(no subject)
This is a present i wrote for my two red sox gay-loving friends, alyssa and katie. and i was told it was post worthy, so i am posting it here.
Title: Silence
Author: trottage, befuddled, kimi, me (any or all of the above)
Pairing: Arroyitek, of course! pitcher/catcher love owns! and a little bit Manny/Millar. just because they are adorable
Rating: PG whatever. nothing bad
Disclaimer: i do not own the red sox. i do not own bronson or varitek. i dont even own the ship. i throw cookies and cakes at the person who first came up with it.
Summary: varitek is in love. that's basically it. the story goes on from there and it's written kind of weird, but i thought it worked for this story. i love it. it takes place in this season (2005) although nothing that happens in the story happened in real life. i just used it for the pitching rotation. and i think that's it. kay, read, so you can comment and praise me on how much this made you squee! i know i couldn't stop when i was writing it :]
You get to look at him throughout the game. Hopefully you get seven or eight innings where it seems like it entire world has stopped and it’s only you and him. He throws the ball, you catch it and throw it back. You even get goose bumps when you’re giving him signs and he has to look at your crotch in order to get the right ones and throw the right pitch. It’s stupid, yes, but you think about it. All the time. And you’re afraid that he’s not thinking the same things. You’re worried that he doesn’t look forward to the days he pitches in the same way that you do. Of course he can’t wait to start again, but you can’t wait so you can stare at him pitch after pitch. You miss him when he’s resting in the dugout.
No one seems to notice that you’ve been acting different and it’s good relief. It would be painful to explain feelings as incomplete as these. It would be easier to do it with him, but some things are hard to come by. You’ll just have to sit around and mope. And play baseball. That takes away a lot of the pain. Batting practice has become your new friend and those three straight homerun games have shown a lot. You haven’t lost your game. Not yet.
Days off get you even more depressed. You just sit around and wait until tomorrow when you can play again. Sometimes it sucks to have more than one catcher. But you get over it. Nights are always filled with cigar smoke-filled rooms and getting drunk over an intense game of poker. The hangover you’ll get tomorrow morning is the last thing on your mind. Across the room he’s sitting, guitar in hand, trying to prove to Johnny Damon that he can sing. Johnny is too drunk to realize it and keeps asking him to show him again. Your knees get weak at the sound of his voice and your insides turn to mush. But you keep your focus on the game. Kevin Millar just decided that he wants to turn it into strip poker. You realize you forgot to put on underwear this morning. You can’t lose.
The next morning turns out to be better than those eight beers had been whispering in your ears. And you didn’t have to strip very far in the game. Ortiz was sitting there stark naked and you had your pants and a single sock on. The cards were dealt to you perfectly. In the literal sense. Figurative was a different story. Johnny and Bronson crashed after they both lost interest in the guitar and Johnny ended up falling asleep on your pitchers chest. You knew it meant nothing but it still hurt. The poker game became the last thing on your mind. You wanted to be a drunken outfielder instead of a drunken catcher. You’d give anything.
Terry Francona saw how hungover you were and seemed to be catching on to something. He apologized to you and said you couldn’t play again today. Mirabelli was fine and his start yesterday was cut short anyway. Up by fourteen runs in the fifth inning took Wakefield and Mirabelli out and put in some rookies to get practice in. Terry told Mirabelli to suit up. You sat on the bench during batting practice for the second day in a row.
Bronson walked out of the clubhouse and sat down next to you. His hair was wet and beginning to curl up in the dry heat. You loved it when it did that. You also noticed he had waited to shower when the place was empty. He always did that. You had never seen him naked but in your mind it was all you could think about. He offered you some sunflower seeds from a bag he picked up off the bench and you declined. He didn’t know you hated them, but you didn’t really care. You got up and poured yourself a cup of water, drinking it to keep from having to start up a conversation. Batting practice went on. His hair continued to curl up when the sun’s heat intensified. Your hands ached to touch it. Your fingers wanted to run through it and feel the curls. You tightened your grip on that cup. He didn’t notice the tension and continued to eat the seeds. Eventually you gave in and asked him for a handful. If he liked them, you would learn to like them too.
The team won again today, but not by as much and the game was more intense. You were feeling better by the seventh inning and begged Francona to put you in. He let you play and you hit the homerun that gave the team the lead. When Francona walked by to pat everyone on the back, he told you he was glad to have you back. You weren’t sure what he meant. You hadn’t gone anywhere. Maybe it was the sunflower seeds. They had suddenly become an addiction.
On the way home, you picked up a couple bags at the store and sat in your living room watching an old movie and spitting out shells all over the floor. You didn’t care about the mess. Someone would come to clean it up tomorrow. You finished your movie and went straight to bed. You would be catching for Wells tomorrow and you had a tough opposing lineup. You would need the rest. But your pillow was soaked when you woke up. You didn’t know a single person was able to cry that much in one night. And you didn’t know why you were crying. Not at the time.
Batting practice went well the next morning and you were grateful to not have to silently sit next to him again. His curls were doing that thing again and they looked even more yummy today. Wells warmed up with you for about fifteen minutes and then you went back to the dugout. Bronson had started up a conversation with Youkilis and you avoided his eyes. The game was getting ready to start and you had to finish getting ready. You also suddenly realized you forgot to put your cup on. You ran back into the clubhouse and grabbed it, stuffing it in your pants as you returned just in time for the start. No one seemed to notice you had gone. As you stood there listening to Jason Mraz singing the national anthem, you realized how out of it you seemed. Wells almost hit you with pitches twice during practice.
Another win. You went 0-4 and managed to get on base after being walked and scored when Trot Nixon doubled in the eighth. You struck out looking twice and swung on horrible pitches too many times. Millar even made the statement that you should have been out golfing instead of playing baseball today. You didn’t think your swings were that low, but replays on NESN told you otherwise. You were sitting in the hotel room watching the TV after your first game of the Yankees series on the road. Some idiot had underbooked and more than half of you had to bunk together. You were assigned a room with Manny, Millar and Bronson. Thank god Bronson called the bed with Manny. You didn’t think you would be able to sleep with him. Although the idea of sharing a bed with a man-whore didn't quite tickle your fancy. But it was better than him.
Manny and Millar took over the TV at about 11:30 and started watching a movie. They fell asleep in each others arms and you didn’t want to disturb them. Bronson was sitting on a chair on the other side of the room, holding his guitar and sleeping. He didn’t look too comfortable. When you went into the bathroom to change and brush your teeth, he woke up and propped himself in the bed. Your bed. He had glasses on and was reading Johnny Damon’s book, Idiot. You laughed at the bedtime reading choice and realized that you didn’t know he wore glasses.
He looked up at you when you emerged, shutting the bathroom light and looking like you had just been hit in the nuts with Curt Schilling’s fastball. He smiled.
“There’s room for both of us. I don’t want to be the one to pull them apart.” He looked over at Manny and Millar and you both saw that Kevin was holding on tightly, not wanting to let the outfielder go. “I don’t bite. I promise.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” You almost said, but nodded instead and walked over to the bed. He had folded back your sheets and fluffed up your pillow. You had never felt so loved. You got into bed quickly and made sure your head wasn’t facing him. He eventually shut off the light, put his book and glasses on the night table, and tucked himself in. His long leg brushed against yours more than once and it made you shiver. Your eyes filled with tears when all that you could hear was his breathing going in time with yours. It felt corny in your heart to think that it was the most beautiful sound.
He heard your sob and pulled himself closer to you. You knew it was on purpose and that made you cry more. What was he trying to pull? When his arm reached over and found your hand in the dark, you knew there was something more. He squeezed it tightly and whispered something in your ear that you still can hear.
“Don’t worry.” He said and you fell asleep in his arms. You woke up to a dry pillow the next morning.
He didn’t speak much to you during your practice in the bullpen the next afternoon, but you knew what he was thinking. It was all you could think of. You noticed a drastic change in how he acted on the mound and when your hand was telling him what pitches to throw, his eyes lit up like a little boy in the candy store when he was looking. His eyes were glued into yours and even his pitches were loving. He threw more strikes than you could count and only let one man on base. That was your fault. Behind your mask, you smirked in a way that would make any one lose concentration and he hit the batter with the pitch. Later on he said he did it on purpose, but you knew the truth.
Everything about the game was perfect and you won. You still had a bad game and only got one hit, but it was better. Everyone could see it. Johnny commented on this new batting stance you had just created and Kevin apologized for the golf comment. All the pitches you swung at were good strikes, you just missed them by a little. You weren’t surprised. Out of the corner of your eye, Bronson was sitting in the dugout and smiling at you. You knew what had happened last night was real.
When you went up to the mound to talk to him after he complained of getting a little tired, you practically begged Francona to put in Timlin so your pitcher could have some rest. Bronson looked thankful and slapped your ass after he handed over the ball and walked back to the dugout. Everything was going perfect. You knew this wasn't going to end. You couldn't wait for tonight when you would be sharing the same bed again. You hadn't talked about it yet, but you knew it was going to happen. His face said it all.
When the game ended, he ran out and greeted you and only you. And the way he hugged you after that was enough to tell you exactly what you needed to hear, even if there were no words.
Title: Silence
Author: trottage, befuddled, kimi, me (any or all of the above)
Pairing: Arroyitek, of course! pitcher/catcher love owns! and a little bit Manny/Millar. just because they are adorable
Rating: PG whatever. nothing bad
Disclaimer: i do not own the red sox. i do not own bronson or varitek. i dont even own the ship. i throw cookies and cakes at the person who first came up with it.
Summary: varitek is in love. that's basically it. the story goes on from there and it's written kind of weird, but i thought it worked for this story. i love it. it takes place in this season (2005) although nothing that happens in the story happened in real life. i just used it for the pitching rotation. and i think that's it. kay, read, so you can comment and praise me on how much this made you squee! i know i couldn't stop when i was writing it :]
You get to look at him throughout the game. Hopefully you get seven or eight innings where it seems like it entire world has stopped and it’s only you and him. He throws the ball, you catch it and throw it back. You even get goose bumps when you’re giving him signs and he has to look at your crotch in order to get the right ones and throw the right pitch. It’s stupid, yes, but you think about it. All the time. And you’re afraid that he’s not thinking the same things. You’re worried that he doesn’t look forward to the days he pitches in the same way that you do. Of course he can’t wait to start again, but you can’t wait so you can stare at him pitch after pitch. You miss him when he’s resting in the dugout.
No one seems to notice that you’ve been acting different and it’s good relief. It would be painful to explain feelings as incomplete as these. It would be easier to do it with him, but some things are hard to come by. You’ll just have to sit around and mope. And play baseball. That takes away a lot of the pain. Batting practice has become your new friend and those three straight homerun games have shown a lot. You haven’t lost your game. Not yet.
Days off get you even more depressed. You just sit around and wait until tomorrow when you can play again. Sometimes it sucks to have more than one catcher. But you get over it. Nights are always filled with cigar smoke-filled rooms and getting drunk over an intense game of poker. The hangover you’ll get tomorrow morning is the last thing on your mind. Across the room he’s sitting, guitar in hand, trying to prove to Johnny Damon that he can sing. Johnny is too drunk to realize it and keeps asking him to show him again. Your knees get weak at the sound of his voice and your insides turn to mush. But you keep your focus on the game. Kevin Millar just decided that he wants to turn it into strip poker. You realize you forgot to put on underwear this morning. You can’t lose.
The next morning turns out to be better than those eight beers had been whispering in your ears. And you didn’t have to strip very far in the game. Ortiz was sitting there stark naked and you had your pants and a single sock on. The cards were dealt to you perfectly. In the literal sense. Figurative was a different story. Johnny and Bronson crashed after they both lost interest in the guitar and Johnny ended up falling asleep on your pitchers chest. You knew it meant nothing but it still hurt. The poker game became the last thing on your mind. You wanted to be a drunken outfielder instead of a drunken catcher. You’d give anything.
Terry Francona saw how hungover you were and seemed to be catching on to something. He apologized to you and said you couldn’t play again today. Mirabelli was fine and his start yesterday was cut short anyway. Up by fourteen runs in the fifth inning took Wakefield and Mirabelli out and put in some rookies to get practice in. Terry told Mirabelli to suit up. You sat on the bench during batting practice for the second day in a row.
Bronson walked out of the clubhouse and sat down next to you. His hair was wet and beginning to curl up in the dry heat. You loved it when it did that. You also noticed he had waited to shower when the place was empty. He always did that. You had never seen him naked but in your mind it was all you could think about. He offered you some sunflower seeds from a bag he picked up off the bench and you declined. He didn’t know you hated them, but you didn’t really care. You got up and poured yourself a cup of water, drinking it to keep from having to start up a conversation. Batting practice went on. His hair continued to curl up when the sun’s heat intensified. Your hands ached to touch it. Your fingers wanted to run through it and feel the curls. You tightened your grip on that cup. He didn’t notice the tension and continued to eat the seeds. Eventually you gave in and asked him for a handful. If he liked them, you would learn to like them too.
The team won again today, but not by as much and the game was more intense. You were feeling better by the seventh inning and begged Francona to put you in. He let you play and you hit the homerun that gave the team the lead. When Francona walked by to pat everyone on the back, he told you he was glad to have you back. You weren’t sure what he meant. You hadn’t gone anywhere. Maybe it was the sunflower seeds. They had suddenly become an addiction.
On the way home, you picked up a couple bags at the store and sat in your living room watching an old movie and spitting out shells all over the floor. You didn’t care about the mess. Someone would come to clean it up tomorrow. You finished your movie and went straight to bed. You would be catching for Wells tomorrow and you had a tough opposing lineup. You would need the rest. But your pillow was soaked when you woke up. You didn’t know a single person was able to cry that much in one night. And you didn’t know why you were crying. Not at the time.
Batting practice went well the next morning and you were grateful to not have to silently sit next to him again. His curls were doing that thing again and they looked even more yummy today. Wells warmed up with you for about fifteen minutes and then you went back to the dugout. Bronson had started up a conversation with Youkilis and you avoided his eyes. The game was getting ready to start and you had to finish getting ready. You also suddenly realized you forgot to put your cup on. You ran back into the clubhouse and grabbed it, stuffing it in your pants as you returned just in time for the start. No one seemed to notice you had gone. As you stood there listening to Jason Mraz singing the national anthem, you realized how out of it you seemed. Wells almost hit you with pitches twice during practice.
Another win. You went 0-4 and managed to get on base after being walked and scored when Trot Nixon doubled in the eighth. You struck out looking twice and swung on horrible pitches too many times. Millar even made the statement that you should have been out golfing instead of playing baseball today. You didn’t think your swings were that low, but replays on NESN told you otherwise. You were sitting in the hotel room watching the TV after your first game of the Yankees series on the road. Some idiot had underbooked and more than half of you had to bunk together. You were assigned a room with Manny, Millar and Bronson. Thank god Bronson called the bed with Manny. You didn’t think you would be able to sleep with him. Although the idea of sharing a bed with a man-whore didn't quite tickle your fancy. But it was better than him.
Manny and Millar took over the TV at about 11:30 and started watching a movie. They fell asleep in each others arms and you didn’t want to disturb them. Bronson was sitting on a chair on the other side of the room, holding his guitar and sleeping. He didn’t look too comfortable. When you went into the bathroom to change and brush your teeth, he woke up and propped himself in the bed. Your bed. He had glasses on and was reading Johnny Damon’s book, Idiot. You laughed at the bedtime reading choice and realized that you didn’t know he wore glasses.
He looked up at you when you emerged, shutting the bathroom light and looking like you had just been hit in the nuts with Curt Schilling’s fastball. He smiled.
“There’s room for both of us. I don’t want to be the one to pull them apart.” He looked over at Manny and Millar and you both saw that Kevin was holding on tightly, not wanting to let the outfielder go. “I don’t bite. I promise.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” You almost said, but nodded instead and walked over to the bed. He had folded back your sheets and fluffed up your pillow. You had never felt so loved. You got into bed quickly and made sure your head wasn’t facing him. He eventually shut off the light, put his book and glasses on the night table, and tucked himself in. His long leg brushed against yours more than once and it made you shiver. Your eyes filled with tears when all that you could hear was his breathing going in time with yours. It felt corny in your heart to think that it was the most beautiful sound.
He heard your sob and pulled himself closer to you. You knew it was on purpose and that made you cry more. What was he trying to pull? When his arm reached over and found your hand in the dark, you knew there was something more. He squeezed it tightly and whispered something in your ear that you still can hear.
“Don’t worry.” He said and you fell asleep in his arms. You woke up to a dry pillow the next morning.
He didn’t speak much to you during your practice in the bullpen the next afternoon, but you knew what he was thinking. It was all you could think of. You noticed a drastic change in how he acted on the mound and when your hand was telling him what pitches to throw, his eyes lit up like a little boy in the candy store when he was looking. His eyes were glued into yours and even his pitches were loving. He threw more strikes than you could count and only let one man on base. That was your fault. Behind your mask, you smirked in a way that would make any one lose concentration and he hit the batter with the pitch. Later on he said he did it on purpose, but you knew the truth.
Everything about the game was perfect and you won. You still had a bad game and only got one hit, but it was better. Everyone could see it. Johnny commented on this new batting stance you had just created and Kevin apologized for the golf comment. All the pitches you swung at were good strikes, you just missed them by a little. You weren’t surprised. Out of the corner of your eye, Bronson was sitting in the dugout and smiling at you. You knew what had happened last night was real.
When you went up to the mound to talk to him after he complained of getting a little tired, you practically begged Francona to put in Timlin so your pitcher could have some rest. Bronson looked thankful and slapped your ass after he handed over the ball and walked back to the dugout. Everything was going perfect. You knew this wasn't going to end. You couldn't wait for tonight when you would be sharing the same bed again. You hadn't talked about it yet, but you knew it was going to happen. His face said it all.
When the game ended, he ran out and greeted you and only you. And the way he hugged you after that was enough to tell you exactly what you needed to hear, even if there were no words.