more request fic!
Prompt from lastcatastrophe: Eric Chavez is only sleeping with ex-teammates who went to teams that are currently in need of a third baseman.
The working title for this one was "5 times Eric Chavez was kind of a slut, and one time he wasn't."
Eric Chavez/Barry Zito, Chavez/Mark Mulder, Chavez/Esteban German, Chavez/Eric Munson, Chavez/Marco Scutaro. Whew. R.
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.
formerly team
It's promising to be a long offseason. Hell, the World Series champagne probably hasn't even dried off the clubhouse ceiling yet (not his clubhouse ceiling; of course not), and already Chavez is bored. More than bored, he's already annoyed. He had kind of a crappy season. OK, he knows! He gets it! The way to motivate him for next season is not to dangle him as cheap tradebait, but that's what Billy Beane is doing. Dangling Chavez and trading everyone else away. Not like the latter is exactly news or anything, but Chavez has been putting up with it for years and years and he's fucking sick of it already.
If he stays put this winter he's going to lose his mind. He's going to go to Beane's house one of these days and punch him in the fucking face. He can see it very clearly: driving up, ringing the doorbell, the intent but irritated look on Beane's face as he opens the door, the clean drive of his fist into the bridge of Beane's nose. He even finds himself flexing his hand at times, like practice.
He can't imagine the kind of trouble that would get him in, though-- at the very least he'd be arrested-- so he tries to put it out of his mind by planning a winter roadtrip. He'll go see some old teammates. God knows there are plenty of those floating around the majors, since Beane can't hold onto most of them for any appreciable amount of time. If he set out to visit all his old teammates he'd be hopping around the country for the rest of his life (and then some), so to narrow it down he limits himself to guys on teams that are in the market for a new third baseman. A big 'fuck you' to Billy Beane.
West coast to east coast, he plans his route. At least it should be better than sitting around trying to think of ways to make his general manager bleed.
----
San Francisco barely counts as travel, but it's a nice place to start, and Zito welcomes him into his apartment with something approaching pathetic relief.
They talk about the old days in Oakland for 5 hours that first night, sitting crosslegged on cushions on Zito's floor, because someone made the mistake of telling Zito that the Japanese used cushions instead of chairs and Zito thought that was pretty cool. "It's so lame," Zito tells him. "Everyone has Japanese players now except for us. I'm like the one guy in the league who would so totally love to hang out with a Japanese player and of course I don't get to."
Chavez rolls his eyes and asks if Zito even speaks Japanese.
"Like that matters? We could totally connect over the culture."
Chavez thinks. "Isn't Dave Roberts, like, half Japanese or something?"
Zito sighs glumly. "I tried to talk to him about zen mysticism. He laughed at me."
"Must be the wrong half," Chavez says.
"I can tell you're making fun of me. Don't think I can't tell you're making fun of me."
Chavez reaches over and ruffles Zito's hair. It's as thick and unruly as ever but Zito keeps it cut short around the sides now, only letting it grow up. Chavez kind of misses the longer hair.
Zito lets his eyes drop half shut and sighs, rolling his neck a little to push his head into Chavez's hand. Chavez obliges him by getting his fingers deep into Zito's hair and running them from the base of his skull to his forehead, over and over and over again, until Zito is boneless and lying half in his lap.
Once he's nice and pliable Chavez eases down his body and licks Zito's dick to full hardness. He learned a long time ago that it was necessary to get Zito loose-limbed before blowing him, because otherwise Zito would be wired and jumpy and was likely to accidentally choke you.
"Missed this," Zito moans above him, voice thick and slow, almost like he's drugged. "Missed you."
"Mmrrmhm. Eee doo," Chavez says, rudely talking with his mouth full.
----
In St. Louis he sees the arch (not that exciting), the still-newish stadium (kind of cool, but not that exciting), and Mark Mulder.
Mulder is different in lots of little ways. He makes Chavez park at his house and drives them out to lunch and back. He asks about Chavez's life and actually listens to the answers, which is a lot more than he used to do. Chavez tells him about Zito, and Mulder smiles fondly, which is also a lot more than he used to do.
"You talked to Huddy lately?" Mulder asks, real nonchalant, right when they're getting out of the car. Mulder's house is painted white and the lawn is neatly trimmed. There isn't a single blue plastic cup to be seen under the bushes, even though Chavez looks pretty carefully.
"Yeah," Chavez says. Atlanta isn't on his roadtrip (Chipper Jones is pretty well entrenched at third), but he would have felt bad visiting both Zito and Mulder without at least calling Hudson.
Mulder digs a fistful of envelopes out of his mailbox. "Yeah? How's he doing?"
"OK. Fine." Chavez notes the stiffness of Mulder's neck as he unlocks his front door, very at odds with the casual ease of his voice. "He said his son's starting to show a mean arm. He likes living down there, he likes playing near all his family. He's thinking about getting another tattoo." Chavez toes his shoes off in Mulder's front hall. "Said he hadn't heard from you in a while."
Mulder backs Chavez into the wall next to the front door. He braces his hands on either side of Chavez's head, fingers splayed flat.
"Maybe you should call him," Chavez says. The tight stretch of denim around Mulder's hips is as mind-bendingly hot as it always has been. That, at least, hasn't changed.
"Yeah, maybe," Mulder agrees. He presses his pelvis forward and grinds slowly, purposefully into Chavez.
"Maybe sometime this century."
Mulder doesn't answer, busy mouthing Chavez's neck. His tongue is sinfully wet. Chavez is afraid that he tastes like someone who's been in a car for days, but Mulder doesn't complain.
"He misses you," Chavez says. Mulder unzips his pants.
----
It's a relatively short drive from St. Louis to Kansas City, and he only plans to stick around long enough to have dinner with Esteban German before he's back on the road again. He ended up staying too long in St. Louis anyhow, which he probably could have predicted if he'd bothered to think about it.
German was only ever a backup in Oakland, but Chavez had practiced with him a lot, relaying the ball from third to second and back again. He's not friends with German like he is with Zito or Mulder, but he has good memories of German's first games up, his excitement at finding himself in a major league dugout, the wide-eyed way he'd wrapped his hands around the bottle of really good vodka Chavez had bought him after his first big league hit.
He expects it to be a little awkward-- he hasn't seen German off the field in years-- but it really isn't. As soon as he walks into the restaurant he gets a hug, hard enough to lift him off his feet a little. That starts him off with a grin, and he doesn't stop grinning for the whole rest of the night, all the way through messy barbeque and ridiculous stories about the ineptitude of the Royals ("Don't complain 'bout Oakland," German says, "serious, these kids here, is like they don't even know if they play baseball or field hockey or somethin'") and five attempts on the part of the waiter to give them their check.
The moon is halfway up the black arch of the sky by the time they walk to their cars. They get to Chavez's car first, and this time he's the one giving German a hug. It's like German is an old best friend, one he didn't know he was missing until he saw him again.
"That was fun," he says. "We should do this more often."
"Yeah man, next time you play the Royals, we'll go out an' get ribs," German says. He seems much more solid, somehow, than the kid Chavez knew back in Oakland, like he's settled into himself. He hasn't stopped smiling either. Chavez can't help noting that his teeth are very white.
He leans in and kisses German, right there in the parking lot. It's all lip, no tongue, almost sweet. When he pulls away, long moments later, they're both still smiling.
----
He spends his first night in Milwaukee in a bar, which is appropriate, because the high point of Milwaukee is the beer. Kendall and Munson sit across from him in the booth. Munson keeps kicking his shin, and Chavez kicks him back every time, grinning like an idiot. Kendall keeps rolling his eyes and ordering more beer, although he doesn't ever seem to get drunk.
Munson and Chavez talk about everyone from back home, and then about everyone's parents, and then about everyone's brothers and sisters and cousins. Chavez feels kind of bad for Kendall, who must be bored out of his mind and feeling really left out, but every time he tries to shoot an apologetic glance at Kendall, he just gets a smile in return. Eventually he realizes that watching him and Munson talk a mile a minute at each other is actually entertaining for Kendall.
Kendall and Munson's apartment only has two bedrooms, but Munson has a spare sleeping bag that he unrolls on the floor next to his bed. Chavez manages to stay in it until 2 am, staring wide awake at the ceiling.
"Oh, just get up here already," Munson says, at the exact same time that Chavez says, "I can't stand this, Munce, I missed you so bad."
They fuck noisily, enthusiastically, shushing each other and then immediately forgetting to be quiet. Every thrust into Munson's ass is at once familiar and brand new. Munson wraps his legs around Chavez and pulls him in deeper, making drawn-out moaning noises that would be hilarious on a porn soundtrack but are pretty hot coming from Munson, who actually means them.
Munson's dick is short and thick and fits perfectly in Chavez's natural grip. Munson's mouth fits perfectly under his when he swallows the noises Munson makes as he comes.
The next morning, Kendall makes them both pancakes and leaves a pillow on Munson's chair. Chavez perks up at the sight of the pancakes and blushes a furious red when he sees the pillow, but Kendall just smiles and winks and gives him more maple syrup.
----
Chavez has always liked Toronto, a city that's kind of the good parts of New York without the downside of actual New Yorkers. He leaves his car at his hotel and spends a whole day just walking around the city, not doing anything in particular. He has lunch at a little pub-like place near the University of Toronto. There are lots of young-looking people eating alone, flipping through books and piles of binders, so it's not weird. He works his way through an entire newspaper for the first time in months and waits for someone to call him out, tell him he doesn't belong there, but no one does.
He meets up with Scutaro on his third day in town, when he has really sweet tickets to a Maple Leafs game. He has a good time even though he spends most of the game explaining things to Scutaro, who's completely helpless when it comes to hockey.
"You gonna be OK?" he asks, back in his hotel room with Scutaro hunched miserably at the foot of his bed.
"I dunno," Scutaro says. He holds his head tightly in his hands. "I dunno. It won't be the same."
"Toronto's a good place. It's nicer than Oakland. You gotta chance with this team, even in the East, it's a good team."
Scutaro digs his fingers tighter into his own scalp. "It won't be the same."
Chavez reaches out to touch Scutaro's shoulder. Scutaro winces away from his hand. "Hey," he says. "Hey."
"It won't be the same."
"It never is," Chavez says, and Scutaro must hear the real bitterness in his voice because he turns around and looks. Really looks, although it's obvious he doesn't want to, it's obvious he doesn't want to be reminded right now of the team he's not going to have anymore. Chavez tries to smile at him, but it comes out all twisted. "It's not any more fun for the ones who stay than it is for the ones who don't."
"I hate this," Scutaro says. His eyes look suspiciously bright, and Chavez can't stand it. He just... he just can't.
He drags Scutaro up the bed by his shirt, scrambling over him and getting a hand into his pants before Scutaro can react. He's roughly stroking Scutaro's dick by the time Scutaro gets his brain hooked up to his mouth long enough to say, "Whuh...?"
"You're gonna be fine," Chavez says. "Fine. Toronto's a great city."
"Mi dios," Scutaro says, sounding strangled. "What are you. Dios, Chavvy."
"Tell me you're gonna be fine. I need to hear." Chavez swallows hard. He works his hand faster and presses his face to the side of Scutaro's head, ignoring the salt-wet tracks that have snuck down around Scutaro's cheek. "I need to hear that you're gonna be fine out here."
Scutaro doesn't say anything, though, just wraps both arms around Chavez's back and holds on tight.
----
Baltimore is slushy and cold by the time he gets there. He's supposed to get a hotel room and call Chad Bradford tomorrow for lunch, but he's exhausted and shaky and when he pulls over to call the hotel, he somehow dials Bradford instead.
"Eric? You sound awful." Bradford is honestly concerned. "Where are you?" Chavez has to squint three times at the street signs before he can make them out. Bradford gives him clear, competent directions to his house. "No buts," he says, talking right over Chavez's weak insistence that he go to the hotel. "Just get yourself over here."
He manages to not crash on the way to Bradford's house. Bradford takes his bag away from him as soon as he gets inside, disappearing with it briefly and reappearing to herd Chavez into the kitchen. He makes Chavez sit down at the table while Bradford's wife tsks at the snow in his hair and boils water for hot chocolate.
"They treating you OK in Oakland?" Bradford asks. He wrings his hands around his own mug, watching Chavez from across the table. Chavez can see the hard calluses over Bradford's knuckles, the kind of pitching calluses that you won't see on anyone else.
"The usual."
"You don't look so good, is all."
"Thanks a lot, Chad. You know, that mustache isn't doing you any favors either."
Bradford smiles a little, although his eyes are still kind of sad. "Drink your cocoa," he says. "It's good, Jenny always puts the right amount of milk in."
Chavez nods and drinks, and it is good. Just the right amount of milk. One of the Bradford children is peeping at him from the kitchen doorway. Chavez pretends to not notice.
"I'm real sorry to barge in on you guys like this," he says. "If you give me directions I can get to the hotel tomorrow."
Bradford gives him a stern look. "Don't be ridiculous. We've got a guest room, and it's no trouble at all."
"Why?"
"Why?" Bradford stares at him, like it's obvious. "Why? Eric, we played together for 4 years. Of course you can stay over."
"But we weren't ever. We didn't." Chavez waves a hand. "You're a reliever, I'm an infielder, we didn't hang out that much."
"We were still teammates. And," Bradford lowers his gaze, "you were always good to me, even though you were the star and half the coaching staff hated watching me pitch." He looks back up. "You're a good kid, Eric. You're always welcome here."
Chavez closes his eyes. They're starting to burn. "I miss it."
"Miss what?"
"The A's."
"Eric." Bradford leans across the table and touches the back of his hand, tentatively. "You're still on the A's."
"Still on the A's," Chavez says, "but I miss the team." He can feel little darting points of wetness sneaking out from the corners of his eyes, but he can't make himself stop. "I miss all the teams. Everyone."
There's a scraping sound as Bradford pushes his chair back from the table, and then he's standing right in front of Chavez. He puts his arms around Chavez's shoulders. Chavez presses his face into Bradford's stomach and pulls him close, handfuls of his sweater balling up in his palms. "Sorry," he whispers, muffled and uneven.
"For God's sake, Eric, you've got nothing to apologize for." Bradford tightens his grip. "Jenny'll make up the bed in the guest room and you can stay as long as you have to. As you want to." He rubs Chavez's back soothingly, like Chavez imagines he does for his kids when they get hurt or have the flu. "As you need to."
Chavez nods, grateful and desperate and aching somewhere deep down. A whole countryside away from Oakland, he hangs on.
The working title for this one was "5 times Eric Chavez was kind of a slut, and one time he wasn't."
Eric Chavez/Barry Zito, Chavez/Mark Mulder, Chavez/Esteban German, Chavez/Eric Munson, Chavez/Marco Scutaro. Whew. R.
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.
formerly team
It's promising to be a long offseason. Hell, the World Series champagne probably hasn't even dried off the clubhouse ceiling yet (not his clubhouse ceiling; of course not), and already Chavez is bored. More than bored, he's already annoyed. He had kind of a crappy season. OK, he knows! He gets it! The way to motivate him for next season is not to dangle him as cheap tradebait, but that's what Billy Beane is doing. Dangling Chavez and trading everyone else away. Not like the latter is exactly news or anything, but Chavez has been putting up with it for years and years and he's fucking sick of it already.
If he stays put this winter he's going to lose his mind. He's going to go to Beane's house one of these days and punch him in the fucking face. He can see it very clearly: driving up, ringing the doorbell, the intent but irritated look on Beane's face as he opens the door, the clean drive of his fist into the bridge of Beane's nose. He even finds himself flexing his hand at times, like practice.
He can't imagine the kind of trouble that would get him in, though-- at the very least he'd be arrested-- so he tries to put it out of his mind by planning a winter roadtrip. He'll go see some old teammates. God knows there are plenty of those floating around the majors, since Beane can't hold onto most of them for any appreciable amount of time. If he set out to visit all his old teammates he'd be hopping around the country for the rest of his life (and then some), so to narrow it down he limits himself to guys on teams that are in the market for a new third baseman. A big 'fuck you' to Billy Beane.
West coast to east coast, he plans his route. At least it should be better than sitting around trying to think of ways to make his general manager bleed.
----
San Francisco barely counts as travel, but it's a nice place to start, and Zito welcomes him into his apartment with something approaching pathetic relief.
They talk about the old days in Oakland for 5 hours that first night, sitting crosslegged on cushions on Zito's floor, because someone made the mistake of telling Zito that the Japanese used cushions instead of chairs and Zito thought that was pretty cool. "It's so lame," Zito tells him. "Everyone has Japanese players now except for us. I'm like the one guy in the league who would so totally love to hang out with a Japanese player and of course I don't get to."
Chavez rolls his eyes and asks if Zito even speaks Japanese.
"Like that matters? We could totally connect over the culture."
Chavez thinks. "Isn't Dave Roberts, like, half Japanese or something?"
Zito sighs glumly. "I tried to talk to him about zen mysticism. He laughed at me."
"Must be the wrong half," Chavez says.
"I can tell you're making fun of me. Don't think I can't tell you're making fun of me."
Chavez reaches over and ruffles Zito's hair. It's as thick and unruly as ever but Zito keeps it cut short around the sides now, only letting it grow up. Chavez kind of misses the longer hair.
Zito lets his eyes drop half shut and sighs, rolling his neck a little to push his head into Chavez's hand. Chavez obliges him by getting his fingers deep into Zito's hair and running them from the base of his skull to his forehead, over and over and over again, until Zito is boneless and lying half in his lap.
Once he's nice and pliable Chavez eases down his body and licks Zito's dick to full hardness. He learned a long time ago that it was necessary to get Zito loose-limbed before blowing him, because otherwise Zito would be wired and jumpy and was likely to accidentally choke you.
"Missed this," Zito moans above him, voice thick and slow, almost like he's drugged. "Missed you."
"Mmrrmhm. Eee doo," Chavez says, rudely talking with his mouth full.
----
In St. Louis he sees the arch (not that exciting), the still-newish stadium (kind of cool, but not that exciting), and Mark Mulder.
Mulder is different in lots of little ways. He makes Chavez park at his house and drives them out to lunch and back. He asks about Chavez's life and actually listens to the answers, which is a lot more than he used to do. Chavez tells him about Zito, and Mulder smiles fondly, which is also a lot more than he used to do.
"You talked to Huddy lately?" Mulder asks, real nonchalant, right when they're getting out of the car. Mulder's house is painted white and the lawn is neatly trimmed. There isn't a single blue plastic cup to be seen under the bushes, even though Chavez looks pretty carefully.
"Yeah," Chavez says. Atlanta isn't on his roadtrip (Chipper Jones is pretty well entrenched at third), but he would have felt bad visiting both Zito and Mulder without at least calling Hudson.
Mulder digs a fistful of envelopes out of his mailbox. "Yeah? How's he doing?"
"OK. Fine." Chavez notes the stiffness of Mulder's neck as he unlocks his front door, very at odds with the casual ease of his voice. "He said his son's starting to show a mean arm. He likes living down there, he likes playing near all his family. He's thinking about getting another tattoo." Chavez toes his shoes off in Mulder's front hall. "Said he hadn't heard from you in a while."
Mulder backs Chavez into the wall next to the front door. He braces his hands on either side of Chavez's head, fingers splayed flat.
"Maybe you should call him," Chavez says. The tight stretch of denim around Mulder's hips is as mind-bendingly hot as it always has been. That, at least, hasn't changed.
"Yeah, maybe," Mulder agrees. He presses his pelvis forward and grinds slowly, purposefully into Chavez.
"Maybe sometime this century."
Mulder doesn't answer, busy mouthing Chavez's neck. His tongue is sinfully wet. Chavez is afraid that he tastes like someone who's been in a car for days, but Mulder doesn't complain.
"He misses you," Chavez says. Mulder unzips his pants.
----
It's a relatively short drive from St. Louis to Kansas City, and he only plans to stick around long enough to have dinner with Esteban German before he's back on the road again. He ended up staying too long in St. Louis anyhow, which he probably could have predicted if he'd bothered to think about it.
German was only ever a backup in Oakland, but Chavez had practiced with him a lot, relaying the ball from third to second and back again. He's not friends with German like he is with Zito or Mulder, but he has good memories of German's first games up, his excitement at finding himself in a major league dugout, the wide-eyed way he'd wrapped his hands around the bottle of really good vodka Chavez had bought him after his first big league hit.
He expects it to be a little awkward-- he hasn't seen German off the field in years-- but it really isn't. As soon as he walks into the restaurant he gets a hug, hard enough to lift him off his feet a little. That starts him off with a grin, and he doesn't stop grinning for the whole rest of the night, all the way through messy barbeque and ridiculous stories about the ineptitude of the Royals ("Don't complain 'bout Oakland," German says, "serious, these kids here, is like they don't even know if they play baseball or field hockey or somethin'") and five attempts on the part of the waiter to give them their check.
The moon is halfway up the black arch of the sky by the time they walk to their cars. They get to Chavez's car first, and this time he's the one giving German a hug. It's like German is an old best friend, one he didn't know he was missing until he saw him again.
"That was fun," he says. "We should do this more often."
"Yeah man, next time you play the Royals, we'll go out an' get ribs," German says. He seems much more solid, somehow, than the kid Chavez knew back in Oakland, like he's settled into himself. He hasn't stopped smiling either. Chavez can't help noting that his teeth are very white.
He leans in and kisses German, right there in the parking lot. It's all lip, no tongue, almost sweet. When he pulls away, long moments later, they're both still smiling.
----
He spends his first night in Milwaukee in a bar, which is appropriate, because the high point of Milwaukee is the beer. Kendall and Munson sit across from him in the booth. Munson keeps kicking his shin, and Chavez kicks him back every time, grinning like an idiot. Kendall keeps rolling his eyes and ordering more beer, although he doesn't ever seem to get drunk.
Munson and Chavez talk about everyone from back home, and then about everyone's parents, and then about everyone's brothers and sisters and cousins. Chavez feels kind of bad for Kendall, who must be bored out of his mind and feeling really left out, but every time he tries to shoot an apologetic glance at Kendall, he just gets a smile in return. Eventually he realizes that watching him and Munson talk a mile a minute at each other is actually entertaining for Kendall.
Kendall and Munson's apartment only has two bedrooms, but Munson has a spare sleeping bag that he unrolls on the floor next to his bed. Chavez manages to stay in it until 2 am, staring wide awake at the ceiling.
"Oh, just get up here already," Munson says, at the exact same time that Chavez says, "I can't stand this, Munce, I missed you so bad."
They fuck noisily, enthusiastically, shushing each other and then immediately forgetting to be quiet. Every thrust into Munson's ass is at once familiar and brand new. Munson wraps his legs around Chavez and pulls him in deeper, making drawn-out moaning noises that would be hilarious on a porn soundtrack but are pretty hot coming from Munson, who actually means them.
Munson's dick is short and thick and fits perfectly in Chavez's natural grip. Munson's mouth fits perfectly under his when he swallows the noises Munson makes as he comes.
The next morning, Kendall makes them both pancakes and leaves a pillow on Munson's chair. Chavez perks up at the sight of the pancakes and blushes a furious red when he sees the pillow, but Kendall just smiles and winks and gives him more maple syrup.
----
Chavez has always liked Toronto, a city that's kind of the good parts of New York without the downside of actual New Yorkers. He leaves his car at his hotel and spends a whole day just walking around the city, not doing anything in particular. He has lunch at a little pub-like place near the University of Toronto. There are lots of young-looking people eating alone, flipping through books and piles of binders, so it's not weird. He works his way through an entire newspaper for the first time in months and waits for someone to call him out, tell him he doesn't belong there, but no one does.
He meets up with Scutaro on his third day in town, when he has really sweet tickets to a Maple Leafs game. He has a good time even though he spends most of the game explaining things to Scutaro, who's completely helpless when it comes to hockey.
"You gonna be OK?" he asks, back in his hotel room with Scutaro hunched miserably at the foot of his bed.
"I dunno," Scutaro says. He holds his head tightly in his hands. "I dunno. It won't be the same."
"Toronto's a good place. It's nicer than Oakland. You gotta chance with this team, even in the East, it's a good team."
Scutaro digs his fingers tighter into his own scalp. "It won't be the same."
Chavez reaches out to touch Scutaro's shoulder. Scutaro winces away from his hand. "Hey," he says. "Hey."
"It won't be the same."
"It never is," Chavez says, and Scutaro must hear the real bitterness in his voice because he turns around and looks. Really looks, although it's obvious he doesn't want to, it's obvious he doesn't want to be reminded right now of the team he's not going to have anymore. Chavez tries to smile at him, but it comes out all twisted. "It's not any more fun for the ones who stay than it is for the ones who don't."
"I hate this," Scutaro says. His eyes look suspiciously bright, and Chavez can't stand it. He just... he just can't.
He drags Scutaro up the bed by his shirt, scrambling over him and getting a hand into his pants before Scutaro can react. He's roughly stroking Scutaro's dick by the time Scutaro gets his brain hooked up to his mouth long enough to say, "Whuh...?"
"You're gonna be fine," Chavez says. "Fine. Toronto's a great city."
"Mi dios," Scutaro says, sounding strangled. "What are you. Dios, Chavvy."
"Tell me you're gonna be fine. I need to hear." Chavez swallows hard. He works his hand faster and presses his face to the side of Scutaro's head, ignoring the salt-wet tracks that have snuck down around Scutaro's cheek. "I need to hear that you're gonna be fine out here."
Scutaro doesn't say anything, though, just wraps both arms around Chavez's back and holds on tight.
----
Baltimore is slushy and cold by the time he gets there. He's supposed to get a hotel room and call Chad Bradford tomorrow for lunch, but he's exhausted and shaky and when he pulls over to call the hotel, he somehow dials Bradford instead.
"Eric? You sound awful." Bradford is honestly concerned. "Where are you?" Chavez has to squint three times at the street signs before he can make them out. Bradford gives him clear, competent directions to his house. "No buts," he says, talking right over Chavez's weak insistence that he go to the hotel. "Just get yourself over here."
He manages to not crash on the way to Bradford's house. Bradford takes his bag away from him as soon as he gets inside, disappearing with it briefly and reappearing to herd Chavez into the kitchen. He makes Chavez sit down at the table while Bradford's wife tsks at the snow in his hair and boils water for hot chocolate.
"They treating you OK in Oakland?" Bradford asks. He wrings his hands around his own mug, watching Chavez from across the table. Chavez can see the hard calluses over Bradford's knuckles, the kind of pitching calluses that you won't see on anyone else.
"The usual."
"You don't look so good, is all."
"Thanks a lot, Chad. You know, that mustache isn't doing you any favors either."
Bradford smiles a little, although his eyes are still kind of sad. "Drink your cocoa," he says. "It's good, Jenny always puts the right amount of milk in."
Chavez nods and drinks, and it is good. Just the right amount of milk. One of the Bradford children is peeping at him from the kitchen doorway. Chavez pretends to not notice.
"I'm real sorry to barge in on you guys like this," he says. "If you give me directions I can get to the hotel tomorrow."
Bradford gives him a stern look. "Don't be ridiculous. We've got a guest room, and it's no trouble at all."
"Why?"
"Why?" Bradford stares at him, like it's obvious. "Why? Eric, we played together for 4 years. Of course you can stay over."
"But we weren't ever. We didn't." Chavez waves a hand. "You're a reliever, I'm an infielder, we didn't hang out that much."
"We were still teammates. And," Bradford lowers his gaze, "you were always good to me, even though you were the star and half the coaching staff hated watching me pitch." He looks back up. "You're a good kid, Eric. You're always welcome here."
Chavez closes his eyes. They're starting to burn. "I miss it."
"Miss what?"
"The A's."
"Eric." Bradford leans across the table and touches the back of his hand, tentatively. "You're still on the A's."
"Still on the A's," Chavez says, "but I miss the team." He can feel little darting points of wetness sneaking out from the corners of his eyes, but he can't make himself stop. "I miss all the teams. Everyone."
There's a scraping sound as Bradford pushes his chair back from the table, and then he's standing right in front of Chavez. He puts his arms around Chavez's shoulders. Chavez presses his face into Bradford's stomach and pulls him close, handfuls of his sweater balling up in his palms. "Sorry," he whispers, muffled and uneven.
"For God's sake, Eric, you've got nothing to apologize for." Bradford tightens his grip. "Jenny'll make up the bed in the guest room and you can stay as long as you have to. As you want to." He rubs Chavez's back soothingly, like Chavez imagines he does for his kids when they get hurt or have the flu. "As you need to."
Chavez nods, grateful and desperate and aching somewhere deep down. A whole countryside away from Oakland, he hangs on.