Oh no I didn't.
Oh yes I did.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
Roommate
He's had a history of people leaving, moving on to other places, and always it's been this team, man, trading people away when it's got no business doing that. Harden knows about Oakland, pinch of dollar and skipping over the diamonds to get to the unpolished gems, but he's started to get sick of it.
Mulder and Hudson, that was hard, hard in ways he still doesn't like to think about. Barry Zito with a dead smile and this funny look to him, like if you hit him on the chest with the flat of your hand it would make a gonging noise, hollow in there. Rough, sure, because Harden had been staying at Mulder's house, with some other guys, and a certain number of midnight video game sessions after he'd moved in they'd become frat brothers in all but greek letters. Close enough for Mulder to let Harden borrow his Michigan State hat, not a thing just anyone could do. Close enough for Mulder to let Harden prop him up against the headboard of his bed and feed him water so he wouldn't be so hungover in the morning, slopping down his front while Mulder's eyes slid half-closed and Harden had to poke him hard to keep him awake. Mulder not one hundred percent cool and in control, and that was pretty close, for Mulder.
They'd been close enough that Harden has a pretty good idea of why Zito seems so brittle these days, little things dropped from slack lips when Mulder was drunk or tired or feeling something twinge in his arm.
So that was rough, and the pressure stepped up on top of that, the new Big Three without two of the three, and Harden supposed to slide in there and take it over, hold the world for Atlas now that he's gone, shoulder to shoulder with Zito. It works out OK, because he trusts in his fastball and when he does, it trusts in him back. But it isn't easy, not at first, and when his side catches fire and he has to gasp for breath, has to lie on sofas everywhere with heat packs and pain pills and fuzzy drifting thoughts, he's a little resentful, sure, a little mad that Mulder and Hudson aren't here where they should be.
Before that, even, though.
Minor leagues, and he was only just a kid, single A ball and not even old enough to drink yet. His roommate a year younger than him, and they were just a couple of kids, really, kids playing baseball and dreaming green and gold thoughts at night. Going into bars and not ordering anything, scared of getting caught, pretty young California girls smiling at them with bright white teeth, scared of that too.
Harden barely even remembers how it started, sickly sweet beer that one of their teammates left in their apartment definitely part of it, and he'd kept on drinking because he didn't know if it was OK to stop or not, if it was cool to lean back and say he'd had enough. Just the two of them and a lot of beer and a certain time later he was exploring the way too-sweet beer tastes, sticky and half-evaporated, on someone else's tongue. A thin minor league tshirt was no barrier to his hands and when he'd reached down, pressed his fingers against warm skin and solid chest, he'd bitten his roommate's lower lip, through closed teeth hissed, Jeremy.
That went on, surprisingly. Bonderman seemed lightyears older than anyone in single A ball should be, and Harden was fascinated by it. A year younger but already more filled out on his frame than Harden, already solid in his legs like a real major leaguer, heavy down low to power the ball over the plate. Harden felt quick and light and shot the ball like a cannon from his hand, jumpy, swearing loudly at runs scored against, but already Bonderman had a Look. He'd wipe his forehead with his jersey several times a game, but with the bases loaded he'd get that Look and manufacture himself one, two, three outs, and runs would melt away. Slow and solid and old, somehow, all of 19. Resting his head on Bonderman's chest, late at night, hand broad on the small of his back, Harden would be calm and grounded and things would make sense in a strange and deliberate way.
Of course they traded Bonderman away. Detroit, of all places. And Harden did things the right way, single A, double A, triple A, majors, expected at every step, but Bonderman spent a tiny amount of time at single A for Detroit, and then straight up to the big leagues, just in time for the worst season anyone could ever have, but still pitching in the majors. Harden thought about sending him a bottle of champagne when he heard, a congratulations man, knew you would, wish you were, haven't forgotten, but then he remembered that Bonderman was still too young to drink. 20 years old and spending a whole season in the big leagues, man.
Harden watches the Tigers lose in spectacular fashion on Sportscenter in rundown motels in minor league towns, beds with sagging springs making sad complaining noises under him as he watches Bonderman grimace and wipe his forehead with his jersey, pulling the navy D into funny stretched-out shapes. The Look is there, sure, and Harden whistles out his breath every time he sees it. The bats don't do anything to help, and the Sportscenter announcers tick off numbers, one more closer to that absolute bottom, but Harden is pretty sure Bonderman will be OK.
2005 and everyone is old enough to drink now, the Tigers come to town. Bonderman is suspended for a spectacular brawl and Harden skulks around the away team hotel in Oakland, trying to be anonymous in a beat-up old logoless hat, trying to feel like something other than a stalker and failing miserably. He sees the Tigers arrive and waits waits waits, until yes, there. Bonderman is suspended but he's travelling with the team because he's pitching at the back end of the series, and Harden leans against the brick wall across the street, smiling in at the revolving glass doors, hands in his pockets and his fingers tracing seams in their depths.
Harden trusts in his fastball and it does him proud, screaming over the plate and darting with breathtaking movements into Kendall's glove. He feels dumb and jumpy and young but he gets the job done and the Tigers go down swinging. In the clubhouse after the game Zito claps him on the back without saying anything and Harden thinks about how black Zito's hair seems these days. He wonders if Zito is dyeing it, some sort of strange California rocker thing, but he watches Zito sit down on the bench in front of his locker and rotate his phone in his hands, staring blankly down at the quiet screen. Harden decides that Zito isn't dyeing his hair, but he is looking rather pale and listless of late.
Sick of it. Trades. Just a fucking mess, really.
Against every rule in the book and out of it, but Harden sneaks into the away team hotel after the game, after the clubhouse has emptied and he can head out alone, parking lot lights acid on his lonely car. He charms the desk clerk with a wink and a smile, detached and automatic. In the elevator he leans on the back wall and watches his reflection distort in the brushed metal doors. His eyes migrate to the top of his head and his chest bends into a deep curve, and the elevator ticks off the floors with a quiet bell.
The right door is easy to find and he's not expecting much when he knocks. Isn't really expecting the door to open, but it does, and there's Bonderman, jeans and rumpled tshirt and steady as ever, if very slightly surprised.
"Roommate?" Harden asks past dry throat, but come this far, man, doesn't hurt to ask.
There's a beat before Bonderman shakes his head, steps aside to let Harden into the room. He shuts the door and looks Harden up and down, slow and deliberate. There's no emotion there, just solid appraisal, and Harden can't tell if he's happy or sad or angry or what, but he knows that he's here, so he moves forward and gets his hand under the hem of Bonderman's tshirt, fingertips skimming soft skin at the top of his jeans. He bites his own lip and thinks about how young Bonderman makes him feel, even though that's dumb and plain old wrong.
Bonderman catches hold of his wrist and Harden freezes, suddenly uncertain. What if, and kind of a lot of time has passed here. He raises his eyes to Bonderman's, reluctant and embarassed, flush already starting at the back of his neck, and Bonderman has the Look. Something so intense behind his eyes that Harden can't breathe, and Bonderman raises his arm without resistance, gets Harden's wrist up close to his mouth. Licks it. Bites it, and Harden feels his eyes slide closed, a separate kind of motion that he notices even before he notices that everything's gone black.
It's been a long time since Harden felt really solid, really grounded.
Tongue at his pulse and Bonderman's other hand is at his hip, broad and heavy and warm, and Harden is breathing a little fast, everything light in his head like he's too young to drink and they're gonna tear up the majors together, man, roomie and him, heavy fastballs ripping through the league in a whirlwind of green and gold.
I apologize to the world.
Also, we were so busy being depressed over the Farns going to Atlanta, that we forgot all about this. But Tim Hudson, man. He's like a mini Farns. The possibilities... hm. Well, blame offspeed and beckla30 for planting that one in my brain. We'll see if anything comes of it. I'm still working on various Red Sox and Tigers stories, but I have the attention span of a goldfish, so.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
Roommate
He's had a history of people leaving, moving on to other places, and always it's been this team, man, trading people away when it's got no business doing that. Harden knows about Oakland, pinch of dollar and skipping over the diamonds to get to the unpolished gems, but he's started to get sick of it.
Mulder and Hudson, that was hard, hard in ways he still doesn't like to think about. Barry Zito with a dead smile and this funny look to him, like if you hit him on the chest with the flat of your hand it would make a gonging noise, hollow in there. Rough, sure, because Harden had been staying at Mulder's house, with some other guys, and a certain number of midnight video game sessions after he'd moved in they'd become frat brothers in all but greek letters. Close enough for Mulder to let Harden borrow his Michigan State hat, not a thing just anyone could do. Close enough for Mulder to let Harden prop him up against the headboard of his bed and feed him water so he wouldn't be so hungover in the morning, slopping down his front while Mulder's eyes slid half-closed and Harden had to poke him hard to keep him awake. Mulder not one hundred percent cool and in control, and that was pretty close, for Mulder.
They'd been close enough that Harden has a pretty good idea of why Zito seems so brittle these days, little things dropped from slack lips when Mulder was drunk or tired or feeling something twinge in his arm.
So that was rough, and the pressure stepped up on top of that, the new Big Three without two of the three, and Harden supposed to slide in there and take it over, hold the world for Atlas now that he's gone, shoulder to shoulder with Zito. It works out OK, because he trusts in his fastball and when he does, it trusts in him back. But it isn't easy, not at first, and when his side catches fire and he has to gasp for breath, has to lie on sofas everywhere with heat packs and pain pills and fuzzy drifting thoughts, he's a little resentful, sure, a little mad that Mulder and Hudson aren't here where they should be.
Before that, even, though.
Minor leagues, and he was only just a kid, single A ball and not even old enough to drink yet. His roommate a year younger than him, and they were just a couple of kids, really, kids playing baseball and dreaming green and gold thoughts at night. Going into bars and not ordering anything, scared of getting caught, pretty young California girls smiling at them with bright white teeth, scared of that too.
Harden barely even remembers how it started, sickly sweet beer that one of their teammates left in their apartment definitely part of it, and he'd kept on drinking because he didn't know if it was OK to stop or not, if it was cool to lean back and say he'd had enough. Just the two of them and a lot of beer and a certain time later he was exploring the way too-sweet beer tastes, sticky and half-evaporated, on someone else's tongue. A thin minor league tshirt was no barrier to his hands and when he'd reached down, pressed his fingers against warm skin and solid chest, he'd bitten his roommate's lower lip, through closed teeth hissed, Jeremy.
That went on, surprisingly. Bonderman seemed lightyears older than anyone in single A ball should be, and Harden was fascinated by it. A year younger but already more filled out on his frame than Harden, already solid in his legs like a real major leaguer, heavy down low to power the ball over the plate. Harden felt quick and light and shot the ball like a cannon from his hand, jumpy, swearing loudly at runs scored against, but already Bonderman had a Look. He'd wipe his forehead with his jersey several times a game, but with the bases loaded he'd get that Look and manufacture himself one, two, three outs, and runs would melt away. Slow and solid and old, somehow, all of 19. Resting his head on Bonderman's chest, late at night, hand broad on the small of his back, Harden would be calm and grounded and things would make sense in a strange and deliberate way.
Of course they traded Bonderman away. Detroit, of all places. And Harden did things the right way, single A, double A, triple A, majors, expected at every step, but Bonderman spent a tiny amount of time at single A for Detroit, and then straight up to the big leagues, just in time for the worst season anyone could ever have, but still pitching in the majors. Harden thought about sending him a bottle of champagne when he heard, a congratulations man, knew you would, wish you were, haven't forgotten, but then he remembered that Bonderman was still too young to drink. 20 years old and spending a whole season in the big leagues, man.
Harden watches the Tigers lose in spectacular fashion on Sportscenter in rundown motels in minor league towns, beds with sagging springs making sad complaining noises under him as he watches Bonderman grimace and wipe his forehead with his jersey, pulling the navy D into funny stretched-out shapes. The Look is there, sure, and Harden whistles out his breath every time he sees it. The bats don't do anything to help, and the Sportscenter announcers tick off numbers, one more closer to that absolute bottom, but Harden is pretty sure Bonderman will be OK.
2005 and everyone is old enough to drink now, the Tigers come to town. Bonderman is suspended for a spectacular brawl and Harden skulks around the away team hotel in Oakland, trying to be anonymous in a beat-up old logoless hat, trying to feel like something other than a stalker and failing miserably. He sees the Tigers arrive and waits waits waits, until yes, there. Bonderman is suspended but he's travelling with the team because he's pitching at the back end of the series, and Harden leans against the brick wall across the street, smiling in at the revolving glass doors, hands in his pockets and his fingers tracing seams in their depths.
Harden trusts in his fastball and it does him proud, screaming over the plate and darting with breathtaking movements into Kendall's glove. He feels dumb and jumpy and young but he gets the job done and the Tigers go down swinging. In the clubhouse after the game Zito claps him on the back without saying anything and Harden thinks about how black Zito's hair seems these days. He wonders if Zito is dyeing it, some sort of strange California rocker thing, but he watches Zito sit down on the bench in front of his locker and rotate his phone in his hands, staring blankly down at the quiet screen. Harden decides that Zito isn't dyeing his hair, but he is looking rather pale and listless of late.
Sick of it. Trades. Just a fucking mess, really.
Against every rule in the book and out of it, but Harden sneaks into the away team hotel after the game, after the clubhouse has emptied and he can head out alone, parking lot lights acid on his lonely car. He charms the desk clerk with a wink and a smile, detached and automatic. In the elevator he leans on the back wall and watches his reflection distort in the brushed metal doors. His eyes migrate to the top of his head and his chest bends into a deep curve, and the elevator ticks off the floors with a quiet bell.
The right door is easy to find and he's not expecting much when he knocks. Isn't really expecting the door to open, but it does, and there's Bonderman, jeans and rumpled tshirt and steady as ever, if very slightly surprised.
"Roommate?" Harden asks past dry throat, but come this far, man, doesn't hurt to ask.
There's a beat before Bonderman shakes his head, steps aside to let Harden into the room. He shuts the door and looks Harden up and down, slow and deliberate. There's no emotion there, just solid appraisal, and Harden can't tell if he's happy or sad or angry or what, but he knows that he's here, so he moves forward and gets his hand under the hem of Bonderman's tshirt, fingertips skimming soft skin at the top of his jeans. He bites his own lip and thinks about how young Bonderman makes him feel, even though that's dumb and plain old wrong.
Bonderman catches hold of his wrist and Harden freezes, suddenly uncertain. What if, and kind of a lot of time has passed here. He raises his eyes to Bonderman's, reluctant and embarassed, flush already starting at the back of his neck, and Bonderman has the Look. Something so intense behind his eyes that Harden can't breathe, and Bonderman raises his arm without resistance, gets Harden's wrist up close to his mouth. Licks it. Bites it, and Harden feels his eyes slide closed, a separate kind of motion that he notices even before he notices that everything's gone black.
It's been a long time since Harden felt really solid, really grounded.
Tongue at his pulse and Bonderman's other hand is at his hip, broad and heavy and warm, and Harden is breathing a little fast, everything light in his head like he's too young to drink and they're gonna tear up the majors together, man, roomie and him, heavy fastballs ripping through the league in a whirlwind of green and gold.
I apologize to the world.
Also, we were so busy being depressed over the Farns going to Atlanta, that we forgot all about this. But Tim Hudson, man. He's like a mini Farns. The possibilities... hm. Well, blame offspeed and beckla30 for planting that one in my brain. We'll see if anything comes of it. I'm still working on various Red Sox and Tigers stories, but I have the attention span of a goldfish, so.