Justin's eyes fly open. Rick Porcello is standing there, shirtless in a loose pair of sweatpants and too-big socks, holding a pile of damp gray uniform and looking incredibly awkward.
Justin whips his hand out of his pants automatically, then narrows his eyes. What the hell does he have to feel uncomfortable about? He just threw a goddamn no-hitter and he's on the phone with his girlfriend; he's got no regrets. He slides his hand back under his waistband with as much dignity as he can muster, although he knows his face is bright red. "Jesus, Ricky, you could knock or something. Little busy here."
"Ricky's there?" Emily asks. Justin grunts. Yes, he is. He wishes Porcello would leave, so he could get back on with things, but Porcello is still standing there in the doorway looking stunned, the clothes in his hands occasionally dripping onto the floor.
"Why don't you ask him to come on over, mmm?"
Justin blinks. "I'm sorry... what?"
"Tell him to... oh, give him the phone."
"I'm not--"
"Justin." Justin winces. He pretty much always does what that voice tells him to do; it's usually the safest route to take. He wordlessly holds out the phone.
Porcello looks at it, then back at him, then back at the phone. He hesitates, clearly lost, but Justin waggles the phone at him and shrugs. Porcello tentatively puts his pile down on top of a washing machine and steps forward. He grabs the phone and hastily steps back, looking at the floor. Justin realizes, belatedly, that he still has a hand in his pants and a very obvious hard-on, but he refuses to do anything about that. Porcello's the one who barged in on him.
He watches Porcello put the phone up to his ear, obviously nervous. He has no idea what Emily is saying, but whatever it is, it causes Porcello to blush hard. He stammers something, so quiet that Justin can't hear, then cuts himself off to listen to Emily. He listens for a long time, only occasionally making indistinct, near-whispered responses.
Justin is just starting to wonder if he's going to lose his erection sitting and waiting when Porcello finally looks back at him. There's a new, considering gaze on his face, although he still looks nervous and uncertain. He walks up to hand the phone back. Justin takes it, pointedly one-handed. He puts the phone to his own ear, noticing that Porcello isn't backing away this time: he's simply standing there in front of Justin, looking down at him with that half-wavering, half-appraising expression.
"So I talked to him," Emily says, "and Ricky's on board."
Justin doesn't look away from Porcello. "On board with what?"
Emily laughs again, light and breathless and warm in Justin's ear like he can almost feel it. "With celebrating your no-hitter, dummy."
"Em," Justin starts, but Porcello drops to his knees, right there in front of Justin, and he's startled into silence.
Justin's eyes fly open. Rick Porcello is standing there, shirtless in a loose pair of sweatpants and too-big socks, holding a pile of damp gray uniform and looking incredibly awkward.
Justin whips his hand out of his pants automatically, then narrows his eyes. What the hell does he have to feel uncomfortable about? He just threw a goddamn no-hitter and he's on the phone with his girlfriend; he's got no regrets. He slides his hand back under his waistband with as much dignity as he can muster, although he knows his face is bright red. "Jesus, Ricky, you could knock or something. Little busy here."
"Sorry," Porcello repeats. "Sorry, I'm really... um. Sorry."
"Ricky's there?" Emily asks. Justin grunts. Yes, he is. He wishes Porcello would leave, so he could get back on with things, but Porcello is still standing there in the doorway looking stunned, the clothes in his hands occasionally dripping onto the floor.
"Why don't you ask him to come on over, mmm?"
Justin blinks. "I'm sorry... what?"
"Tell him to... oh, give him the phone."
"I'm not--"
"Justin." Justin winces. He pretty much always does what that voice tells him to do; it's usually the safest route to take. He wordlessly holds out the phone.
Porcello looks at it, then back at him, then back at the phone. He hesitates, clearly lost, but Justin waggles the phone at him and shrugs. Porcello tentatively puts his pile down on top of a washing machine and steps forward. He grabs the phone and hastily steps back, looking at the floor. Justin realizes, belatedly, that he still has a hand in his pants and a very obvious hard-on, but he refuses to do anything about that. Porcello's the one who barged in on him.
He watches Porcello put the phone up to his ear, obviously nervous. He has no idea what Emily is saying, but whatever it is, it causes Porcello to blush hard. He stammers something, so quiet that Justin can't hear, then cuts himself off to listen to Emily. He listens for a long time, only occasionally making indistinct, near-whispered responses.
Justin is just starting to wonder if he's going to lose his erection sitting and waiting when Porcello finally looks back at him. There's a new, considering gaze on his face, although he still looks nervous and uncertain. He walks up to hand the phone back. Justin takes it, pointedly one-handed. He puts the phone to his own ear, noticing that Porcello isn't backing away this time: he's simply standing there in front of Justin, looking down at him with that half-wavering, half-appraising expression.
"So I talked to him," Emily says, "and Ricky's on board."
Justin doesn't look away from Porcello. "On board with what?"
Emily laughs again, light and breathless and warm in Justin's ear like he can almost feel it. "With celebrating your no-hitter, dummy."
"Em," Justin starts, but Porcello drops to his knees, right there in front of Justin, and he's startled into silence.
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