A/N: Well, it's certainly been a while, hasn't it? I'm sure you've all forgotten who I am by now, so hopefully you don't hold anything against me lol. I honestly wasn't going to return to this fandom (read: thought it was best if I left you all well enough alone before you got out the pitchforks), but I've been surfing around it recently and am quite ashamed at the state it seems to have gotten itself into. Hardly any new fics (the majority of those being Mary-Sue), and reviews and feedback becoming more and more infrequent. It saddens me.
Unfortunately, I haven't come bringing any miraculous jewel to liven things up. Rather something extremely disjointed and weird. This started out as an idea a long, long while ago, which basically plays on my other, unfinished, story's plot. That fiction was meant to reach this one's conclusion, but in a much more roundabout, angsty, basically crap way.
This is my way of laying that fic to rest, so RIP Love and Hate are such close things.
The first time Adam Banks saw Charlie Conway - properly saw him - the boy was in an old, red sweater, his name scrawled on the back in a thick black marker pen, the word vivid against the worn colours and fading yellow lettering. He was moving away from him, skating wobblingly down the scarred surface of the ice, scuffed hockey stick clutched tightly in front of him, the puck looking small and ridiculous in his trembling grip.
Banks was inconceivably angry.
The first time Adam Banks felt Charlie Conway, he was shoving him against the eroded boards of the ice rink, the other's body feeling small and fragile without the benefit of fat, good-quality padding. He pressed him there for a moment, shared heartbeats pumping furiously with thick, hot blood, chests heaving frosty-moist breath from rough, winter-chapped lips. And then he jerked away, relieving the pressure, watching with something akin to satisfaction as the other boy flailed on the slippery ice and fell hard against the frozen, smooth surface.
Banks skated away.
The first time Adam Banks thought about Charlie Conway, he was lying in his bed, gazing up at his dark, shadowed ceiling, his North Stars quilt lying heavy and suffocating over him, his pillow warm and uncomfortable beneath his head. He was thinking about McGill's whispered words about finding the District Five players and making them pay, picturing Conway's shocked, wide eyed expression as his own fist slammed into his uncomprehending face. He'd never hit anyone before. Perhaps he'd draw blood.
Banks had nightmares that night.
The second time Adam Banks saw Charlie Conway, the boy was down a back alley in the snow-strewn streets of Minnesota, surrounded by a loud, mismatched and ill-fitting group of boys which he vaguely recognised as other members of District Five. They were looking at some cheap porno magazine or something, and the boy's face was flushed a slight pink - a combination of cold and shame, he thought with a snigger, as he skated nearer the ragtag gathering, Larson and McGill by his side. When Conway looked up and saw them, the stain on his cheeks grew deeper - a deer in the steady, deadly beam of headlights. It was strangely endearing.
Banks felt the adrenaline begin to surge through his system.
The second time Adam Banks felt Charlie Conway, it was a slight, jeering push which sent the boy stumbling further into the protective body of the crowd of so-called hockey players. His thickly gloved hands slid over the coarse material of Conway's jacket with a slight rasping sound, and the boy's body stumbled backwards as if he had still been on the ice, pathetic and faltering - no threat at all.
Banks smiled mockingly.
The second time Adam Banks thought about Charlie Conway, he was leaning against the solid brick wall of his house, angrily tugging off his skates, face still burning with humiliation, elbow still throbbing from where he had banged it against the cold, soiled concrete next to the dumpster. He had seen Conway's delighted smile as Fulton Reed had picked up Larson and McGill, throwing them into him and sending them all into a heap on top of the ugly, fat District Five player already on the floor. He had heard Conway's delighted laughter as they had all hastily pulled themselves to their feet and skated off, unwilling to pick a fight with the boy-gorilla. Someone was going to pay for their humiliation, they had vowed - McGill, Larson and him. No one messed around with the Hawks. No one. Someone was going to pay.
Banks knew who he would choose.
The third time Adam Banks saw Charlie Conway, it was planned and he was ready. He watched as the newly christened Duck exited the diner where his mother worked, jumped the last of the worn steps leading down from the building, then threw his schoolbag over his shoulder and began the hurried ten-minute walk home to warmth and safety, scuffing his trainer-clad feet through the grey, slushy snow on the sidewalk as dusk gradually began to tighten its grip on the city. He waited until Conway rounded the street corner before pushing himself off the unsympathetic lamppost he had been leaning on, and setting off down the street with long, swift strides, heart thumping uncomfortably fast in his chest, a dull roaring in his ears drowning out all other pervading sounds. Banks couldn't see Conway, but he knew he would again soon. Once past the corner, he ducked into the small alley darting off from the main road, running down it until he reached the claustrophobic dead end where he came up short, breathing shallow and rapid. He stared at Conway, held in the uncompromising grip of both Larson and McGill, his brown hair mussed and his struggles tiring, McGill's gloved hand pressed firmly over his mouth. The boy's blue eyes were wide and frightened, his chest heaving with exertion, and he stared with panicked confusion at him, his rucksack lying in a forlorn heap at Bank's own feet.
Banks smiled and stepped over it.
The third time Adam Banks felt Charlie Conway, he hit him, in the stomach, hard. He balled up his hand, his bitten nails digging painfully into his fleshy palm, then brought the fist low, angling it up into the other's gut with a ferocity which surprised him. The boy groaned and tried to crumple, but the two Hawks on either side of him cruelly prevented him from doing so, their tight grips not slackening from his arms in the least. Bank's shook his hand out, his knuckles aching and a numbness eating its way up to his wrist, his eyes carefully scanning the other boy's pain-filled, tear-damp face. He moved towards him, something giving a sharp twinge inside of him when he saw the boy flinch and struggle to pull away, but he didn't try to hurt him anymore - only moved to his side, carefully taking his captive arm from McGill. The larger boy nodded and smiled at him, then moved around to the front of Conway, his face split into an unpleasant sneer filled with promise.
Banks felt oddly nauseas.
The third time Adam Banks thought about Charlie Conway, he had just returned from his hockey practice with the Hawks, and was sitting stiffly upright in his desk chair, still trying to absorb the information which he had been given. He wasn't a Hawk. He was a Duck. Like Charlie. His father was angrier that he had ever seen him, and he had vowed that he would sort out "that bastard of a coach". His father had never failed to carry out a promise yet, and Banks felt some reassurance. But what if the man couldn't change anything? He would rather die than not play hockey, and yet he couldn't get Charlie's tear stained, flushed face out of his mind. Couldn't disperse the image of the boy stumbling to retrieve his snow soaked rucksack, then limping slowly out of the alleyway without once looking back, shoulders hunched and shaking. He had to make a decision between giving up hockey completely or playing for the Ducks. It should have been easy to make up his mind, but it wasn't. Because that wasn't really the decision - wasn't really what he cared about. In reality, the choice had always been between hockey and Conway - Conway and hockey. Could he really become team-mates with the boy he had been so cruel to?
Banks ran to the bathroom and vomited.
The fourth time Adam Banks saw Charlie Conway, the boy was sitting on the changing room bench across the room from him, Bombay's hand a heavy presence on his shoulder as he stood in the doorway. Conway's eyes widened, fear, hatred and pain flickering across his face, and he stared at him with a quiet determination throughout the explanation the coach was giving about the Adam Banks's appearance, his thoughts masked from view. There was a heavy silence when the man's words finally dried up, understanding of the immensity of the reaction that was going to follow lying thickly in the closed atmosphere of the room. Banks' eyes lost their focus when he saw Conway shift slightly and stand, knowing that this was it - this was retribution for his actions. The painful thing, of course, was that he knew he deserved it - couldn't understand why the boy hadn't told anyone a long time ago about that night in the alleyway. His gaze sank to the floor and he saw Charlie Conway no more.
Conway moved towards him and spoke. "On behalf of the Ducks, I would like to welcome you -"
The fourth time Adam Banks felt Charlie Conway, he didn't. The boy's hand was stretched out towards him, palm open and accepting. Welcoming him. Adam stood, awestruck and uncomprehending for a moment, late reaction denying him the first mutual touch which was not interwoven with violence that he had had the chance to have with the other boy since he had first seem him. He reached up, fingers uncurling themselves from the tight, nervous balls they had unconsciously formed, desperate to seal the guilty void in his chest and receive absolution from the only person that could give it. But, before he could, the black boy looking on with fiery eyes stepped in front of Conway, knocking the other's hand out of the way.
"Just because you wear the jersey, doesn't make you a Duck, Cake-eater."
The fourth time Adam Banks thought about Charlie Conway, it was the last time he did. Charlie Conway was a figure of derision in his mind - someone to laugh at and mock simply because he had the right to, being a Hawk and all that. The boy who had forgiven him for deeds much worse than those his team-mates refused to let him forget was such a transition from Charlie Conway that it fixed a stubborn lump in his throat and made his eyes burn.
Charlie Conway wasn't Charlie Conway anymore.
He was just Charlie.
A/N: Please excuse my random joyride back into this fandom. It may or may not happen again. :D
Review?