ES21 Fic: Pigskin Pals
I was re-reading the Devilbats vs. Aliens game, and this kind of ambushed me. So, no real structure, no real point: just me trying to get back into the habit of writing.
Title: Pigskin Pals
Author: Reston
Summary: Homer and Panther. Gen.
Disclaimer: My writing; someone else’s characters.
Warnings: None, really. PG-13 for language (teenage boys acting like teenage boys).
They’re good cleats-low-cut style, removable studs, real leather in the upper-Homer made sure of that when he bought them. He shoved them in Panther’s face right before practice with a casual, “Here,” and now Panther’s cradling them in his big hands like they’re pure gold. He looks up at Homer, and the expression on Panther’s face is enough to make Homer look away, embarrassed and pleased.
“Come on, man,” says Homer. “You can’t run on turf in ratty sneakers-you’ll break your ass in half. Everyone knows that.”
Panther grins, slow and wide. “These are sweet shoes, Homer,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Homer. “Don’t expect anything at Christmas.”
Panther’s laugh is delighted. He surprises Homer by catching him in a huge hug, wrapping both his arms around Homer and squeezing tight. “You’re all right, home run.”
Homer pushes at Panther. “You’re welcome, okay?” But Panther’s making like a giant black squid. “No, seriously. Leggo.”
___________________________________________________
“Can it, dumbass, and listen to me,” snarls Homer, trying to beat it into Panther’s thick head for the hundred thousandth time. “You won’t even get a locker as long as that dickhead’s running the team, much less get to play!”
“Chill, Homer,” says Panther. He pulls his sweat-soaked tank top over the top of his head and rummages around his duffel bag for a clean one. “The man was in the pros, all right? Eventually he’s going to realize I can help.”
“Are you high?” snaps Homer. “He’ll never realize anything! He’s been ignoring you for years, Panther, so unless you’re planning to one day wake up white-”
“It’s not that bad,” says Panther. “Coach’s better than that.”
Homer has to take a deep breath. “Look, man, just let me talk to him,” he says. “You want to play, you should play. It’ll be just me and Watt, not a big scene or anything. We’ll make him listen.”
“But I don’t want that,” says Panther. “I want to earn-”
Homer slams his palm into the wall, making Panther jump. “You stubborn little-” He hurls his uniform into his locker. “Forget it!”
___________________________________________________
Panther’s curled up on the hotel bed in a quiet ball, still save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. Watt left a while ago, so the only noises in the room are the hum of the air conditioning and the foreign voices babbling on the TV, the muted ebb and flow of passing traffic.
From his bed, all Homer can see of Panther is the defeated curve of his back. He gets up and braces one hand on the mattress beside Panther’s head, pulling the ice-wrapped towel away from Panther’s face to inspect the damage.
“You might bruise tomorrow,” he says.
“You decked me pretty hard,” says Panther, eyes closed.
Silence. Homer gets fresh ice from the ice bucket and folds it into the cold, wet towel. He returns to the bed, pressing the towel against Panther’s cheek.
After a moment, Panther shifts to look at Homer. “I get it, all right?” he says. “It’s cool.”
Homer’s shoulders unclench for the first time since his fist met Panther’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally able to say it, and sits there, holding the ice to Panther’s swelling skin.
___________________________________________________
Homer eyes the skull-sized pile of porridge in front of him. He holds up a spoonful, letting the grey-yellow mush glop down. “Panther?” he says, an edge of menace in his voice.
Panther’s busy acting like a starving refugee. “Wha.”
“What kind of garbage-”
Panther claps a hand over Homer’s mouth. Homer makes a muffled, outraged noise, but Panther just clamps down tighter, big eyes even bigger than usual, frantically miming for Homer to shut up.
Belatedly, Homer hears the footsteps. He wrenches his head away and shoves a spoonful of porridge into his mouth, swallowing fast to avoid the taste. The two of them show Panther’s granny identical smiles as she plods through the kitchen on old, creaking knees, round body swaying from side to side.
“How’s breakfast, boys?” she says.
“Great as always!” says Panther at the same time Homer says, “Just fine!”
“Good, good,” she says. She sashays out.
Panther sighs in relief. Then he grins at Homer. “Saved your ass.”
“Shut up,” says Homer. He dumps his porridge onto Panther’s plate, sneaking Panther’s glass of milk over to his side of the table to rinse out his mouth. “Swear to God, your granny’s going to kill me someday.”
___________________________________________________
Homer hands off the ball to Panther and gets a glimpse of Panther taking off at full speed just before he’s tackled. Panther running is a loose, fluid economy of motion, long-limbed strides and smoothly shifting muscle, tall body bounding forward with endless energy, limitless grace. He makes everyone else on the field look slow.
He dodges the Gonzales brothers, evades Bolton and Tommy, weaves around Carson at the 10-yard-line. Within moments he’s sprinting into the end zone, both hands upraised. Homer can hear him whooping from almost halfway across the field.
“It’s a practice game, stupid!” shouts Homer. “You’re playing your own team.”
Panther either doesn’t hear or doesn’t choose to hear-he continues carrying on, leaping and hollering and dirtying his brand new uniform. Homer shakes his head.
“Look at this guy,” he mutters, but the sheer joy written into every line of Panther’s body is the best thing Homer’s seen in a long while, and soon Homer is also laughing out loud.
910 words.
Title: Pigskin Pals
Author: Reston
Summary: Homer and Panther. Gen.
Disclaimer: My writing; someone else’s characters.
Warnings: None, really. PG-13 for language (teenage boys acting like teenage boys).
They’re good cleats-low-cut style, removable studs, real leather in the upper-Homer made sure of that when he bought them. He shoved them in Panther’s face right before practice with a casual, “Here,” and now Panther’s cradling them in his big hands like they’re pure gold. He looks up at Homer, and the expression on Panther’s face is enough to make Homer look away, embarrassed and pleased.
“Come on, man,” says Homer. “You can’t run on turf in ratty sneakers-you’ll break your ass in half. Everyone knows that.”
Panther grins, slow and wide. “These are sweet shoes, Homer,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Homer. “Don’t expect anything at Christmas.”
Panther’s laugh is delighted. He surprises Homer by catching him in a huge hug, wrapping both his arms around Homer and squeezing tight. “You’re all right, home run.”
Homer pushes at Panther. “You’re welcome, okay?” But Panther’s making like a giant black squid. “No, seriously. Leggo.”
___________________________________________________
“Can it, dumbass, and listen to me,” snarls Homer, trying to beat it into Panther’s thick head for the hundred thousandth time. “You won’t even get a locker as long as that dickhead’s running the team, much less get to play!”
“Chill, Homer,” says Panther. He pulls his sweat-soaked tank top over the top of his head and rummages around his duffel bag for a clean one. “The man was in the pros, all right? Eventually he’s going to realize I can help.”
“Are you high?” snaps Homer. “He’ll never realize anything! He’s been ignoring you for years, Panther, so unless you’re planning to one day wake up white-”
“It’s not that bad,” says Panther. “Coach’s better than that.”
Homer has to take a deep breath. “Look, man, just let me talk to him,” he says. “You want to play, you should play. It’ll be just me and Watt, not a big scene or anything. We’ll make him listen.”
“But I don’t want that,” says Panther. “I want to earn-”
Homer slams his palm into the wall, making Panther jump. “You stubborn little-” He hurls his uniform into his locker. “Forget it!”
___________________________________________________
Panther’s curled up on the hotel bed in a quiet ball, still save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. Watt left a while ago, so the only noises in the room are the hum of the air conditioning and the foreign voices babbling on the TV, the muted ebb and flow of passing traffic.
From his bed, all Homer can see of Panther is the defeated curve of his back. He gets up and braces one hand on the mattress beside Panther’s head, pulling the ice-wrapped towel away from Panther’s face to inspect the damage.
“You might bruise tomorrow,” he says.
“You decked me pretty hard,” says Panther, eyes closed.
Silence. Homer gets fresh ice from the ice bucket and folds it into the cold, wet towel. He returns to the bed, pressing the towel against Panther’s cheek.
After a moment, Panther shifts to look at Homer. “I get it, all right?” he says. “It’s cool.”
Homer’s shoulders unclench for the first time since his fist met Panther’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally able to say it, and sits there, holding the ice to Panther’s swelling skin.
___________________________________________________
Homer eyes the skull-sized pile of porridge in front of him. He holds up a spoonful, letting the grey-yellow mush glop down. “Panther?” he says, an edge of menace in his voice.
Panther’s busy acting like a starving refugee. “Wha.”
“What kind of garbage-”
Panther claps a hand over Homer’s mouth. Homer makes a muffled, outraged noise, but Panther just clamps down tighter, big eyes even bigger than usual, frantically miming for Homer to shut up.
Belatedly, Homer hears the footsteps. He wrenches his head away and shoves a spoonful of porridge into his mouth, swallowing fast to avoid the taste. The two of them show Panther’s granny identical smiles as she plods through the kitchen on old, creaking knees, round body swaying from side to side.
“How’s breakfast, boys?” she says.
“Great as always!” says Panther at the same time Homer says, “Just fine!”
“Good, good,” she says. She sashays out.
Panther sighs in relief. Then he grins at Homer. “Saved your ass.”
“Shut up,” says Homer. He dumps his porridge onto Panther’s plate, sneaking Panther’s glass of milk over to his side of the table to rinse out his mouth. “Swear to God, your granny’s going to kill me someday.”
___________________________________________________
Homer hands off the ball to Panther and gets a glimpse of Panther taking off at full speed just before he’s tackled. Panther running is a loose, fluid economy of motion, long-limbed strides and smoothly shifting muscle, tall body bounding forward with endless energy, limitless grace. He makes everyone else on the field look slow.
He dodges the Gonzales brothers, evades Bolton and Tommy, weaves around Carson at the 10-yard-line. Within moments he’s sprinting into the end zone, both hands upraised. Homer can hear him whooping from almost halfway across the field.
“It’s a practice game, stupid!” shouts Homer. “You’re playing your own team.”
Panther either doesn’t hear or doesn’t choose to hear-he continues carrying on, leaping and hollering and dirtying his brand new uniform. Homer shakes his head.
“Look at this guy,” he mutters, but the sheer joy written into every line of Panther’s body is the best thing Homer’s seen in a long while, and soon Homer is also laughing out loud.
910 words.