Title: Shadow Boxing
Author: Bernie
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
This one is sad, it contains adult themes,.
Pairing: Markus Naslund / Todd Bertuzzi /
Fedor Federov
AN's A Silenus is a woodland sprite, a
companion of Baccus. He is usually portrayed as an old drunk, stumbling around.
But if you get him drunk enough he will spill the secrets of the universe. In In
Praise of Folly the Silenus is the primary object for explaining the
duality of life. What is whole is broken, what is lost is found. In that book
the Silenus is a philosophical device for explaining art, truth and the
depiction of beauty and goodness.
That is a very quick and poor description
of a Silenus, but enough for the purposes of this fic.
Marcus POV
(note I wrote this in 2004, so at the time it was a future
fic AU this so so so so never happened)
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Do you know what a 'Silenus' is? It is a
box. It is from In Praise of Folly, a book that I have not read. A book I
guarantee I will never read. I read them what are they called? Cole's notes. I
have an imperfect understanding of what this thing is. It is about art and
beauty and the new world. It is full of jokes in Latin and Greek, plays on
words for brilliant men.
A Silenus was like a Faberge Egg.
Beautiful to look at, but ultimately useless. You can't even eat one.
But the basic essence is easy to grasp.
It is a box that is grotesque on the outside, but inside contains wonderful
things. Or vice versa. A beautiful vessel that you open and find it holds
hideous things. Slimy things, or decaying things.
In
the book there was no real box, it was an idea, not an actuality. They were
brilliant men being very clever, but in my head all the boxes take a shape. I
can see and hold and touch all the ideas. These wonderful things were ideas of
art and the role of the artist, can you see in your head a paint box?
Splattered with a million different colours, and you open it up, and nestled in
the crummy box are the tools to create the most beautiful pictures in the
world?
Or
the brilliant men in the book discussed faith and the obligations of the
faithful. Truth and being and other such things that I have no need off. A
plain wooden chest could contain Plato's dialogues; and a jeweled box holds
nothing more consequential than a woman's make up; and the dull brown book with
a cheap leather case and a broken clasp is opened to reveal silken gold edged
papers, and when you read the book it starts "In the beginning"
To the great thinkers, Christ in his
coffin was the ultimate Silenus, no one could be deader, more frozen, more
extinct, and yet. And yet nothing could be more alive. A Silenus is a paradox,
Dead is alive, beauty is ugly, and freedom is a prison.
This island is a Silenus. It looks
perfect, but nothing is real here, nothing grows or gives back. It's a play
area for people rich enough to pretend they are important enough to need time
away to re-charge.
Or time enough for rich and important
people to grow bored and sign their contract that is sitting on the kitchen
table.
Not that this exclusive paradise has
anything as prosaic as a table. It has a 'dining station' in the 'self-catering
area'. What am I doing here?
When I arrived on the island I tried to
pretend it was like a long mediation, a retreat, but as I walked on the sand,
attempting to look serious like a camera was following me, I plucked a shell
off the beach. A perfectly formed shell that had no chips or cracks or marks
and was buffed to a sheen from the ocean. So perfect that it must have been a
plant on the island. Someone who owned paradise must have placed it there for
me to pick up and take home as a memento. I took the shell and weighed my
contract down with it. It is what I see when I get up in the morning, what I
see when I eat and sit and gaze moodily out the window at the sea like I am
doing now.
I woke up uneasy, just as the sun was
appearing over the horizon. I have a sense of dread that I cannot shake. There
is a storm gathering, but not here in paradise. Somewhere far away something is
reaching its tentacles across the ocean floor to me. Something, slimy and
decaying, is slithering up the beach and snaking it's feelers into this
kitchen, up the legs of the bar stool I am sitting on and dragging me down.
I shiver, it is not cold; it is never
cold on the island, but still.
Secrets are a Silenus. Not a real thing
that you can hold in your hand, but a box never the less. They are pretty and
enticing on the outside, so beautiful that you want to keep them. But then you
open them up and there is nothing there. An empty waste of space, a puff of
air, not even hope cowering in the corner.
Are all secrets terrible? The real
problem with secrets is that they make you powerless. The actual secret is just
a fact. One person's secret is another person's commonplace reality. Death is a
reality, and reality is reality after all. But if reality is not let in, if it
sits in the dark being denied, it draws into itself all the power that should
be yours. Much the same way a dying star drags all the energy and matter into
it's sphere in the solar system.
But there is no need to have secrets any
longer. And here I am, in the beautiful Pacific with nothing but light all
around me, and my secret is still trapping me in its black hole.
I knew this day would come, and right
here, right now I am thinking, fuck, here it is. Is that the best I can think?
Maybe it is grief that numbs me. I am at a remove from the action. I am a
million miles away in paradise, I should not think about death. But still, how
about this thought? This is the fucking day when it all explodes.
Shouldn't this secret be revealed in a
rash of lightening? A series of secret codes cracked by brilliant minds like
those who wrote In Praise of Folly? And that is anti-climatic in a way.
And I feel like, were I to say anything
the words out loud, they would be clear and calm, and I would not be shouting.
Not to say that it isn't a big secret, not to say that it won't affect
everything, life, as we know it, it negates wedding vows, forsaking all others,
the unspoken code of being a captain, what it is to be a friend.
I feel kind of nervous to be truthful.
Almost like I going to throw up. I'm jumpy, or twitchy, I keep spinning around
thinking someone else is in the room, that someone is stalking the perimeter of
this property.
There is no one else here.
There is nothing outside that would make
you think judgment day was coming. No boats, no planes, no visitors at all. No
change of breeze, no whirlpools, no mermaids singing sailors to my door. There
is no visitation of angels, no dove winging its way to the island with an olive
branch in its beak. Just the sun
rising, the clouds burning off, the sand shifting on the beach.
It is in fact a very beautiful day here
in paradise.
How
foolish it is to be trapped by a secret, and to go so willingly into a secret.
I shall tell you the secret. There is no one left to protect; the only other
person that knows is Brian, that fat fuck, he would have done anything I asked,
he did do anything I asked. I hope he feels guilty through his layers of lard.
But
of course we're the only principles left, others will be affected, wives, the
Federov's. Todd will be affected.
But
I wait, there is still a chance that my sixth sense is not working properly,
but then why am I waiting here patiently for the telephone to ring? For news
from my frozen home. Sad news taking mere minutes to get from Europe to the
island, what a marvelous fucking invention is the telephone.
When
I put the receiver down, now, ten minutes later when I have mouthed all kinds
of 'sorrys' and 'please pass on my condolences' and 'I will be there for the
funeral', now I wait a bit longer.
I
am numb. I want it to hit me. Everything, the guilt, the past, the knowledge.
What I have done.
The truth is, you can't force grief, it
makes it's own way through you, and all you can do is allow it its path.
Fighting grief is a delaying tactic that only works if you kill yourself. I
have a strong sense of self-preservation.
What is the first stage of grief? Shock,
or anger, not me, for me it is guilt. I wait, staring at the disappearing
clouds, at the blue waves of the ocean, surely grief is going to drop down like
gentle rain, envelope me in mourning. But it does not rain here in island
paradise, they all but promise that in the brochures.
So guilt first. I expect the other things
will come in their own time.
With Fedor there was always two stories.
The one on the surface, the pretty one, the one that he asked you to accept.
And willed you to accept, and you liked him so much, were so swayed by it the
surface, you begged to be allowed to accept face value. But you knew, behind
that was the other side of the story. Grief meant that the stories, the face
story and the parallel story running underneath that was true, never quite
gelled together.
Of course Fedor was not happy with what
he became. Of course he was miserable, or course he wanted to escape. But I did
not think he would escape like that. It is my fault. Ah guilt there you are,
coming to visit me, there is plenty of room on the island for us both.
I can recite from memory, only a little
coolly and mockingly what Fedor wanted. He wanted to be loved, to be protected,
and to be more than a pretty facade. It wasn't even that he wanted to be
adored. Just to be loved and needed.
I'll admit to stupidity. And to cruelty.
I'll even admit, if only to myself, to feeling lonely. But I can't admit to
love, or need. I don't think I am quite wired right. Like when other people see
the stars, I see all the black around them.
Not like a rebel, in my head at least.
Even though I was there, being the good kid, doing my job, being just and
humble and saying the right things, in my head I was a million times different
and a million miles away. Fedor saw and was seduced by the bright sparkling
lights. Seduced by their promise.
Fedor wanted to belong. To something
bigger than himself. He wanted to be a part of a whole an essential part. He
wanted to be valued. He may have not had the skills of his brother but he has
always had twice the heart. Had, had, had.
Whereas I wanted, to prove I could do
those things, to be the best, to win. But, only because you have to do
something. Maybe I should have driven trucks in Sweden. Maybe we would all be
happier, we would all be alive at least.
To my shock Fedor Federov, spoiled brat
brother of Sergei-the-great, the most famous cuckold in history, superstar, was
a decent person. He showed me up in that regard.
To tell the truth, I never wanted to fit
in. I liked feeling outside and alone, being apart. And if it sometimes felt a
bit lonesome, it also felt very safe. I felt very free. I knew that I had to
stay, that I had a job, and responsibilities, but I still /felt/ free. I still
felt like I could pack up, say I'd fucked up my knee or something and relocate.
Money wasn't a problem, and I've never known what to spend it on anyway. I
would not waste my cash on balmy days on an island paradise. And if I needed to
I'd get a job. Everyone has them, they aren't hard to get, or hard to do.
Truck drivers have a much more difficult
time harming the young.
So then, so then. So then, why exactly do
I trap myself? I can't blame anyone else; I walked into every prison with my
eyes open. Maybe because much like the Silenus I thought it was not really a
prison, I thought I was making myself free. Money would make me free later. I
would blunder into any underground cave or pit staked with spears, then try to
make the best of being trapped.
For Todd partially, any layers of amused distance tend to
fall away around him. He reveals me, is the way, to say it, he unwraps me. I am
very consumed by him; perhaps I wanted to belong to something bigger than
myself as well.
I felt mute; maybe because when the time
came that I really needed to be heard, when I told Fedor I loved him, that I
needed him, that we needed him, dear Christ why did I involve Todd? And when
the chance to tell him came he didn't hear me. And when the time came, I could
have gone to him, kept phoning him, done something, I came here. And now I have
a contract on the table, under the perfect shell that means I could stay a bit
longer.
Instead I go outside and sit on the
beach. I was sent here to think, to think about my future, damn it didn't I
just say I was a rebel? I will think about my past. This is what I did.
It was very late at night, and we were in
Vancouver.
The lights are out in my house and I am
sitting on the couch.
I run the sand through my fingers poring
it from one hand to the other, the breeze stirs the tiny grains and stings my
eyes.
"Strip." I say softly, smiling
at his dark blush in the night.
"Come here." I watch him come
to me, like he did a million years ago.
I loved his pale skin, licked every inch
of him. Holding his pale naked flesh between my legs. And when I was done I
gave him to Todd, who gave him back to me. And so it went on.
It was a gift I thought we all would
enjoy. I was terribly tragically
mistaken.
How could I miscalculate so badly? I
thought I had all the answers.
Poor Fedor, so desperate to be loved. And
now he is no more. We certainly never intended to hurt Fedor. I should say /I/
never meant to hurt Fedor, Todd would have been incapable of hurting him. And
if I saw a flash in his eyes that evening, I dismissed it at the time as being
passion, or surprise, or anything other than what it really was,
disappointment. I could lie to myself and say it was passion or surprise, but
really it was disappointment. Not pain dammit, we were gentle with our soft
hands.
Some of the light went out of Fedor, some
of the fight, to prove himself as apart from his family.
I throw off my shirt and walk into the
ocean. The water here on the Island is warm and I wade out until it covers my
hips. I am setting out for dry land, I think going the wrong way; there must be
another island around here someplace. I don't want to be alone on the island
with my thoughts. The Silenus, it's supposed to be the perfect place to think,
but my thoughts are to loud there.
As I pull my body through the water I
remember Fedor, curled against Todd's chest and smiling as I told a story about
Sweden. They were so cute together, Todd treated him like a baby brother, or
perhaps a puppy. He was more tender with him than with me, I thought, it seemed
that way to me. We made him feel he was an equal partner, because it became
that he was. We became three. I was skill, Todd action, but Fedor was all
heart.
He was light, he was funny. He was nice;
neither of us had expected that. A diversion became a curse. He was, making my
life something different. I was jealous of him, not at first, but to come back
to a hotel room, and there was Fedor, draped over Todd, breathing his sweet
breath over a body that was supposed to be mine.
Mine and his wife's I amend as I swim out
past the breakers. Fine, I was jealous and irrational.
And I could not be jealous. I remember
smoothing Fedor's hair off his face, being calm and controlled when I wanted to
possess him. I remember pushing Fedor to get a reaction and him responding to
antagonism with passion.
I float when I am tired of swimming,
feeling the little waves pick me up and down and spin me around the beautiful
ocean. Truth be told I don't want to go back to Sweden and I no longer wish to
be in Vancouver. I could of course sign elsewhere, but I have no interest in
playing anywhere else. The only thing I really want is to feel my grief to get
it out of the damn way so I can go on to feeling not much of anything like
normal. I want to be sad so I can get over it.
The water out here in the deep part of
the ocean is cooler. I would come into a hotel room late and find them
sleeping. I would be finally done with fucking journalists, or some asinine
meeting that I was only half paying attention to, and they would be sleeping.
Lucky them, lucky little Fedor to be curled around Todd when I was working. I
could climb between the two of them watch them, or wake them up and fuck them.
And so I did. I could also be jealous, and I was.
We chased him, he was very unsure. But he
was so, so Fedor, that two became three, and I became jealous. You see it was
more than not wanting to share, it was knowing that Todd and Fedor were rather
a good match. A Silenus. One was light, one was dark. One was gruff, one was
sweet.
I turn around and the island is a long
way away, I tread water for a second, I'm tired and begin to head back, but
going this way I am fighting the current, I can feel my arms and legs slowing
down, no matter how fast I try to go.
Stupidly jealous as I pull through the water.
Stupidly envious, Todd adored me; he would never give me up.
Greedy for Todd I was, still am; I played
games with Todd to keep him interested as well. I signed one contract to be
near him, leaving him to think I would not. But now, I find myself caring less,
thinking only of the tide that is not letting me get to shore.
Fedor hated being sent down, could not
understand what he was doing wrong, when he was doing everything right. He took
to heart what Brian had said about improving his game. He was better, he got
better every year and he still didn't get his chance. He kept coming up against
something. Me. Me and my jealously.
He never had a chance as long as I was
there. Brian would always indulge his star and I was the brightest star that
fat glory fuck had. He wanted me to stay I wanted Fedor gone, but not totally,
I wanted him within my reach. Say, with our farm team in Manitoba. Todd and I
used to visit him there; we would go a couple of times a season.
I am nearly back at the beach, but my
shoulders are burning. There were no tire marks on the road, nothing to let you
know that there had been trouble. Brian suggested Fedor may have fallen asleep
at the wheel, but I know his eyes were open, I opened them.
I will not tell anyone what I know. Fedor
called me, when I told him I was coming here he offered to keep me company. I
was having a bad day. My wife was nagging, the girls fighting, Todd bitching
about something or other. "And why would I want you? Surely I would want
Todd, not you."
"Todd is too good for you." He
spat back. Perhaps I was crueler than that when I turned him down.
"Well maybe", that stung so I
said, "but to smart for you, at least he knew I was the one sending our
little fuck toy to the minors at the start of every season."
"What did you say?" And Fedor's
voice was quiet.
"You were a drag." I told him
dismissively. "I told Brian and Brian does what I say. Enjoy Manitoba
after training camp this year as well."
And I hear Fedor's breathing, his
chocking, sobbing breathing.
I told him to late that I loved him. I
told him I loved him and that was the biggest lie of all. So transparent.
I am so fucking stupid. I told him I
loved him that I needed him that I was sorry that I was only mad that I wasn't
thinking. But he hung up the phone. I called Todd, told him to call Fedor, but
Fedor would not take his calls. Then instead of fixing the problem I came here.
Fedor is dead. Because he didn't believe
me. Because he was right to not believe me. I didn't love him. But I didn't
hate him. I thought, I would sign my contract, we would be together, and we
would talk. I thought, I would make it better; he could have Todd, or me or
whatever he wanted.
I spoke to Brian this morning. Through
his pigs snout he told me what he knew.
"Fedor's body was recovered."
He said sighing heavily.
And I said: "I am sorry."
"Yes." Brian said, "we all
are."
And we waited for the other to crack.
Brian did. "I assume you will be coming home soon? For the funeral?"
"Yes." I say, my voice distant.
"How did it happen?"
"He may have fallen asleep at the
wheel." Brian paused. "He was coming home from the gym, perhaps he
had been out the night before or something."
I try to concentrate on the sheer labor
of getting back to the island. I swam out too far on the reef, but I can still
hear Brian's voice in my head.
"No on really knows what happened.
There were no skid marks on the road, it was like, he took a wrong turn, went
left instead of right."
Brain pauses again. "Such a loss, a
young man with his life ahead of him. The people of Vancouver need something to
look forward to."
"No one knows, yet," I could
hear Brian smile, "no one knows yet what happened."
But I know, knowledge is guilt. And my
chest is burning, from breathing, from trying to make it to shore. My tears are
more salt for the ocean.
I lied to Todd. I told him Fedor and I
fought about something petty, not that I had told him he was a fuck toy. But I
did tell him I loved him, I was believable, I told him. I repeated it.
I am choking in an inch of seawater
having made it back to dry land. The ocean is a Silenus, water all around you
that you can't drink. I crawl up the beach to where the sand is warm and
collapse face down in paradise's lap.
I lie there and I will sign the damn
contract I will learn to be a good husband and lover and friend.
Doesn't matter how far away I go anyway.
I cannot escape what I have done. Todd can't know, he does not know, he didn't
do any of this, he wasn't the cause. It was me, it was me. And a secret or not
a secret I can't escape or atone for what I have done. I can't share the guilt
around to make myself feel better. For what I did to the child, what I made
him, for what I took from him. Not Todd he cared for Fedor for us both no
matter how unworthy I was.
I am a Silenus, beautiful and golden sun
kissed smoothed out and presented to an adoring public. Open me up and out
snakes the slimy and decaying things, bugs and insects and worms that slither
over the fantastic faade of the box. The sun can't burn off the dark clouds of
pestilence that I have unleashed; the sand can't scour the plague away. I could
swim back out to sea, but all Neptune's oceans can't wash his blood off my
hands.
End
Bernie.
