*Anna Furnier sat on the divan in the living room, watching the snow fall, despairing for her youngest son. She could see him, dark and bulky against the fresh layer of snow, making his way towards the house...*

"Dammit!" #Normally, such a word would never pass his lips. However, this was the fourth time he'd tripped over some minor variation in the slush on the sidewalk and had gone sprawling. His mittens were soaked through, as were the knees of his wool pants and the sleeves of his sweater, up to his elbows. Sighing, he gathered up his backpack (also soaked, no doubt), the enormous gear-bag he was obliged to drag to and from school and home, and his stick, which was an awkward thing to carry no matter how you looked at it.#

*Awkward. That was pretty much the only word for him. Almost as tall as his older brothers at a measly twelve years of age, he was all knees and elbows, and almost astonishingly clumsy. Last week, she'd heard him apologizing profusely to Sara-Jean, promising her a new tea set... Apparently, he'd obliviously (and completely accidentally) dropped all of his textbooks on it in the dark. His coordination seemed to leave a lot to be desired, or at least that's what his last P.E. teacher had noted last quarter. (The cantankerous old man had subsequently been fired for not only failing some rich guy's kid but having the audacity to remark that the child was about as likely an athlete as the couch before the television where they -obviously- spent so much time... Only in rather more base terms.) Mrs. Furnier abandoned whatever chore she'd been trying to occupy herself with and gave herself over to a rare bout of unbridled Maternal Worry.*

#The worry-ee, however, is aware of none of this. His little sister's tea-set occupies more of his thoughts, as does the idea of quitting school to play hockey all day. He was beginning to get -good- at it, which was not a common occurrence for him... He was much more used to -trying- to do things, over and over again, rather than actually getting a handle on it from the beginning. The concepts were really quite simple... Hold the stick like so, push the black rubber thing like that, skate this way, try not to fall down, and if you get the puck into the goal, hooray! It did make him wonder, though, why he, who couldn't seem to walk the thirty-five yards from the bus stop to his house without ending up a dripping mess, could stay upright on the decidedly treacherous surface of an ice rink. Reaching his driveway at long soggy last, he pauses to look up to the front window, grinning and waving to his mother when he spies her.*

~And now, a small warp...~
Jacob! Jake, that was -not- a _pass_. -Passes- are _gentle_... There was no way... *He pauses, searching for the kid's name. What was it? Oh, yes.* Tad could have caught that. It wasn't a pass. Get in line and try it again. *Coach Garsville sighed and shook his head, turning to watch the other line of would-be Gretzkys.*

#Green eyes of a particularly intriguing shade followed the graceful motions of puck and stick, both of which are casually, familiarly handled by Cory, a young man with the mythical title of 'high schooler'. Marc, breaking the rules of the drill, darted forward and tried to whisk the puck away from him.#

Furnier! Haven't we had a discussion about this before? *Coach glowered down at Marc, who'd screeched to a halt but kept tapping the puck back and forth between his feet.*

"Um... I guess so."

*The man shook his head and pointed to where Lloyd Bendersby waited for his turn.* This is -passing- practice. Give that to Bendersby and get back in line!

#Nodding silently, he drifted towards the main queue, glancing up to catch the contemptuous look on Lloyd's face. Yet another way to win friends and influence people... Handing off the bit of rubber, he skates past the handful of other teammates (and Cory) to take up his place in the line. Yeah, it was passing practice... But he -liked- being... What was that word mother used? Pro-something. Pro... He didn't remember. He just liked the thought of 'protecting' the goal from the onslaught of the opponents (real or imagined, though his imaginary foes often took on the exaggerated features common to the fantasies of boys), and he knew enough that being defense often meant you got to steal the puck from whoever was trying to score. That he should get yelled at for showing such intelligence chafed, and especially after he'd -succeeded- in getting it away from Cory!#

~And again...~
#Skating drills were the worst. Dropping his gloves, he skated a few feet away and picked up his stick. Going around in circles... Bah! Keeping the toe in the vicinity of the gloves, he stroked backwards, describing a tight circle. Deep down, he -knew- all of this had a purpose... When the Pipers had their first game, they'd see how their practice paid off... Right now, though, Marc would -much- rather be sitting down, or working on his defensive stance, or something... Anything but skating in circles!#

#Circles, circles, always circles... He thought that was one reason he was failing geometry, he hated any circles that weren't blue and holding him in the center... But it didn't explain English or science or social studies... He wished Coach would call for a break soon, he was getting really warm...# "Oh..." #That would explain being too warm. Blinking a couple of times, Marc-Paul considered his present location of half-under another warm body and what surely must be all of the blankets, folded double. The dream-memories are picked up and pondered for a few minutes, before he decides to attribute it to eating cream of mushroom(!) soup before bed.... Sighing softly, almost contentedly, he tugs at the bedclothes until his feet are exposed to the cool night air and sleepily planting a small kiss on whatever bit of shoulder is handiest.#

#Exposing his feet and calves to the cooler air of the room helps a bit, but not quite enough. Doing his best not to wake up anymore than he already has, Marc struggles to push the uppermost blanket off and back over his bedmate, who's currently doing their best to imitate a rock. -There-... Once the layers of quilts had been reduced, the defenseman settled into stillness, remembering... Or -trying- to, anyhow. What he really wanted to do was go back to sleep, but his trapped right arm was all pins-and-needles, which was keeping him awake. Pressing his elbow up into the ribcage holding it down is accompanied by a low mumble of not-words and a simultaneous (and gentle) shove of the aforementioned shoulder.#

#...At the lack of a response, Marc-Paul grows a bit more insistent, actually forming an intelligible phrase.# "Mov'it..."

*Not that it had much -effect-, mind you. The varying pressures do seem to filter through to Victor's sleep-sodden consciousness, and he does move a bit.*

#Taking advantage of the minute shift towards the far side of the bed, Marc retrieves his dead-feeling arm, wriggling his fingers in an attempt to restore bloodflow. Turning onto his left side, he curled up a bit more, nestled into the comfortable hollow formed by his sleeping teammate, and soon dropped off once again.# ((Das Ende. *Blink* Food, no sex... How 'bout that?))

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