
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/312988.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      D3:_The_Mighty_Ducks_(1996), Mighty_Ducks_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Dean_Portman/Fulton_Reed
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-04 Words: 2537
****** The Ideology Of Absence ******
by carolinecrane
Summary
     The smutty sequel to Kingdom_Of_One.
Fulton's heart stops when Portman walks into the locker room. At first he
thinks maybe he's taken one too many blows to the head, but then he hears that
voice and he knows it's real. He also knows Bombay had something to do with the
eleventh hour reunion of the Bash Brothers, and he doesn't know whether to be
grateful or terrified. Both feelings give way to relief when Portman pulls him
close and hugs him, and Fulton barely notices the rest of the team pressing
around them because Portman hasn't let go of his hand.
He doesn't think anybody notices; everybody's hyped up over the game and
Portman's big entrance, so he lets himself hold on for as long as he can. When
they do let go it's time to head back to the ice, but Fulton knows his mind
won't be on the rest of the game. Portman makes sure of that when he gets
himself thrown in the penalty box just a few minutes after he hits the ice and
starts taking his clothes off.
He tells himself Portman isn't doing it for his benefit. Portman's just hyped
up about the game, he's used to being the center of attention and he's just
making sure all eyes are on him. The fact that one pair of those eyes belong to
Fulton doesn't have anything to do with it.
Besides, it doesn't matter what Portman's doing, because there's still a game
to play and they're back down to one Bash Brother again, which means the
pressure's on Fulton to perform. He hears Portman calling his name but ignores
it, keeping his attention on the game and the varsity players who are gunning
even harder for him now that he's back on the ice without his other half. But
even he can't avoid the penalty box forever, and when he skates by he can't
help stealing just a quick glance at Portman.
It's not his fault. Anybody would have looked; the guy's practically got his
own gravitational pull. Only when Fulton does look he finds Portman looking
right back at him – right into him and Fulton knows this whole show's just for
him. As soon as their eyes lock he remembers every second of what that still
bare chest felt like pressed against him, and now he's hard and left to fend
off the entire varsity line-up by himself, and all he can do is pray that he
makes it through the rest of the game without humiliating himself.
Later he won't be able to say how he managed it. Not even when they're alone,
back in his room after the rest of the Ducks have gone to bed, he won't be able
to recall the last few minutes of the game. All he remembers with any clarity
at all is Portman looking back at him across the ice, smirk firmly in place and
mouth open, chanting Fulton's name like even now, in front of hundreds of
people he doesn't know, he can't contain how much he missed this.
Or maybe he just doesn't care who knows – a distinct possibility, Fulton
decides, especially when Portman drags him out of the post-game celebration in
the locker room and pushes him down the hall, not even sure of the direction
other than 'away'. Fulton takes charge long enough to lead Portman to his room,
pushes the door open and thank God he tormented his roommate into begging to be
moved to another dorm. Because he liked having the room to himself, but he's
going to like sharing with Portman even more.
He's positive of that when he finds himself flat on his back with a lapful of
hockey player and cold hands pressed against his skin. "Your hands are
freezing."
"So warm them up," Portman says, grinning against Fulton's mouth and God, he
missed this. He barely had it for a day and still he missed it more than he
ever thought he could miss anything, but he's never met anybody like Portman
before and he's pretty sure he never will.
He reaches between them, tugging Portman's hands away from his skin and curving
them to fit his own. And technically they're holding hands, but he tells
himself it's practical. He's just trying to warm them up, after all, because
they really are cold and he likes Portman, but he'd rather he didn't feel like
a block of ice when he touches Fulton. When he touches his dick, and a shudder
rolls through him at the thought of Portman's hands…there.
It won't be the first time, but it's been long enough to make Fulton nervous
and he wonders suddenly if he remembers how to do this. The first time was
unexpected – rushed and unreal and he felt lightheaded the whole time because
he couldn't believe Portman wanted him. He still can't believe it, but here
they are again like no time's passed at all.
"Where were you?" Fulton asks suddenly, mouth wet and swollen from the force of
Portman's kisses as he pushes his hands through dark hair, angling Portman's
head so they're face to face.
"Chicago, stupid."
"No, I mean…" But Portman knows what he means – it flashes in his eyes the
second Fulton says it, and he wants to back down. Wants to take it back,
because demanding answers has never really been his style and he doesn't want
to do anything to scare Portman off. "Forget it."
But it's too late for that, because Portman's looking at him now – really
looking – and any second now he's going to get up and leave, go find some other
room to stay in where his roommate won't start making stupid demands the second
they're alone. When he shifts Fulton tenses, bracing himself for the moment
Portman slides off him and stands up. He knows he'll feel cold, knows he'll
miss that weight pressing him into the mattress, and he's ready for it. Only it
never comes, and then Portman's grinning and tugging his hand out of Fulton's
to push a few strands of long hair out of his face.
"The truth?"
Fulton's expression must answer the question before he finds the words, because
Portman nods and shifts against him again and…God, he's going to come before
they get to the good part.
"Once I got back to Chicago it didn't feel so much like my team anymore. We
were all pumped up at the end of the Goodwill Games and everything, but then I
got home and all my friends were there and…it just didn't seem like that big a
deal. I figured maybe you guys wouldn't want me around."
"I wanted you around." And could he sound like more of a girl? Even Connie
wouldn't say something that lame, and definitely not to Portman.
If Portman thinks it's lame he doesn't let on, though. Instead he laughs again,
low and just a little dangerous, and Fulton had no idea he could miss a sound
that much. "You could have told me that before, you know."
"When? While you were telling me you were bailing just because Bombay did?"
Portman rolls his eyes and Fulton wants to be mad, wants to shove him off and
get up so at least he's standing while they…do whatever it is they're doing.
He's pretty sure it can't count as breaking up considering they only spent one
night together before Portman disappeared from his life, but it feels like it
all the same.
"I don't know, man. Then, after…whenever. Why do you think I called you to tell
you I wasn't coming in the first place?"
"What, you wanted me to beg?"
"Now that's something I wouldn't mind seeing."
"Forget it," Fulton says, flattening his hands against Portman's chest, but
even with all his strength behind him he can't do much against the solid muscle
pinning him to the bed. And he'd be worried if he really wanted to get away
from Portman, but mostly he just wants to stop talking. "God, you weigh a ton.
Get off me."
"You can take it," Portman says, and he speaks from experience so Fulton can't
even argue with him. He opens his mouth to argue anyway, but before he gets the
words out Portman's kissing him again, tongue pushing past his teeth and hands
– warmer now, at least – sliding under his shirt again.
Fulton groans against his mouth, the sound muffled by the kiss as he slides his
arms around Portman, shifting them until they're lined up just so and…yeah,
just like that. They're both still wearing all their clothes, but he's been
thinking about this way too long to care. He's starting to get the impression
that Portman's been thinking about it too – the idea that he wanted Fulton to
ask him to come back to Minnesota takes Fulton by surprise, and he doesn't want
to think about how long they could have been doing this. Doesn't want to regret
anything, not when Portman's kissing him like he needs Fulton to breathe.
And he's not sure when Portman became a mind-reader, but suddenly he's
scrambling off Fulton, pulling away and tugging at his clothes until his
shirt's gone and it's the hockey game all over again. Only there's no one else
here to look at Portman now, no cat calls or girls swooning over him. This
show's all for Fulton, and he runs a possessive hand up the center of Portman's
chest, pale fingers against golden skin.
The moment's over before he's ready, and Portman's moving again, pushing at
Fulton's jersey until he gives in and shifts up far enough to take it off. A
shiver rolls through him, cold and heat coming together as Portman slides a
hand between them, tugging at Fulton's zipper until it's open far enough for
him to push a hand inside. He can't hold back a gasp at the first brush of
fingers against him, already so hard it's painful, and he knows he's going to
come as soon as Portman touches him.
Maybe Portman knows too, because his hand disappears again almost immediately,
tugging at Fulton's jeans until they're bunched around his thighs. For a second
he just kneels on the mattress between Fulton's legs and looks, his gaze hot on
Fulton's skin and he feels the blush start to creep up his neck. His whole
body's flushed by the time Portman moves again, one hand around the base of
Fulton's cock and leaning forward to close his lips around the head.
Fulton bites down on his lip until he tastes blood, fighting back a shout that
would let everybody on their floor know exactly what they're doing. Everybody
in the dorm, probably, because Portman's mouth feels even better than Fulton
remembered. He shoves a fist in his mouth, biting down hard on his knuckles to
stifle another cry when he comes, and by the time Portman finally pulls off
he's fighting back a sob.
He doesn't know if it's relief or some other embarrassing emotion, but he
pushes it down and surges up, catching Portman's mouth against his own and
chasing his own bitter flavor with his tongue. Portman's rocking against him,
moaning against his mouth and Fulton can feel how close he is, so he reaches
between them and manages to get Portman's jeans open. He slides a hand past
worn denim, a mirror image of what Portman did barely any time ago, closing his
hand around the other boy's cock.
The weight's familiar in his hand, but still new enough to make his stomach
flutter as he strokes, quick and sure as Portman thrusts into his grip. He's
panting against Fulton's mouth, sharing air more than kissing, and Fulton loves
being the one that can make Portman lose control like this. He loves that he
can let himself lose control with Portman, that it's safe to let go when
they're alone like this. And it's only happened twice so far, but Portman's
here now and if Fulton has anything to say about it there will be a lot more
nights like this one.
A few strokes later Portman tenses and comes, murmuring something against
Fulton's mouth and even that turns Fulton on. He thinks about pulling his hand
up to his mouth to taste the other boy – wonders briefly if that makes him a
slut, then Portman presses his mouth to Fulton's neck and he decides it doesn't
matter. Nothing matters – not school or the months they were apart or God, even
the team, not now that they're back together. Because they're still the Bash
Brothers, still an unstoppable force, but they're more than that and he'd give
up hockey before he gave up this.
Portman really is heavy, though, and after a few minutes of hot breath warming
his neck Fulton's starting to get a little too warm. "Hey, Portman. Hey. Dean?"
There's an incoherent murmur against his neck, and Fulton grins in spite of
himself and runs the hand that's not sticky through Portman's hair. "Dude, I
can't breathe. Seriously, get off."
More murmuring, this time punctuated by a breathy laugh, and the sound goes
straight to Fulton's cock. But Portman rolls off him, and Fulton takes the
opportunity to kick his jeans off the rest of the way before he pushes himself
up on one elbow to look at the other boy.
Portman's grinning up at him, golden skin tinged with pink and Fulton decides
it looks good on him. He wants to kiss Portman again, wants to touch him
or…anything, but he's not sure what he's allowed to do. He's not sure if this
is the part where they get up and wash off, then sleep in separate beds, or lie
tangled together and wake up sweaty the way they did that first night.
"If I'd known you were such a romantic I'd have brought flowers or something."
And now Portman's making fun of him, but it tells Fulton everything he needs to
know. His heart skips a beat and he leans forward to fit their mouths together
so Portman won't see how relieved he is. He spent months telling himself
Portman just changed his mind, that he didn't show up at Eden Hall because he
didn't want Fulton to get the wrong idea, and even now it's hard for Fulton to
believe he's really here. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming, and he runs
his hand over Portman's skin just to make sure he's not imagining things.
He wants to ask Portman to pinch him, laughs at the thought and pulls away to
find Portman watching him curiously. "What?"
"Nothing," Fulton answers, hand still moving restlessly on Portman's skin.
"You're staying, right?"
"Yeah," Portman answers, grinning at the question as though the answer should
have been obvious. "That okay with you?"
It's way more than okay – there's not a word strong enough for how much Fulton
wants him to stay, right here in this bed, if possible. But he can't say any of
that, so instead he just nods and lets Portman pull him close again. "Yeah," he
answers, breathing the words against Portman's mouth, "it's okay with me."
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