Title: Every Word is Yes

Author: Bernie

Pairing: Tomas Kaberle/ Martin Havlat and implied Tomas Kaberle / Danny Markov.

Rating: NC-17

Dedication Joolzie and Mae (for all the help and encouragement)

 

This will make more sense if you read “Find you’re gone” by Joolzie, but can probably stand alone ok.

 

Sorry! But her site is down for a while L

 

https://www.angelfire.com/un/joolziefic/findyouregone.html

 

And if you read “Midnight Tale” by Mae, because she tells the story of the mermaid in it, not only will that part of the fic make sense, you will be doing yourself a favour because it is a wonderful fic. The other fables I made up.

 

Midnight Tale

>……< Denotes characters speaking in Czech

 

The inspiration for this fic came from my, probably faulty, memory of how Yoko Ono and John Lennon met. He attended one of her wonderful-weird-ass art installations and the central piece was a ladder in the room. When you climbed the ladder there was a magnifying glass on the top and a piece of paper taped to the ceiling. When Lennon looked through the magnifying glass every word was yes. And he said he fell in love with that yes.

 

Enjoy.

 

(* )  ( * )  * ( * ) * ( * )

 

It is raining. I should probably be crying. It would be good timing if I did. I could blame my blurry vision on the outdoors.

 

But I am not crying. I am listening to the radio, I am waiting for the traffic report from “the fly guy’. I am arguing with myself, and I am driving; it is more than enough activity for a cold, wet, slippery morning when I have not had enough sleep, when I have a game tonight, when I should be rehearsing my excuse for why I missed training as I am sure to.

 

I try to remember if today’s morning skate was optional, I hope so; it is one too many things to think about.

 

Because I have an important mission in the car, driving away slowly. I am trying to decide upon the Worst Thing. Surely there are worse things than putting up with Martin’s awkward, amateurish, betrayals.

 

Bombings, poverty, child enslavement, there are worse things than to be ignored, or passed over, or used.

 

There are wars, and plagues, and religious persecutions, all worse than being promised nothing, expecting nothing, and getting nothing.

 

The rain forest is being cut down; native communities are shrinking; species are becoming extinct, all much worse than these cookie cutter, clichéd betrayals.

 

Because really the only person I have betrayed is myself. I can’t blame Martin, he has been true to his nature the whole time. He is now what he was in the beginning, a gifted child playing hockey, a kid. A baby millionaire with his hand in the candy jar.

 

I can’t even say that it is me that has changed. Because we are both exactly the same as when this started. We just have later copies of newspaper from home; although he does not buy them anymore he reads mine. But what attracted me then attracts me now.

 

I like his sense of fun; his laid back charm. I like how he knows there will be consequences for his actions, but does things anyway. He doesn’t plan for the fall out, whatever might be, he just does it. He always seems to land on his feet.

 

If you saw how we had met, and how I had pursued him, how I gave him my number, and how I hugged him when I left, you would think that I was the more knowing partner, but really it has been about him.

 

I still feel more relaxed around him than I do at home, and I am never totally relaxed in Toronto. I don’t have his knack for inhabiting any space and making it his own. Martin is supremely relaxed in any situation, sure of himself on dry land as he is on ice. I sometimes wonder if we are on the wrong teams; that I would fit in better with the mid-leaguers of the Senators, and he should be a star in Toronto.

 

Around him I unwind in a way I don’t anywhere else. I thought I was comfortable around him because of his voice, the language I know so well, but it is him. Having lunch and him making fun of the waiter, going to a movie and him whispering translations of the words, changed just a little, and me laughing so hard we nearly got thrown out of the movie theatre.

 

I like how he could charm his way to the front of the line. I like how he got me a different type of coffee every time we went out, although maybe that just means he could never remember how I liked it.

 

Not around him I liked it every way. I liked the sweet bitter black coffee we had in summer, the creamy hot chocolate in winter. I liked it all.

 

I list these good things; I search for the worst things. Car accidents, orphans, lost lives.

 

Martin reminds me a little of Danny, Danil I called him loving the little thrill of a secret nickname that I could use in public, or we could just speak in our own mixture of language, Russian from him, Czech from me, gibberish words from us, that we used and no one else knew. That is the same stupid reason I always call him Martin and not Marty. So he reminds me a little bit of my first love. They are more different though having said that Martin is cooler than my Danny ever was. Danil was like an overgrown puppy loving, and licking, and leaping up to meet you. Maybe what is the same is how I felt around them. Happy and relaxed, content and in love. But I do not love Martin like I loved Danil.

 

I told him I felt used by him once, after we had spent the day in bed, christening each other with our tongues, all the little places that we have not seen and touched before. And while I basked in sacred pale sunlight he announced that he had to leave for an interview.

 

Which pissed me off. “I think you are just using me.” I told him, trying to sound firm and not scared.

 

“I never promised you my morals were on anything other than flexi-time.” Martin said, looking at me straight in the eyes. “I never promised anything.

 

Then he had repeated, as he got dressed, that he was not gay, which annoyed me and I said again that I felt used. I don’t know what I expected from him, a declaration of love or something, but he just laughed and kissed me goodbye. Him leaving my place smelling of sex. He flirted on the news that evening, blatantly.

 

But I watched anyway, looking for a clue as to why he said he ‘would be back’. That said with a heavy accent, mocking again.

 

I head the rain falling on the roof of the car, and I tap my fingers on the steering wheel at the same time.

 

I told a bit of that evening to Frantisek, nothing detailed, but before I had even gotten to the confusing part he rolled his eyes and said, “he is a slut” with heavy finality. I knew not to mention him again, but he was there underneath. My parents who were visiting in Atlanta, and they were asking if I was with anyone, and I fled. I insisted that I would do the dishes, but after five minutes of staring at the sink Frantisek pushed me aside and took the dishcloth out of my hands pushing me aside and handing me a tea towel.

 

Frantisek washed up, cocking his eyebrow at how slow I was drying the dishes. “Still moping over Martin?” he said gruffly kissing my forehead. “You are to good for him,” he said into my hair, hugging me briefly. “You can do better than that.”

 

I did not tell him what happened next, I could not have told him the details, not without confusing him, I could not think of it without confusing myself. He arrived late at my place one evening, and instead of staying he wanted in only to get me to change my clothes, throwing things at me he picked out of my closet, smiling his secret, morals are on flexi-time, smirk.

 

We went out and picked up some girl, and she wasn’t awful, she was the prettiest girl in the room. I watched Martin, his eyes glittering from the chase. He fed he drinks and charmed her, she was taking other things, not from either of us, but we could see her and her friends swallowing little pills. I wanted whatever she had, because she was having a better time than me.

 

Martin had already picked a hotel, but not booked the room. He pulled me aside at the door as the girl called some friends to say where she would be.

 

“We can go in,” he told me in a low voice, “with her if you want.”

 

I shrugged.

 

“Or we can send her away and go to your place, or we can go into the hotel with out her, what do you want Tommy?”

 

And I smiled at him making this my decision, when he had planned it all along, knowing what I would do.

 

“With her.” I finally say. He grinned widely, like maybe he hadn’t expected me to make that choice, and paid for the room. I saw him smile at the clerk who kept darting her eyes over to me, like she recognised me. I cursed Martin for deciding to do this in Toronto instead of Ottawa.

 

It didn’t take much for it to begin, Martin hissed at me to take my clothes off as he kissed her, making sure to pull her hair out of the careful arrangement she had it in.

 

Martin did most of the work, fucking her; she was so relaxed from the drink I don’t think she really cared, laughing and throwing the condoms up in the air, admiring the colours off the packets.

 

She picked a blue one for me and a red one for him. So I guess she knew who we were. Martin handed me a tiny packet of lube, >“go up her ass”< he smiled >“you are more used to it like that”< he said in Czech and smirked. When the girl demanded to know what he said he lied to her. Told her that he had told me to be gentle.

 

She wasn’t properly undressed, her tiny red skirt bunched around her waist, her bra pushed down under her breasts. Martin ran his thumbs in circles over her breasts, saying >“slut”< and >“whore”< and laughing. “You’re pretty,” he said when she asked for a translation.

 

>“I’m not lying”< he told me, >“she is very pretty.”< He talked to us both the whole way through; >“too small”< he laughed, kissing her breasts, translating that as “perfect.”

 

The girl loved our accent, demanding that we both talk.

 

>“Have you done this before?”< I asked Martin.

 

>“Yes.”< He said. >“Yes, like this and yes with me and two girls.”<

 

>“Yes.”< He repeated, >“god yes.”< But that was because he was close to coming.

 

“What is he saying?” The girl asked me, her neck slick with sweat and smelling of perfume from where I had my cheek is pressed to the back of her throat.

 

“He says, you are so good.” I lied to her.

 

>“I’ve had better.”< Martin giggled slightly, trying to find a rhythm wee could all follow, holding the girl’s waist hard to keep her in the position he wanted.

 

>“You don’t look like you are having such a bad time.”< And I laughed.

 

“He is very close.” I told the girl when she whispered “what, what?” because she was very close as well.

 

But I laughed mostly, I was drunk as well, at the faces he made when she wasn’t looking, about how he mocked her, whispering “eh” and making fun of her accent. He was pretty drunk from the bar, his hair was sticking to his forehead and his face glistened with sweat. I was careful not to touch him then, not that I think the girl would have noticed the state she was in.

 

But I can tell when he is about to come and I push the girl forward slightly, so we are more fully lying on top of him. I wondered afterwards, if Martin felt trapped by our weight, or if he thought he was in control of both of us, but when I remember the look on his face I know he wasn’t thinking anything, that there was no need to think when you have pure pleasure running through your body.

 

The girl put her hands against the wall to brace herself and Martin slid his hands down her sides to rest his hands on top of mine over her hips.

 

Inside her I could feel his cock moving in and out of her, almost like I could feel it next to mine, and that, and his face, and I came first.

 

Martin fed her more drinks as I cleaned myself off and then told her to go down on me while he watched, stroking himself lazily. She didn’t feel like him, with her thin-lipped mouth, her sharp pointed little teeth, I watched him again, his open mouth, his generous lips, whispering instructions to her in a mixture of English and Czech.

 

>“Tell me when you are going to come.”< Martin grinned at me.

 

“Soon.” I replied.

 

>“Good.”< He bent down and whispered to the girl; “keep it in your mouth.”

 

She nodded, and when I did come she closed her lips around the sticky mess, and before much could slip between her lips Martin pulled her back and kissed her, taking as much of the glossy white come out of her mouth as he could with his tongue, and passing it back to her, the ropey threads of slippery come dripping off their jaws, stretching between the two of them.

 

He pushed her down on the bed, so he was leaning over her, sucking up what was back in her mouth, then parting his lips and letting it drop back into her mouth again.

 

I ran my hands down her, trying to bring her off as quickly as possible, while she tried to whisper instructions around Martin’s tongue.

 

He tugged harder on his dick finally coming over the girl’s stomach and pulling back, so what they still had in their mouths dripped down her chin and his. She came quickly after that, once she could tell me what she wanted.

 

Martin smiled at her; using my hand to clean off his face and then watching the girl lick off my fingers.

 

Martin drags his hand though the come on her stomach touching my face and laughing when I tried to pull away.

 

>”She doesn’t care.” He said and kissed me over her chest.

 

We left while she was in the shower, Martin prominently leaving money on the bedside table, like I hadn’t already paid for the room.

 

He smiled his flexi-time moral smirk at me as we waited for the elevator.

 

Inside he kissed me once, laughing as he breathed my come and drink and her lipstick across my face. >“That’s being used Tommy.”< He whispered. And we both cracked up laughing. We laughed because we shared a secret, and we knew what we were doing and the girl didn’t. God he was so fucking hot then, crumpled from pulling his clothes on quickly, he had on my tie and I had on his, and we were either sharing a secret or I was learning a lesson.

 

I knew then not to get to attached to Martin, because I think he would be ruthless if he thought his freedom was threatened, but his secret smile said that neither of us could be treated like that.

 

So that is how I felt around Martin, secret, powerful, alive. The contradictions bothered me, but I bet he never even thought about them, let alone spent a second worrying about them. I never told him I felt used again. I don’t think I have told how I feel about anything since then; I knew my place I think, in the ranking of the people, mostly women, who were more or less girlfriends, and now I have a type of permanence of my own in his life.

 

When we left he wanted different taxis, him to the airport, me home, but I stopped him took him back to my place and fucked him, and that night I didn’t care that he hadn’t stayed the night, but had a shower and left around four in the morning, but later, when I woke up again, and saw that he had taken his tie home, and left mine behind, I felt, different again.

 

But for Martin the power of the moment never really wears off, it is fed and nurtured by something else, a goal, a compliment, an admiring look, getting some other girls phone number. He always feels powerful, he always feels, desired and desirable.

 

When someone teased me about the marks the girl, or maybe Martin had left on me, I could honestly reply that I had not know her that well, had not got her phone number. I made myself for a second whatever they wanted, I dropped into the background like Martin did.

 

So maybe Martin’s trick is to pretend that you are whatever people want you to be, what ever they want. A good trick if you can learn it. Maybe I was wrong, he is not gay, and he is just what I want him to be.

 

My feelings changed about him, I adored him less, but I liked him more. I liked him as a proper person, not an idol on a pedestal. And staring at the ceiling it felt like that when this ended, or we broke up or whatever, that it would be a proper break-up; not me losing my true love because he sure wasn’t that.

 

But sometimes he feels just like that, like the perfect person to get to know and live with forever, I would say settle down but truthfully I can’t ever imagine him settling down. Martin found out, I don’t know how, that I liked the fairy stories from home,. I think he found a book of them, stupid, when I can’t sleep and when I want to, feel comforted I suppose, I read them.

 

I thought he would tease me, but instead he just told me story. One I had not heard before, or one I had not heard like that. About a mermaid who runs away with a musician and they are in love forever. But forever does not last long because a thief comes in the night and kills them and steals their treasure.

 

I would have spent more time describing the love, how she saw him in moonlight, how he saw her emerge from the water, Martin described the underwater treasure chamber, the gold and the diamonds, and rubies and opals, and the empty picture frames, and the death, which he told in bloody detail.

 

I would have told more about them stealing away together, what they wanted, I would have told what parts of the treasure they took with them to sell. I would have looked for the heart, and Martin described the gloss on the top.

 

I wondered why he picked that story, like another warning I suppose. I think Martin would view love as being the thief stealing from you, stealing the opportunity to be something else, stealing your freedom. I don’t think he would be convinced by true love.

 

He is more likely to be a musician convincing some poor girl to give up her world for him, or a thief in the night.

 

Why is it important what that story meant anyway? Compared to the one about the two children who made wishes in the well and were eaten by a witch? Or the brothers who climbed a mountain no one else had and no one believed them when they came down.

 

I wonder what I should take from those stories, and if I asked Martin he would say to take whatever I liked I am sure of it. And why is it important anyway? I think as I realise that I have turned around and I am driving back to his place. Maybe they were just the last stories he was ever told. He would tell me to take whatever I wanted.

 

And if I didn’t fall asleep, or if we were talking after screwing in the afternoon I would ask him for details. And he might laugh and pull the sheet down and say how the boys were not really brothers, and they had not really climbed the mountain, and they had made love on the mountain side, those words slipping easily from his lips, make love like he never described us. And he would say that one brother who was not really a brother was dark, and had a long lean body, and he would mouth the rest of the words against my skin, and I would image what he was saying, what words he was branding onto my chest with his mouth.

 

I feel like I should tell him a story that does have a message and the message is: love or need or whatever I want from you I will take from you, since you would claim it would not matter to you anyway. It matters to me, so surely I can take it, even if I want it to be offered. Love and need make liars of us all. I’ll take you then as you are offered, and as I want you to be.

 

And I stand for a second in the rain outside his place, and I think that he would demand that it does not matter and make up new stories. He may have made up those ones. It is cold, but not freezing, it is bracing and invigorating, clearing my head after the heavy hot air in my car.

 

I will take his example, take what he has to offer and move on to something better, or at least different, no better I correct myself. Better next time.

 

I wipe distantly at my face, at the rain running down it, but I still feel so fucking stupid around him, so fucking dazzled by him, I shake as I walk into his apartment, it was colder out there then I thought, or I was out there to long. I nod at the doorman who smiles and I think says ‘forget something?’ He was here when I left earlier this morning, but he is used to me leaving and coming back.

 

I’m still shaking as I walk, dripping, into his apartment, I’m drenched so I will have to borrow some of his clothes when I leave.

 

“What did you forget?” he asks when I walk into the bathroom. “What did you go for?”

 

I ignore him as I take off my clothes hearing them hit the floor damply. I can feel myself turning pink, becoming inflated by the hot steamy air of his bathroom.

 

“Was it milk?” He asks me casually as I step into the shower behind me. “There is cream in the fridge.” He says as he passes me the lotion from the rack beside the shower.

 

>“I knew you’d be back”< he whispers to me in Czech and he doesn’t look triumphant, or superior, he still looks sleepy from being out late night, from fucking all night, with his hair sticking to his forehead, and I hear the words as rain falling on my windshield, and the feel of my blood warming up is the windshield wipers clearing off the path in front of my car, and as he falls back against me and I kiss the side of his neck, every word I hear is yes.

 

Bernie

 

End

 

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