basefall fic!
This actually needs a lot of explanation, or maybe it doesn't? Anyway, it's probably the best thing I wrote this year.
Title: Down the Line
Fandom: MLB
Pairing: Kyle Davies/Kelly Johnson
Rating: R
Summary: Set in June 2009, Kelly has a crisis and drives to Kyle's triple A field.
Notes: Thank you so much to chlorate for the beta read, and for correcting my spelling of Jurrjens, omg /EMBARRASSING lol
He leaves without bothering to figure out how to get there. Just drives north, then west. It's early, and when he looks into the other cars and sees people in pressed shirts and ties, headed to work, he doesn't envy them anymore. For the first time in awhile, he's glad that he's headed toward a herculean task that seems to promise certain death. He buys a map when he stops for gas in Tennessee and his phone rings as he's headed back to the car. It's his wife, and for some reason he answers.
“What is this note?” she asks.
“It's exactly what it says it is.”
“Kelly, no.”
“Lauren, yes. I'll be back on Monday.”
“Did you even tell anyone you're leaving? Anyone on the team?”
“Brian sort of knows. They don't need me. I'm on the DL.”
“I know that.” She's quiet for awhile. “Where are you going, exactly?”
“Nowhere.”
“Are you going to kill yourself?”
“Probably not.” He's always appreciated his wife's practicality. She'd probably like to know in advance so she could start making funeral arrangements. Maybe put up a profile on one of those dating websites. He imagines her going on blind dates, seven months pregnant with his child. He imagines the guys asking her if she knows Chipper Jones. Then a rash of copycat suicides: Jeff first, though his would actually be a murder, staged by Catie to look like a suicide, then Brian immediately afterward, and finally Kyle. But who the fuck is he kidding, Kyle wouldn't want to associate himself with the epidemic. He'd find the whole thing terribly unoriginal and melodramatic. He wouldn't even come to the funerals. Which would all be arranged by Catie, come to think of it. There would be cocktail napkins with Bible quotes about death being the next great adventure. Or maybe that's something he heard in a Harry Potter movie on a flight to Orlando.
So this is pretty much his state of mind as he drives to Omaha.
The weather is good, which annoys him. The radio is a wasteland of commercials for theme parks and Taylor Swift songs. Kelly holds the wheel with both hands and thinks about the fact that he's basically an unemployed millionaire. What is he going to tell this kid when it's born? She'll just ask him if he ever knew Chipper Jones. God, he hopes it's a girl. He is not the kind of person who should be trusted with a son.
The phone rings again when he's halfway through Nebraska. It's Brian, so Kelly doesn't answer. What the hell does Brian have to say to mere mortals these days? Not a lot, usually. Usually he stares into space from behind those fucking bizarro world glasses and looks genuinely surprised and a little frightened by attempts at conversation, the way he used to look at reporters, who are now his real best friends. At least he's started drinking again. He was unbearable when he wasn't drinking.
When Jeff calls, Kelly answers. He never gets tired of hearing from the only person on the team - in the world? - who is worse off than him. Of course, Jeff still has a job, but it's just another cruel reminder - remainder - of 2005, so it's kind of salt in the wound anyway.
“Where are you?” Jeff asks. He's practically shouting, probably driving somewhere himself. Jeff's only remaining armor is that huge truck, the only thing he owns that he really values anymore, because it's a place where he used to fuck Brian.
“I'm on the highway,” Kelly says.
“What do you mean you're on it?”
“In my car, Jeff.”
“Oh.” He sounds relieved. Of course everyone thinks he's going to kill himself over this. He's got to admit that he's the kind of guy who would.
“Well,” Jeff says. “Are you coming to batting practice?”
“No, Jeff.”
“Don't say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I'm eight years old! Like you're telling me there's no Santa Claus.”
Kelly wouldn't be surprised if that was news to Jeff, the kind of thing that would crush him. Lately the whole world seems as if it was designed to crush Jeff, which Kelly kind of hates him for, because Kelly is getting crushed in the meantime and nobody really cares, it's not as dramatic. It's just a thing that happens to most ballplayers, and he's always been one of those, whereas Jeff was supposed to be something else, but it turns out he's just really good looking.
“I'm feeling so goddamn sorry for myself,” Kelly says. “I didn't want to be around anyone.” Except the person he's driving to Omaha to see, who doesn't count.
“You'll bounce back,” Jeff says. “It happens to everyone. Things are gonna be okay.”
“We've been saying that since the end of 2006 and I'm starting to think it's not true.” Saying so does feel like telling Jeff that there is no Santa Claus: There is no division championship, Jeff. Not for the likes of us, anyway.
“God,” Jeff says. “I'm going crazy here. Who am I supposed to talk to if you're gone?”
“I'm not gone.”
“Brian made the All-Star team.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Jeff hums out a little noise of protest. As if Brian doesn't deserve it. He and Kelly know now, without a doubt: they will never go. It's such a sham anyway, such a disgusting, pointless pageant. The whole thing is starting to feel that way, except that Brian is still really good and Kelly and Jeff and Joey and Kyle and Blaine and Chuckie just really aren't. God, Kelly never dreamed that he'd end up like Chuckie, or at least not this soon.
“Did you see all that shit that he said, about how Vazquez and Jurrjens should have made it?” Jeff asks. He scoffs. “Why the fuck does he have to do that every year? It's so fucking fake.”
“Suddenly it's news to me that Brian is a fucking fake?”
“Don't say that,” Jeff says softly, wounded by the fact that Kelly thinks he'll agree, and it actually physically hurts to hear Jeff defend Brian, because what is it going to take before he stops?
“Listen, have a good game tonight, alright?” Kelly says, though he admitted to himself about a month ago that seeing the other guys fail is more comforting than anything he's ever known and he's always secretly rooting for them to do it. “I gotta go.”
“Yeah, but where are you going?”
“Nowhere! Yellowstone Park, okay? What does it matter? I'll be back on Monday.”
“Monday!”
“What difference does it make? I'm on the 15-day.”
“It makes a difference,” Jeff says glumly, and Kelly knows that he's all that Jeff has left, but it's perverse, because Kelly was always Brian's friend more than Jeff's, and honestly, back in the good old days, Jeff was just the cheerful moron who was fucking a constant smile onto Brian's face and Kelly was just putting up with him because he needed a place to live. So now they're supposed to be friends - whatever. Jeff sighs dramatically and Kelly hangs up on him.
Kelly stops in St. Joseph, a couple of hours out of Omaha. He's not sure where Kyle's apartment is - if he's in an apartment? Maybe a motel with a meth lab downstairs, about to blow? He doesn't even know the AAA park where Kyle's playing at is or what the fuck he's going to say when he gets there. Something like, 'Hey, did you hear the good news? We can be losers together in peace. Except my wife is pregnant, so not really.' He calls Kyle's old cell number and of course it's disconnected. He gets a frozen yogurt and ignores another call from Brian, then calls Joey, and is surprised when he actually answers.
“Where are you?” Kelly asks, and he hates that this is always the first question out of his mouth when he calls someone's cell phone. He likes the idea of land lines, of being able to picture a phone on a particular table in a particular room as you listen to it ring.
“In Atlanta,” Joey says. The original plan was to spend time with his team while he recovered from his Tommy John, dress out and make friends, but Joey was never one to rise to adversity, and mostly, according to reports from Brian, who of course is the only person still in touch with Devine the Disaster, he sits in his bedroom with the shades drawn and watches those cheesy cop shows where they solve horrifying rapes or whatever.
“Well, I need to get a phone number from you,” Kelly says, much more humiliated than he expected to feel, and he expected to feel pretty goddamn humiliated. “Kyle's.”
“Kyle Davies?”
“Yes, Kyle Davies.” He hates even saying that name out loud, so it doesn't make any sense that his best theory about how to not keep feeling worse and worse is to get as close as he can to the person who always made him feel like shit more successfully than even his father ever did.
“Gosh,” Joey says. Kelly somehow forgot how fucking annoying Joey is. “I think I have it. Hang on.”
“Did you hear the news about me?” Kelly asks as he listens to Joey rummage around through God knows what. He can hear the three day beard on Joey's face and smell the takeout pizza. Joey failed so early on that he almost got immune to it, but then he just kept doing it anyway and now it's caught up with him, probably for good. Kelly knows a little about what it's like to come back from Tommy John, not as a pitcher, but he lost the one thing he was good at when he lost his arm: the outfield. It was so peaceful out there, the ring of deadish grass under his feet and Andruw doing all the real work while Jeff picked his nose and smiled at the redneck women in the outfield bleachers, basking in the glow of their forgiving love. But of course that was all back before Jeff needed any forgiving.
“The news about you,” Joey says, as if he's wracking his brain, shuffling through all the recent bad news about all his old friends. “No. Oh, yeah! Brian told me your wife is pregnant! Congratulations.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“What's wrong?”
“I'm not starting at second anymore. They put me on the pity DL. The emotional DL. You know what I'm talking about,” he adds, cruelly, and he's disappointed in himself, but what else is new.
“Oh, don't worry about it,” Joey says, oblivious anyway, inside his Law & Order cocoon. “God, Kelly, you always worried too much. Okay, got a pen?”
Kelly writes the number down and hangs up with Joey before he can start asking questions about the pregnancy. Or maybe Kelly is flattering himself; he probably had a show to get back to. Joey has it easy, because he hasn't got a wife, someone who found out she'd never need to work and glowed with relief. Joey just has Brian calling him once in awhile to make sure he's alive, and maybe some parents somewhere in Kansas, though he's never mentioned them or any other family, and considering the unbearable tragedy of the rest of his life, nobody ever had the nerve to ask.
Kelly laughs at himself as he drives into Iowa, because somehow he always thought Brian would be the one who became this guy: the bitter, hateful one who didn't get anything he wanted. Not that Brian has gotten away scot free. He's spent most of the season sitting around drinking beer without the joy he used to bring to the exercise. He looks at everybody like he's not sure who they are, sometimes even Chipper. Kelly is pretty sure that Brian and his wife live in separate wings of their mansion and that Brian hasn't had sex since spring training, unless he's finally settled for fucking Joey.
He calls Kyle from a Steak & Ale near a little league field, the restaurant filled with kids in bright blue and green jerseys with ads for tow companies and pizza places on the back. Kyle doesn't answer, and Kelly is pissed off enough by his indifferent tone on his voicemail recording that he calls Brian in retaliation.
“What the hell are you doing?” Brian asks as soon as he picks up. Kelly can hear batting practice in the background. Brian doesn't usually carry his phone on the field. He must be pretty worried.
“I'm taking a little road trip,” Kelly says.
“Uh, where to?”
There's no point in not telling him, because Joey will soon enough anyway. “To Kyle. I mean, to his field. You know, in Omaha. I was gonna watch him pitch.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Kelly. Fuck! Don't be like this. Don't be weird.”
“Can't help it.”
“Does he know you're coming?”
“What do you think?”
Brian groans. Kelly imagines Jeff watching him from across the field and wondering who he's talking to. He knows exactly where Brian is standing, the little alcove in the open bullpen, the place where they all go to secretly take calls. He imagines five or six silent fans staring down at Brian, taking pictures.
“Listen, do me a favor,” Kelly says. “Be nice to Jeff tonight. He sounds kind of, I don't know. On the verge.”
“Fuck you. Well, first of all, he's been - and you don't know anything, man, fuck you, I don't owe him anything and you're wrecking everything.”
“Wow.” Pleased with this development, Kelly smiles down at his chipped flatware. “Calm down, maybe?”
“Sorry,” Brian says. “I just love how you guys think this is so easy for me. I just love it, man, it's great.”
“Yeah, your life is real hard.”
“He is not going to be happy to see you just because you're down in the dumps,” Brian says.
“Don't say 'down in the dumps.' What the fuck is that? 'Down in the dumps?' I just found out I wasted my whole life on something I can't really do and I'm doomed to rot in trip-A for the next five years before I get divorced and like, I don't know, move back to Texas to sell insurance and you're -”
“Don't start with that shit, you've got money.”
“Oh, yeah, hey, know what else I have, Brian? A wife who wants to buy a mansion to match yours and Jeff's and a fucking kid on the way and what am I going to invest in, huh? Even real estate's not worth shit anymore. You've got twenty-six million dollars, so don't tell me -”
“Man, you know what's great?” Brian shouts, and Kelly thinks those fans must be hearing this, which is good, a comfort. “Having all your friends know exactly how much money you make. It's a great thing that I really enjoy.”
“Yeah, again, your life is really hard, Brian.”
“No, yeah, it's a total breeze, things are obviously going awesome.”
“Man.” Kelly groans, not really enjoying this anymore. He wants to see Kyle so badly, and that will never make any sense. “I really didn't think I'd be the first one of us to have a kid.”
“Well, considering that you're the only one who actually has sex with his wife, I was kind of banking on it,” Brian says, and Kelly smiles, and wishes he were there with them, suffering under the sun and not looking forward to the game.
“Tell Kyle I don't miss him at all,” Brian says, because they hate each other now, for vague reasons having to do with Kyle's parting quotes in the Atlanta paper. Or maybe Brian is being sarcastic.
“That's actually why I'm here,” Kelly says. “To tell him that I don't miss him.”
“Yeah.” Brian is quiet for awhile, and Kelly listens to the angry push of his breath, which tells him what's coming next. “They're gonna trade Jeff.”
“I know.”
“He's not gonna. Take it well.”
“No shit. It's the apocalypse, Brian. I would know.”
Brian sighs. “I'd better go.”
“Yeah, before you start crying.”
“Shut up. Don't kill yourself.”
“You either.”
It's absurd, the way they treat each other like they're at war, like people are falling dead at their shoulders every day, like they are losing the country they love inch by inch. It's just a game. It's just three million dollars versus twenty-six million. Kelly still feels it in his own chest when Brian misses the throw out at second and it sails into center. It hurts him, too, and they're probably complaining about nothing, making asses of themselves, definitely, but there aren't a lot of other things like this in the world, like the sharp pain under Kelly's breastbone when he sees Brian make an error and feels that first slap of empathy before the relief that someone else has screwed up for a change draws up around him.
He goes out to sit in the little league bleachers, the field emptied out and the kids getting picked up by their parents in the parking lot of the Steak & Ale. There's a mangy dog sniffing around the outfield fence, and a hard wind blowing in, pushing bits of trash around the field and making the rigging on the flag that flies over the field slap angrily against its post. Kelly calls Kyle's number, realizing as he does that he doesn't ever expect Kyle to answer, that he didn't come here actually expecting to find him. It feels good just to be in Omaha. Then Kyle answers on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” he says, and he sounds irritated enough to make Kelly wonder if he recognized the number. But no. It's been too long since Kelly called.
“Hey,” Kelly says. “It's me. I'm in Omaha. Where's your field?”
“My what?”
“Your field. Aren't you pitching tonight?”
Kyle is quiet for awhile; he's always allowed himself this luxury, taking his time to answer people's questions. Kelly can picture his frown, the way his forehead is wrinkled just slightly. He needs to see him so badly, even if it's just from the empty bleachers of the Royals' farm team's stands.
“It's right off 29, exit five. Rosenblatt Stadium. You'll see the signs.”
“Okay.” Kelly doesn't know how to continue. “So I guess you heard about me. 'Cause you don't sound surprised.”
“Are you seriously going to come?” Kyle asks.
“Yeah,” Kelly says. “If you want me to.”
“No, I don't want you to come to the game. But, hey. Come have a beer with me afterward. Show up in the eighth. Fuck, show up in the sixth. I'll be out by then.”
“But I want to see you pitch.” Just talking to Kyle always makes Kelly feel like he's doing something important with his life, doing as much as he can to leave an impression on the world.
“Bullshit,” Kyle says. He sounds so humorless but not unkind. Which is jarring.
“I do.” But he's right; Kelly is afraid to see him pitch. “Look, we don't have to impress each other anymore. At least, nobody should feel like he has to impress me. My life is a fucking mess.” He always does this with Kyle, starts talking, can't stop, digs himself a hole.
“Uh-huh. Well. I can't tell you what to do. But I guess I'll see you later. How'd you get my number?”
“Devy.”
“Oh, fuck. He's still alive? Well, good for him. Okay, I gotta go.”
Kyle hangs up, and Kelly stares at the field for a long time, the sun starting to sink and the wind getting harder, warm and clean with the promise of a storm. Somewhere, an ice cream truck is playing music, and the whole world feels like it's emptying out, finally letting him off the hook. Two years ago, Kelly let Kyle fuck him in the handicapped stall in the locker room at Fenway Park. He thinks about it all the time. Most of the time he regrets it, but it was the best sex he's ever had in his life, the only time that sex ever made him feel like he didn't have to exist for a little while, that he could just be held up by the world and stop swimming upstream. He still thinks about the way Kyle's hands felt on his sides, comfortably enormous. It didn't ruin their friendship; they were closer than they had ever been afterward. Kyle joked about it all the time, always trying to get him to do it again, but Kelly was already engaged. He told himself he wasn't going to let Kyle turn him into Brian. Ha. If only. Then Kyle got traded, so what did any of it matter.
Rosenblatt Stadium looks beautifully simple at sunset. Kelly doesn't buy a ticket, just sits on the hood of his car in the parking lot, watching jet streams streak across the sky as the storm clouds roll in. Empty plastic cups do somersaults across the concrete, and Kelly can hear the announcer saying Kyle's name. He shuts his eyes and pictures Kyle on the mound, his shoulders dropped and his eyes not even mean, just tired. That's what they all are: tired at twenty-five, and so entitled that all they can do is wander in the dark and feel sad about it for the rest of their less exhausting lives. Kelly thinks about the first time he caught Jeff kissing Brian. They didn't know, they were in the kitchen at Brian's old house, Brian backed against the counter and smiling against Jeff's mouth, laughing, his cheeks so red. Kelly had thought it was disturbing, then funny, then he just envied them. Maybe he's always wanted to be Brian. Maybe Kyle has always wanted to be Jeff. Maybe that's all there ever was to it.
It starts raining, so Kelly gets in his car. He's parked next to Kyle's truck, and when the game is rained out in the fourth Kyle comes jogging toward it, a duffel in his hands. Kelly recognizes his polo shirt. He puts his window down and Kyle sticks his face in, blinking through the raindrops. He's got an awful beard that makes him look sixty years old but his eyes are still so weirdly soft, even when they're narrowed.
“Get in!” Kelly shouts, and Kyle laughs.
“Yeah, right,” he says. “I'm driving.” Which is pretty much when Kelly knows that he'll definitely let Kyle fuck him tonight.
He gets into Kyle's truck and just the feeling of the leather against his wet jeans is like coming home to something sacred. The Cure is on the radio and Kyle is smiling at Kelly like everything is okay. Kelly feels guilty for not reminding him that it isn't. He just smiles back.
“Kelly fucking Johnson,” Kyle says.
“Don't.” Kelly cringes. “Don't be cheesy.”
“Well, here you are,” Kyle says. Lightning splits the wide-open sky as they pull onto the highway. “With me, in paradise.”
“This is paradise?”
“Yeah, obviously. I feel like I should take you to Olive Garden or something, shit.”
“Please don't.”
Kyle laughs. “No, seriously,” he says. “How are you? Is this your nervous breakdown? Or are we not talking about that?”
“My wife is pregnant,” Kelly says, and this immediately spoils the mood. Kyle's eyebrows shoot up, and Kelly stares, wanting to rub foam all over his face and shave that stupid hair off so he can really look at him.
“Sorry,” Kelly says. “I shouldn't have said that.”
“Well - is it true?”
“Fuck, Kyle. Yes, it's true.”
“Okay, well. Have you run away from home?”
“No. Not permanently.”
“Hmm.” Kyle watches the road for awhile, the rain coming down more heavily. The sound of thunder shakes the frame of the car. Kyle cuts a U-Haul off and the driver honks at him furiously as he peels away.
“Don't drive like a fucking moron just because my wife is pregnant,” Kelly says, gripping his seat cushion.
“Well, how pregnant is she?”
“What the fuck kind of question is that? She's having it, okay? I'm happy.”
“Obviously!”
“Don't make fun of me.”
“You came here thinking I wouldn't make fun of you?”
“No. I don't know. Can we just go somewhere, please?”
“We are going somewhere. To my house.”
“You have a house?”
“Yeah, I'm renting. Don't look so fucking surprised.”
“I'm not surprised that you're renting a house. Christ, what is that beard?”
“It's an affront,” Kyle says, stroking his chin. He's soaking wet, and Kelly can smell his melted deodorant, the old fashioned white kind. He didn't make the switch to Axe along with the rest of the guys. He told Kelly once that he doesn't like spraying himself with things. He finds it upsetting.
“An affront against who?” Kelly asks.
“Thank you for being the only ballplayer alive who knows what 'affront' means,” Kyle says. “And who do you think? Everyone. Baseball. Humanity! Me against the world. Me and you against the world, maybe.” He smacks Kelly's arm. “Me and you and your unborn child.”
“Let's not.” Kelly holds up his hands.
“Oh, sorry, you can assault me with the information that your wife is pregnant but I'm not allowed to make jokes about it?”
“I didn't assault you.”
“This whole thing is an assault! Really, it's unlike you. But that's okay, hey, you know me. I'm always up for a fight.”
“I didn't come here to fight with you.”
“You didn't do this, you didn't do that. Okay, fine. Why are you here?”
“To see you. Shut up, don't get testy. Can't we just -”
“Testy? You sound like my mother. Testy! Okay, you're right, let's not go to the liquor store and let's not get fucked up and talk about the past and knock over furniture. Let's just, I don't know, talk about baseball.”
“That's the last goddamn thing I want to talk about.”
“I know, that's why I suggested it. Here's my place.”
They're in a dingy neighborhood full of one-story houses with muddy yards, the rain still coming down hard. Kyle pulls into the driveway of a dark house with a squat palmetto tree in the front yard.
“I see you eying my palmetto,” Kyle says as he turns off the truck. “That's the reason I'm renting this dump. Well, that, and I'm close to broke. But look, it's not supposed to be able to grow here, but it is! That thing, you know. It's my only friend.”
“Fucking hell,” Kelly mutters. He throws open his door. “Are you sure you don't want to go to the liquor store?”
“It's okay, I've got Wild Turkey,” Kyle says, smirking at him before he climbs out of the truck.
The inside of the house looks exactly like Kelly expected it to. Temporary, outfitted with someone else's cheap furniture. Stained carpets, water marks on the ceiling in the living room. The kitchen is yellow. Kyle goes for a cabinet and pulls down two plastic cups, then pours some Wild Turkey into both of them. There's a 1997 calendar with pictures of Yorkshire terriers hanging on the fridge.
“That was there when I moved in,” Kyle says, tapping his glass against Kelly's. “Here's to professional athletics and all the glorious trappings that go along with it, eh?”
“If I give you enough to cover next month's rent will you shave that shit off your face?” Kelly asks, and Kyle beams at him.
“I've missed you a lot,” Kyle says, still smiling, like it's part of the joke. “You were my best friend.”
“I kind of still am,” Kelly says, sighing. “In a weird way.”
“You and the tree. C'mere, come sit on the couch. I promise I won't try to kiss you.”
“Fuck,” Kelly moans, his face burning. Kyle walks ahead of him, laughing. Kelly wants to kiss him, but not with the beard. They only kissed once, and it wasn't when they fucked. It was before that, in Kelly's room at a hotel in Cincinnati, very late at night. It was soft and quiet, Kyle's eyes closed, Kelly's heart pounding, and it was nothing like what they did at Fenway, which wasn't a continuation so much as a dismissal of the kiss.
“There's an old record player in here, I haven't tried it yet,” Kyle says as Kelly sits on the couch, which feels surprisingly clean. “Should we listen to something? They've got Elton John.”
“Just sit,” Kelly says, his mouth burning from the whiskey he's sipped. The power flickers and Kyle falls heavily onto the couch, not very close to Kelly. Not close enough.
“So I take it you're spending the night here?” Kyle says.
“If you don't mind.”
“Shit, Kelly,” Kyle mutters, and he sounds sincere for the first time all night. He drinks from his whiskey and shakes his head. “Sometimes I feel like you guys voted me off the team.”
“That's bullshit. Jeff's about to get traded.”
Kyle snorts. “So I guess Brian is having an aneurysm.”
“Yes. Jeff's such a dumbass, he's not going to see it coming. It'll ruin him.”
“Yeah, well.” Kyle is staring into his cup of whiskey like he's reading tea leaves. “We all get ruined eventually.”
The power flickers again, and then goes out with a thump, thunder crashing violently outside. Through the front window they can see Kyle's palmetto being abused by the wind, its leaves flailing helplessly.
“Whoops,” Kyle says. “Guess you picked a bad night to come to town.”
“No,” Kelly says, scooting closer. “It doesn't matter. I like it better in the dark.” The whiskey is strumming something soft and melodious inside him, and it feels okay to do this, whatever he's doing.
“What, so you don't have to see my beard?” Kyle asks, touching it self-consciously. Kelly reaches up and touches it, too, his fingers sliding over Kyle's. He just wants to be yanked into Kyle's arms, but Kyle is only sitting there, staring, and Kelly can't see his eyes, doesn't know what he's thinking.
“I'll kiss you if you shave it off,” Kelly says. Kyle sniffs, and Kelly is close enough to feel it.
“What makes you think I want to kiss you?” Kyle asks.
“I don't know,” Kelly says, weak and shaky enough to break Kyle's resolve. He sighs and leans onto Kelly, and Kelly wraps his arms around Kyle's shoulders, pushing his face against his neck, which still smells like that unfamiliar Iowa rain. Kyle moans a little, either a complaint or an expression of grudging gratitude, and his beard scratches against Kelly's neck as he squeezes Kelly to him.
“You fucking bitch,” Kyle mutters. “It took getting thrown off the team for you to show your face here. I should hate you for that.”
“Please,” Kelly cries, and Kyle sits back to hold Kelly's face in hands.
“I'm not shaving the beard,” he says. He leans in to kiss Kelly very delicately, as if he doesn't want to hurt him. Kelly groans into the kiss and spills himself onto Kyle, kissing him hard, hoping he'll reciprocate, and when he does, his tongue so hot in Kelly's mouth, Kelly's cock twitches to life.
“You think you can just come here and get fucked and go home to your normal life?” Kyle asks, growling the words out against Kelly's lips. Kelly shakes his head, feeling as if he's been captured, dragged back to Kyle's den full of human bones, but he came here willingly.
“I don't have a normal life anymore,” Kelly says.
“So you might as well give me the time of day again, huh?”
“Fucker,” Kelly cries, wanting to sob. “I came here because I needed help. And you're the only person who can help me. I need you, I -” Kyle swallows up the rest of his speech, mercifully, and for a moment Kelly doesn't even notice the beard, he just wants Kyle's mouth on him, everywhere. He lets Kyle push him back onto the couch and straddle him, kneeling over him like Kelly is his helpless prey, leaving marks as he sucks and bites at Kelly's neck, making Kelly cringe when the beard scrapes at his skin.
“You need me?” Kyle says, right over Kelly's ear, pressing his own hardon against Kelly's, pushing him into the cushions with the hot pressure of it. “You need me? I need you, I've needed you, where the fuck have you been?”
“I didn't want you to be traded.” And now Kelly is sobbing, kind of, but it's mostly in the back of his throat. “I didn't want you to go. You can't hate me, what was I supposed to do?”
He still wonders if they're acting out parts here, pretending to be Jeff and Brian, but Jeff and Brian will play out differently. They have too much pride, too much to lose, they'll never see each other like this. They'll be polite, they'll have joint birthday parties for their children and put the dogs to sleep when the time comes. They're nothing like this, they would never rent and they don't care about trees.
Kyle sucks Kelly's cock, and the beard feels good there, scratching over his balls and rough at the base as Kyle chokes him down. Kelly holds Kyle's hair as Kyle swallows his come, and he feels like no one has ever done anything this meaningful for him, this huge. When Kyle flips Kelly over to fuck him, he's ready to give him anything.
“Hang on,” Kyle says with a groan. “Gotta get something. What'd we use at Fenway?”
“Glove oil,” Kelly says, sinking down to the cushions. He shuts his eyes against them and listens to Kyle rooting around in the bathroom down the hall. He takes a long time, and Kelly starts to drift to sleep, his body still pulsing with the last gentle waves of his orgasm and the rain still pounding on the roof. He twitches and moans against the couch, his pants down around his ankles and his cock getting stiff again when he spreads his knees apart and waits to feel Kyle inside him.
When Kyle finally returns Kelly can smell the medicinal soapy scent of whatever he brought for lube, and he lets Kyle yank his pants off completely, then his shirt, his eyes still closed as Kyle undresses him. Kelly feels like a spoiled child, so good, reveling in the security of only needing to lie still and be taken care of. He cracks his eyes open in time to see Kyle climbing onto him, naked, and moans when he feels the tight press of Kyle's erection against the crack of his ass. Then Kyle puts his chin on Kelly's shoulder, and his face feels so soft and smells so sweet. The beard is gone, and Kelly smiles into the cushions, arching back against Kyle appreciatively.
“I think about it a lot,” Kyle says, his voice deep with desire and maybe sadness, and Kelly knows what he's referring to. Not the fuck at Fenway, but the kiss, that night when they were leaning together on the bed watching their highlights on Sportscenter - Kyle had pitched like a fucking ace - slumped down and half drunk. Kyle had leaned over, grinning like he was telling one of their inside jokes, and had pulled Kelly even closer, so casually that Kelly didn't even think anything of it until Kyle was licking timidly against his bottom lip. Kelly had opened his mouth for him without hesitation, and it had felt so good, even after they stopped, because Kyle put his head on Kelly's chest and smiled at the TV until he fell asleep. Kelly isn't sure why it never happened again. He was always, always waiting.
He rolls onto his back and kisses Kyle's freshly shaven face, then licks his soft cheeks, making him laugh. They fuck in slow motion, Kyle straining forward to continue kissing Kelly as he moves inside him, both of his hands pushed into Kelly's hair. Kelly holds Kyle's ass, guiding him, giving him permission again and again and again. It hurts, but then it doesn't, and Kelly just lets his body pulse with happy confusion, just lets Kyle kiss him.
“You feel so good,” Kelly whispers, reaching up to stroke Kyle's cheek with his thumb. He can see Kyle's eyes now, in the light through the window, and they're so soft that Kelly is already worried about him, because someone like Kyle should never let himself get so unprotected, but Kelly is grateful for it, grateful for the way Kyle is looking down at him, hiding nothing.
When Kyle comes he buries his face against Kelly's throat, keening softly, like a wounded bird. Kelly has already spilled himself again, onto both their chests, so he lies back with nothing in his mind but that noise Kyle made, which bounces around inside him and spreads across his skin. He's glad when Kyle doesn't pull out immediately, just keeps letting Kelly's body throb around him, both of them quiet under the noise of the rain. Kelly strokes Kyle's hair and watches the ceiling. Kyle nuzzles at Kelly's neck, and Kelly knows he would blame the whiskey if Kelly called him on it, but he never, never would.
“Just stay here,” Kyle says, sighing, and Kelly knows that he means forever, and that Kyle knows that he can't.
They sleep on the couch under a few blankets that Kyle drags in from somewhere. They smell like a stranger's blankets, like the kind you'd find in a cheap motel, not like Kyle, so Kelly pushes his face against Kyle's chest, breathing in the scent of him mixed with the shaving cream smell that lingers. Kyle is holding Kelly tightly, and Kelly knows he won't sleep, and wishes that he didn't have to, either, but he's so goddamn tired.
“You're the best person I know,” Kelly says, delirious, and probably more drunk than he realized.
“Lot of good it does me,” Kyle says.
In the morning, the palmetto tree is still there, missing a few leaves. The sky is perfectly clear, as if it's been power washed. Kelly is not really in favor of all the sunlight, and he blinks against it while Kyle putters around the kitchen, making coffee or something. Kelly can hear him humming to himself. He stares out at that stout little tree in Kyle's front yard, its remaining leaves so perfectly still. He's going to have to drive home and play baseball again. He's going to have to help Lauren outfit a nursery. He's going to have to help Brian into bed after he almost drinks himself to death on the night Jeff leaves for some other city. He's going to have to leave Kyle here alone on Sunday night. He shouldn't have implied that Brian has it easy. None of them do. Nobody does, anywhere, and everyone must learn this at twenty-five, but that doesn't make it any easier to sit inside this knowledge and make long lists of the things that need to be done.
“You still alive in there?” Kyle shouts from the kitchen, and Kelly smiles.
“Yeah,” he says. He waits to hear his phone ringing with calls from all the other people who will ask the same question, and he wishes, just for a minute, that Kyle was the only one who cared.
//
the end.
Title: Down the Line
Fandom: MLB
Pairing: Kyle Davies/Kelly Johnson
Rating: R
Summary: Set in June 2009, Kelly has a crisis and drives to Kyle's triple A field.
Notes: Thank you so much to chlorate for the beta read, and for correcting my spelling of Jurrjens, omg /EMBARRASSING lol
He leaves without bothering to figure out how to get there. Just drives north, then west. It's early, and when he looks into the other cars and sees people in pressed shirts and ties, headed to work, he doesn't envy them anymore. For the first time in awhile, he's glad that he's headed toward a herculean task that seems to promise certain death. He buys a map when he stops for gas in Tennessee and his phone rings as he's headed back to the car. It's his wife, and for some reason he answers.
“What is this note?” she asks.
“It's exactly what it says it is.”
“Kelly, no.”
“Lauren, yes. I'll be back on Monday.”
“Did you even tell anyone you're leaving? Anyone on the team?”
“Brian sort of knows. They don't need me. I'm on the DL.”
“I know that.” She's quiet for awhile. “Where are you going, exactly?”
“Nowhere.”
“Are you going to kill yourself?”
“Probably not.” He's always appreciated his wife's practicality. She'd probably like to know in advance so she could start making funeral arrangements. Maybe put up a profile on one of those dating websites. He imagines her going on blind dates, seven months pregnant with his child. He imagines the guys asking her if she knows Chipper Jones. Then a rash of copycat suicides: Jeff first, though his would actually be a murder, staged by Catie to look like a suicide, then Brian immediately afterward, and finally Kyle. But who the fuck is he kidding, Kyle wouldn't want to associate himself with the epidemic. He'd find the whole thing terribly unoriginal and melodramatic. He wouldn't even come to the funerals. Which would all be arranged by Catie, come to think of it. There would be cocktail napkins with Bible quotes about death being the next great adventure. Or maybe that's something he heard in a Harry Potter movie on a flight to Orlando.
So this is pretty much his state of mind as he drives to Omaha.
The weather is good, which annoys him. The radio is a wasteland of commercials for theme parks and Taylor Swift songs. Kelly holds the wheel with both hands and thinks about the fact that he's basically an unemployed millionaire. What is he going to tell this kid when it's born? She'll just ask him if he ever knew Chipper Jones. God, he hopes it's a girl. He is not the kind of person who should be trusted with a son.
The phone rings again when he's halfway through Nebraska. It's Brian, so Kelly doesn't answer. What the hell does Brian have to say to mere mortals these days? Not a lot, usually. Usually he stares into space from behind those fucking bizarro world glasses and looks genuinely surprised and a little frightened by attempts at conversation, the way he used to look at reporters, who are now his real best friends. At least he's started drinking again. He was unbearable when he wasn't drinking.
When Jeff calls, Kelly answers. He never gets tired of hearing from the only person on the team - in the world? - who is worse off than him. Of course, Jeff still has a job, but it's just another cruel reminder - remainder - of 2005, so it's kind of salt in the wound anyway.
“Where are you?” Jeff asks. He's practically shouting, probably driving somewhere himself. Jeff's only remaining armor is that huge truck, the only thing he owns that he really values anymore, because it's a place where he used to fuck Brian.
“I'm on the highway,” Kelly says.
“What do you mean you're on it?”
“In my car, Jeff.”
“Oh.” He sounds relieved. Of course everyone thinks he's going to kill himself over this. He's got to admit that he's the kind of guy who would.
“Well,” Jeff says. “Are you coming to batting practice?”
“No, Jeff.”
“Don't say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I'm eight years old! Like you're telling me there's no Santa Claus.”
Kelly wouldn't be surprised if that was news to Jeff, the kind of thing that would crush him. Lately the whole world seems as if it was designed to crush Jeff, which Kelly kind of hates him for, because Kelly is getting crushed in the meantime and nobody really cares, it's not as dramatic. It's just a thing that happens to most ballplayers, and he's always been one of those, whereas Jeff was supposed to be something else, but it turns out he's just really good looking.
“I'm feeling so goddamn sorry for myself,” Kelly says. “I didn't want to be around anyone.” Except the person he's driving to Omaha to see, who doesn't count.
“You'll bounce back,” Jeff says. “It happens to everyone. Things are gonna be okay.”
“We've been saying that since the end of 2006 and I'm starting to think it's not true.” Saying so does feel like telling Jeff that there is no Santa Claus: There is no division championship, Jeff. Not for the likes of us, anyway.
“God,” Jeff says. “I'm going crazy here. Who am I supposed to talk to if you're gone?”
“I'm not gone.”
“Brian made the All-Star team.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Jeff hums out a little noise of protest. As if Brian doesn't deserve it. He and Kelly know now, without a doubt: they will never go. It's such a sham anyway, such a disgusting, pointless pageant. The whole thing is starting to feel that way, except that Brian is still really good and Kelly and Jeff and Joey and Kyle and Blaine and Chuckie just really aren't. God, Kelly never dreamed that he'd end up like Chuckie, or at least not this soon.
“Did you see all that shit that he said, about how Vazquez and Jurrjens should have made it?” Jeff asks. He scoffs. “Why the fuck does he have to do that every year? It's so fucking fake.”
“Suddenly it's news to me that Brian is a fucking fake?”
“Don't say that,” Jeff says softly, wounded by the fact that Kelly thinks he'll agree, and it actually physically hurts to hear Jeff defend Brian, because what is it going to take before he stops?
“Listen, have a good game tonight, alright?” Kelly says, though he admitted to himself about a month ago that seeing the other guys fail is more comforting than anything he's ever known and he's always secretly rooting for them to do it. “I gotta go.”
“Yeah, but where are you going?”
“Nowhere! Yellowstone Park, okay? What does it matter? I'll be back on Monday.”
“Monday!”
“What difference does it make? I'm on the 15-day.”
“It makes a difference,” Jeff says glumly, and Kelly knows that he's all that Jeff has left, but it's perverse, because Kelly was always Brian's friend more than Jeff's, and honestly, back in the good old days, Jeff was just the cheerful moron who was fucking a constant smile onto Brian's face and Kelly was just putting up with him because he needed a place to live. So now they're supposed to be friends - whatever. Jeff sighs dramatically and Kelly hangs up on him.
Kelly stops in St. Joseph, a couple of hours out of Omaha. He's not sure where Kyle's apartment is - if he's in an apartment? Maybe a motel with a meth lab downstairs, about to blow? He doesn't even know the AAA park where Kyle's playing at is or what the fuck he's going to say when he gets there. Something like, 'Hey, did you hear the good news? We can be losers together in peace. Except my wife is pregnant, so not really.' He calls Kyle's old cell number and of course it's disconnected. He gets a frozen yogurt and ignores another call from Brian, then calls Joey, and is surprised when he actually answers.
“Where are you?” Kelly asks, and he hates that this is always the first question out of his mouth when he calls someone's cell phone. He likes the idea of land lines, of being able to picture a phone on a particular table in a particular room as you listen to it ring.
“In Atlanta,” Joey says. The original plan was to spend time with his team while he recovered from his Tommy John, dress out and make friends, but Joey was never one to rise to adversity, and mostly, according to reports from Brian, who of course is the only person still in touch with Devine the Disaster, he sits in his bedroom with the shades drawn and watches those cheesy cop shows where they solve horrifying rapes or whatever.
“Well, I need to get a phone number from you,” Kelly says, much more humiliated than he expected to feel, and he expected to feel pretty goddamn humiliated. “Kyle's.”
“Kyle Davies?”
“Yes, Kyle Davies.” He hates even saying that name out loud, so it doesn't make any sense that his best theory about how to not keep feeling worse and worse is to get as close as he can to the person who always made him feel like shit more successfully than even his father ever did.
“Gosh,” Joey says. Kelly somehow forgot how fucking annoying Joey is. “I think I have it. Hang on.”
“Did you hear the news about me?” Kelly asks as he listens to Joey rummage around through God knows what. He can hear the three day beard on Joey's face and smell the takeout pizza. Joey failed so early on that he almost got immune to it, but then he just kept doing it anyway and now it's caught up with him, probably for good. Kelly knows a little about what it's like to come back from Tommy John, not as a pitcher, but he lost the one thing he was good at when he lost his arm: the outfield. It was so peaceful out there, the ring of deadish grass under his feet and Andruw doing all the real work while Jeff picked his nose and smiled at the redneck women in the outfield bleachers, basking in the glow of their forgiving love. But of course that was all back before Jeff needed any forgiving.
“The news about you,” Joey says, as if he's wracking his brain, shuffling through all the recent bad news about all his old friends. “No. Oh, yeah! Brian told me your wife is pregnant! Congratulations.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“What's wrong?”
“I'm not starting at second anymore. They put me on the pity DL. The emotional DL. You know what I'm talking about,” he adds, cruelly, and he's disappointed in himself, but what else is new.
“Oh, don't worry about it,” Joey says, oblivious anyway, inside his Law & Order cocoon. “God, Kelly, you always worried too much. Okay, got a pen?”
Kelly writes the number down and hangs up with Joey before he can start asking questions about the pregnancy. Or maybe Kelly is flattering himself; he probably had a show to get back to. Joey has it easy, because he hasn't got a wife, someone who found out she'd never need to work and glowed with relief. Joey just has Brian calling him once in awhile to make sure he's alive, and maybe some parents somewhere in Kansas, though he's never mentioned them or any other family, and considering the unbearable tragedy of the rest of his life, nobody ever had the nerve to ask.
Kelly laughs at himself as he drives into Iowa, because somehow he always thought Brian would be the one who became this guy: the bitter, hateful one who didn't get anything he wanted. Not that Brian has gotten away scot free. He's spent most of the season sitting around drinking beer without the joy he used to bring to the exercise. He looks at everybody like he's not sure who they are, sometimes even Chipper. Kelly is pretty sure that Brian and his wife live in separate wings of their mansion and that Brian hasn't had sex since spring training, unless he's finally settled for fucking Joey.
He calls Kyle from a Steak & Ale near a little league field, the restaurant filled with kids in bright blue and green jerseys with ads for tow companies and pizza places on the back. Kyle doesn't answer, and Kelly is pissed off enough by his indifferent tone on his voicemail recording that he calls Brian in retaliation.
“What the hell are you doing?” Brian asks as soon as he picks up. Kelly can hear batting practice in the background. Brian doesn't usually carry his phone on the field. He must be pretty worried.
“I'm taking a little road trip,” Kelly says.
“Uh, where to?”
There's no point in not telling him, because Joey will soon enough anyway. “To Kyle. I mean, to his field. You know, in Omaha. I was gonna watch him pitch.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Kelly. Fuck! Don't be like this. Don't be weird.”
“Can't help it.”
“Does he know you're coming?”
“What do you think?”
Brian groans. Kelly imagines Jeff watching him from across the field and wondering who he's talking to. He knows exactly where Brian is standing, the little alcove in the open bullpen, the place where they all go to secretly take calls. He imagines five or six silent fans staring down at Brian, taking pictures.
“Listen, do me a favor,” Kelly says. “Be nice to Jeff tonight. He sounds kind of, I don't know. On the verge.”
“Fuck you. Well, first of all, he's been - and you don't know anything, man, fuck you, I don't owe him anything and you're wrecking everything.”
“Wow.” Pleased with this development, Kelly smiles down at his chipped flatware. “Calm down, maybe?”
“Sorry,” Brian says. “I just love how you guys think this is so easy for me. I just love it, man, it's great.”
“Yeah, your life is real hard.”
“He is not going to be happy to see you just because you're down in the dumps,” Brian says.
“Don't say 'down in the dumps.' What the fuck is that? 'Down in the dumps?' I just found out I wasted my whole life on something I can't really do and I'm doomed to rot in trip-A for the next five years before I get divorced and like, I don't know, move back to Texas to sell insurance and you're -”
“Don't start with that shit, you've got money.”
“Oh, yeah, hey, know what else I have, Brian? A wife who wants to buy a mansion to match yours and Jeff's and a fucking kid on the way and what am I going to invest in, huh? Even real estate's not worth shit anymore. You've got twenty-six million dollars, so don't tell me -”
“Man, you know what's great?” Brian shouts, and Kelly thinks those fans must be hearing this, which is good, a comfort. “Having all your friends know exactly how much money you make. It's a great thing that I really enjoy.”
“Yeah, again, your life is really hard, Brian.”
“No, yeah, it's a total breeze, things are obviously going awesome.”
“Man.” Kelly groans, not really enjoying this anymore. He wants to see Kyle so badly, and that will never make any sense. “I really didn't think I'd be the first one of us to have a kid.”
“Well, considering that you're the only one who actually has sex with his wife, I was kind of banking on it,” Brian says, and Kelly smiles, and wishes he were there with them, suffering under the sun and not looking forward to the game.
“Tell Kyle I don't miss him at all,” Brian says, because they hate each other now, for vague reasons having to do with Kyle's parting quotes in the Atlanta paper. Or maybe Brian is being sarcastic.
“That's actually why I'm here,” Kelly says. “To tell him that I don't miss him.”
“Yeah.” Brian is quiet for awhile, and Kelly listens to the angry push of his breath, which tells him what's coming next. “They're gonna trade Jeff.”
“I know.”
“He's not gonna. Take it well.”
“No shit. It's the apocalypse, Brian. I would know.”
Brian sighs. “I'd better go.”
“Yeah, before you start crying.”
“Shut up. Don't kill yourself.”
“You either.”
It's absurd, the way they treat each other like they're at war, like people are falling dead at their shoulders every day, like they are losing the country they love inch by inch. It's just a game. It's just three million dollars versus twenty-six million. Kelly still feels it in his own chest when Brian misses the throw out at second and it sails into center. It hurts him, too, and they're probably complaining about nothing, making asses of themselves, definitely, but there aren't a lot of other things like this in the world, like the sharp pain under Kelly's breastbone when he sees Brian make an error and feels that first slap of empathy before the relief that someone else has screwed up for a change draws up around him.
He goes out to sit in the little league bleachers, the field emptied out and the kids getting picked up by their parents in the parking lot of the Steak & Ale. There's a mangy dog sniffing around the outfield fence, and a hard wind blowing in, pushing bits of trash around the field and making the rigging on the flag that flies over the field slap angrily against its post. Kelly calls Kyle's number, realizing as he does that he doesn't ever expect Kyle to answer, that he didn't come here actually expecting to find him. It feels good just to be in Omaha. Then Kyle answers on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” he says, and he sounds irritated enough to make Kelly wonder if he recognized the number. But no. It's been too long since Kelly called.
“Hey,” Kelly says. “It's me. I'm in Omaha. Where's your field?”
“My what?”
“Your field. Aren't you pitching tonight?”
Kyle is quiet for awhile; he's always allowed himself this luxury, taking his time to answer people's questions. Kelly can picture his frown, the way his forehead is wrinkled just slightly. He needs to see him so badly, even if it's just from the empty bleachers of the Royals' farm team's stands.
“It's right off 29, exit five. Rosenblatt Stadium. You'll see the signs.”
“Okay.” Kelly doesn't know how to continue. “So I guess you heard about me. 'Cause you don't sound surprised.”
“Are you seriously going to come?” Kyle asks.
“Yeah,” Kelly says. “If you want me to.”
“No, I don't want you to come to the game. But, hey. Come have a beer with me afterward. Show up in the eighth. Fuck, show up in the sixth. I'll be out by then.”
“But I want to see you pitch.” Just talking to Kyle always makes Kelly feel like he's doing something important with his life, doing as much as he can to leave an impression on the world.
“Bullshit,” Kyle says. He sounds so humorless but not unkind. Which is jarring.
“I do.” But he's right; Kelly is afraid to see him pitch. “Look, we don't have to impress each other anymore. At least, nobody should feel like he has to impress me. My life is a fucking mess.” He always does this with Kyle, starts talking, can't stop, digs himself a hole.
“Uh-huh. Well. I can't tell you what to do. But I guess I'll see you later. How'd you get my number?”
“Devy.”
“Oh, fuck. He's still alive? Well, good for him. Okay, I gotta go.”
Kyle hangs up, and Kelly stares at the field for a long time, the sun starting to sink and the wind getting harder, warm and clean with the promise of a storm. Somewhere, an ice cream truck is playing music, and the whole world feels like it's emptying out, finally letting him off the hook. Two years ago, Kelly let Kyle fuck him in the handicapped stall in the locker room at Fenway Park. He thinks about it all the time. Most of the time he regrets it, but it was the best sex he's ever had in his life, the only time that sex ever made him feel like he didn't have to exist for a little while, that he could just be held up by the world and stop swimming upstream. He still thinks about the way Kyle's hands felt on his sides, comfortably enormous. It didn't ruin their friendship; they were closer than they had ever been afterward. Kyle joked about it all the time, always trying to get him to do it again, but Kelly was already engaged. He told himself he wasn't going to let Kyle turn him into Brian. Ha. If only. Then Kyle got traded, so what did any of it matter.
Rosenblatt Stadium looks beautifully simple at sunset. Kelly doesn't buy a ticket, just sits on the hood of his car in the parking lot, watching jet streams streak across the sky as the storm clouds roll in. Empty plastic cups do somersaults across the concrete, and Kelly can hear the announcer saying Kyle's name. He shuts his eyes and pictures Kyle on the mound, his shoulders dropped and his eyes not even mean, just tired. That's what they all are: tired at twenty-five, and so entitled that all they can do is wander in the dark and feel sad about it for the rest of their less exhausting lives. Kelly thinks about the first time he caught Jeff kissing Brian. They didn't know, they were in the kitchen at Brian's old house, Brian backed against the counter and smiling against Jeff's mouth, laughing, his cheeks so red. Kelly had thought it was disturbing, then funny, then he just envied them. Maybe he's always wanted to be Brian. Maybe Kyle has always wanted to be Jeff. Maybe that's all there ever was to it.
It starts raining, so Kelly gets in his car. He's parked next to Kyle's truck, and when the game is rained out in the fourth Kyle comes jogging toward it, a duffel in his hands. Kelly recognizes his polo shirt. He puts his window down and Kyle sticks his face in, blinking through the raindrops. He's got an awful beard that makes him look sixty years old but his eyes are still so weirdly soft, even when they're narrowed.
“Get in!” Kelly shouts, and Kyle laughs.
“Yeah, right,” he says. “I'm driving.” Which is pretty much when Kelly knows that he'll definitely let Kyle fuck him tonight.
He gets into Kyle's truck and just the feeling of the leather against his wet jeans is like coming home to something sacred. The Cure is on the radio and Kyle is smiling at Kelly like everything is okay. Kelly feels guilty for not reminding him that it isn't. He just smiles back.
“Kelly fucking Johnson,” Kyle says.
“Don't.” Kelly cringes. “Don't be cheesy.”
“Well, here you are,” Kyle says. Lightning splits the wide-open sky as they pull onto the highway. “With me, in paradise.”
“This is paradise?”
“Yeah, obviously. I feel like I should take you to Olive Garden or something, shit.”
“Please don't.”
Kyle laughs. “No, seriously,” he says. “How are you? Is this your nervous breakdown? Or are we not talking about that?”
“My wife is pregnant,” Kelly says, and this immediately spoils the mood. Kyle's eyebrows shoot up, and Kelly stares, wanting to rub foam all over his face and shave that stupid hair off so he can really look at him.
“Sorry,” Kelly says. “I shouldn't have said that.”
“Well - is it true?”
“Fuck, Kyle. Yes, it's true.”
“Okay, well. Have you run away from home?”
“No. Not permanently.”
“Hmm.” Kyle watches the road for awhile, the rain coming down more heavily. The sound of thunder shakes the frame of the car. Kyle cuts a U-Haul off and the driver honks at him furiously as he peels away.
“Don't drive like a fucking moron just because my wife is pregnant,” Kelly says, gripping his seat cushion.
“Well, how pregnant is she?”
“What the fuck kind of question is that? She's having it, okay? I'm happy.”
“Obviously!”
“Don't make fun of me.”
“You came here thinking I wouldn't make fun of you?”
“No. I don't know. Can we just go somewhere, please?”
“We are going somewhere. To my house.”
“You have a house?”
“Yeah, I'm renting. Don't look so fucking surprised.”
“I'm not surprised that you're renting a house. Christ, what is that beard?”
“It's an affront,” Kyle says, stroking his chin. He's soaking wet, and Kelly can smell his melted deodorant, the old fashioned white kind. He didn't make the switch to Axe along with the rest of the guys. He told Kelly once that he doesn't like spraying himself with things. He finds it upsetting.
“An affront against who?” Kelly asks.
“Thank you for being the only ballplayer alive who knows what 'affront' means,” Kyle says. “And who do you think? Everyone. Baseball. Humanity! Me against the world. Me and you against the world, maybe.” He smacks Kelly's arm. “Me and you and your unborn child.”
“Let's not.” Kelly holds up his hands.
“Oh, sorry, you can assault me with the information that your wife is pregnant but I'm not allowed to make jokes about it?”
“I didn't assault you.”
“This whole thing is an assault! Really, it's unlike you. But that's okay, hey, you know me. I'm always up for a fight.”
“I didn't come here to fight with you.”
“You didn't do this, you didn't do that. Okay, fine. Why are you here?”
“To see you. Shut up, don't get testy. Can't we just -”
“Testy? You sound like my mother. Testy! Okay, you're right, let's not go to the liquor store and let's not get fucked up and talk about the past and knock over furniture. Let's just, I don't know, talk about baseball.”
“That's the last goddamn thing I want to talk about.”
“I know, that's why I suggested it. Here's my place.”
They're in a dingy neighborhood full of one-story houses with muddy yards, the rain still coming down hard. Kyle pulls into the driveway of a dark house with a squat palmetto tree in the front yard.
“I see you eying my palmetto,” Kyle says as he turns off the truck. “That's the reason I'm renting this dump. Well, that, and I'm close to broke. But look, it's not supposed to be able to grow here, but it is! That thing, you know. It's my only friend.”
“Fucking hell,” Kelly mutters. He throws open his door. “Are you sure you don't want to go to the liquor store?”
“It's okay, I've got Wild Turkey,” Kyle says, smirking at him before he climbs out of the truck.
The inside of the house looks exactly like Kelly expected it to. Temporary, outfitted with someone else's cheap furniture. Stained carpets, water marks on the ceiling in the living room. The kitchen is yellow. Kyle goes for a cabinet and pulls down two plastic cups, then pours some Wild Turkey into both of them. There's a 1997 calendar with pictures of Yorkshire terriers hanging on the fridge.
“That was there when I moved in,” Kyle says, tapping his glass against Kelly's. “Here's to professional athletics and all the glorious trappings that go along with it, eh?”
“If I give you enough to cover next month's rent will you shave that shit off your face?” Kelly asks, and Kyle beams at him.
“I've missed you a lot,” Kyle says, still smiling, like it's part of the joke. “You were my best friend.”
“I kind of still am,” Kelly says, sighing. “In a weird way.”
“You and the tree. C'mere, come sit on the couch. I promise I won't try to kiss you.”
“Fuck,” Kelly moans, his face burning. Kyle walks ahead of him, laughing. Kelly wants to kiss him, but not with the beard. They only kissed once, and it wasn't when they fucked. It was before that, in Kelly's room at a hotel in Cincinnati, very late at night. It was soft and quiet, Kyle's eyes closed, Kelly's heart pounding, and it was nothing like what they did at Fenway, which wasn't a continuation so much as a dismissal of the kiss.
“There's an old record player in here, I haven't tried it yet,” Kyle says as Kelly sits on the couch, which feels surprisingly clean. “Should we listen to something? They've got Elton John.”
“Just sit,” Kelly says, his mouth burning from the whiskey he's sipped. The power flickers and Kyle falls heavily onto the couch, not very close to Kelly. Not close enough.
“So I take it you're spending the night here?” Kyle says.
“If you don't mind.”
“Shit, Kelly,” Kyle mutters, and he sounds sincere for the first time all night. He drinks from his whiskey and shakes his head. “Sometimes I feel like you guys voted me off the team.”
“That's bullshit. Jeff's about to get traded.”
Kyle snorts. “So I guess Brian is having an aneurysm.”
“Yes. Jeff's such a dumbass, he's not going to see it coming. It'll ruin him.”
“Yeah, well.” Kyle is staring into his cup of whiskey like he's reading tea leaves. “We all get ruined eventually.”
The power flickers again, and then goes out with a thump, thunder crashing violently outside. Through the front window they can see Kyle's palmetto being abused by the wind, its leaves flailing helplessly.
“Whoops,” Kyle says. “Guess you picked a bad night to come to town.”
“No,” Kelly says, scooting closer. “It doesn't matter. I like it better in the dark.” The whiskey is strumming something soft and melodious inside him, and it feels okay to do this, whatever he's doing.
“What, so you don't have to see my beard?” Kyle asks, touching it self-consciously. Kelly reaches up and touches it, too, his fingers sliding over Kyle's. He just wants to be yanked into Kyle's arms, but Kyle is only sitting there, staring, and Kelly can't see his eyes, doesn't know what he's thinking.
“I'll kiss you if you shave it off,” Kelly says. Kyle sniffs, and Kelly is close enough to feel it.
“What makes you think I want to kiss you?” Kyle asks.
“I don't know,” Kelly says, weak and shaky enough to break Kyle's resolve. He sighs and leans onto Kelly, and Kelly wraps his arms around Kyle's shoulders, pushing his face against his neck, which still smells like that unfamiliar Iowa rain. Kyle moans a little, either a complaint or an expression of grudging gratitude, and his beard scratches against Kelly's neck as he squeezes Kelly to him.
“You fucking bitch,” Kyle mutters. “It took getting thrown off the team for you to show your face here. I should hate you for that.”
“Please,” Kelly cries, and Kyle sits back to hold Kelly's face in hands.
“I'm not shaving the beard,” he says. He leans in to kiss Kelly very delicately, as if he doesn't want to hurt him. Kelly groans into the kiss and spills himself onto Kyle, kissing him hard, hoping he'll reciprocate, and when he does, his tongue so hot in Kelly's mouth, Kelly's cock twitches to life.
“You think you can just come here and get fucked and go home to your normal life?” Kyle asks, growling the words out against Kelly's lips. Kelly shakes his head, feeling as if he's been captured, dragged back to Kyle's den full of human bones, but he came here willingly.
“I don't have a normal life anymore,” Kelly says.
“So you might as well give me the time of day again, huh?”
“Fucker,” Kelly cries, wanting to sob. “I came here because I needed help. And you're the only person who can help me. I need you, I -” Kyle swallows up the rest of his speech, mercifully, and for a moment Kelly doesn't even notice the beard, he just wants Kyle's mouth on him, everywhere. He lets Kyle push him back onto the couch and straddle him, kneeling over him like Kelly is his helpless prey, leaving marks as he sucks and bites at Kelly's neck, making Kelly cringe when the beard scrapes at his skin.
“You need me?” Kyle says, right over Kelly's ear, pressing his own hardon against Kelly's, pushing him into the cushions with the hot pressure of it. “You need me? I need you, I've needed you, where the fuck have you been?”
“I didn't want you to be traded.” And now Kelly is sobbing, kind of, but it's mostly in the back of his throat. “I didn't want you to go. You can't hate me, what was I supposed to do?”
He still wonders if they're acting out parts here, pretending to be Jeff and Brian, but Jeff and Brian will play out differently. They have too much pride, too much to lose, they'll never see each other like this. They'll be polite, they'll have joint birthday parties for their children and put the dogs to sleep when the time comes. They're nothing like this, they would never rent and they don't care about trees.
Kyle sucks Kelly's cock, and the beard feels good there, scratching over his balls and rough at the base as Kyle chokes him down. Kelly holds Kyle's hair as Kyle swallows his come, and he feels like no one has ever done anything this meaningful for him, this huge. When Kyle flips Kelly over to fuck him, he's ready to give him anything.
“Hang on,” Kyle says with a groan. “Gotta get something. What'd we use at Fenway?”
“Glove oil,” Kelly says, sinking down to the cushions. He shuts his eyes against them and listens to Kyle rooting around in the bathroom down the hall. He takes a long time, and Kelly starts to drift to sleep, his body still pulsing with the last gentle waves of his orgasm and the rain still pounding on the roof. He twitches and moans against the couch, his pants down around his ankles and his cock getting stiff again when he spreads his knees apart and waits to feel Kyle inside him.
When Kyle finally returns Kelly can smell the medicinal soapy scent of whatever he brought for lube, and he lets Kyle yank his pants off completely, then his shirt, his eyes still closed as Kyle undresses him. Kelly feels like a spoiled child, so good, reveling in the security of only needing to lie still and be taken care of. He cracks his eyes open in time to see Kyle climbing onto him, naked, and moans when he feels the tight press of Kyle's erection against the crack of his ass. Then Kyle puts his chin on Kelly's shoulder, and his face feels so soft and smells so sweet. The beard is gone, and Kelly smiles into the cushions, arching back against Kyle appreciatively.
“I think about it a lot,” Kyle says, his voice deep with desire and maybe sadness, and Kelly knows what he's referring to. Not the fuck at Fenway, but the kiss, that night when they were leaning together on the bed watching their highlights on Sportscenter - Kyle had pitched like a fucking ace - slumped down and half drunk. Kyle had leaned over, grinning like he was telling one of their inside jokes, and had pulled Kelly even closer, so casually that Kelly didn't even think anything of it until Kyle was licking timidly against his bottom lip. Kelly had opened his mouth for him without hesitation, and it had felt so good, even after they stopped, because Kyle put his head on Kelly's chest and smiled at the TV until he fell asleep. Kelly isn't sure why it never happened again. He was always, always waiting.
He rolls onto his back and kisses Kyle's freshly shaven face, then licks his soft cheeks, making him laugh. They fuck in slow motion, Kyle straining forward to continue kissing Kelly as he moves inside him, both of his hands pushed into Kelly's hair. Kelly holds Kyle's ass, guiding him, giving him permission again and again and again. It hurts, but then it doesn't, and Kelly just lets his body pulse with happy confusion, just lets Kyle kiss him.
“You feel so good,” Kelly whispers, reaching up to stroke Kyle's cheek with his thumb. He can see Kyle's eyes now, in the light through the window, and they're so soft that Kelly is already worried about him, because someone like Kyle should never let himself get so unprotected, but Kelly is grateful for it, grateful for the way Kyle is looking down at him, hiding nothing.
When Kyle comes he buries his face against Kelly's throat, keening softly, like a wounded bird. Kelly has already spilled himself again, onto both their chests, so he lies back with nothing in his mind but that noise Kyle made, which bounces around inside him and spreads across his skin. He's glad when Kyle doesn't pull out immediately, just keeps letting Kelly's body throb around him, both of them quiet under the noise of the rain. Kelly strokes Kyle's hair and watches the ceiling. Kyle nuzzles at Kelly's neck, and Kelly knows he would blame the whiskey if Kelly called him on it, but he never, never would.
“Just stay here,” Kyle says, sighing, and Kelly knows that he means forever, and that Kyle knows that he can't.
They sleep on the couch under a few blankets that Kyle drags in from somewhere. They smell like a stranger's blankets, like the kind you'd find in a cheap motel, not like Kyle, so Kelly pushes his face against Kyle's chest, breathing in the scent of him mixed with the shaving cream smell that lingers. Kyle is holding Kelly tightly, and Kelly knows he won't sleep, and wishes that he didn't have to, either, but he's so goddamn tired.
“You're the best person I know,” Kelly says, delirious, and probably more drunk than he realized.
“Lot of good it does me,” Kyle says.
In the morning, the palmetto tree is still there, missing a few leaves. The sky is perfectly clear, as if it's been power washed. Kelly is not really in favor of all the sunlight, and he blinks against it while Kyle putters around the kitchen, making coffee or something. Kelly can hear him humming to himself. He stares out at that stout little tree in Kyle's front yard, its remaining leaves so perfectly still. He's going to have to drive home and play baseball again. He's going to have to help Lauren outfit a nursery. He's going to have to help Brian into bed after he almost drinks himself to death on the night Jeff leaves for some other city. He's going to have to leave Kyle here alone on Sunday night. He shouldn't have implied that Brian has it easy. None of them do. Nobody does, anywhere, and everyone must learn this at twenty-five, but that doesn't make it any easier to sit inside this knowledge and make long lists of the things that need to be done.
“You still alive in there?” Kyle shouts from the kitchen, and Kelly smiles.
“Yeah,” he says. He waits to hear his phone ringing with calls from all the other people who will ask the same question, and he wishes, just for a minute, that Kyle was the only one who cared.
//
the end.