***
When Chris did not return to bed soon after leaving to investigate the ringing of the doorbell at the horribly ungodly hour of six-o'-just-after-dawn, Jiri decided that he would go downstairs himself and find out why. As the foyer came into view, he was faced with one of the strangest scenes of his life.
Chris stood barefoot and shirtless, wearing only flannel pants, exactly the same attire in which he'd emerged from Jiri's arms minutes ago. In the open doorway was possibly the last person Jiri had ever expected to see at the front door on any given morning. It was Patrick Roy, and Jiri gaped. He'd seen Patrick on and off the ice many times, but had never seen him while wearing pajamas. In distinct contrast to Chris, Patrick wore a dark jacket and pants. He wore no tie, his white shirt open at the throat. Jiri had limited experience with shopping, but even he would judge that Patrick's suit wasn't just something grabbed off a rack. Jiri would also judge that the difference between Chris' Target flannel pants and Patrick's tailored suit might top two hundred dollars.
Between them, each holding onto it with both hands, was what looked to Jiri to be a simple tee shirt. There was nothing so very remarkable about it, in Jiri's opinion, but Chris was staring down at it, mouth open, as if stunned. Patrick did not stare at the shirt he was also holding, but merely gazed at Chris' lowered head, his smile gentle. Jiri watched this scene for almost a full minute, frozen half-way down the staircase, unsure of what he was seeing but instinctively feeling he shouldn't interrupt.
At last, a surge of annoyance forced Jiri into motion. He wasn't sure what he was annoyed with, exactly; annoyance seemed to come more and more frequently these days. Maybe it was simply the fact that he did not know what was going on and he wanted to be comfortably back in bed. Maybe it was the strange expression on Chris' face that he could not explain.
Maybe it was the gnawing feeling that he was not wanted here in this scene. And maybe it was because that feeling wasn't entirely new.
At any rate, it galvanized Jiri, and he continued down the stairs. He reached the foyer, the marble tile cold against his bare feet, and cleared his throat. Patrick's blue eyes immediately moved to him, and his smile grew wider. Jiri was reminded briefly of Alice's Cheshire cat.
Without moving his gaze, Patrick leaned toward Chris and murmured something Jiri didn't catch. Chris jumped as if someone had grabbed him, and he turned to see Jiri also. Irritation flickered across his dark features and that did little to improve Jiri's mood. Chris almost instinctively pulled the t-shirt closer to him and Patrick let go, his hands falling to his sides.
"Jiri, go back upstairs," Chris said, looking back down at the shirt in his hands.
Jiri blinked, stung. The annoyed command in that voice, the off-hand dismissal! Like a sergeant to a particularly slow private. Or a father to a misbehaving child. Jiri narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Patrick beat him to it with a chuckle.
"That is not very polite, Chris," Patrick said, his eyes sparkling happily. "We have not even been introduced."
"Don’t be stupid," Chris snorted. "You know Jiri."
"We have played against one another, yes, but I do not think we have ever spoken," Patrick said with an aloof dignity. He smiled up at Jiri again, that broad smile of the cat who has just trapped the mouse. "Hello, Jiri. I'm Patrick."
"Hi," Jiri managed after a short struggle. He wasn't at all sure what to say. "So... what brings you here?"
"That's not your business," Chris snapped. "Go back upstairs, Jiri."
Annoyance left Jiri, black anger filling up the places left vacant. He bit back a scathing reply and stomped up the stairs. He knew he was acting like a teenager who'd just been scolded in front of company, but he couldn't seem to help himself. He'd been dismissed, and so he had gone. But he did not go back to bed. Instead, he stood in the hallway with his back to the wall, out of sight of those below, listening.
The two men spoke for a moment, the words indistinct, and Jiri heard the door close. The two voices moved away, and Jiri thought that they were going toward the back of the house, toward the kitchen. Jiri considered for a second and then decided to follow. He crept back down the stairs, attempting to make his 225-pound frame as quiet as a mouse. He padded across the foyer and slipped into the formal dining room that they never used. The nice table and chairs stood on the nice rug, the nice antique cabinet proudly housing the nice china and the nice silver. All was elegant and tasteful and expensive and dusty and dark and disused.
But this room had a doorway into the kitchen, where Jiri could hear without being seen.
"...not one of your children, Chris," Patrick's voice floated to him, as he took his position just to the right of the doorway.
"I know that, you think I don't?" Jiri could hear the annoyance still behind the reply. "Jiri's a good... man. He's a good man, he'll do what I ask him to do."
"Tell him, you mean," Patrick replied. Jiri had heard this last with a sinking heart. Kid was what Chris had been going to say, Jiri was sure of it. Jiri was a good KID. "You mean he'll do what you TELL him to do. Or... what? He goes to bed without his supper?"
"Fuck you." That was classic Chris, but the profanity carried little weight behind it. He sounded absent, as if he was only responding out of habit. Jiri could see him in his mind's eye, seated at the table, the strangely and inexplicably compelling shirt in his hands, feeling it, testing the material, staring down at the white cotton between his dark hands, fascinated by it for no reason Jiri could make out.
Patrick laughed, softly, as if to himself. "What a coincidence, you do remember how I came by that shirt you hold, yes?"
Chris uttered a short, bark-like laugh of his own. "Of course I do. That was... Damn, that was a long time ago."
"Twenty years," Patrick agreed. "I did say I would give it back to you."
"Yeah, you did. I thought you'd have done it a little sooner, you know. Like after we got back to Montreal. I remember that I didn't want to press the issue at the time because of what we... well. You know." Chris said, ending his statement on a rather uncharacteristic note. Jiri was a little puzzled; he hadn't heard embarrassment in Chris' voice very often during their time together. Both men fell silent, and Jiri squirmed. He could sense their discomfort from his hiding place.
"So, how's Michele?" Chris suddenly asked. "As venomous as ever, I hope. I'd hate to think the years had changed her."
A slight pause, was Patrick startled? Perhaps, but when he laughed, it held genuine humor. "As you say, yes. She is much the same."
"My condolences," Chris said dryly. "I never understood how you could have married that... woman." He seemed to have difficulty in getting that last word out.
"Careful, careful!" Patrick warned good-humoredly, and Jiri could picture him shaking a finger at Chris like a parent reproving a child. "You are speaking of the love of my life, mon cher. She and I, we live happily because we are so similar. What flaws she has only mirror my own. You see?"
Chris laughed again, and this time it was bitter. "Soul mates, you mean. Jesus Christ."
"I did not say so," Patrick replied calmly, but Chris, from what Jiri could tell, did not seem to hear this statement.
"Well, as long as you're happy."
"What about you?" Patrick's voice dropped lower, seemed to wrap itself in velvet. Jiri strained to hear. "Are YOU happy, Chris?"
There was a minute hesitation, but Jiri marked it. "That's a hell of a question to ask me."
"Not at all. I have not seen you in quite some time, and we have not really spoken in many years. I am curious."
"Why wouldn't I be happy?" Jiri thought Chris sounded defensive. He could almost see Patrick shrugging in response. There was another slight pause, and when it was broken, Chris had abruptly changed the subject. "I still can't believe you're sitting here in my kitchen and I have this damned shirt back. I'd forgotten all about it until I saw you holding it."
"You forgot me?" Patrick's voice was full of mock sorrow and outrage. "Have you taken so many innocent boys' virginity in your career that you cannot keep track anymore?"
Jiri clamped a hand over his mouth to prevent the sound he surely would have made, and sank to the floor, his back sliding against the wall. His heartbeat thudded in his ears and made him a little light-headed. Chris and PATRICK? Jiri struggled to comprehend what he'd heard and was dimly aware of Chris laughing again, more naturally this time.
"I didn't say that! I remember you, I remember... us. But the details, those are a bit fuzzy-"
"Fuzzy like a bearskin rug by a fireplace?"
Jiri muffled a small shriek against his hand, still clamped so tightly against his lips that they were starting to go numb. Chris merely laughed.
"Yes, fuzzy like that, now that you mention it." He continued to laugh to himself. "I'd forgotten we were on the rug, too... And by the way, you were NEVER innocent."
Both men laughed again as Jiri tried to make his breath slow to normal. He allowed his hand to drop from his mouth and attempted to grasp what he was hearing. He tried to pool his knowledge. Evidently at one point, in what Jiri dearly hoped was the Far Distant Past, Eons Ago, Chris had slept with Patrick. In a scene straight out of a bad romance novel, apparently. And Chris had been Patrick's FIRST...? Surely he'd misheard...
"Soooo," Chris drawled in a tone familiar to Jiri. Chris was getting ready to be an ass. "Did I prepare you well, young Patrick? Were those lovers you took in later years that happened to be male well pleased?"
Patrick snorted in contempt. "You always did pretend to be older and wiser than me. And I always hated it. Still hate it."
"Oh, deal with it," Chris replied airily. There was a slight creak of the floorboards, and Jiri pictured Chris leaning forward. "Besides, you don't have to answer," Chris said, his voice now a low, rasping purr. "I KNOW I fucked you well. You were very lucky to have me to introduce you to the wonders of the male body."
Jiri nearly choked into his clasped hands. Apparently, horrifyingly, he hadn't misheard after all.
There was silence on Patrick's end which Chris' next statement explained. "Don't roll your eyes at me, you know you enjoyed it. And you went on to have many wonderful experiences of your own. I've heard about many of them over the years."
"Locker room gossip..." Patrick began.
"...is usually about ninety percent correct," Chris finished. "Nearly as many as Sergei, is how I heard it."
"I think I am offended," Patrick returned, amused.
"Why? Is that estimate outrageously high or shamefully low?"
"Still an asshole, Chris. Some things never change."
Jiri could see as clearly as if it were in front of him: Chris' best fuck-you-with-no-lube-you-know-I'm-funny grin; Chris at last putting the shirt on the table and leaning back in his chair. His arms would be behind his head, the chair tipped back on its rear legs. Something Chris always admonished Jiri for doing, said it would damage the hardwood floor. Chris did it a lot himself, however. Jiri had once pointed out this double standard, but hadn't liked the answer at all.
"It's my house," Chris had said calmly, the chair squeaking in protest as it was tipped under Chris' weight. "If I hurt the floor, so be it. When you pay to live here, you can wreck anything you damn well please."
Jiri had been too hurt to reply. As his shock over what he'd just discovered began to fade, he could feel that hurt again, throbbing like a bone broken long ago. And could he also hear the squeak of the chair? He could.
"Adam Foote?" Chris was saying in disbelief, as Jiri came back to the present. "I heard the rumors but I couldn't believe it. He's so... so..."
"What can I say," Patrick said, and now Jiri could hear the grin in his voice, too. "I have a weakness for defensemen. Especially ones who are not... classically handsome. Eh Chris?"
No mistaking the real point of that comment, Jiri thought. Chris muttered something to low to hear, and Patrick laughed uproariously.
"Oh, enough about me," Patrick said when he'd calmed down. "I hear the gossip about you, too, yes? What was it I heard with you and Hull?"
"I don't know, what was it you heard?" Chris asked.
"People who answer questions with questions are either guilty or stupid and are always stalling for time, in my experience," Patrick intoned, adopting a philosopher's solemn voice. Jiri could still hear the laughter bubbling just beneath it. "Which is it with you, Chris?"
"Neither, I'm just trying to be specific," Chris said easily. "Brett and I've had two different relationships. I just wanted to know which one you were talking about."
"Oh?" Real interest from Patrick now.
There was a pause, and Jiri held his breath.
"We used to fuck," Chris answered at last. This Jiri knew, and he let out his breath slowly. Brett and Chris used to 'get it on' (as Brett himself always put it) at the all-star games and national games when they were younger, and occasionally when one of them was on the road. Jiri wondered idly if Chris was going to bring up JR.
"When he came to Detroit," Chris continued, "we took up where we left off for awhile, tried to make it a steady thing. But it didn't work out."
This, however, Jiri had NOT known. Too stunned to worry about making a sound, he simply let his mouth drop open.
"Ahh," Patrick purred with the air of one who has gotten to the heart of a particularly puzzling mystery. "But this was when you were already with your young Jiri...?"
"Just before, actually. And leave him out of this." There was a bang that could only be the front legs of the chair falling back to the floor. Unlike Patrick's earlier warning of where not to take the conversation, there was no good humor in Chris' voice.
"Ahh." Patrick said again, but this time he was polite, unassuming. Delicately letting the subject drop. Jiri looked at the nail marks on his palms in some confusion. He hadn't remembered tightening his fists. "So, it did not work out, with Brett? Why not?"
"He talked too much and I told him to shut up too much," Chris said promptly. Patrick laughed. "And we were both too old to change by then. That works for friends, but not for anything else. So friends are what we stayed. I already had my eye on Jiri, anyway. Had for a few years."
"Waited for him to grow up, did you?" Patrick's voice was shrewd. "Until he was legal. Never let it be said that Chris Chelios is not a NOBLE man." Patrick was mocking now.
"I told you to leave him out of this," Chris growled.
"You brought him up," Patrick reminded gently.
"Yeah, well..." Chris paused. "Anyway, Brett's in love with someone else."
Patrick laughed that quiet laugh again. "Modano? I know about them..."
"No, not Mike," Chris said. He paused again slightly. "Well, that's not completely true. Brett does love Mike, there's no doubt about that, but it's all wrapped up in other shit. Among other things, Brett feels like Mike needs him, needs to be taken care of. Brett loves him; but he's not IN love with him."
"Oates, then?" Patrick's voice grew even more amused. "Gretzky?"
"I don't know," Chris sounded indifferent, and though Jiri could not see his face, he knew Chris was bored with the topic, and beginning to mentally untangle himself from the debate at hand. "I don't know about the guys in his past. I do know one thing for sure, though. Brett Hull is, has been, and always will be in love with one man: Brett Hull."
The mocking was back in Patrick's voice. "Can I get an amen."
There was another lull in the conversation and Jiri shifted uncomfortably. He still sat against the wall where he'd slumped earlier, his long legs pulled up to his chest. His ass was beginning to go numb right around his tailbone, but he didn't want to move.
"And you?" Patrick asked suddenly. His voice was startling in the silence.
"And me what?" Chris sounded suspicious.
"Who are you in love with, Chris?" Patrick paused. "Or are you in love at all?"
There was a silence then that seemed to weigh on Jiri with every passing second. It was if the air above him had suddenly become too heavy to be borne, and his muscles began to cry out from the strain of it.
Say it! Jiri ordered from inside his head. The voice of his thoughts was outraged and a little scared by Chris' hesitation. Say it! Tell him! Tell him you love me! Tell him you're in love with me! Tell him those things, the things you tell me! Tell him what I know for the truth! The only truth that really matters! For Christ's sake!
"I don't know." Chris answered finally. "I thought once... I don't know." And now it was as if the air pressing down on Jiri had retreated back into space, leaving behind it a vacuum that sucked the breath out of his lungs and the thoughts out of his mind. Jiri sank back against the wall, utterly silent.
"Maybe you don't. If so, I am sorry," Patrick said softly. He paused again, and the only sound Jiri could hear was his own heartbeat. "I should go, I did not mean to wake you. Disturb you."
"No, it's okay," Chris said. Jiri heard the scraping of chairs as both men presumably stood. "It was nice seeing you again. Thanks for bringing back the shirt." The amusement was back in Chris' voice.
Amused, what a nice joke, what a pleasant visit. Bastard. Jiri's inner voice was back again, still outraged, but tired rather than scared. Unfeeling, selfish, cold-hearted son of a-
"You are most welcome," Patrick replied. And then there came a pregnant silence Jiri didn't like at all. And at last, he risked a small look. He peeked around the doorframe and into the kitchen just enough to let both of his eyes have a clear view, like a small animal in its burrow, checking to see if the coast is clear.
He saw Patrick and Chris on their feet, facing each other closely, holding each other (Jiri noted this last incredulously) lightly by the elbows. He watched as Patrick leaned close and kissed Chris' cheek, and then the other, and then his mouth. To this Chris submitted quietly, even fluttering his eyes closed as Patrick's lips touched his briefly. Jiri narrowed his eyes and was savagely glad that Patrick stepped quickly away. Chris may be an unfeeling bastard, but as of now, he was still Jiri's unfeeling bastard.
"I will find my own way out," Patrick said, his eyes and smile radiating good cheer. "If you are ever in Florida or Quebec, look me up."
"Will do," Chris said. He looked a little bemused, whether from the kiss or the invitation Jiri didn't know. He couldn't figure that out at the moment, as he was too busy trying to restrain himself from getting up, walking calmly into the kitchen and punching Chris in the nose. "Goodbye, Patrick."
"Adieu." Patrick turned and left the kitchen without another word. Jiri listened to his footsteps echo through the hall, the foyer, and finally heard the door snick shut. Chris let out a shaky breath and sank back down into his chair. He stared off into the distance for a few moments, and then his hands, as if of their own accord, picked up the t-shirt again. He stared down at it, and looked exactly as Jiri had imagined earlier. As if he were fascinated by the look and the feel of it, as if it were the first garment for the upper torso that Chris had ever come across in his life. As he was currently shirtless, this image was startlingly appropriate.
Jiri slowly rose to his feet, standing just inside the dining room. He suddenly became aware that he was trembling. As a professional athlete, he knew the difference between shaking with fear, shaking with adrenaline, and shaking with muscle fatigue; yes, he knew very well. What he was feeling right now was none of these. What was shaking his muscles at the moment was pure, unadulterated rage.
The way Jiri saw it, there were two things he could do. He could confront Chris now and beat him bloody, or he could save the confrontation until he calmed down. The former was far more persuasive to his current state of mind, and for a moment he fought with himself. At last, as Chris ran his hands distractedly over the cotton material, Jiri chose time. He collapsed back into his former position, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. He closed his eyes, not caring whether or not Chris had heard the soft thud of his body hitting the wall. Part of him hoped Chris HAD heard it, and would come to investigate, thus beginning the confrontation all on his own. That would be very convenient.
But Chris made no move. Jiri kept his eyes squeezed shut, hoping that if he waited long enough, he could open them back onto the bedroom, drenched in the early morning sun that slanted through the gauzy curtains; to see Chris sleeping next to him, mouth open and snoring as per usual. But when he did open his eyes, he only saw the shadowy dining room, the dark furniture towering around him with dusty dignity. He waited, indifferent to the parts of his body that threatened to go numb, for Chris to make a move. Any move.
But before this happened, despite his still-burning anger and his uncomfortable position, Jiri dozed off.
TBC
***
On to Chapter Two
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