck in the back of his throat, but he can't think of any other way to say what he feels.
Instead, he settles for grasping Mike's hand. His palm is warm against his.
"Where do we go from here?" Mike asks again.
Ryan squeezes his hand, can't bear to let go.
"It's fine if you don't have an answer now," Mike mumbles.
They eventually drift off to sleep. Mike's face pressed against Ryan's shoulder. Ryan knows it's the end. Has known from the very moment he saw Mike's picture flash on the TV screen.
"Stay …" he whispers. It sounds like a benediction. A prayer for the dying. And, he can't stop grasping Mike's hand. But, really, it's fine.
It's fine. It's enough.