we are surviving the off-season

[candle_beck]

So I played baseball today with my dad and brothers. We've got a routine, you see, we've been doing this for years. One of us pitches, one of us hits, and the others shag. You really only need two people, but it's better with at least three

Comments

Part II

[dreadnought]

Harden’s downturned eyes are a color that you would love to forget, and so you kick at him, your shoe clipping his face and he jerks backwards, falling off the bed. He has disappeared-that’s one down.

I love how you show the progression of Bobby's misery, from passive to lashing out at those attempting to help him, representative as they are of what he has himself lost.

He’s so fucking pretty. So far above you.

And happy. And what he was once.

Harden is saying hoarsely, “I’m gonna kill him. Hold him down for me, will you?”

Poor Richie. I suppose getting kicked off a bed by a drunk teammate would make me angry as well.

Oh god, please yes. You arch your back and stretch your hands over your head, searching for the headboard, but there’s no headboard on this bed. Pity.

I love how Bobby's worlds are colliding, past and present, as he in drunken lucidity sees and feels connections invisible in the light of day.

The morning, and the sun, the sky like spilled water, and the yellow light that exists only to show the absence next to you.

Again, beautiful. Heartwrenching.

You smile weakly at him. You would say, buy me a plane ticket, get me out of here. But nothing in you works anymore. You’re rich, aren’t you? You can afford to run away.

And any ephipanies reached tonight will be discarded tomorrow as products of a drunken imagination.

Harden’s got a knee pressed into your side, and you flash, either back or forwards, Mulder straddling you with his hands pinning your shoulders down, your collarbones hard in the cups of his palms, and you knew he would be there forever.

But he wasn't.

You close your eyes, because once you found everything you need to make a life complete, and once Mark Mulder was here and he’d wait until your mind was clean before waking you up, pulling off your shoes, popping the buttons on your shirt. His fingers curled around your hips, calluses scuffing up your skin and you were a two-seam, you were a slider, you were a change-up that was never properly timed. His hands together were the breadth of your chest, and you kissed him so hard your teeth would clack against his, and he’d smile when you’d drawn blood on his lips. Mulder’s mouth on your ribs and his hand pushing into your shorts, and you could say, again, again, with your breath choking you, but that’s all.

That’s all.

This paragraph makes me ache. Ache for the both of them, although more for Bobby, because I get the feeling the relationship is no longer there, from the depths and patterns of Bobby's despair.

You just want to go to sleep. There are things that you can dream about that will make getting up in the morning worth the memory.

When you are living for your dreams, that seems to me the ultimate tragedy.

“He’ll sleep it off,” you hear Street saying, and you open your eyes. Street is standing close to Harden, carefully slipping his arm around Harden’s shoulders, which give slightly under the weight. “He’ll be fine.”

Street leads him out of the room, and the last you see of them is Harden’s arm winding around Street’s waist, Harden’s hand hooking in Street’s jeans.

And you cover your face with your hands, gold and blood mixed up in your eyes, surrounded by perfection and it was only a year ago that you fit in.

I never have cogent or coherent words for your conclusions. I love the last line with a fierce passion. The two couples juxtaposed in the clearest way yet, Street and Harden so happy - but will that last? - and Bobby left behind in his own tears, with nothing but his dreams. Such a heartache of an ending, and yet so right.

Thanks for writing this! I truly enjoyed it. :)

Re: Part II

[candle_beck]

man, you are like the best thing ever. you make me think about stuff in a totally new way, as if it was written by someone else.

for example. i didn't really notice the parallel between harden/street and mulder/crosby. i was aware of crosby's envy of everyone else around him, but not in such clear lines. now, though, it is so obvious. musta been blind.

you rock my socks. please don't stop.