Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Adam corners him a few hours later. It’s after dinner, and Fulton is on his way to the showers when Adam grips the bottom of his t-shirt and pulls him into his room. Charlie is nowhere to be found, probably calling his mom like he does every other night. “What is with you and Portman?” he asks as soon as the door is closed.

“Huh?” Fulton asks, confused. What about him and Dean?

“You and Portman. You’re all -” Adam pauses, waves his hands around Fulton like he’s motioning to some far away object. “You’re all touchy.”

Fulton shrugs. “That’s just how he is, you know that.” Dean has been touchy since the day they met, throwing his arms around Fulton’s shoulders, slapping him on the back and tugging him around by the elbow when Fulton was standing around like a lost sheep. That’s just what Portman did. He did it to everyone - to Kenny, Charlie, Connie, even Adam. He was always touching someone else. So what if it just happened to be Fulton most of the time?

Adam is staring at him again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, but you’re not. We’ve been friends for, like, a year and you’ve probably hugged me twice.”

“I don’t know, man,” Fulton says. “I guess I just got used to it.”

Dangerous things happen when Fulton starts to think. Despite what all of his former teachers - and that couch that told him he was too big and dumb to play basketball - may believe, he is capable of thought. He just tries to avoid it.

He’s sitting on the weight room floor when he comes to his realization. The rest of the team had already left, but Fulton had stuck around, gotten in a few more reps. His squat had been lacking recently, the power he once held fading due to countless hours of Captain Blood’s torture. Mainly, though, he just needed some time alone. To think.

His conversation with Adam had gotten him freaked. Was it weird, how physically close he and Portman were? Dean was a hands-on kind of guy, always touching everyone. Yeah, he leaned on and jabbed Fulton more than others on the team, but they were best friends. It was normal, right?

Fulton doesn't have enough experience with friendship to answer that question.

All he knows is that he doesn’t mind when Dean’s hands are on him, the weight of Dean’s arm slung over his wide shoulders. It’s comforting, familiar, nice, even. Honestly, Fulton has grown fond of it. Looks forward to Dean’s touch, even if it means getting punched in the shoulder every time he says something funny. Maybe that’s the weird part. That Dean invades his personal space on the daily and Fulton likes it.

Likes it.

Sitting on the weight room floor, still panting from the last brutal set of squats, Fulton comes to a horrible, horrible realization.

He likes it when Dean leans on him at practice when Bombay has been talking too long. Enjoys the feeling of Dean’s thigh pressed against his under the table at dinner. Likes it when Dean stands behind him and taps beats on his shoulders when he’s bored. Even likes the feeling of the heavy slaps against his back after a good practice, Dean leaning close to him to talk because the rest of their team is so loud. He likes it when Dean touches him.

He likes Portman.

Has a stupid, big fat crush on him.

Shit.

It’s well past midnight when Dean wakes him up. He shakes Fulton’s shoulders, leaning close to the sleeping boy’s face. Fulton can feel Dean’s warm breath as he speaks. “Get up,” Dean whispers. “The power is out.”

Fulton groans sleepily, squinting up at his roommate as his eyes adjust to the dark. Dean is hovering above him, a big, dopey grin on his face. Even in his half awake state, the sight has Fulton’s stomach doing flips.

Dean shakes him again. “Get up!”

“Okay, okay,” Fulton mutters, kicking off the pile of blankets he sleeps under. (Of course the boy who was always cold would get roomed with a walking furnace who kept the AC no higher than 65.)

Dean backs away from the bed, bouncing on his toes. He’s fully dressed, boots laced up and everything, and Fulton wonders how long he’s been awake. Wonders if he even went to sleep. “Hurry up, man, before they turn the lights back on!”

Fulton fumbles around the darkness for his shoes. The moment he finally manages to get them on, struggling in the darkness, Dean grabs his wrist and pulls him out of their room. Like he had been waiting an hour, not thirty seconds.

“Come on!” Fulton has never seen Portman this excited before, not even after a big win. He’s acting like a kid on Christmas morning, like Fulton’s baby sister May that one year she was convinced she was getting a puppy from Santa Clause.

(She didn’t - neither of them got hardly any gifts that year, just a few articles of clothing and some candy. They had only been back with their parents for a week or two and their dad spent all of the family’s extra money on booze. Fulton remembers comforting her all night, promising the little girl that he would get her a puppy one day so she’d stop crying.)

“What gives, man?” he asks as he gets pulled down the hall, voice quiet enough to not wake the rest of their team - who are still asleep, like any sane person would be. Like Fulton is starting to wish he was. He and Dean had been caught sneaking out a couple of times, only a fraction of how long they actually spent wondering after curfew. He didn’t want to go through one of Bombay’s punishments again. “Where the hell are we going?”

Dean shoves open the door to the stairwell. The emergency exit light above the doorway is still on, Fulton catching a glimpse of Dean’s jovial eyes as he turns away. “To the roof.”

“Why?” Fulton asks, but he gets no response other than Dean tightening his grip on Fulton’s wrist and sprinting up the stairs. “Dude-” Portman is crazy, Fulton decides as he’s yanked forward, into the darkness. Absolutely bonkers. Yet, for some stupid reason, Fulton finds it endearing.

Dean practically drags him up four flights of stairs. Fulton’s shoes are untied, he’s stumbling like a baby deer, but he finds himself laughing, Dean’s glee spreading to him through osmosis or some shit like that. He still hasn’t gotten an answer about why they’re going to the roof at two in the morning, but he trusts Dean enough to let himself relax.

Portman has to let go of Fulton’s wrist to get the roof door open, dropping his shoulder like a wide receiver protecting a football and throwing his weight at it. If either of them had been smart enough to grab a flashlight, Fulton could have picked the lock. But Dean was impatient, and now he’s gonna have a sore shoulder. He cheers when the door finally gives way.

He grabs Fulton’s hand this time, an unconscious motion that has Fulton’s face heating up, and steps out into the wind. Portman pulls Fulton out with him, turns his face to the sky. Fulton is too busy watching him to care what he’s looking at. Portman is beautiful, eyes focused upwards and a soft, too soft to belong to Dean Portman, smile on his lips. In the moonlight, he looks like he could be one of the elves Tolkien writes about. Serene. Oddly mesmerizing. It’s a thought Fulton never thought he’d have about another guy. Finds that it doesn’t bother him too much, not when it’s Portman he’s feeling all mushy about.

Dean turns towards him, still smiling, still holding Fulton’s hand. Fulton wants to kiss him, wants to slap himself for even thinking that. Portman would kill him, make fun of him until Fulton ran back to Minnesota and died alone.

Portman tugs Fulton closer to him, nods towards the sky. “Look,” he whispers, and Fulton finally turns his attention upwards. A gasp escapes his lips.

There aren’t any lights across the entire compound, or in the city miles away. It’s pitch black outside, darker than he’s ever seen. For the first time in his life, Fulton sees the night without street lights in his way. It’s beautiful. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many stars. They’re dotted across the sky like the freckles on his baby sisters’ cheeks. He tries to pinpoint any of the constellations that McKay told them about, but can’t find any. “Holy shit,” he says.

Dean laughs. “Fucking awesome, isn’t it?”

Fulton turns to Dean, who quickly glances to the side, like he’s avoiding Fulton’s gaze. Like he got caught starting. “How did you know to come up here?”

He shrugs, looks back to the stars. “Our alarm clock turned off, figured the power was out.”

“How did you- Did you know the sky was gonna look this cool?” Fulton’s eyes find their way back to the sky, to the stars. He wants to count them, wants to reach up and touch one. Maybe even grab a handful and keep them in his pocket. Take them home and keep them in a jar, keep them safe so he could look at them whenever he wanted.

“One time, when I was kid, there was a city wide power outage,” Dean says. He takes a step closer to Fulton, his body heat seeping into Fulton’s sweatshirt. Their hands are still interlocked. Fulton hopes his palms aren’t sweaty. “It only lasted a few minutes, but me and my brothers sat on the fire escape and looked at the stars for what felt like hours.”

“I could stay up here all night,” Fulton mutters.

“Yeah,” Portman agrees.

They end up sitting on the edge of the roof, shoulder to shoulder, feet dangling off the side. Wind whips Fulton’s hair into his face. Portman is humming a Pink Floyd song under his breath. It’s peaceful.

Fulton kicks the back of sneakers against the side of the building, rips his gaze away from the stars to look at Portman. “How old are your brothers?” he asks.

Dean gives him a questioning look.

Fulton shrugs. “You’ve never talked about them before,” he explains.

Dean laughs, but it lacks the humor that Fulton is used to. “Cause they’re assholes,” he says. “All of ‘em.”

“How many do you have?” Fulton wonders why he doesn’t know these things. Dean is his best friend, and he likes to think the feeling is mutual, but they barely know shit about each other’s lives back home. Maybe that was on purpose, guarding each other from the things no one wants to talk about.

“Four,” Dean says. He looks towards the stars again. “I’m the youngest, so they treated me like shit till I got big enough to fight back.”

“That’s fucked up, man,” Fulton says.

Dean lets out that empty, humorless laugh again. “Whatever,” he says. “I could beat the shit out of all of em now.”

Fulton snorts, lightly hitting his shoulder against Dean’s. “Not with your awful guard,” he jokes. “If any of them can throw a good hook you’re done for.”

“Shut up, asshole. Not all of us are the goddamn Karate Kid,” Dean says, but he’s smiling. “You got any siblings?”

Fulton nods, an unconscious smile forming.“Yeah,” he says. “Little sisters.”

Portman scoots a little closer to Fulton, throws an arm over his shoulder. Fulton leans into the warmth, the human furnace had plenty to spare. “How old are they?” he asks. He sounds like he genuinely cares, like he wants to know about what Fulton loves.

Fulton’s poor little heart is going to explode.

They beat Iceland.

Fulton has never experienced such elation, such unrestrained joy. He feels like he could explode, his body dissolve into happy mush on the locker room floor. They did it.

He’s too excited to change clothes, standing in front of his locker, still in his pads even half an hour after the game. The other Ducks aren’t much better, all in various states of undress as they celebrate. Averman has stripped down to nothing but his sweat soaked pants, standing on a bench and yelling hell knows what at the top of his lungs. Charlie is bouncing around the room, excitedly talking to anyone who will listen. Kenny and Russ were dancing. Adam, like Fulton, seems to be in shock, sitting in front of his locker still fully dressed. Skates still laced, helmet in his lap.

A heavy body slams into Fulton’s back, thick arms wrapping around his middle. Portman is screaming in his ear, yet Fulton can’t hear a word he’s saying, just feels the vibrations of his deep voice against his back, even through his pads. There’s too much going on, too many people who are yelling just as loud as Dean.

Fulton turns himself around to face Portman. “What?” he asks loudly.

Dean grips the sides of Fulton’s face, shakes him a little bit and the rest of the locker room disappears. “You motherfucker!” he hollers. Fulton has to read his lips to fully understand him. “That slap shot, man!” Futlon’s face heats up, it always does when anyone shows him any amount of appreciation, but it’s worse now. Because it’s Portman complimenting him, telling him he did something well. He hopes Portman doesn’t notice the sudden heat, the redness in his face.

Portman is smiling, that wide grin that Fulton loves painted across his face. One of his hands falls from Fulton’s cheek, punches him lightly in the middle of the chest. His eyes locked onto Fulton’s. “Fucking amazing.”

“Me?” Fulton says, his voice breaking. He felt weird again, emotions rising up in his chest. God, Portman was gonna give him a fucking heart attack one of these days. “What about you? You made a fool outta those goons.”

Portman grins at him, opens his mouth to respond. He’s interrupted by Kenny rushing by, cheering so loud that Fulton is concerned about his lungs. Portman bursts into laughter, dropping his hands from Fulton’s face, his chest. He shoots Fulton one more smile before he runs off, chasing after Kenny - probably to put the poor boy in a headlock, ruffle his hair and call him a little menace. Fulton’s heart swells.

He is in deep, deep shit.

Chapter Text

Summer in Minnesota shouldn’t be this hot. Fulton’s t-shirt is sweat soaked, stuck to his back in that slimy, uncomfortable way that makes him wanna rip the thing off and chuck it into oblivion. Or as close to oblivion as you can get in the Banks’s backyard. Adam is in the same boat he’s in, hair stuck to his forehead, sweat rolling down his face and into his eyes. If it gets any hotter, Fulton is gonna jump into the pool and die there.

Adam stops the soccer ball under his foot, kicks it into his hand. Soccer has become their new favorite hobby, kicking the ball back and forth until they got bored or Adam’s dad left and they could go inside to play Nintendo. It helps with agility, coordination. More than anything, it’s something to do other than shoot pucks into the street. (Fulton had accidentally broken a window in one of the houses across the street with a stray slapshot. Adam’s rich neighbors had been pissed, and they retreated into the backyard until further notice.)

“How’s life without your other half?” Adam asks. It’s a joke, but there’s some underlying seriousness in it, an actual question that Fulton doesn’t really know how to answer.

He’s lonely. Portman was back home in Chicago, and Fulton’s in Minnesota. Yeah, he has Adam, and Charlie and Jesse and the rest of the Ducks, the ones from Minnesota at least, but none of them were Portman. None of them understood what he was going to say before he said it. None of them could get him talking for hours on end, staying up in the wee hours of the night. None of them were his best friend. Not even Adam could fill Dean Portman’s void.

Fulton shrugs, feigns indifference. Doesn’t answer the question.

Adam doesn’t let him get away with it, little bastard. He questions Fulton again. “You miss him, don’t you?” Again, his voice is teasing, but Adam is serious.

Fulton snorts. “Yeah, I guess,” he mutters, laughs internally at his own shitty cover up. He misses Portman a lot. Anyone with eyes can tell by the way his shoulders slump, how heavy his eye bags have become. Lucky for him, or perhaps really really unlucky, Adam is the only person in Minnesota who can see him. His only solace is the fact that school starts soon and Portman will be coming to Minnesota. It’s a prep school, not a place for guys like Fulton Reed, but at least Dean will be there to make it bearable.

Adam tosses the ball at his chest, thankfully drops the conversation. “Come on,” he says, heading towards the back door. “I’m starving.”

The phone is ringing.

Fulton barely hears it, a little too invested in the cartoon May and Dahlia are watching. There’s some drama, a kind of problem that will be solved within the half hour span of the episode. He wishes it was actually that easy, that all of his problems could be solved with some wacky conclusion and everything would be okay. But life isn’t that easy, and Fulton is living in the midst of a shit show.

He doesn’t even notice May getting up, answering the phone. Not until she yells his name. “It’s some guy,” she says, holding the phone out to him with the kind of sass that only eleven year old girls can achieve. She holds her hand over the speaker. “He sounds hot,” she whispers.

Fulton shoots up, almost kicking Dahlia in the back of the head as he stands. “Give me that,” he mutters, ripping the landline from May’s hands and wondering who the hell would be calling him. Everyone knows not to call Fulton this late, so close to six o’clock. His dad is going to walk through the door any minute, tired and pissed off. Familiar anxiety crawls up his throat.

“Hello?” he asks, gruff and nervous.

“Hey, asshole,” a familiar deep voice says.

Fulton deflates a little. Portman. His voice, “Hey, man,” he says quietly, glaring at Dahlia and May. Stop starting, he mouths. May flips him the bird. He ignores her in favor of staring nervously at the front door, chewing on his nails. “What’s up?”

There’s shifting on the other line, like Dean is rolling over in bed or moving to sit in that weird, criss-cross applesauce way he always did. Taking up too much space on the couch, with his knee pressed against Fulton’s thigh. For a moment, Fulton forgets that they’re hundreds of miles away from each other, feels the familiar pressure of Dean’s body next to his own.

Portman sighs. Fulton imagines that he’s scratching the back of his neck, thinking. Because that was Dean’s “thinking about something” sigh, and Fulton immediately asks, “What’s wrong?” Nervous, trying to get to the point before his dad gets home.

He glances at the clock. 6:02. His dad was supposed to be home nearly five minutes ago. He was gonna walk through the door any minute and Fulton was going to have to deal with the man’s shit, hear him complain about Fulton incompetence. How he doesn’t do anything in this damn house. Hear the complaints that would eventually fall into drunken rage - disappointment. Something would be thrown, Fulton would probably have to fight the man until he passed out, keep him out of May and Dahlia’s room.

Fulton needed to get to his room, hide.

They needed to get out of this house.

Dean’s laugh echoes through Fulton’s skull. “What happened to, ‘Hey, man, how’s it going?’” he attempts to joke. He’s nervous about something, his words tight and uneven and so un-Portmanlike. Great, they’re both anxious. This won’t end well, Fulton knows it.

He lets out a frustrated groan. He doesn’t mean to, doesn’t mean to be this way to Portman - or with his little sisters listening, hanging onto his every word - but his anxiety is starting to suffocate him and he’s itching all over. “Listen, man,” he begins. “I need to go if you don’t have anything -”

“Shit, Fulton. You’re stressing me out,” Dean says.

Fulton wants to punch something. Someone. “Portman-”

He must finally sense the frustration in Fulton’s voice because Dean interrupts him. “Okay, okay. Shit,” Portman says. “I’m not coming to Minnesota - to Eden Hall.”

Fulton blanks. “What?” he asks, thoughts racing. “Dude-” He stops - abruptly - when he catches the front door’s knob turning in the corner of his eye. His eyes widen. Everything else, his racing thoughts, the sudden betrayal eating him up from the inside out isn’t important anymore because his dad is home and mad and Fulton isn’t supposed to use the phone because it costs too damn much-

“Fuck, man. I- I gotta go,” Fulton whispers into the receiver, hopes Dean can hear the urgency in his tone.

“What the hell, Fult-”

He slams the phone back on its base as his father walks through the front door. He drops his shit, a dirty tool-belt that is older than Fulton and a large jacket, on the counter just as Fulton is speed-walking by - Dahlia and May hot on his heels. “Fulton,” the man says gruffly, stepping into Fulton’s path. “Who the fuck were you talking to?”

Fulton scoffs, uses his shoulder to push past the man. “None of your damn business.”