his skin is paper and his eyes are ink
So I promised I would finish this by puck drop, and I didn't, so YOU CAN BLAME ME FOR EVERYTHING OKAY?
It is the hockey! It is the Bruins slash! Andrew Ference/Vladimir Sobotka, 700 words.
Andy on the mat, stretching his thigh muscles, the soles of his feet pressed together, palms flat on the cold floor. He counts thirty seconds off in his head, interrupts himself with a long yawn. Thirty seconds more.
It's quiet, nervous quiet like a bad scene in a Western movie. No one else is in the training room this early, but no sleep means no waiting. Andy gets up without using his hands, steps on the treadmill. A slow pace and a steep incline, this morning; he's running for the summit of Kilimanjaro. The playlist on his iPod begins with "Straight to the Top."
After the first mile, all the rhythms are in perfect sync. His music and his breath, his feet and his heart. This is the one time he likes to be thoughtless, careless, worries sliding off of him like sweat. With his eyes closed and his legs working, he is nothing but a runner. Not a hockey player, not a husband or a father.
So he has no idea how long Sobotka is standing there, watching him.
Blue eyes oddly dark, staring at him, and "Vlado, hey," Andy says, smiling to keep the irritation out of his voice. Why be irritated? he asks himself, coming down from the machine. You don't own the place, and if you're gonna lift, you need a spotter. Does it matter? Of course it does, if you get hurt you got nowhere to go but home.
An entire argument, thudding in the back of his skull, and the whole time Sobotka's eyes do not move. Andy raises his eyebrows, taking in the pillow crease on Sobotka's cheek, the blond stubble of what might grow up to be a playoff beard. His smile hardens, water grading into ice. "You need something, or did you just get hypnotized by my good looks?"
Sobotka gives a tiny shake of his head, flicking the joke away. He says, "Your tattoos."
"Gets 'em every time," Andy says. He reaches for the bright yellow towel hanging from the treadmill's handlebars, wipes his wet face as Sobotka comes closer. Circles around him, looking him over, his eyes wide and hands behind his back like a kid in a museum. Almost innocent. Andy's laid on his stomach with his pants down, biting his lip as the needle bit the skin over his spine, people walking in and out of the room. That didn't feel this dirty.
He throws the towel at Sobotka, trying to keep it on the level of kids playing a game. A staring contest, and nothing more to see. Sobotka catches the towel in one smooth reflex and closes a fist around it, points his index finger at Andy. "That is new."
"Oh, yeah," Andy says, relaxing a little bit, like, maybe this is one of those things where Europeans have different concepts of personal space? Thought he'd learned them all. He touches the new mark, spoked B above the dragon on his left pectoral. Black and white and gold, part of his skin now, not even sore anymore. "Yeah," he says. "I signed a contract, so--"
"So," Sobotka says, and lifts his empty hand. He doesn't touch the Bruins logo, doesn't do what Andy would have expected if he'd had time to expect anything, goddamn, the boy is quick. Just plants his fingers on the right side of Andy's chest, above the nipple, nails digging into blank skin, sharp enough to leave a mark.
"The fuck," and Andy grabs his wrist, twists it down and away, brief throb of Sobotka's pulse against the pad of his thumb.
Sobotka shrugs, points again. "There. You need something right there."
That's how he talks, small words and sentences like orders, and it's not like Andy's ever learned Czech, it's not like he has anything better to say. "Don't tell me, you have an idea."
Dark blue eyes and big bright smile. There's a little pink scar hooking the edge of Sobotka's lower lip; you wouldn't see it unless you looked close. They're that close. "Do my name," he says, and turns, pulling back, walking away.
Andy's alone. His mouth is dry. He thinks about dehydration. Thinks about what another stint on injured reserve would do to his sanity, to his marriage, thinks about how Sobotka throws his body around on the ice. Thoughts chasing thoughts, and Andy stands still for way too long, fingerprints fading into his skin.
It is the hockey! It is the Bruins slash! Andrew Ference/Vladimir Sobotka, 700 words.
Andy on the mat, stretching his thigh muscles, the soles of his feet pressed together, palms flat on the cold floor. He counts thirty seconds off in his head, interrupts himself with a long yawn. Thirty seconds more.
It's quiet, nervous quiet like a bad scene in a Western movie. No one else is in the training room this early, but no sleep means no waiting. Andy gets up without using his hands, steps on the treadmill. A slow pace and a steep incline, this morning; he's running for the summit of Kilimanjaro. The playlist on his iPod begins with "Straight to the Top."
After the first mile, all the rhythms are in perfect sync. His music and his breath, his feet and his heart. This is the one time he likes to be thoughtless, careless, worries sliding off of him like sweat. With his eyes closed and his legs working, he is nothing but a runner. Not a hockey player, not a husband or a father.
So he has no idea how long Sobotka is standing there, watching him.
Blue eyes oddly dark, staring at him, and "Vlado, hey," Andy says, smiling to keep the irritation out of his voice. Why be irritated? he asks himself, coming down from the machine. You don't own the place, and if you're gonna lift, you need a spotter. Does it matter? Of course it does, if you get hurt you got nowhere to go but home.
An entire argument, thudding in the back of his skull, and the whole time Sobotka's eyes do not move. Andy raises his eyebrows, taking in the pillow crease on Sobotka's cheek, the blond stubble of what might grow up to be a playoff beard. His smile hardens, water grading into ice. "You need something, or did you just get hypnotized by my good looks?"
Sobotka gives a tiny shake of his head, flicking the joke away. He says, "Your tattoos."
"Gets 'em every time," Andy says. He reaches for the bright yellow towel hanging from the treadmill's handlebars, wipes his wet face as Sobotka comes closer. Circles around him, looking him over, his eyes wide and hands behind his back like a kid in a museum. Almost innocent. Andy's laid on his stomach with his pants down, biting his lip as the needle bit the skin over his spine, people walking in and out of the room. That didn't feel this dirty.
He throws the towel at Sobotka, trying to keep it on the level of kids playing a game. A staring contest, and nothing more to see. Sobotka catches the towel in one smooth reflex and closes a fist around it, points his index finger at Andy. "That is new."
"Oh, yeah," Andy says, relaxing a little bit, like, maybe this is one of those things where Europeans have different concepts of personal space? Thought he'd learned them all. He touches the new mark, spoked B above the dragon on his left pectoral. Black and white and gold, part of his skin now, not even sore anymore. "Yeah," he says. "I signed a contract, so--"
"So," Sobotka says, and lifts his empty hand. He doesn't touch the Bruins logo, doesn't do what Andy would have expected if he'd had time to expect anything, goddamn, the boy is quick. Just plants his fingers on the right side of Andy's chest, above the nipple, nails digging into blank skin, sharp enough to leave a mark.
"The fuck," and Andy grabs his wrist, twists it down and away, brief throb of Sobotka's pulse against the pad of his thumb.
Sobotka shrugs, points again. "There. You need something right there."
That's how he talks, small words and sentences like orders, and it's not like Andy's ever learned Czech, it's not like he has anything better to say. "Don't tell me, you have an idea."
Dark blue eyes and big bright smile. There's a little pink scar hooking the edge of Sobotka's lower lip; you wouldn't see it unless you looked close. They're that close. "Do my name," he says, and turns, pulling back, walking away.
Andy's alone. His mouth is dry. He thinks about dehydration. Thinks about what another stint on injured reserve would do to his sanity, to his marriage, thinks about how Sobotka throws his body around on the ice. Thoughts chasing thoughts, and Andy stands still for way too long, fingerprints fading into his skin.