Fic: Wait for Spring [1/ 2 or 3?] WIP
Title: Wait for Spring
rating: PG-13 for this chapter, I guess (there is the vaguest mention of #lookslikeasolotonight), but the rest of the story will get a higher rating.
spoilers: none
warning: well, lots of talk of baseball, since they're, ya know, baseball players in this. But nothing, really.
word count: ~4,250
summary: An AU where Kurt and Blaine are freshmen in college and are invited to play in the Cape Cod Baseball League.
Author's note: So. This was part of some original fic that I wrote and never finished, but I tweaked this around to make it work for Kurt/Blaine. In this AU, Kurt and Blaine are college baseball players that are invited to the Cape Cod Baseball League, which is a league In Cape Cod, Massachusetts during the summer for only the best college baseball players in the country. For reference, here are a few pictures taken last summer by me. I think that covers it, but I love baseball and all of this makes sense to me. If you have any questions, just ask! I understand that this isn't everyone's cup of tea. :-) Also, no beta. I've read this over a hundred times, but I'm sure mistakes got through and they're all mine!
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
The first thing Kurt notices is the salt and the sand. The two hour plane ride gave him a stuffy nose and he can still smell the salt. His plane landed in Boston and that just smelled like city, cars and grime, but after the hour and a half drive it smells like the ocean and there's sand covering the roads. He crosses over a big metal bridge, tugboats and sailboats so tall it looks like they might scrape his car, and hello. Welcome to the Cape.
He's in a piece of junk rental, the cheapest one they had because he's going to need it for the whole summer. He saved up his money at school to be able to rent a car for the whole time he‘s here. He knows it's hard to make friends with his teammates, knows that most of them share the same mindset as his small town in Ohio, and he doesn't want to worry about bumming rides. The car rental place gave him a deal since he would be renting it for two months. The air conditioner doesn't work and neither does the tape player, so he just drives with the windows down, feeling the salt slide into his hair. He turns the radio on, but nothing really comes in, just static and someone relaying the out of town baseball scores in a funny accent, no r's and long vowels. He flicks the radio off. He'd rather just listen to the ocean anyway.
He passes little seafood shacks and dingy motels. The tourist season is just starting, school will be letting out in a week or two, and he sees families walking along the sidewalk, mothers holding brightly colored beach bags and yelling to their small children to stay close. Kurt's never actually seen the ocean, growing up in the middle of Ohio will do that to a kid, and he'd be lying if he said that didn't play a small part in his choice to play for the CCBL.
When he finally reaches the field he'll call home for the next two months, it looks more like a high school baseball diamond. The only thing that tells him he's in the right place is the sign proclaiming Lowell Park, Home of the Cotuit Kettleers. He drives into the parking lot, tires crunching on the gravel, and he realizes he's later than he thought. The entire field is filled with maroon jerseys practicing drills, white block Kettleers written across all of their chests.
He grabs his gym bag out of his trunk and slams it shut, mildly surprised that it closes on the first try. He turns to his side, prepared to run straight to the field to find his coach and apologize for being late, making up some excuse about his plane being late or running into road work, when he slams into the kid scrambling out of the car next to him. They both hit the ground, dirt and rocks lodging into their palms. Kurt's Adidas bag is laying at his side and he watches as this guy tries to catch his breath.
"Hey, sorry! Didn't look where I was going," the kid says. He's got dark hair that's peaking out from his Indians hat. Kurt notices he's already in uniform, though. Probably smart enough to change at the airport or in the car. He jumps up quickly and reaches a hand down to Kurt.
"Blaine Anderson, catcher, Ohio State," he tells Kurt the three most important things about himself. Kurt takes the offered hand and is hoisted up until he's standing right next to Blaine, his arm thrown around Kurt's shoulder.
"Kurt Hummel, starting pitcher, University of Cincinnati." He feels sort of ridiculous out of uniform, but hopes his manager will let him change after he checks in.
"Oh, cool. Battery mates, huh? Nice to meet you, then." Kurt notices that Blaine is a little shorter than he is, but Kurt is definitely skinnier, not that that's hard to accomplish. His manager at school keeps trying to talk him into putting some weight on, tells him it'll help with endurance. But Kurt's mostly ignored him.
They walk in step, Blaine in cleats and Kurt in Converse sneakers, out onto the green grass to find their manager. They find him, scribbling something down onto his clip board, a tall broad man with shorts that Kurt wishes were a little longer.
"It's okay, boys. Lots of these kids were late, too. I'm just gonna assume you got lost. Hummel and Anderson, right? Yup, you're the last two. After you get changed in the locker room," he eyes Kurt, "get to the outfield and start practicing. I'm Ken Tanaka, your manager." Before Kurt can apologize for being late, their manager is already blowing his whistle and grabbing a bat to hit some fly balls to the players in the outfield. Kurt rushes off to the locker room to change, Blaine to the infield to put his gear on.
//
Kurt’s not your typical baseball player. He doesn’t go without washing his socks, no matter his winning streak. He takes time to make sure his hair looks good before carefully tugging his cap down to his ears. He always puts on sunscreen, with a moisturizer, before any sort of daytime activity. His teammates in high school and college, and he’s sure now in the Cape Cod League, know he’s different. His voice is high and he never accepts the numbers local girls give him. Not that it means anything really, but it’s always enough to get the other guys talking. They never say anything, at least not to his face. Kurt’s fastball hits 97 on the radar gun and his curve turns the batter’s knees into jelly. He could be into dressing up mannequins and taking them on dates and his teammates wouldn’t give him shit. “Yeah, you know pitchers, man. None of them are normal, anyway”. As long as he’s out there every fifth day.
He’s drawn to Blaine almost immediately. He knows they’ll be spending a lot of time together, Blaine’s their starting catcher, Kurt‘s their ace pitcher. After their run-in in the parking lot, they meet again on the field, Kurt feeling instantly more at home in his knee high socks and button up jersey. Blaine’s uniform is almost completely covered by his catcher’s gear, pads and protectors weighing him down. He’s got his mask in his hand though and his helmet on backwards, and Kurt can see some of his dark brown curls sticking out of the side. Blaine smiles and Kurt is momentarily blinded.
“So, Kurt, we meet again. Coach said just basic drills today, get you stretched out,” and Kurt actually blushes at that. “So let’s just do some long toss, okay?”
Kurt nods along and smacks a fist into his glove a few times. He’s had this glove for years, it’s perfectly molded to his hand, but he needs somewhere to let his nervous energy out. He moves his neck back and forth, getting imaginary kinks out as Blaine walks across the field.
“Okay, Hummel. Show me what you’ve got.”
Blaine walks across the outfield, a dozen yards or so away from Kurt, and slides easily into his crouch and puts his mask on his head over his helmet. Kurt wishes he’d put that mask over his face, it’s the only chance Kurt has to concentrate.
Kurt lazy throws the ball towards Blaine, hears the soft ‘thud’ when it lands in his glove. There’s teammates all around him, pitchers throwing in the outfield, infielders turning double plays on the dry dirt. He’s only dimly aware of the fly balls that the outfielders are shagging beside him, but he can’t turn his concentration away from Blaine.
“Hey, did you talk to Coach Tanaka yet? Do you know who you’re rooming with?” Blaine easily slides into conversation and Kurt’s a little jealous at how easy it is for him.
“Uh, no. Haven’t had the chance to yet. Just changed into my uniform and got out here,” Kurt says as he jumps up slightly to catch the ball that Blaine tosses above his head.
Blaine’s face lights up. “Well I talked to him. Turns out he wants his starting catcher and best pitcher to really be in sync. You’re gonna be sick of me by the end of the summer.” Blaine sticks his tongue out slightly and makes a goofy face. Kurt feels his heart go into his throat and he tries to laugh, but it mostly comes out as a choked cough.
They mostly toss the ball lightly back and forth, talking about favorite baseball players and their home towns.
"I can't believe we grew up two hours away from each other! It's too bad that Dalton only played private schools. We could have met years ago," Blaine says. Kurt is a little unnerved over the fact that Blaine isn't treating him any differently. He hasn't once pulled back from Kurt touching him or ignored him to talk to the other players.
They play catch in silence until he hears their manager call out that they can leave early to settle in. Blaine pops up out of his crouch immediately and trots over to Kurt and bumps their shoulders together. Blaine is covered in a light sweat and Kurt should find that disgusting, he really should, but he can’t get the thought out of his head that he wants to taste.
“After we get changed, you wanna follow me to the house? It’s only a couple minutes away, I dropped our host parents off there before I headed over to the field.” Kurt has to concentrate on the crunching sounds their cleats make in the gravel, can’t chance looking at Blaine’s skin again.
Kurt follows Blaine to the house they’ll be living in for the summer. It turns out Blaine doesn’t actually have a car, he just borrowed the car from their host parents after they picked him up from the airport. He pulls up to a big white house with blue shutters and a sailboat in the front yard. It’s exactly like Kurt pictured the houses on the Cape.
Blaine turns off the ignition and slowly gets out of the car, his knees slightly bothering him after a long practice. He grabs his luggage and waits for Kurt at the bottom of the driveway.
Kurt notices that Blaine only has one suitcase with him, probably only packing t-shirts, shorts, and swimming trunks. Kurt spent hours packing, finally deciding on three suitcases filled with clothes that he would absolutely need during the summer. He pulls one bag over his shoulder, and grabs the other two to roll up the driveway.
Blaine laughs when he sees Kurt’s three bags. “You realize we’ll only be playing baseball while we’re here, right?” he says while gesturing to Kurt’s luggage.
“Yeah, I know. But I like to be prepared for all fashion situations,” Kurt says with a shrug. He’s used to his teammates ragging on him for his fashion choices.
But Blaine only slings an arm around his shoulder. “That’s probably a good idea. I only brought t-shirts and shorts. Here, let me help you with that.” Blaine grabs one of Kurt’s bags and when their hands touch, Kurt swears he feels sparks.
They walk up the short drive way and knock on the solid white door. A middle aged woman opens the door, wiping her hands on the blue and white apron tied around her waist.
“Hello, boys! I’m Sheila Howell, but please just call me Sheila. My husband’s Carl. We’re so excited to have you!” she says excitedly while pulling them inside. Mr. and Mrs. Howell have been hosting Cape Cod League players ever since their own children went off to college and moved out of the house. She shows them downstairs, a completely furnished basement with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a common living area.
“Here you are, boys. Now, don’t be strangers. The kitchen’s always fully stocked upstairs and Carl is always up for talking baseball,” she says before leaving them to go back upstairs. Sheila Howell has been doing this long enough to know how most of the kids operate and talking to their host parents is never high on the list of things to do.
Kurt and Blaine go into their respective rooms to unpack. Their rooms are identical. A bed against the wall in the middle of the room with dark green sheets, an oak dresser off to the side, and a poster of Fenway Park tacked up to the wall. Kurt takes his time to unpack all of his clothes, hanging mostly everything up in the closet. It doesn’t take him as long as he thought, he’s had his system for organizing his closet for years now, and soon he’s all unpacked and just standing awkwardly in the center of the room. Kurt still can’t quite get over the fact that Blaine hasn’t alienated himself from him yet, he’s had years of teammates giving him the cold shoulder, so he sits down on his bed and leafs through one of the many Vogues he packed.
“Now granted, Marion Cotillard was Vogue’s best cover from last year, but come on! We’re a mile from the beach,” Blaine says, leaning against Kurt’s door frame. He’s already changed into his swim trunks, large orange and brown plaid shorts slung low on his hips, and he’s tossing a ball from his left hand to his right, the white and red blurring together. Kurt can’t take his eyes off of the small sliver of skin where his almost see-through white t-shirt doesn’t quite meet his swimming trunks.
“Uh, yeah. Beach, sure. Gimme a minute to get changed,” Kurt says, still a little in shock at Blaine recognizing the Vogue cover.
“K, you mind driving? Otherwise I’ll give one of the guys a call,” Blaine calls over his shoulder as he walks out of the room.
“No, it’s no problem,” Kurt calls back. He quickly runs through his wardrobe, thinking about what could be considered appropriate beachwear. He quickly decides on his well-worn Bearcats tee and black bondage shorts. He grabs his keys before going out into the living room to find Blaine.
“Nice shorts,” Blaine says and he cocks an eyebrow at the crisscrossing fabric on the back of Kurt’s shorts.
“Well the sun’s gonna set in a minute, it’s not actually like we’re going swimming,” Kurt tries to rationalize.
Blaine holds his hands up. “Hey, looks good to me. You ready to go?”
Kurt swallows slowly. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
//
Blaine directs them to the beach without any problem, having already gotten directions from some of their teammates. They get there just as the sun’s going down, blue and pink and red sliding over the grey ocean. They walk through the sand, only slightly burning the bottoms of their feet, until they run into Finn Hudson, the team’s centerfielder. He’s got a cute blonde girl on his lap and a cooler full of beers at his side.
“Hey, Hudson. Mind if I grab a couple?” Blaine asks while thumbing at the beer.
“Yeah, dude. No problem. Have you met…” Finn trails off as he tries to remember the blonde girls name, but fails miserably.
“Quinn,” the girl supplies, only mildly annoyed.
“Yeah, Quinn!” Finn smiles brightly.
Both Kurt and Blaine nod a greeting to the new girl and Blaine grabs them a few beers.
“I don’t suppose there are any wine coolers in there,” Kurt says, mostly to himself. He’s surprised when he hears Blaine chuckle.
“Nope, don’t think so.”
They walk through the cooling sand until they reach the line where the crabgrass meets the sand. They sit down with their backs up against the rickety wooden fence and the crabgrass cuts into Kurt’s arm. He tries not to think about how dirty his shorts are getting.
Everyone around them has found a local girl to make out with, laying on blankets tucked into the sand. And maybe more than that judging by the sounds their third baseman Noah Puckerman is making, his hands tangled in long brown hair.
They pop open their beers, cheap light stuff that an older host brother must have bought. Kurt’s never really been much of a drinker, but he takes a sip, hoping to relax around Blaine. They sit in comfortable silence, watching the waves break against the sand.
“So, do you think you’re gonna get drafted this summer?” Blaine asks out of nowhere. He’s making abstract patterns with his toes in the sand.
“Um, not sure. I know pitchers usually go pretty early, especially power pitchers, but I think I’ll go back for my sophomore year, anyway.” Kurt doesn’t tell him that he’s terrified of playing for a major league team and everything that comes with it. There are no openly gay players in Major League Baseball and Kurt doesn’t think he’s ready to be the first. His hold on his beer can tightens. “What about you?”
“Mmm,” Blaine hums, thinking. “Maybe, I don’t know. Catchers who can hit for power usually go in the first couple of rounds. I know we had a bunch of scouts towards the end of our season. And the Cape League has scouts at every game. So there’s a good chance I could.” Kurt nods at that, not sure what else to say. He doesn’t want to hurt Blaine’s chances at getting drafted and he’s not dumb enough to think that has nothing to do with being drafted. He doesn’t want people to start talking about Blaine, too.
“Hey, Blaine. I have to tell you something. And please, don’t freak out. But I just feel like I need to be honest with you and I don’t want to mess up your summer,” Kurt says. Blaine’s eyes instantly soften and he puts his beer down to focus solely on Kurt.
“Kurt, is everything okay?”
Kurt takes a deep breath. “Everything’s fine. But here’s the thing. I’m gay.” Kurt sneaks a quick glance at Blaine, who’s expression hasn’t changed. Kurt continues, “I don’t know if you’re just oblivious to that, but I’m kinda sure it’s pretty obvious. And I don’t want you associating with me to start rumors about you, and then have that affect your chances at getting drafted. I’m used to not having anyone. I’ll do okay on my own.” Kurt finishes his little speech, proud of himself for not allowing any of the tears to spill onto his cheeks. He turns to Blaine for the first time, tries to read his expression. He looks confused and maybe a little hurt.
“Kurt, why would you think that mattered to me?” And okay, that’s maybe the last thing Kurt expected to hear. “My high school had a no-harassment policy and I’ve just carried that on into my life now. I’d never judge you. I’m actually really amazed at how strong you are to be able to be yourself. You don’t hide who you are,” Blaine pauses. “I’m gay, too, Kurt.”
Kurt chokes on absolutely nothing and he momentarily thinks that he’s glad he wasn’t taking a sip of his drink. He tries to form words, anything really, but he just stares bug-eyed at Blaine.
“Yeah, I am. I’m out to my friends and family, and my teammates at Ohio know. I haven’t told anyone here yet, maybe I will if it comes up. But I’m just trying to focus on baseball, ya know?” Kurt just nods dumbly, still trying to figure out what to say.
“Have you read Patti LuPone’s new book?” and Kurt mentally slaps himself because really? This gorgeous baseball player, his teammate, just came out to him and that’s all he can think to say? He really hates his brain sometimes.
Blaine just looks at him before laughing, really truly laughing. Maybe it was the perfect thing for Kurt to say because now the ice is completely broken.
“Of course I have.”
Kurt has a million questions for Blaine, but all of them will have to wait because Finn is stumbling up to them, wavering a little bit before falling to his knees in the sand.
“Guy, guys, guys. You need to bring me home, right? I’m drunk, I can’t drive. And practice. In the morning. It’s very important,” Finn says, fragments of sentences strung together and not making sense.
“You threw up on the blonde girl while she was giving you head, huh?” Blaine says while laughing. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll bring you home. Let‘s go.” They each grab Finn by an arm and lift him up until he’s leaning on both of them, gravity threatening to bring them all down.
//
It’s a perfect June night. The fog off the ocean lightly blankets the field and there are so many stars in the sky that it might just save the town of Cotuit money to turn the lights off all together. Admission is free and it’s school vacation. Dads are in fold-up lawn chairs, green and white plastic patchwork across the back of the seats, talking loudly with the other men about the AL East. Moms sit on the grass with their children, blue and red popsicles staining the kids' mouth, reading the Cotuit Kettleers media guide to them as if it's a bed time story.
It’s the team’s first week playing games together, hovering right around .500. They win each of Kurt’s start, but their other pitchers are mediocre and the team hasn’t been hitting much.
Kurt’s on the mound tonight, trying to protect a 3-1 lead in the 9th. He hasn’t thrown 100 pitches yet, usually the cut-off for starters and when the manager will take him out of the game for one of the middle relievers. Kurt’s been on his game tonight, strike out after strike out, and now he’s one out away from throwing a complete game and getting a win for his team.
He gets back-to-back foul balls on the hitter at the plate. Kurt stares behind the plate, looks right in at Blaine and waits for his signs. Blaine taps one finger twice on his left thigh and Kurt knows what that means. Fastball, high and inside. Kurt brings his glove up to his face, lets only his eyes peer out over the top of the leather. The batter taps his toes into the dirt, slightly wags the tip of his bat in the air. Blaine’s eyes are obstructed by his catcher’s mask, but Kurt knows the intensity that’s hiding. He concentrates on Blaine’s glove, knows the spot he has to hit. He kicks his leg up and brings his arm back, gripping the ball tightly until he releases it at the last second. The ball flies through the air, making it to the plate before the batter even has a chance. He swings and Kurt can hear the ball land solidly into Blaine’s glove.
Blaine’s up and out of his crouch, running up to Kurt before the opposing player even has a chance to leave the batter’s box. He ripped off his catcher’s mask at some point and Kurt can see how big his smile is. He runs up to Kurt and pulls him into a tight hug, the infielders and outfielders quickly making their way to the pitcher’s mound the slap Kurt on the back. Kurt can’t stop smiling and he slightly buries his face into Blaine’s neck before pulling away and accepting congratulations from his teammates.
Blaine’s shaking his shoulders and looking at him right in the eyes. “A complete game, Kurt! That was amazing. We have to celebrate tonight. Maybe I can talk Puck into using his fake ID to buy champagne or something!” Blaine seems even more excited than Kurt, bouncing up and down as the team leaves the field.
Kurt just smiles. “Blaine. I just threw 98 pitches, most of them hard enough to tear my shoulder from my body. I just want to go home and sleep.”
Blaine nods along. “Yeah, sure, of course. No problem! I’ll drive.”
//
Nothing has happened between Kurt and Blaine since the conversation on the beach. A silent agreement seems to come about between them that this summer is for focusing only on baseball. Well, that seems to be the agreement Blaine has come to. Kurt can think of some things he’d like to be different.
He thinks of a lot of things while he’s in his room that night, still slightly high off of the win.
He thinks of dark brown hair tucked into a baseball cap, curling slightly against the back of a neck turned brown from days on the beach and the field.
He thinks of wrapping his fingers in the hem of a maroon jersey, Anderson written in white letters across the back, pulling and twisting his fingers until they get caught and he can’t get them out.
He thinks of a long lean body, muscles that formed from being on a baseball diamond, not stuck in a gym. Freckles along the underside of arms, playing connect-the-dots like he did when he was a kid, only this time with his tongue and not Crayola markers.
He thinks of dirt smudged uniforms, water droplets falling out of Gatorade cups and onto a chin, a flash of too white teeth, swim trunks low on hips, thinks of who is sleeping in the room next to his.
And then he doesn't think of anything at all.
rating: PG-13 for this chapter, I guess (there is the vaguest mention of #lookslikeasolotonight), but the rest of the story will get a higher rating.
spoilers: none
warning: well, lots of talk of baseball, since they're, ya know, baseball players in this. But nothing, really.
word count: ~4,250
summary: An AU where Kurt and Blaine are freshmen in college and are invited to play in the Cape Cod Baseball League.
Author's note: So. This was part of some original fic that I wrote and never finished, but I tweaked this around to make it work for Kurt/Blaine. In this AU, Kurt and Blaine are college baseball players that are invited to the Cape Cod Baseball League, which is a league In Cape Cod, Massachusetts during the summer for only the best college baseball players in the country. For reference, here are a few pictures taken last summer by me. I think that covers it, but I love baseball and all of this makes sense to me. If you have any questions, just ask! I understand that this isn't everyone's cup of tea. :-) Also, no beta. I've read this over a hundred times, but I'm sure mistakes got through and they're all mine!
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
The first thing Kurt notices is the salt and the sand. The two hour plane ride gave him a stuffy nose and he can still smell the salt. His plane landed in Boston and that just smelled like city, cars and grime, but after the hour and a half drive it smells like the ocean and there's sand covering the roads. He crosses over a big metal bridge, tugboats and sailboats so tall it looks like they might scrape his car, and hello. Welcome to the Cape.
He's in a piece of junk rental, the cheapest one they had because he's going to need it for the whole summer. He saved up his money at school to be able to rent a car for the whole time he‘s here. He knows it's hard to make friends with his teammates, knows that most of them share the same mindset as his small town in Ohio, and he doesn't want to worry about bumming rides. The car rental place gave him a deal since he would be renting it for two months. The air conditioner doesn't work and neither does the tape player, so he just drives with the windows down, feeling the salt slide into his hair. He turns the radio on, but nothing really comes in, just static and someone relaying the out of town baseball scores in a funny accent, no r's and long vowels. He flicks the radio off. He'd rather just listen to the ocean anyway.
He passes little seafood shacks and dingy motels. The tourist season is just starting, school will be letting out in a week or two, and he sees families walking along the sidewalk, mothers holding brightly colored beach bags and yelling to their small children to stay close. Kurt's never actually seen the ocean, growing up in the middle of Ohio will do that to a kid, and he'd be lying if he said that didn't play a small part in his choice to play for the CCBL.
When he finally reaches the field he'll call home for the next two months, it looks more like a high school baseball diamond. The only thing that tells him he's in the right place is the sign proclaiming Lowell Park, Home of the Cotuit Kettleers. He drives into the parking lot, tires crunching on the gravel, and he realizes he's later than he thought. The entire field is filled with maroon jerseys practicing drills, white block Kettleers written across all of their chests.
He grabs his gym bag out of his trunk and slams it shut, mildly surprised that it closes on the first try. He turns to his side, prepared to run straight to the field to find his coach and apologize for being late, making up some excuse about his plane being late or running into road work, when he slams into the kid scrambling out of the car next to him. They both hit the ground, dirt and rocks lodging into their palms. Kurt's Adidas bag is laying at his side and he watches as this guy tries to catch his breath.
"Hey, sorry! Didn't look where I was going," the kid says. He's got dark hair that's peaking out from his Indians hat. Kurt notices he's already in uniform, though. Probably smart enough to change at the airport or in the car. He jumps up quickly and reaches a hand down to Kurt.
"Blaine Anderson, catcher, Ohio State," he tells Kurt the three most important things about himself. Kurt takes the offered hand and is hoisted up until he's standing right next to Blaine, his arm thrown around Kurt's shoulder.
"Kurt Hummel, starting pitcher, University of Cincinnati." He feels sort of ridiculous out of uniform, but hopes his manager will let him change after he checks in.
"Oh, cool. Battery mates, huh? Nice to meet you, then." Kurt notices that Blaine is a little shorter than he is, but Kurt is definitely skinnier, not that that's hard to accomplish. His manager at school keeps trying to talk him into putting some weight on, tells him it'll help with endurance. But Kurt's mostly ignored him.
They walk in step, Blaine in cleats and Kurt in Converse sneakers, out onto the green grass to find their manager. They find him, scribbling something down onto his clip board, a tall broad man with shorts that Kurt wishes were a little longer.
"It's okay, boys. Lots of these kids were late, too. I'm just gonna assume you got lost. Hummel and Anderson, right? Yup, you're the last two. After you get changed in the locker room," he eyes Kurt, "get to the outfield and start practicing. I'm Ken Tanaka, your manager." Before Kurt can apologize for being late, their manager is already blowing his whistle and grabbing a bat to hit some fly balls to the players in the outfield. Kurt rushes off to the locker room to change, Blaine to the infield to put his gear on.
//
Kurt’s not your typical baseball player. He doesn’t go without washing his socks, no matter his winning streak. He takes time to make sure his hair looks good before carefully tugging his cap down to his ears. He always puts on sunscreen, with a moisturizer, before any sort of daytime activity. His teammates in high school and college, and he’s sure now in the Cape Cod League, know he’s different. His voice is high and he never accepts the numbers local girls give him. Not that it means anything really, but it’s always enough to get the other guys talking. They never say anything, at least not to his face. Kurt’s fastball hits 97 on the radar gun and his curve turns the batter’s knees into jelly. He could be into dressing up mannequins and taking them on dates and his teammates wouldn’t give him shit. “Yeah, you know pitchers, man. None of them are normal, anyway”. As long as he’s out there every fifth day.
He’s drawn to Blaine almost immediately. He knows they’ll be spending a lot of time together, Blaine’s their starting catcher, Kurt‘s their ace pitcher. After their run-in in the parking lot, they meet again on the field, Kurt feeling instantly more at home in his knee high socks and button up jersey. Blaine’s uniform is almost completely covered by his catcher’s gear, pads and protectors weighing him down. He’s got his mask in his hand though and his helmet on backwards, and Kurt can see some of his dark brown curls sticking out of the side. Blaine smiles and Kurt is momentarily blinded.
“So, Kurt, we meet again. Coach said just basic drills today, get you stretched out,” and Kurt actually blushes at that. “So let’s just do some long toss, okay?”
Kurt nods along and smacks a fist into his glove a few times. He’s had this glove for years, it’s perfectly molded to his hand, but he needs somewhere to let his nervous energy out. He moves his neck back and forth, getting imaginary kinks out as Blaine walks across the field.
“Okay, Hummel. Show me what you’ve got.”
Blaine walks across the outfield, a dozen yards or so away from Kurt, and slides easily into his crouch and puts his mask on his head over his helmet. Kurt wishes he’d put that mask over his face, it’s the only chance Kurt has to concentrate.
Kurt lazy throws the ball towards Blaine, hears the soft ‘thud’ when it lands in his glove. There’s teammates all around him, pitchers throwing in the outfield, infielders turning double plays on the dry dirt. He’s only dimly aware of the fly balls that the outfielders are shagging beside him, but he can’t turn his concentration away from Blaine.
“Hey, did you talk to Coach Tanaka yet? Do you know who you’re rooming with?” Blaine easily slides into conversation and Kurt’s a little jealous at how easy it is for him.
“Uh, no. Haven’t had the chance to yet. Just changed into my uniform and got out here,” Kurt says as he jumps up slightly to catch the ball that Blaine tosses above his head.
Blaine’s face lights up. “Well I talked to him. Turns out he wants his starting catcher and best pitcher to really be in sync. You’re gonna be sick of me by the end of the summer.” Blaine sticks his tongue out slightly and makes a goofy face. Kurt feels his heart go into his throat and he tries to laugh, but it mostly comes out as a choked cough.
They mostly toss the ball lightly back and forth, talking about favorite baseball players and their home towns.
"I can't believe we grew up two hours away from each other! It's too bad that Dalton only played private schools. We could have met years ago," Blaine says. Kurt is a little unnerved over the fact that Blaine isn't treating him any differently. He hasn't once pulled back from Kurt touching him or ignored him to talk to the other players.
They play catch in silence until he hears their manager call out that they can leave early to settle in. Blaine pops up out of his crouch immediately and trots over to Kurt and bumps their shoulders together. Blaine is covered in a light sweat and Kurt should find that disgusting, he really should, but he can’t get the thought out of his head that he wants to taste.
“After we get changed, you wanna follow me to the house? It’s only a couple minutes away, I dropped our host parents off there before I headed over to the field.” Kurt has to concentrate on the crunching sounds their cleats make in the gravel, can’t chance looking at Blaine’s skin again.
Kurt follows Blaine to the house they’ll be living in for the summer. It turns out Blaine doesn’t actually have a car, he just borrowed the car from their host parents after they picked him up from the airport. He pulls up to a big white house with blue shutters and a sailboat in the front yard. It’s exactly like Kurt pictured the houses on the Cape.
Blaine turns off the ignition and slowly gets out of the car, his knees slightly bothering him after a long practice. He grabs his luggage and waits for Kurt at the bottom of the driveway.
Kurt notices that Blaine only has one suitcase with him, probably only packing t-shirts, shorts, and swimming trunks. Kurt spent hours packing, finally deciding on three suitcases filled with clothes that he would absolutely need during the summer. He pulls one bag over his shoulder, and grabs the other two to roll up the driveway.
Blaine laughs when he sees Kurt’s three bags. “You realize we’ll only be playing baseball while we’re here, right?” he says while gesturing to Kurt’s luggage.
“Yeah, I know. But I like to be prepared for all fashion situations,” Kurt says with a shrug. He’s used to his teammates ragging on him for his fashion choices.
But Blaine only slings an arm around his shoulder. “That’s probably a good idea. I only brought t-shirts and shorts. Here, let me help you with that.” Blaine grabs one of Kurt’s bags and when their hands touch, Kurt swears he feels sparks.
They walk up the short drive way and knock on the solid white door. A middle aged woman opens the door, wiping her hands on the blue and white apron tied around her waist.
“Hello, boys! I’m Sheila Howell, but please just call me Sheila. My husband’s Carl. We’re so excited to have you!” she says excitedly while pulling them inside. Mr. and Mrs. Howell have been hosting Cape Cod League players ever since their own children went off to college and moved out of the house. She shows them downstairs, a completely furnished basement with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a common living area.
“Here you are, boys. Now, don’t be strangers. The kitchen’s always fully stocked upstairs and Carl is always up for talking baseball,” she says before leaving them to go back upstairs. Sheila Howell has been doing this long enough to know how most of the kids operate and talking to their host parents is never high on the list of things to do.
Kurt and Blaine go into their respective rooms to unpack. Their rooms are identical. A bed against the wall in the middle of the room with dark green sheets, an oak dresser off to the side, and a poster of Fenway Park tacked up to the wall. Kurt takes his time to unpack all of his clothes, hanging mostly everything up in the closet. It doesn’t take him as long as he thought, he’s had his system for organizing his closet for years now, and soon he’s all unpacked and just standing awkwardly in the center of the room. Kurt still can’t quite get over the fact that Blaine hasn’t alienated himself from him yet, he’s had years of teammates giving him the cold shoulder, so he sits down on his bed and leafs through one of the many Vogues he packed.
“Now granted, Marion Cotillard was Vogue’s best cover from last year, but come on! We’re a mile from the beach,” Blaine says, leaning against Kurt’s door frame. He’s already changed into his swim trunks, large orange and brown plaid shorts slung low on his hips, and he’s tossing a ball from his left hand to his right, the white and red blurring together. Kurt can’t take his eyes off of the small sliver of skin where his almost see-through white t-shirt doesn’t quite meet his swimming trunks.
“Uh, yeah. Beach, sure. Gimme a minute to get changed,” Kurt says, still a little in shock at Blaine recognizing the Vogue cover.
“K, you mind driving? Otherwise I’ll give one of the guys a call,” Blaine calls over his shoulder as he walks out of the room.
“No, it’s no problem,” Kurt calls back. He quickly runs through his wardrobe, thinking about what could be considered appropriate beachwear. He quickly decides on his well-worn Bearcats tee and black bondage shorts. He grabs his keys before going out into the living room to find Blaine.
“Nice shorts,” Blaine says and he cocks an eyebrow at the crisscrossing fabric on the back of Kurt’s shorts.
“Well the sun’s gonna set in a minute, it’s not actually like we’re going swimming,” Kurt tries to rationalize.
Blaine holds his hands up. “Hey, looks good to me. You ready to go?”
Kurt swallows slowly. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
//
Blaine directs them to the beach without any problem, having already gotten directions from some of their teammates. They get there just as the sun’s going down, blue and pink and red sliding over the grey ocean. They walk through the sand, only slightly burning the bottoms of their feet, until they run into Finn Hudson, the team’s centerfielder. He’s got a cute blonde girl on his lap and a cooler full of beers at his side.
“Hey, Hudson. Mind if I grab a couple?” Blaine asks while thumbing at the beer.
“Yeah, dude. No problem. Have you met…” Finn trails off as he tries to remember the blonde girls name, but fails miserably.
“Quinn,” the girl supplies, only mildly annoyed.
“Yeah, Quinn!” Finn smiles brightly.
Both Kurt and Blaine nod a greeting to the new girl and Blaine grabs them a few beers.
“I don’t suppose there are any wine coolers in there,” Kurt says, mostly to himself. He’s surprised when he hears Blaine chuckle.
“Nope, don’t think so.”
They walk through the cooling sand until they reach the line where the crabgrass meets the sand. They sit down with their backs up against the rickety wooden fence and the crabgrass cuts into Kurt’s arm. He tries not to think about how dirty his shorts are getting.
Everyone around them has found a local girl to make out with, laying on blankets tucked into the sand. And maybe more than that judging by the sounds their third baseman Noah Puckerman is making, his hands tangled in long brown hair.
They pop open their beers, cheap light stuff that an older host brother must have bought. Kurt’s never really been much of a drinker, but he takes a sip, hoping to relax around Blaine. They sit in comfortable silence, watching the waves break against the sand.
“So, do you think you’re gonna get drafted this summer?” Blaine asks out of nowhere. He’s making abstract patterns with his toes in the sand.
“Um, not sure. I know pitchers usually go pretty early, especially power pitchers, but I think I’ll go back for my sophomore year, anyway.” Kurt doesn’t tell him that he’s terrified of playing for a major league team and everything that comes with it. There are no openly gay players in Major League Baseball and Kurt doesn’t think he’s ready to be the first. His hold on his beer can tightens. “What about you?”
“Mmm,” Blaine hums, thinking. “Maybe, I don’t know. Catchers who can hit for power usually go in the first couple of rounds. I know we had a bunch of scouts towards the end of our season. And the Cape League has scouts at every game. So there’s a good chance I could.” Kurt nods at that, not sure what else to say. He doesn’t want to hurt Blaine’s chances at getting drafted and he’s not dumb enough to think that has nothing to do with being drafted. He doesn’t want people to start talking about Blaine, too.
“Hey, Blaine. I have to tell you something. And please, don’t freak out. But I just feel like I need to be honest with you and I don’t want to mess up your summer,” Kurt says. Blaine’s eyes instantly soften and he puts his beer down to focus solely on Kurt.
“Kurt, is everything okay?”
Kurt takes a deep breath. “Everything’s fine. But here’s the thing. I’m gay.” Kurt sneaks a quick glance at Blaine, who’s expression hasn’t changed. Kurt continues, “I don’t know if you’re just oblivious to that, but I’m kinda sure it’s pretty obvious. And I don’t want you associating with me to start rumors about you, and then have that affect your chances at getting drafted. I’m used to not having anyone. I’ll do okay on my own.” Kurt finishes his little speech, proud of himself for not allowing any of the tears to spill onto his cheeks. He turns to Blaine for the first time, tries to read his expression. He looks confused and maybe a little hurt.
“Kurt, why would you think that mattered to me?” And okay, that’s maybe the last thing Kurt expected to hear. “My high school had a no-harassment policy and I’ve just carried that on into my life now. I’d never judge you. I’m actually really amazed at how strong you are to be able to be yourself. You don’t hide who you are,” Blaine pauses. “I’m gay, too, Kurt.”
Kurt chokes on absolutely nothing and he momentarily thinks that he’s glad he wasn’t taking a sip of his drink. He tries to form words, anything really, but he just stares bug-eyed at Blaine.
“Yeah, I am. I’m out to my friends and family, and my teammates at Ohio know. I haven’t told anyone here yet, maybe I will if it comes up. But I’m just trying to focus on baseball, ya know?” Kurt just nods dumbly, still trying to figure out what to say.
“Have you read Patti LuPone’s new book?” and Kurt mentally slaps himself because really? This gorgeous baseball player, his teammate, just came out to him and that’s all he can think to say? He really hates his brain sometimes.
Blaine just looks at him before laughing, really truly laughing. Maybe it was the perfect thing for Kurt to say because now the ice is completely broken.
“Of course I have.”
Kurt has a million questions for Blaine, but all of them will have to wait because Finn is stumbling up to them, wavering a little bit before falling to his knees in the sand.
“Guy, guys, guys. You need to bring me home, right? I’m drunk, I can’t drive. And practice. In the morning. It’s very important,” Finn says, fragments of sentences strung together and not making sense.
“You threw up on the blonde girl while she was giving you head, huh?” Blaine says while laughing. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll bring you home. Let‘s go.” They each grab Finn by an arm and lift him up until he’s leaning on both of them, gravity threatening to bring them all down.
//
It’s a perfect June night. The fog off the ocean lightly blankets the field and there are so many stars in the sky that it might just save the town of Cotuit money to turn the lights off all together. Admission is free and it’s school vacation. Dads are in fold-up lawn chairs, green and white plastic patchwork across the back of the seats, talking loudly with the other men about the AL East. Moms sit on the grass with their children, blue and red popsicles staining the kids' mouth, reading the Cotuit Kettleers media guide to them as if it's a bed time story.
It’s the team’s first week playing games together, hovering right around .500. They win each of Kurt’s start, but their other pitchers are mediocre and the team hasn’t been hitting much.
Kurt’s on the mound tonight, trying to protect a 3-1 lead in the 9th. He hasn’t thrown 100 pitches yet, usually the cut-off for starters and when the manager will take him out of the game for one of the middle relievers. Kurt’s been on his game tonight, strike out after strike out, and now he’s one out away from throwing a complete game and getting a win for his team.
He gets back-to-back foul balls on the hitter at the plate. Kurt stares behind the plate, looks right in at Blaine and waits for his signs. Blaine taps one finger twice on his left thigh and Kurt knows what that means. Fastball, high and inside. Kurt brings his glove up to his face, lets only his eyes peer out over the top of the leather. The batter taps his toes into the dirt, slightly wags the tip of his bat in the air. Blaine’s eyes are obstructed by his catcher’s mask, but Kurt knows the intensity that’s hiding. He concentrates on Blaine’s glove, knows the spot he has to hit. He kicks his leg up and brings his arm back, gripping the ball tightly until he releases it at the last second. The ball flies through the air, making it to the plate before the batter even has a chance. He swings and Kurt can hear the ball land solidly into Blaine’s glove.
Blaine’s up and out of his crouch, running up to Kurt before the opposing player even has a chance to leave the batter’s box. He ripped off his catcher’s mask at some point and Kurt can see how big his smile is. He runs up to Kurt and pulls him into a tight hug, the infielders and outfielders quickly making their way to the pitcher’s mound the slap Kurt on the back. Kurt can’t stop smiling and he slightly buries his face into Blaine’s neck before pulling away and accepting congratulations from his teammates.
Blaine’s shaking his shoulders and looking at him right in the eyes. “A complete game, Kurt! That was amazing. We have to celebrate tonight. Maybe I can talk Puck into using his fake ID to buy champagne or something!” Blaine seems even more excited than Kurt, bouncing up and down as the team leaves the field.
Kurt just smiles. “Blaine. I just threw 98 pitches, most of them hard enough to tear my shoulder from my body. I just want to go home and sleep.”
Blaine nods along. “Yeah, sure, of course. No problem! I’ll drive.”
//
Nothing has happened between Kurt and Blaine since the conversation on the beach. A silent agreement seems to come about between them that this summer is for focusing only on baseball. Well, that seems to be the agreement Blaine has come to. Kurt can think of some things he’d like to be different.
He thinks of a lot of things while he’s in his room that night, still slightly high off of the win.
He thinks of dark brown hair tucked into a baseball cap, curling slightly against the back of a neck turned brown from days on the beach and the field.
He thinks of wrapping his fingers in the hem of a maroon jersey, Anderson written in white letters across the back, pulling and twisting his fingers until they get caught and he can’t get them out.
He thinks of a long lean body, muscles that formed from being on a baseball diamond, not stuck in a gym. Freckles along the underside of arms, playing connect-the-dots like he did when he was a kid, only this time with his tongue and not Crayola markers.
He thinks of dirt smudged uniforms, water droplets falling out of Gatorade cups and onto a chin, a flash of too white teeth, swim trunks low on hips, thinks of who is sleeping in the room next to his.
And then he doesn't think of anything at all.