Chapter Text
Fulton bounces on the balls of his feet, shaking out his shoulders. His breath is heavy and uneven as he falls back into position, comfortable and practiced. It’s been a while, but his body still knows what it’s doing. His gloved hands set up in the familiar position in front of his face. The first few jabs are a bit sloppy and his hook is god-awful, but he quickly finds his grove. It hurts a bit, using his full body weight to slam his fists into a sand filled bag, but it feels good. It would’ve been better if he remembered his boombox, maybe more satisfying with guitars blaring behind him. But he was in too big of a hurry when he left his room, wanted to get out of there before Dean came back from his shower and saw the mess that Fulton had become as soon as he was alone. Tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes weren’t a good look when you had an intimidating persona to maintain.
After a while, when his arms feel like jello and his shins are good and bruised, Fulton slams the flat sole of his ratty Chucks into the bag, imagining he’s kicking Bombay in the middle of the chest.
The bag slams into the concrete floor, and Fulton falls onto his ass.
“Shit,” he mutters, choking back what might’ve been a sob. His sweaty hair is stuck to his forehead, and his breathing is still labored. He uses his teeth to pull off the boxing gloves he found in a storage room and tosses them to the side. Once his hands are free, he digs the bottom of his palms into his eyes. Images flash in his mind, the scene he and Dean witnessed returning to the forefront of his thoughts now that he’s exhausted himself and let down his guard. The emotions return, somehow even stronger than before. Anger mixed with an ugly cocktail of betrayal and hurt. Emotions Fulton barely understands, doesn’t know how to articulate. Honestly, he barely knows why he’s feeling them.
The door creaks open.
Fulton’s head shoots up. He scrambles to stand, but partially relaxes when Portman saunters in. He’s in pajamas - a pair of sweats that look too short, like they could be Fulton’s and Dean got dressed in the dark again, and a Led Zeppelin shirt that is definitely Fulton’s - and his hair is free from the usual bandana. Fulton slumps back into his former position, sucking in another deep, shuddering breath. He feels like a fucking baby, like he’s younger than his sisters and throwing a fit because he didn’t get his way.
“Dude,” Portman calls, and Fulton can hear the sound of his boots against the floor moving towards him. “What the fuck are you doing? It’s midnight.”
Fulton sighs, falling onto his back so he doesn’t have to look at Dean - doesn’t have to look at Dean looking at him. “Couldn’t sleep,” Fulton answers. He stares up at the bright fluorescent lights above, hoping they’ll blind him and he can go home.
Like that’s any better than this.
Something blocks the light that Fulton was staring into. Dean’s face is hard to see, but Fulton can still read the confusion on his features - and the lingering anger that Fulton still feels. “It’s midnight,” Dean repeats. “We have a game tomorrow.”
Iceland. Fulton knows, knows that it's the biggest opponent he’s ever had to face. He knows he should be asleep right now, snoring while Dean drools into his pillow a few feet away. But he can’t sleep when he feels fire under his skin, when he’s hurting so bad that it feels like something is gonna crawl up his throat. Why did it have to be Iceland?
Fulton sits up, Dean taking a step back. Fulton still isn’t looking at the other boy, doesn’t want Portman to see the emotions that are probably painted across his face. It’s too much, too revealing. Because Fulton has only known Dean for a few weeks, hasn’t known him long enough for this to happen. Even if Portman is the best friend he’s ever had. He can’t lose his shit now, not in front of someone else. Someone tougher than him, someone who isn’t on the verge of tears because they caught their coach on a date with some chick from Iceland.
“I just -” Fulton shakes his head, takes another deep, grounding breath. “I just needed to get some energy out.”
Dean is still staring at him, Fulton can feel those brown eyes burning into the side of his face. Hopes he doesn't look like he’s been crying. The silence starts to become deafening after a few moments, and Fulton clears his throat. His boxing gloves hit him in the side of the face.
“Get up,” Dean says, and Fulton listens.
They dig out Dean a pair of gloves and kick their shoes to the side. Fulton has to show the other boy how to set up a guard, how to stand - all while still avoiding Dean’s gaze. Portman has no clue what he’s doing, but Fulton knows he’ll make up for it in brute strength.
Dean’s first move is a left hook that Fulton ducks under easily. He takes a cautious step forward, putting himself in Dean’s space. Dean is taller than Fulton, his limbs longer. If Fulton got close enough, the long armed boy wouldn’t be able to land a single punch. It’s something Fulton learned pretty fast when he started fighting older, meaner guys.
Fulton’s guard is close to his face, weaving jabs and using his forearms to block anything close to his face. Dean does land one good punch, a hook right after Fulton deflects a cross. Fulton groans, but doesn’t back away. He takes advantage of Dean’s guard being down and lands a hard front kick to Dean’s stomach.
“Fuck,” Dean curses. He gets back in his stance, though, gritting his teeth like he does when someone on an opposing team pisses him off.
What has Fulton gotten himself into?
Dean throws another sloppy hook, basically throwing himself at Fulton. Fulton ducks, cursing under his breath as Dean stumbles to the side. Fulton takes the opportunity to throw a roundhouse, his leg making hard, heavy contact with Dean’s shoulder. Dean, still stumbling from his miss, grunts. “Shit, where did you learn to do that?” he asks, rubbing his shoulder with his boxing glove.
Fulton should probably feel bad, but a sense of sick satisfaction rises up in him, replacing the festering anger that had been growing for hours. He swallows down the lump in his throat. “Can’t just be strong,” he says. “Gotta be fast too.” Fulton jabs, quick, but Dean manages to deflect it. He leaves his face open, though, and Fulton hooks him right in the teeth.
That’s Dean’s final straw. He growls, lunging at Fulton. He wraps his arms around Fulton’s middle, bringing the bulky boy to the ground. They land on the mat with a thump, Dean rolling them so that he’s hovering above Fulton. Their heavy breathes mix together, Fulton’s eyes wide, some unknown kind of panic settling in his chest. Something is caught in his throat again, and Portman is staring at him like he’s trying to decipher a code.
“Good?” Dean asks after a few seconds of uncomfortable, for Fulton at least, staring.
Fulton nods, and Dean’s presence above him is gone. He rolls beside Fulton, both of them laying on their backs and staring up at the roof. “I’m fucking pissed, man,” Fulton says, finally, after a few minutes of silence and heavy breathing. The quiet was too much to handle.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “I mean, who the hell does Bombay think he is?”
“He’s a prick,” Fulton says, but his traitorous voice cracks as the words leave his mouth. Bombay can be a jerk, but Fulton loves the man like family - more than most of his actual family, if he’s honest - and everyone knows it. The betrayal he feels, the nasty feeling that’s eating him up inside, wouldn’t be so prominent if Bombay wasn’t Coach Bombay. Who brought Fulton into the only thing he’s ever loved. Gave him friends, two best friends. Bombay taught him how to skate, for god's sake. During Pee-Wee, when Jesse misheard Bombay talking to the Hawk’s coach, Fulton and Charlie were the only ones who stayed.
He doesn’t think he can stay this time.
“I thought he was different, man.” Dean rolls onto his side, Fulton hears the commotion, glances at him from the corner of his eye. Dean is staring at him, right into Fulton’s soul it feels like. “But he’s just like every other fucking adult. Doesn’t give a damn about us.”
Portman gets it.
“Fuck him,” Dean continues.
Fulton finally turns his head to face the other boy. In the bright lighting, Fulton can see the sweat gleaming along his forehead, the tired, pissed off look in his eyes. “Fuck em’ all,” he agrees.
Dean keeps his eyes trained on Fulton, rolling his jaw. Shit, it was probably aching. Fulton didn’t mean to actually hurt him, but he’s never learned how to control his strength. “Seriously, dude,” he says. “Where the hell did you learn to fight like that?”
Fulton chews the on his bottom lip, thinking. “Group home,” Fulton answers. “When I was a kid, the older guys taught me how.”
For the first time since Fulton has met him, Dean is speechless. Doesn’t know what to say. Most people don’t, when they find out the supposedly dangerous and intimidating Fulton Reed has been passed back and forth between his parents, grandparents, and foster homes his entire life.
“Huh,” is all Dean says, gaze analyzing Fulton’s face. Fulton ignores the nervousness in the pit of his gut. Why does Dean keep looking? Seeing him. It makes Fulton’s stomach churn.
“Yeah,” Fulton mutters, turning back to stare at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head.
“Shit, man, I didn’t know,” Dean says, and Fulton hears him move, sit up and look down at Fulton.
Fulton shrugs. “Not many people do, just Bombay, Charlie, and Banks. It’s not a big deal.”
“Are your-” Once again, Dean is struggling to find words. He’s just as bad at communicating as Fulton is, Portman is just better at talking. “Are your folks alive?”
“Yeah, they just ain’t worth anything.” Fulton glances at Dean, sees that expression again. He doesn’t know what it means.
“Shit, man,” Dean repeats.
“Yeah,” Fulton sighs. “Shit.”
Iceland made a fool out of them, made them their bitch.
Dean is fuming. Slamming his fists into lockers, kicking his bag until the thing looks like how Fulton feels: deflated and sad. The rest of the team is long gone, all of them running out of the locker room as soon as they ripped off their pads. No one wanted to be in there in case Bombay decided to demand another round of sprints. Dean and Fulton stuck around, though, Fulton only staying to make sure Portman didn’t hurt himself. Or tear the locker room apart.
Fulton stays out of his way, sitting on top of a table with his legs hanging off the side. He watches the other boy wearily. Fulton remembers just how bad some of the guys he used to room with would get, punching holes in walls and knocking out each other's teeth. He doesn’t think Portman will swing on him, but Dean has his moments and being cautious never hurt anybody.
Fulton doesn’t move to intervene until Dean starts kicking metal lockers with his bare feet. He jumps from his perch, places a gentle yet firm hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Portman,” he says, trying his best to keep his voice even. He pulls Dean away from his target. “Take a step back.”
“Get the fuck off me,” Dean says, shoving Fulton away.
Fulton shoves him back, a small flare of anger rising up, Dean falling back into the locker he was just kicking. He keeps his hands planted firmly on Dean’s shoulders and takes a breath to calm himself down. “You’re gonna hurt yourself, dickwad.”
Dean curses, lightly struggling but not trying to push Fulton away. “How are you so fucking calm?” he asks. His hair, free from its bandana once again, falls in front of his eyes.
“I’m too tired to be mad, dude,” Fulton answers. He had been the only enforcer on the ice the entire game. Getting knocked around by Iceland goons wasn’t any fun, especially when he couldn’t make a damn shot to save his life. He played awful. Couldn’t do a damn thing to stop Iceland from murdering them. In the morning, he’ll probably beat himself up over it, go find another punching bag and hit it till his knuckles bleed. But right now? Right now Fulton just wants to go to bed.
He moves his hands from Dean’s shoulders, and Dean collapses against Fulton’s chest, finally exhausted. Fulton curses, quickly placing his arms around Dean’s middle to stabilize them both. The boy was heavy, probably close to two hundred pounds of pure muscle leaning on Fulton’s shorter form.
“Fuck this shit, man,” Dean says, his mouth against the material of Fulton’s t-shirt. Fulton isn’t quite sure what he’s doing, but one of his hands ends up in Dean’s hair, scratching his head like Fulton does to his little sister when she’s upset. Dean doesn’t protest, letting out a small sigh that has Fulton feeling strangely warm inside.
They stand like that for a while, Fulton scratching Dean’s scalp and Dean on the verge of snoring. Finally, when his legs start aching and he’s pretty sure Dean is drooling, Fulton removes his hand from Dean’s sweaty hair and slowly pulls himself away from the taller male. “Come on,” he says quietly. “We need to get to our room before they lock us out again.”
Dean makes a sound that might be close to whine - Fulton ignores the way that the sound makes him feel, all weird and fond and mushy inside - but he lets Fulton drag him by his wrist into the hallway and towards the dorms. They could get their bags, and Dean’s shoes, in the morning.
“I think my legs are gonna fall off.” Banks is laying on the floor in Dean and Fulton’s room, using his bag as a pillow. He had followed Fulton and collapsed on his floor, claiming that it was too far of a walk to his own bedroom - even though it was only a couple doors down.
Practices had gotten longer, harder, and Bombay only got meaner. At the end of each day, the walk from after practice lifts to the dorms felt like running a marathon with rocks tied to your back. It sucks, somehow sucks even worse than getting their brains beat in by Iceland.
“Me too, man,” Fulton complains. “I don’t think I’ve ran that much in years.” They had an off the ice practice today, running over six miles through a hiking trail. Fulton nearly hurled up his eggs, Goldberg tripped over every root he passed, and Guy twisted his ankle trying to outrun Dwayne.
Adam groans in agreement. Their friendship had started out of necessity, back when Fulton was a lot less social and Adam was a brand new Duck. Neither of them had any friends on the team, or many friends at all, so they stuck together. Did their partner drills together, did their laps side by side, chatting about new video games and old movies. Gradually, they started hanging out outside of practice - going to the arcade, boxing in Adam’s backyard - and the friendship stuck. Even after Fulton became a Bash Brother and spent the majority of his time around Dean, he and Adam stayed close.
“How’s your wrist?” Fulton asks, and Adam groans once again, annoyed this time.
“I’m fine, Fulton,” he says, brandishing his injured wrist towards the sky like it helps prove his point.
“No, you’re not,” Fulton retorts. Like that’ll do anything. Adam has always been stubborn, more stubborn than even Fulton himself. If he said he wasn’t hurt, he would stick to it until his wrist fell off. Which is what he’ll probably end up doing - suffering in silence until the pain gets so bad he has to do something about it. Fulton wouldn’t even know about the injury if he didn’t walk in on Adam taping himself before a practice. “You should really tell someone, man.”
“Would you?” Adam asks.
No, his mind immediately supplies. He wouldn’t unless he had any other choice. When he was ten and still playing football, he played for a month on an aching foot that ended up being broken. Granted, he had an angry father breathing down his throat, but even now, when his dad could give less shits about what he does, Fulton still wouldn’t tell anyone if he was hurt. “If it gets worse, you gotta at least tell Bombay.”
Adam scoffs. “What’s he gonna do? Make me run another mile?”
Fulton can’t argue with that logic.
Dean walks in a few moments later, his hair wet and sticking to his forehead. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut-off, his muscular arms still gleaming with water, too. Fulton doesn’t stop to think about why that’s something he notices. “Why are you on the floor?” he asks Adam as he shuffles through the little floor space left. He jumps onto Fulton’s bed, tossing an arm around the other boy’s shoulders. He pokes Adam in the ribs with his big toe.
“Too tired to get up.”
Fulton laughs quietly, and Dean jabs him in the ribs too. “Ow!” he complains, but Dean ignores him. Adam is looking at them funny, brows furrowed as he stares up from the floor.
“Come on, Banksy,” Dean says. “The run wasn’t that bad. I feel pretty good.”
Adam stares at Dean in disbelief. “You’re a psychopath.”
Fulton nods in agreement.
“You guys are just wimps,” Dean says, shaking out water from his curls.
“Dickhead,” Fulton says. He elbows Dean in the stomach.
That’s all it takes for Dean to tackle him, his weight pushing Fulton into the mattress. They struggle for a moment, until Fulton pushes against Dean and the pair of them fall to the floor beside Adam - Adam, who yells, “What the hell?” as he rolls out of their way, back against the door. They tussle, cursing at each other but laughing at the same time. At one point, Fulton grabs Dean by the legs and flips him over, slamming Dean’s back into the floor. The fight continues for a few minutes, until Dean is slapping the side of the bed, tapping out.
Fulton sits up on his knees, cheering victoriously, a big grin on his face. Dean tells him to shut up, tosses a pillow at his head, but he’s laughing.
Adam is staring. Fulton knows that look, knows when Adam has a question on the tip of his tongue. Fulton wonders what’s on his mind.