head down, motherfucker
Stupid team offering stupid Zito stupid arbitration and getting my stupid hopes up. hmmph.
two thousand miles
for rickenbacker
Zito thinks Harden’s drunk again.
Rich can tell, watching him from across the room. Zito’s trying to get the Playstation hooked up to the hotel’s television, sitting on his heels with his hands colored gray. He looks back over his shoulder at Harden from time to time, and Harden’s eyes are half-closed, his mouth intentionally slack.
Zito thinks he can read Harden so well.
It’s stupid, really, Harden thinks. The night he met Zito, he drank half the team under the table, still clear enough to order hashbrowns on the side when they went to the diner afterwards. Harden grew up on an island with a ferry that stopped running at eleven, killed whole years drinking on the golf course. His tolerance for alcohol at this point ought to be in biology textbooks.
Zito should know that.
But Harden’s shoulders are fallen and his legs are crooked across the messy sheets of the bed, the solid blue screen of the television casting neon signs into his eyes. Zito looks back at him again, licking his lips. The corner of Harden’s mouth twitches.
“It’s not, um. Working. I think we’re missing a wire or something,” Zito says.
Harden rolls his head, making his expression vague and uncertain. “For what?”
“For the game, Richie.”
“What game?”
Zito rolls his eyes and Harden suppresses a smirk. Zito’s been taking Vicodin at two hour intervals, only drinking a little. He moves slow and the lines of his face have been smoothed away. Harden wonders if Zito plans this out ahead of time, if he makes sure to wash his hair and wear a clean shirt. Three or four times Harden has come back to Zito’s hotel room with him, drunk on a king-sized bed, or followed Zito out onto the back patio, or cornered him in the back of a bar.
Zito thinks that Harden doesn’t remember.
Last year, Zito was near panic, his hand down Harden’s pants and his forehead pressed to Harden’s collarbone. He did it as quickly as he could, like Harden would kill him if he got a good look at his face, realized what was happening. Harden laughed in amazement up at the ceiling, feeling Zito slide down his body.
In the morning, Zito wouldn’t look at him. Harden took his cue, thinking that Zito was humiliated or something, and didn’t bring it up.
Two months later, it happened again.
Harden spends the time in between waiting.
Now Zito is crawling onto the bed, his face flushed and fuzzy, painkillers and flat beer. Harden lolls, hot curling sensation in the base of his stomach. Zito’s so good, so fast, never lets Harden catch a breath. Harden gets drunk in front of Zito and offers himself like a sacrifice, legs sprawled, shirt pulled up to his ribs. He doesn’t make a move because there’s got to be a reason Zito pretends it’s not happening.
Zito always comes back to him eventually.
Zito stops, kneeling beside Harden’s body. “Are you okay, man?” he whispers. His hands twist uselessly in the air.
Eyes almost closed, Harden mumbles, “’m drunk,” trying to get his heart to slow down. He’s only acting, it’s not real. The light fixture isn’t swimming across the ceiling. Zito’s not this good-looking.
“Yeah?”
Zito puts his hand on Harden’s stomach, familiar look in his eyes, fearful as he bites his lip, skates his thumb along the rip of muscle.
Harden shifts, breathing through his teeth. “I’m so drunk, please.”
He’s not, of course. He hardly ever gets drunk anymore, just kind of foggy and peaceful, apt to climb on top of cars. But he can play like that, if it’s what Zito needs. As long as Zito keeps blowing him on an irregular basis, Harden will be whatever he wants.
Zito’s face darkens and he whispers, “Close your eyes, Richie.” He’s opening Harden’s belt, angling his head so that his hair falls across his face and maybe that’s intentional too, one last defense.
Richie closes his eyes. The inside of his chest feels numb, and he reaches blindly for Zito’s head, half-covering Zito’s ears and murmuring, “fuck, god, just like that,” and he might have said Zito’s name, but it gets lost in the other sounds he’s making, and anyway, it probably doesn’t matter.
Zito probably doesn’t want to hear it.
two thousand miles
for rickenbacker
Zito thinks Harden’s drunk again.
Rich can tell, watching him from across the room. Zito’s trying to get the Playstation hooked up to the hotel’s television, sitting on his heels with his hands colored gray. He looks back over his shoulder at Harden from time to time, and Harden’s eyes are half-closed, his mouth intentionally slack.
Zito thinks he can read Harden so well.
It’s stupid, really, Harden thinks. The night he met Zito, he drank half the team under the table, still clear enough to order hashbrowns on the side when they went to the diner afterwards. Harden grew up on an island with a ferry that stopped running at eleven, killed whole years drinking on the golf course. His tolerance for alcohol at this point ought to be in biology textbooks.
Zito should know that.
But Harden’s shoulders are fallen and his legs are crooked across the messy sheets of the bed, the solid blue screen of the television casting neon signs into his eyes. Zito looks back at him again, licking his lips. The corner of Harden’s mouth twitches.
“It’s not, um. Working. I think we’re missing a wire or something,” Zito says.
Harden rolls his head, making his expression vague and uncertain. “For what?”
“For the game, Richie.”
“What game?”
Zito rolls his eyes and Harden suppresses a smirk. Zito’s been taking Vicodin at two hour intervals, only drinking a little. He moves slow and the lines of his face have been smoothed away. Harden wonders if Zito plans this out ahead of time, if he makes sure to wash his hair and wear a clean shirt. Three or four times Harden has come back to Zito’s hotel room with him, drunk on a king-sized bed, or followed Zito out onto the back patio, or cornered him in the back of a bar.
Zito thinks that Harden doesn’t remember.
Last year, Zito was near panic, his hand down Harden’s pants and his forehead pressed to Harden’s collarbone. He did it as quickly as he could, like Harden would kill him if he got a good look at his face, realized what was happening. Harden laughed in amazement up at the ceiling, feeling Zito slide down his body.
In the morning, Zito wouldn’t look at him. Harden took his cue, thinking that Zito was humiliated or something, and didn’t bring it up.
Two months later, it happened again.
Harden spends the time in between waiting.
Now Zito is crawling onto the bed, his face flushed and fuzzy, painkillers and flat beer. Harden lolls, hot curling sensation in the base of his stomach. Zito’s so good, so fast, never lets Harden catch a breath. Harden gets drunk in front of Zito and offers himself like a sacrifice, legs sprawled, shirt pulled up to his ribs. He doesn’t make a move because there’s got to be a reason Zito pretends it’s not happening.
Zito always comes back to him eventually.
Zito stops, kneeling beside Harden’s body. “Are you okay, man?” he whispers. His hands twist uselessly in the air.
Eyes almost closed, Harden mumbles, “’m drunk,” trying to get his heart to slow down. He’s only acting, it’s not real. The light fixture isn’t swimming across the ceiling. Zito’s not this good-looking.
“Yeah?”
Zito puts his hand on Harden’s stomach, familiar look in his eyes, fearful as he bites his lip, skates his thumb along the rip of muscle.
Harden shifts, breathing through his teeth. “I’m so drunk, please.”
He’s not, of course. He hardly ever gets drunk anymore, just kind of foggy and peaceful, apt to climb on top of cars. But he can play like that, if it’s what Zito needs. As long as Zito keeps blowing him on an irregular basis, Harden will be whatever he wants.
Zito’s face darkens and he whispers, “Close your eyes, Richie.” He’s opening Harden’s belt, angling his head so that his hair falls across his face and maybe that’s intentional too, one last defense.
Richie closes his eyes. The inside of his chest feels numb, and he reaches blindly for Zito’s head, half-covering Zito’s ears and murmuring, “fuck, god, just like that,” and he might have said Zito’s name, but it gets lost in the other sounds he’s making, and anyway, it probably doesn’t matter.
Zito probably doesn’t want to hear it.