Je regrette (part 2)
Title: Je regrette (Part 2)
Characters: Clay Buchholz, Jon Lester, Jacoby Ellsbury, Josh Beckett, mention of George Kottaras
Rating: NC-17
Time: August 2010
Summary: Jacoby's hurting, and Clay is as well.
Disclaimer: A fictional story, written only for entertainment purposes.
Clay Buchholz wandered in the empty landscape of dreams.
"You don't need me. You'll have Jacoby."
I need you! he screamed, soundlessly, his words echoing in the emptiness. Don't leave me! Please, don't! Don't leave me!
"You don't seem to have a problem with me bein' with Beckett."
"That's different."
"I do have friends outside this ballpark, you know."
George! Don't go! Please, for God's sake! I love you!
Then why didn't you tell me?
Clay jerked awake. Beside him, Jon Lester slept, breathing evenly. His hand shaking, Clay reached for the water bottle on the nightstand, sat up and drank. Lester murmured, rolled over and curled into a ball. Looking down in the dim light, Buchholz resisted the urge to shake him awake, to seek solace in his arms.
You loved him, he loved you, and you lost him, and it's your own damn fault, he thought, staring blankly. He closed his eyes and a picture of George, smiling blissfully in the arms of a young hockey player, played over and over in his mind. He rubbed the heel of his hand across his cheek.
It's your own damn fault.
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Clay cocked his head as he approached his Toronto hotel room, all of his senses suddenly on high alert. He stopped in front of the door, silently reaching for his key card, listening intently. There it was again: a low, familiar moan. Suppressing a grin, he eased the card into the lock and slipped inside, then peeked around the corner of the bathroom.
At first glance, it appeared Jacoby was alone, naked, perched on the edge of the bed. But a second, longer look revealed more; Jon Lester, underneath him, arms locked around Jacoby's waist, one hand clutching Jacoby's cock, the other gripping his hip. As Clay watched, Jacoby's eyes rolled back in their sockets, his eyelids dropped, and his hips followed suit. He groaned aloud, the sound reverberating in Clay's loins as he realized Jacoby was impaled on Jon's cock.
Jacoby threw his head back, pushing downward as Jon thrust to meet him, nails sinking into Jacoby's flawless skin. Ellsbury whimpered, then moaned again as Jon squeezed his cock and slid his hand down, then up, then down again, slowly.
Clay couldn't stand it any more. "Fuck me," he said, stepping forward, already unzipping his jeans. Jacoby cracked one eye open. "'Bout time you got here," he grunted, reaching out, snaking a hand into Clay's shirt and pulling him into a bruising kiss.
Buchholz slid his hand over Lester's and squeezed, forcing another groan from deep within Ellsbury's chest. Jon let go, gripping Jacoby's hips with both hands, as Clay dropped to his knees, licking his lips.
"Fuck, oh fuck!" Jacoby breathed as Clay's mouth enveloped him. Buchholz barely moved, allowing Lester's thrusts to push Ellsbury upward, his cock moving deeper and deeper. Jacoby whimpered, his hands churing in Clay's long hair, clenching and pulling as his body shook and...
He stiffened and cried out. Buchholz choked briefly, then swallowed hard as Ellsbury came in a flood, shaking furiously, Lester holding on for dear life. Clay pulled his head back, unable to take it all in, and white semen spilled over Jacoby's feet as Jon cried out, a brief, sharp sound, and came, his body vibrating in concert with Jacoby's.
"Oh shit oh shit oh shit," Jon gasped, holding Jacoby in a death grip, his hips bucking upwards. Jacoby's hands spasmed on Clay's head, curls tangled around his fingers as he pulled, hard. Trapped, Clay waited, looking down at Jacoby's feet, watching white liquid dripping between his toes.
Finally, the spasms stilled. Jacoby dropped his head to Clay's shoulder as Jon fell backwards, flat on the mattress. "Welcome back," he muttered, and Clay felt Jacoby shake his head, feebly, as the ghost of a laugh tickled his shoulder.
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"You guys are rooming together?" Jacoby raised one eyebrow as he pulled his pants on, wincing only slightly.
"You're welcome to stay if you want," Jon said as he picked up the remote and started hunting for the MLB Network. "Or you want me or Clay to stay with you?"
"Nah, I'm good," Jacoby said, busying himself with his sneakers. Clay and Jon exchanged a brief look.
"OK then," Jon said, easing back against the headboard. "See you tomorrow."
He looked at Clay the moment the door closed behind Jacoby. "He's still hurtin.'"
"I know," Clay said, looking at the door. "Fucking hell."
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It wasn't a question of if, Clay thought, only when, and where. Where happened to be Texas. When was the first inning on Friday, August 13th.
Friday the 13th. It figures.
"Damn!" Clay cried as Jacoby fell in an attempt to reach first base, knocked over by that fat fuck of a Texas pitcher, getting in the fucking way. How was that not interference? But then Jacoby bounced up and trotted to the dugout.
"Is he OK?" Jon asked.
Clay watched closely, eyes narrowed. "No."
Jacoby silently collected his glove and cap at the end of the inning and trotted to the outfield. Clay sat on the bench, chewing his lower lip. Jon sat beside him, biting at his thumbnails. Jacoby studiously avoided them both.
At the top of the fourth inning, he disappeared into the tunnel leading to the clubhouse. In an instant, Clay leaped to his feet and followed. He found Jacoby in the clubhouse, leaning against his locker, struggling to breathe.
"Jacoby, you're hurt."
Ellsbury turned around, panic in his eyes. "No I'm not."
"You are. I'm gonna tell Mike."
"NO!" Jacoby cried, then winced, one hand sliding over left side. "I'm not hurt, I'm OK, I'm..."
"Jacoby." The voice came from behind Clay, startling him. He turned around. Josh Beckett stood in the entrance to the tunnel. Ellsbury stopped, his eyes widening.
"Clay, go get Mike. And tell Tito," Josh said, never taking his eyes off Jacoby. Clay hesitated. "Now."
Clay headed up the tunnel at a run, Jacoby's cry of pain and rage following him.
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"It's bad," Jon said, looking up from his phone.
"How bad?"
"Fractured again. He's done," Jon said flatly.
Clay swore.
"Exactly," Jon said.
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"You sure?" Jon's eyes were troubled as he regarded Jacoby. "It's not a problem, you know."
"Jon, I can't," Jacoby said. "I just... I can't sleep, OK? I don't want to bother you guys."
"You're not a bother," Jon murmured. Jacoby almost smiled.
"You guys are pitching great. You got your routine. I don't want to fuck it up."
Jon frowned, but nodded, ever practical. "OK."
"See you in the morning, then," Jacoby headed for the door. Clay stood up to follow. "I'll stay with you a while. I'm not pitching tomorrow."
Jacoby shrugged slightly and headed down the hotel hall, Clay on his heels, then stopped a few doors down and pulled out his key card. "You know I can't do anything, right, Buck?"
Clay snorted. "Always gotta be about sex?" he asked as they stepped into the room. He picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels. "Movie or ballgame?"
"I don't care," Jacoby lowered himself carefully to the bed. Clay settled on the Dodgers-Rockies game, hit the mute button, and climbed onto the bed, putting pillows up against the headboard. "C'mere," he said, gesturing, and Jacoby slid between his legs, resting his back against Clay's chest.
Buchholz lowered his chin to Ellsbury's shoulder and watched the game for a while, silently, enjoying the simple pleasure of Jacoby's weight and warmth. Jacoby was quiet as well, only occasionally sounding an almost inaudible grunt of pain as he or Clay shifted. Finally, Clay spoke.
"I ever tell you about when I was a kid, and allergic to everything?" he asked. Jacoby shook his head.
"Allergic to dirt, allergic to grass, seemed like I was allergic to air for a while," he said. "I'd go out and play ball and come home barely able to breathe and breakin' out in hives and just about fuckin' dyin', but I couldn't stop. I'd lie in bed at night and scratch and choke and cry myself to sleep, and the next day I'd be out doin' it all over again."
Jacoby squeezed Clay's wrist. "But..."
"Yeah, but. Eventually, obviously, I got over it. But for a long time, I never thought I would. I used to ask God -- that was back when I actually believed in God -- why, why me, 'cause I knew even then, I knew I was good. That I could be great. Y'know?"
Jacoby nodded. "I know."
"Sometimes, y'know, life just sucks," Clay said. "And then it gets better. Because it can't suck all the time."
Jacoby chuckled, quietly. "You study philosophy in college?"
"Does music appreciation count?"
"Don't think so."
"Then no."
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They sat for a long time in silence, Jacoby apparently dozing, Clay staring straight ahead, unseeing, his mind replaying a dozen moments from the previous three years.
"Jacoby is never going to know how I feel, because I'm never going to tell him, and neither are you."
"I know exactly how you feel about Jacoby. I ain't blind. You'd do anything for him, including killing me. Wouldn't you?"
I love you so much and I love George too and I want you both and I'll have neither and I'm so afraid and I can't tell you and I can't tell him and what the hell am I going to do...
"See you, George. Give me a call if you're around."
Give me a call if you're around...
I'm never going to tell him, and neither are you. Never going to tell him. Never tell him. Never. Never. Never.
Buchholz squeezed Ellsbury gently. "Jacoby?" he said, quietly.
"Mmmm?" Jacoby murmured. "Yeah?"
Clay felt dizzy. His mouth was suddenly dry. "I... I love you, Jacoby," he choked at last.
"Love you too, Buck," Jacoby murmured.
Let it go, let it go, let it go! Clay hesitated, then swallowed hard.
"No, Jacoby. I mean, I love you."
Jacoby was silent. Time stood still. Clay felt his heart hammering in his chest.
"I know, Clay," Jacoby said, his voice pitched so low that Buchholz could barely hear it. "I know. And I love you too."
Clay's hands started to shake. He gripped Jacoby's wrists, hard, trying to still himself. It didn't help. The tremors spread into his chest and squeezed his throat, and he choked, shocked into tears. "You... you..." was all he could manage.
Jacoby didn't laugh. Still looking straight ahead, he pulled his hands to his chest, wrapping Clay's arms around himself. "I thought you knew that."
"I... God," Clay finally broke, dropping his head to Jacoby's shoulder as tears fell from his eyes. "Jesus H. Christ."
"Guess not, huh?"
"Don't joke."
"I'm not."
Silence descended again, then Jacoby spoke.
"You know it's hard for me to say this kind of thing Clay, but I'll say it now. I love you. I've always loved you, and I always will. You know we can't..." he bit his lip. "we can't... have everything. You know I love somebody else too. But I want... I want you to know... there... there's a part of me that... that'll always be, you know. Yours."
Clay was speechless. Mine?
"God, that sounds so fucking stupid," Ellsbury said.
Buchholz finally found his voice. "No. No it doesn't."
"Good," Jacoby said. "Don't make me say it again."
Clay let go of Jacoby, put his hands over his face, and exploded into gales of laughter. Falling onto his side, he looked up at Jacoby, who looked down at him and grinned, then held his hand up. Jacoby clasped it.
"Promise," Clay said.
"Promise," Jacoby echoed. "Thank God."
Thank YOU, God, Clay thought. I guess you really do exist, after all.