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icarusHi guys, here's an unexpected bit of Out Of Bounds, set much earlier in the story, from Rodney's childhood. It's going to slide in before John and Rodney go to the Schmidt Center, actually.
This story is proving the truism of its name. It is beyond my control. Hah.
Out Of Bounds
By Icarus
Rodney was short for seventh grade, with wavy hair that fell past his ears, slim and smaller than the other kids, though he'd once picked up "Tiny" -- who weighed over a hundred and fifty pounds -- and spun him around on a dare. He stopped getting flicked on the back of the head by kids who didn't like him after that, and got flicked by people who liked him instead. His dad drove him to school every day after skate practice, which kept him a little out of the loop, but Rodney had made friends on the bus when he rode home in the afternoon.
Three of his friends waited on porch, hanging back, uncomfortable, having never been to Rodney's house before. "Jet" Bradley, his hands sticky and covered with dirt, hung onto the soccer ball, chewing gum as he leaned back against the wrought iron railing around the porch, while Dave and Andrea Phearson swung on the rail at the bottom step.
Rodney's house was nicer than theirs, but they were all nice enough not to mention it.
Rodney dropped his book bag on the floor while his dad closed the heavy door, shutting his friends out of the conversation.
"—I'll be back in an hour, tops," Rodney urged his dad.
Rodney's father tipped his head at him, arms folded across his barrel of a chest. His wire frame glasses had slid halfway down his nose. "You have homework and a five a.m. skate time."
Rodney had expected that. He glanced over his shoulder at the door and licked his lips, hoping his friends were still there. "It won't take me but five minutes. I can do it when I get back from the park," he promised brightly.
"Do your homework first. You have to be in bed by eight o'clock."
"Dad! They're going now!"
"Four a.m. comes around faster than you think. No."
"But they're my friends!" Rodney's shoulders sank in desperation.
"Everyone has friends, Rodney. You have talent. And that means sacrifices, for all of us. Do you think I enjoy getting up this early in the morning? But I do this for you." His father stabbed a finger in his direction.
"But--!"
"No buts." His father sighed heavily, jaw squared and unrelenting. "Finish your homework first and then you can go."
Dispirited, Rodney slunk down the stairs to the sidewalk where his friends looked like they were ready to leave. They rolled their eyes as he promised to meet them later, not in the least bit surprised. Jet spun the soccer ball in his hands and said they didn't mind. Rodney retreated back up the stairs, watching them through the lace curtains in the living room with a hopeful wave as they left, kicking the ball between them, down the sidewalk and into street. They didn't notice his wave.
Rodney raced up the stairs, cursing his dad loud enough for him to hear. He slammed his door but had his school books spread out on the little mahogany desk in seconds.
An hour later, the sound of heavy scuffing footsteps came up the stairs. The door to Rodney's room creaked as his father pushed it open, though it stopped halfway, caught by the pile of dirty clothes behind it.
Science equipment littered every dresser and tabletop, with more on the unused top bunk above Rodney's bed, while a telescope had fallen out of the closet onto the floor. Skating posters were tacked to every wall, with Rodney's favorites tacked to the wall by his bed -- all male figure skaters, with his very favorite hidden from view where it was taped to the bottom of the bunk overhead. Curled clippings about his own skating were taped to the closet mirror and the mirror in Rodney's bathroom where the light had been left on again.
Rodney's desk was set in front of the window, parting the curtains. And even though it was still daylight, Rodney was sprawled in his chair, face squashed against the textbook, fast asleep. There was a long blue pen mark along one cheek and his pen had rolled to the crack of the book.
His dad was careful not to wake him, murmuring in his ear. Rodney moved with his eyes mostly closed, almost sleep walking as his dad chivvied him out of his jeans and shoes, and into bed. Only the top of his brown head showed as he sighed and sniffed. He rolled over towards the wall, pulling the blankets with him.
Downstairs, his father stood in the kitchen and said, "We need to move his supper earlier."
~*~*~
The gleaming black SUV purred in front of John's apartment building. Despite the cold, the tinted driver's side window rolled down, as smooth as black silk, while Rodney climbed out the side door.
"I wish you could come with us to Montreal…" the unfamiliar woman in red was saying, one gloved hand curled around the steering wheel. She was nearly invisible behind her dark glasses.
Rodney stood stiffly with his back to John, but his voice was clipped. "Well. You know my policy."
"C'mon, Rod-neeeeey…." A tiny little girl in a lilac snowsuit that almost hid her completely hopped down from the SUV. She was no higher than Rodney's hip as she tugged on his belt, leaning backward with her full weight. Rodney didn't budge a millimeter. "Pleeeeease?"
Rodney shook his head and tiredly pulled her upright. Steadying her hips, he knelt down on the sidewalk and held up a forefinger in front of her face. She raised her chin to see past the cinched hood of the snowsuit.
"Take some time before you skate, remember what I said," Rodney insisted with very adult intensity, waiting a moment to catch distracted eyes. "Don't compete the whole time!"
She nodded twice, decisive, chewing on the drawstring of her hood.
"Good. Now up--" Rodney lifted her easily under her arms, swinging her into the back seat of the SUV, then slid the door shut on well-oiled hinges. "And good luck," he said, perfunctory, with an insincere smile. He patted the door and waved to the woman as the window whirred back up. Rodney watched them as they pulled away.
"Policy-?" John prompted.
"I don't do competitions." Rodney scowled after them as the vehicle reached the corner. The turn signal flashed. "That woman should get a dog and take it to shows."
"She looked like a pretty tough kid to me," John said just to mollify him. Actually what he really thought was that he didn't know skates even came that small.
"Tough?! Like hell!" Rodney squawked. "She's so fragile you could break her just by breathing wrong! I don't think she actually skates -- she just floats over the ice like a fruit fly!" His gestures flew. "Her mother wants her to 'get used to' the pressure of competing, as if that's possible. And of course -- of course! -- all her little friends are going, so she just has to follow like a little lemming. That way they can all have cartilage damage and arthritis in their thirties, chat about the good old days as they sit around in rocking chairs."
John stared at him quietly a moment. Then said, "Didn't you used to compete as a kid?"
Rodney didn't answer.
As they slid into the front seat of John's car, John chewed his lip and finally asked, with a pensive intake of breath, "You're going to my competitions, right?"
"Of course I am," Rodney said with an off-handed flutter of his fingers, then returned to chewing his thumbnail and staring out the side window. John nodded slowly as if this made sense, unwilling to push it as he put the car in gear.
No music for this one. :)
This story is proving the truism of its name. It is beyond my control. Hah.
Out Of Bounds
By Icarus
Rodney was short for seventh grade, with wavy hair that fell past his ears, slim and smaller than the other kids, though he'd once picked up "Tiny" -- who weighed over a hundred and fifty pounds -- and spun him around on a dare. He stopped getting flicked on the back of the head by kids who didn't like him after that, and got flicked by people who liked him instead. His dad drove him to school every day after skate practice, which kept him a little out of the loop, but Rodney had made friends on the bus when he rode home in the afternoon.
Three of his friends waited on porch, hanging back, uncomfortable, having never been to Rodney's house before. "Jet" Bradley, his hands sticky and covered with dirt, hung onto the soccer ball, chewing gum as he leaned back against the wrought iron railing around the porch, while Dave and Andrea Phearson swung on the rail at the bottom step.
Rodney's house was nicer than theirs, but they were all nice enough not to mention it.
Rodney dropped his book bag on the floor while his dad closed the heavy door, shutting his friends out of the conversation.
"—I'll be back in an hour, tops," Rodney urged his dad.
Rodney's father tipped his head at him, arms folded across his barrel of a chest. His wire frame glasses had slid halfway down his nose. "You have homework and a five a.m. skate time."
Rodney had expected that. He glanced over his shoulder at the door and licked his lips, hoping his friends were still there. "It won't take me but five minutes. I can do it when I get back from the park," he promised brightly.
"Do your homework first. You have to be in bed by eight o'clock."
"Dad! They're going now!"
"Four a.m. comes around faster than you think. No."
"But they're my friends!" Rodney's shoulders sank in desperation.
"Everyone has friends, Rodney. You have talent. And that means sacrifices, for all of us. Do you think I enjoy getting up this early in the morning? But I do this for you." His father stabbed a finger in his direction.
"But--!"
"No buts." His father sighed heavily, jaw squared and unrelenting. "Finish your homework first and then you can go."
Dispirited, Rodney slunk down the stairs to the sidewalk where his friends looked like they were ready to leave. They rolled their eyes as he promised to meet them later, not in the least bit surprised. Jet spun the soccer ball in his hands and said they didn't mind. Rodney retreated back up the stairs, watching them through the lace curtains in the living room with a hopeful wave as they left, kicking the ball between them, down the sidewalk and into street. They didn't notice his wave.
Rodney raced up the stairs, cursing his dad loud enough for him to hear. He slammed his door but had his school books spread out on the little mahogany desk in seconds.
An hour later, the sound of heavy scuffing footsteps came up the stairs. The door to Rodney's room creaked as his father pushed it open, though it stopped halfway, caught by the pile of dirty clothes behind it.
Science equipment littered every dresser and tabletop, with more on the unused top bunk above Rodney's bed, while a telescope had fallen out of the closet onto the floor. Skating posters were tacked to every wall, with Rodney's favorites tacked to the wall by his bed -- all male figure skaters, with his very favorite hidden from view where it was taped to the bottom of the bunk overhead. Curled clippings about his own skating were taped to the closet mirror and the mirror in Rodney's bathroom where the light had been left on again.
Rodney's desk was set in front of the window, parting the curtains. And even though it was still daylight, Rodney was sprawled in his chair, face squashed against the textbook, fast asleep. There was a long blue pen mark along one cheek and his pen had rolled to the crack of the book.
His dad was careful not to wake him, murmuring in his ear. Rodney moved with his eyes mostly closed, almost sleep walking as his dad chivvied him out of his jeans and shoes, and into bed. Only the top of his brown head showed as he sighed and sniffed. He rolled over towards the wall, pulling the blankets with him.
Downstairs, his father stood in the kitchen and said, "We need to move his supper earlier."
~*~*~
The gleaming black SUV purred in front of John's apartment building. Despite the cold, the tinted driver's side window rolled down, as smooth as black silk, while Rodney climbed out the side door.
"I wish you could come with us to Montreal…" the unfamiliar woman in red was saying, one gloved hand curled around the steering wheel. She was nearly invisible behind her dark glasses.
Rodney stood stiffly with his back to John, but his voice was clipped. "Well. You know my policy."
"C'mon, Rod-neeeeey…." A tiny little girl in a lilac snowsuit that almost hid her completely hopped down from the SUV. She was no higher than Rodney's hip as she tugged on his belt, leaning backward with her full weight. Rodney didn't budge a millimeter. "Pleeeeease?"
Rodney shook his head and tiredly pulled her upright. Steadying her hips, he knelt down on the sidewalk and held up a forefinger in front of her face. She raised her chin to see past the cinched hood of the snowsuit.
"Take some time before you skate, remember what I said," Rodney insisted with very adult intensity, waiting a moment to catch distracted eyes. "Don't compete the whole time!"
She nodded twice, decisive, chewing on the drawstring of her hood.
"Good. Now up--" Rodney lifted her easily under her arms, swinging her into the back seat of the SUV, then slid the door shut on well-oiled hinges. "And good luck," he said, perfunctory, with an insincere smile. He patted the door and waved to the woman as the window whirred back up. Rodney watched them as they pulled away.
"Policy-?" John prompted.
"I don't do competitions." Rodney scowled after them as the vehicle reached the corner. The turn signal flashed. "That woman should get a dog and take it to shows."
"She looked like a pretty tough kid to me," John said just to mollify him. Actually what he really thought was that he didn't know skates even came that small.
"Tough?! Like hell!" Rodney squawked. "She's so fragile you could break her just by breathing wrong! I don't think she actually skates -- she just floats over the ice like a fruit fly!" His gestures flew. "Her mother wants her to 'get used to' the pressure of competing, as if that's possible. And of course -- of course! -- all her little friends are going, so she just has to follow like a little lemming. That way they can all have cartilage damage and arthritis in their thirties, chat about the good old days as they sit around in rocking chairs."
John stared at him quietly a moment. Then said, "Didn't you used to compete as a kid?"
Rodney didn't answer.
As they slid into the front seat of John's car, John chewed his lip and finally asked, with a pensive intake of breath, "You're going to my competitions, right?"
"Of course I am," Rodney said with an off-handed flutter of his fingers, then returned to chewing his thumbnail and staring out the side window. John nodded slowly as if this made sense, unwilling to push it as he put the car in gear.
No music for this one. :)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 07:02 am (UTC)And how did you get into my head and find my version of Rodney's dad? Because, okay, ignoring the skating stuff, that is exactly the family dynamic he came from.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 07:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 07:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 08:49 am (UTC)Busy tonight. Would you like the next part (http://icarusancalion.livejournal.com/645447.html)? *g*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 01:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 06:01 pm (UTC)