Work Text:
November 1, 2010
When the team piles in off the field, the visiting clubhouse is already draped with plastic and the cases of champagne and beer are at the ready. The guys grab themselves a bottle in each hand and start shooting champagne and beer all over each other and into their own throats. Torres’s got ski goggles to keep his contacts from getting fucked up, and a bunch of the guys’ve got Renteria in a headlock and they’re screaming “MVP! MVP!” Somebody’s chased Madison - the kid - into a corner and is making him snort champagne.
At first the gouts of champagne squirting everywhere seem kind of sour and sticky, but once his hair’s drenched, Lincecum gives himself over to being soaked. When someone pushes him over to the media backdrop and hands him the trophy and the cameras buzz to attention, he’s taken short; all he can think to say is that it’s really shiny. He hands it off to Wilson like a hot potato. Not Tim’s fault. He's still in game mode, not quite convinced this is real. They’ve all been fantasizing about this celebration, and he’s always imagined he’d want to get really fucked up, go insane. But he's tired, and the dry, fizzy champagne makes his nose hurt, so after a few swigs, he stops. He wants to remember it all, even if it’s awkward.
Besides, they’re still in Texas. Lincecum’s only regret about any of this is that they didn’t get the win at home. In San Francisco the fans’d be cutting loose in their team jerseys and panda hats, the air around the ballpark fragrant with dope smoke.
- You got a minute? says a voice behind him, and then Tim’s shoulder’s turned around to face who’s talking - it’s Buster. He’s all business, eyeing Tim impassively.
- Yeah, says Lincecum evenly.
Buster starts towards the visitors’ training room, away from the celebration. When Tim doesn’t move, Buster looks back, jerks his chin, and Tim follows. He’s not familiar with this clubhouse and he suspects a practical joke’s in the offing. Whenever a player does over-the-top well - a rookie hits a grand slam, or a shortstop fills in as a middle reliever - his teammates pie him in the face after the game, usually while he’s giving his post-game interview. It’s baseball’s way of keeping any player from getting too cocky. Tim sighs. He made a big contribution tonight and his teammates have probably decided he needs to be taken down a peg. He follows Buster through a connecting door into a small L-shaped utility room. Fuck this, he thinks, any minute, the guys’ll be in my face. He wishes, too late, he’d had a little more to drink.
The noise of the celebration is a blur behind them.
- I gotta talk to you, says Buster.
He looks confused, embarrassed. Lincecum doesn’t care. He hates having to look up into Posey’s eyes; one good thing about their mound conferences is that Buster’s usually at eye level.
- What? says Lincecum belligerently.
Since they’re just standing there, Buster staring at him, he suspects the pie-throwing must have misfired, the timing hasn’t worked, and that’s why Buster is acting so weird. But then Buster grabs him by the wrist. Lincecum braces himself and narrows his eyes.
- You’re why we won tonight, says Buster. - Shoot, Timmy, he continues earnestly, - you’ve been lights-out since September.
Tim opens one eye. There’s no shaving-cream pie, no teammates. He and Buster are still alone in the half-dark.
- What I mean is I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole, Buster continues. - This stuff, it’s all new to me. I’ve been around, but I never met anybody like you, not in the minors, not at FSU. The guys told me to watch out. It’s San Francisco, for pity’s sake.
- You’re right, says Lincecum. - You have been an asshole.
Tim’s got both eyes open now, wide with disbelief. He wrests free, feints back towards the doorway, and spikes his middle finger in the air.
- But thanks for the thought, he continues. - Means a lot to me, coming from a donkey-fucking country boy like you.
- Oh, come on, Timmy, I didn’t mean it like that, says Buster, right on his heels.
Lincecum spins around, face contorted with rage, about to peel off another string of obscenities. But there’s something about the catcher’s face that stops him.
Without really thinking, Lincecum reaches up and pulls Buster toward him. He senses his teammate's indrawn breath as he covers Buster’s lips with his own and snakes his warm tongue into the catcher’s mouth. Tim fully expects the big rookie to push him away, spitting and swearing. So he’s amazed to find that Buster’s kissing him back, their tongues fighting as they taste each other, mouths hot and wet. As Lincecum feels Buster’s big hands roaming along his bare arms, under his champagne-sticky t-shirt, stroking his belly, his own breathing grows ragged. When he reaches down to stroke Buster’s hard-on through the fabric of his baseball pants, Buster moans softly, plunging his tongue more deeply into Lincecum’s mouth and grabbing his ass with both hands.
It feels good, incredibly good, so good that Tim breaks away from the kiss. They're eye-to-eye, their mouths agape.
Before the catcher can register what’s happening, Tim wrests himself free, ducks under Buster’s arm, slips back through the door and back out into the lights and noise. He doesn’t look back.