ever and after
this was written in about two hours last night. it is quick and shoddy for that reason, but also effective. i dreamt about baseball again last night and it all seems terrifically appropriate.
for lira, because we’ve gotten through worse
Good for Something Once
By Candle Beck
Danny kept bringing him around.
Back in 2005, in Phoenix in the spring, nobody was right. Danny showed up at a club with this guy, dark-colored cap pulled down low over his eyes. Zito was watching the coats, drinking Coke and Sprite and gin all mixed up together. His mouth slick and overly sweet, he rose unsteadily to shake the kid’s hand, Danny’s fingers hooked in the back of his shirt.
The kid’s name was Noah Lowry, and he pitched for the Giants, and he was Danny’s best friend. He was strange and shy, Danny’s black silhouette all over him. Zito filled in the space as best he knew how, watching Danny’s wide shoulders part the crowd around the bar. Noah scratched the side of his neck compulsively, biting his lip.
Zito wanted stories about Danny Haren, stupid things that he’d done in college, how long he’d had those battered black Chucks, whether he talked in his sleep. Noah mostly obliged, talking careful slow, explaining that Danny was scared of heights.
Danny got back with Bobby Crosby and Rich Harden trailing behind him like seaweed, and Zito grinned big up at him, drunk and wondering what Danny’s throat tasted like.
On the street, Danny stole Noah’s cap right off his head, hooting and jagging around the newspaper boxes, and in the yellow streetlight, Zito saw that Noah had a cherry-colored birthmark under his right eye.
The season didn’t start well for any of them. Zito got used to Noah following Danny inside, quietly saying, “Hi,” with his face tilted towards the floor. Zito took a picture of the two of them, Danny’s arm slung around Noah’s shoulders, a solemn look on Noah’s face, frightened tarry eyes.
It was hard to reconcile, loud happy Dan Haren and Noah just like a shadow at his elbow, the tightness of his features and the way he always looked as if he’d just broken something irreplaceable.
Zito asked Danny once, if Noah was, like, a secret genius or a serial killer, and Danny looked surprised, heavy eyebrows raised, half-smile like he wasn’t quite sure if Zito was joking or not. Zito blew it off, laughing, because Danny was kind of hell on his good intentions.
It quickly became apparent that Noah, like Zito, had more invested in Danny than was easily explained. Zito caught him, on the pool deck of their apartment complex, staring at Danny floating on his back in the water, chlorinated blue as sharp as glass and clean warm sunlight in the thin gap between buildings. Noah’s mouth was open a little, his hands curled in loose fists on the hard white plastic of the deck chair.
Zito pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and sat down on the cement next to Noah, squinting up at him. Noah’s hair was sticky and black, the marked skin under his eye sparkling.
“Hey,” Zito said low, wanting badly to wreck something outside himself for once, and Noah flinched, folding his shoulders back into the chair. “He’s not, you know.”
Zito knew. Zito and Danny had met on the set of a commercial, at the ballpark in Phoenix, Danny in the Oakland home whites for the first time, his eyes a deep and startling blue. They spent a day messing around on the grass, the high desert sky reddening like a bruise, sweat damp on the back of Danny’s neck when Zito had briefly touched him to draw his attention. When the sun went down, Zito drove Danny back to his hotel, already kinda fucked up by the size of Danny’s hands and the length of his legs. Foolish, sun-drunk, Zito had put his hand on the side of Danny’s face and Danny’s eyes went huge and he jerked back, almost fell out of the car.
Danny wasn’t. Such is life.
Expecting Noah to sputter and cough out denials, Zito was surprised when he only exhaled, squeaking his fingers on the plastic chair, and said sadly, “I know.”
And of course Noah would know. He’d lived with Danny all through college, small white-ceilinged room at Pepperdine with bunk beds and a green view. He was Danny’s best friend, and if Danny had ever done anything like what Zito wanted of him, Noah would know every breath and gasp and slick and fall and hold.
Instead, Noah had a dirty red T-shirt, torn through at the collar, a chipping faded logo of Danny’s favorite band.
A month later, when the A’s were on the way up and the Giants tracing down like a reflection in a lake, Danny had Zito over to watch Lost and Noah was back in town again. Zito was mildly disquieted to find that he had missed the kid, painted face and all.
Next to Noah on the couch, Zito noticed how he tapped his fingers on his knee, his mouth small and confused. The show wasn’t making any sense, but then, it never did, and during the commercials, Danny cracked jokes and Noah smiled downwards, sliding his hand under his leg.
Danny’d been drinking all day, a rich cloud surrounding him, and as the credits rolled fast, Zito asked him something, looking past Noah to see that Danny had fallen asleep, his chin tucked against his chest like a kid.
“Aw,” Zito said before he could think better of it, and for one hard bright moment, Noah grinned at him.
They carried Danny into the bedroom, his head hanging slack. Zito had his arms, Noah his legs, and Danny was heavy as all hell, deadweighted and slumped in the middle. Breathing unsteadily, they stood over him and debated whether he should sleep in his jeans or not, both of them looking at the strip of Danny’s stomach where his shirt was tugged up.
“Hmm,” Zito said wonderingly, and glanced at Noah, whose mouth was cocked open again. Noah was so put-together, so neat and still. He calmed something in Zito, the drag and kick of Danny in Zito’s heart.
“You see how his hands are like that?” Noah asked absently. Danny’s hands were fisted, thumbs on the inside. “He always does that when he’s asleep.”
Zito kissed him then, ducking his head and holding onto Noah’s chin. Noah kissed him back immediately, opening his mouth and pushing his hand into Zito’s hair. His chest fit solidly against Zito’s own, hard muscles of his stomach twitching through his red T-shirt. Zito swiped his tongue into Noah’s mouth and touched the birthmark under his eye with his thumb.
They went hard to the floor, Danny’s foot hanging over the side of the bed and clocking Zito gently across the cheek. Noah put his hands on Zito’s belt and asked breathlessly, “Okay?”
Zito nodded so fast his neck cracked. Noah got him undone and pulled out, pushed him down on his back on the carpet and went down on him like he’d been planning this for years. Staring up at Danny’s white-socked foot, Zito thought maybe he had.
But then there was heat and wet, splinters of light, a curl of Noah’s tongue and Noah’s cold knuckles pressed like pearls into the crease of his thigh, and Zito decided that it really didn’t matter that much.
He came like his spine had been snapped, crying out. His eyes refocused on Noah kneeling over him, his head turned, staring at Danny on the bed.
“Awake?” Zito managed, his mouth feeling thick and numb. He was starting to shake. Noah glanced down at him, shook his head. Zito reached up, fingering the hem of Noah’s shirt. “Take this off?”
Noah obliged, stripping it off and leaving it tied around his wrists, blinking down at Zito with his eyes lidded and his lip beginning to swell. Zito wound his hand in Noah’s shirt, pulling him down by his wrists, and rolled them over, pinned Noah’s arms over his head. Dark hair against the pale rug and Zito spread his free hand out on Noah’s stomach, feeling him hitch in a breath, his head craning back. His mouth was wet-open, teeth white as powder.
The A’s were in town for two days after that, and Zito left Noah’s apartment once for a change of clothes, rubbing his eyes on the sidewalk, trying to get used to sunlight again. He came back to Noah’s, and Noah kissed him in the hallway, up on his toes with his hands laced on the back of Zito’s neck, pulling his face down, and then they went upstairs to Danny’s place, Noah’s fingers hot around Zito’s wrist in the stairwell.
Danny burned the macaroni and cheese, caught up in some story that neither Zito nor Noah was really following that well, and they ordered Chinese instead, Noah’s face flushing red, his lips twisted. Danny grinned and tossed Zito a beer and Zito felt the familiar sideways wrench in his chest, kicking at Noah’s feet under the table.
That night, Zito fucked Noah on the couch, Noah’s legs wrapped around his hips, Noah’s face turned into the cushion, his eyes screwed shut.
They were still there in the morning, Zito’s head on Noah’s chest. They’d long since dried, sticky patches on the small of Zito’s back, the crook of Noah’s elbow. Zito couldn’t remember if he’d slept.
“We should tell him,” Noah said, and Zito thought for sure that he was joking. He listened to Noah’s heartbeat for awhile, then answered:
“It’s not really his business.”
Noah snorted, jostling Zito a little bit. “Sure.” He was quiet for a minute, distantly running his hand through Zito’s hair. “He’s your teammate.”
Zito bit him lightly on a pre-existing hickey. “He was yours once, too.”
Noah didn’t say anything else. Dawn skated over them, silver and purple, and after awhile, Zito got up slowly, dressed and left. He had a plane to catch.
They went on like that for the rest of the season, though it really wasn’t much; they were hardly ever in town at the same time. It made it less real, eight hours with Noah before the Giants went to the Midwest, thirteen hours in a Los Angeles hotel when they were playing the Dodgers and Angels, respectively. Zito sent him text messages from the airport shuttle, unable to keep the Giants’ schedule and his own straight in his mind. Noah texted back, i’m in ny. i’m in stl. i’m on eastern standard time. i’m drunk, i donknow where we are.
Noah ate about five apples a day as the summer faded, sweet and cool when Zito finally got his hands on him again. Noah wasn’t talking to Danny much anymore, but Zito didn’t think that meant anything, just the nature of their odd lives. Zito had lost count of the friends he’d fallen out of touch with, and he kept coming back to Noah, telling him about dumb things that Danny had done, girls he’d picked up, new jeans and his same old Chucks, splits growing in the rubber of the soles.
Noah didn’t seem to care, though, tightening his mouth and pushing his knee between Zito’s legs. Zito still wanted Danny, but it had become dull and petulant, a phantom ache like his once-broken collarbone before it rained. Danny was just a bad habit, no better than the leaded coffee in the clubhouse, white painkillers, Coke and Sprite and gin. Zito thought about Noah more than was healthy, dreamed of licking that spot under his eye, skidding his forehead down the notched path of Noah’s spine.
Zito was laid so low. Noah was waiting for him at the end of the season, when Zito had been awake for three days and couldn’t for the life of him stop trembling. Noah was sitting on the curb outside his apartment building, eating an apple, his cap tugged down almost to his nose.
Something rushed through him, joy and anger and remorse all twisted up together, Noah’s knees drawn up and his hand dangling loose. Zito took the apple from him, whipped it on a string into the sewer across the street, and then stood there, exhausted, as Noah whistled at his feet.
Noah took him upstairs, peeling his shirt off carefully, not saying a word. Zito let Noah guide him through the dark hall, his eyes scratchy and dug out. Laying him down on the bed, Noah told him softly, “I don’t think this is doing either of us any good.”
Zito nodded, keying his fists into Noah’s hips. Noah brushed the hair out of his eyes, smiled down at him.
“I was in love with Danny for a very long time,” Noah said, the mark under his eye looking like a contusion in the dim streetlight through the window. “And I’m not anymore, and that’s okay, but it’s not really reason enough to keep barely seeing you.”
“But the off-season,” Zito started, and then stopped. He was almost certainly going to be traded over the winter; he felt it like gravity in the pit of his stomach. Anyway, the physical distance had never really been the thing that kept them apart. Noah shook his head, standing to unbuckle his belt and slip out of his jeans.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” Noah whispered, and slid on top of him, the heels of his hands catching along Zito’s ribs.
They didn’t see each other for a long time after that.
Zito wasn’t traded, and he came back to Phoenix still kinda shell-shocked, distrusting and tachycardic. Pitching again was like learning to do it with his right hand, starting over from scratch.
Danny was the one who told Zito that Noah’d gotten hurt, so early in the season that Zito was still living out of boxes. He wanted to go see him, but there wasn’t much he could think to say. He’d moved to the East Bay, taken shelter in the hills, and San Francisco was just a wish across the spark and flare of the water. Noah was hurt for a long time, came back at half-strength, too early.
Rich Harden asked Danny once why Noah never came around anymore, and Danny shrugged, said that Noah must have traded up in the friend department. The glass Zito was holding shattered in his hand, and everyone started shouting, but he was okay. He felt weirdly invulnerable, like no matter what he did, he’d never miss a start.
The Giants came to Oakland for interleague in June, and Zito avoided the dugout and the field, holing up in the clubhouse with the roof shaking overhead. Noah was up there somewhere, black and gray, and Zito kept thinking of Noah lying in a patch of sun on the floor, his shirt draped over the coffee table, the slit skinny shadows of his fingers moving across the carpet.
He picked fights with Danny, broke away from him as savagely and painfully as possible, and pretended he didn’t see the hunted look on Danny’s face, his blue eyes clouded. Eric Chavez asked him if he was trying to preemptively make people hate him so that his free agency would be that much easier to bear, and Zito almost hit him.
Zito didn’t want to think about free agency, nor about the funneling drive across the bridge, the rips in Noah’s red shirt just the right size for his fingers. He kept the bits and pieces that Noah had left him, photographs and plane ticket stubs taped to his bathroom mirror, the edges curling from steam. He memorized the Giants schedule and forgot his own, ran late for everything.
He figured out in August that he was probably more than a little in love with Noah Lowry, and that just pissed him off, information that came way too late to fix anything.
The A’s played for the pennant and the Giants finished under .500. Leaving the Bay Area was like having a rib taken out, and Zito promised himself that he would stop letting things get to him so much, he would grow up and move on and sleep the night through again.
In December, just after Christmas, he signed with the San Francisco Giants and realized helplessly that he had a serious problem.
Noah showed up in Hollywood on New Year’s Eve, leaning his shoulder on the lightpost outside Zito’s apartment, his arms crossed over his chest. He might have been waiting for hours; Zito hadn’t made it home last night.
Zito came up the sidewalk slowly, feeling his blood gather thickly in his chest, weighing him down. Noah was like always, unreadable with his head angled down, his cap low. The sight of him called something out of Zito like a prayer, a cry for help.
He stopped in front of Noah and wished he’d gotten a chance to take a shower, his skin tight and grimy. Noah tipped a speculative look at him from under his cap brim, his eyes wide and black as a bird’s.
“So,” Noah said, and then he took off his cap, letting the sun fall gold and clean on his face. He smiled. “You gonna invite me in?”
Zito swallowed, reached out to take Noah’s cap from him, crumpling it up in his hand. A hundred and twenty-six million dollars later, nothing important had changed. Zito was still only second-rate, second choice, and he wondered for a moment if he should care, as he let Noah in, leaving the cap snapped across the brim, broken like a heart on the sidewalk.
THE END
Write me something bittersweet. No one’s fault and everyone’s to blame. But we still cling fiercely to each other, the way we don’t throw out worn-through t-shirts and chucks splitting through the rubber-not because we can think of things/place they might be good for someday, but because we know they were good for something once.
And if my stoned ramblings don’t make sense then just make zito fuck lowry at noah’s apartment, all loud and dirty and wearing the home whites, and if danny wants in he’s gotta put on a giants’ cap.
as you can see, all the best parts are hers.
for lira, because we’ve gotten through worse
Good for Something Once
By Candle Beck
Danny kept bringing him around.
Back in 2005, in Phoenix in the spring, nobody was right. Danny showed up at a club with this guy, dark-colored cap pulled down low over his eyes. Zito was watching the coats, drinking Coke and Sprite and gin all mixed up together. His mouth slick and overly sweet, he rose unsteadily to shake the kid’s hand, Danny’s fingers hooked in the back of his shirt.
The kid’s name was Noah Lowry, and he pitched for the Giants, and he was Danny’s best friend. He was strange and shy, Danny’s black silhouette all over him. Zito filled in the space as best he knew how, watching Danny’s wide shoulders part the crowd around the bar. Noah scratched the side of his neck compulsively, biting his lip.
Zito wanted stories about Danny Haren, stupid things that he’d done in college, how long he’d had those battered black Chucks, whether he talked in his sleep. Noah mostly obliged, talking careful slow, explaining that Danny was scared of heights.
Danny got back with Bobby Crosby and Rich Harden trailing behind him like seaweed, and Zito grinned big up at him, drunk and wondering what Danny’s throat tasted like.
On the street, Danny stole Noah’s cap right off his head, hooting and jagging around the newspaper boxes, and in the yellow streetlight, Zito saw that Noah had a cherry-colored birthmark under his right eye.
The season didn’t start well for any of them. Zito got used to Noah following Danny inside, quietly saying, “Hi,” with his face tilted towards the floor. Zito took a picture of the two of them, Danny’s arm slung around Noah’s shoulders, a solemn look on Noah’s face, frightened tarry eyes.
It was hard to reconcile, loud happy Dan Haren and Noah just like a shadow at his elbow, the tightness of his features and the way he always looked as if he’d just broken something irreplaceable.
Zito asked Danny once, if Noah was, like, a secret genius or a serial killer, and Danny looked surprised, heavy eyebrows raised, half-smile like he wasn’t quite sure if Zito was joking or not. Zito blew it off, laughing, because Danny was kind of hell on his good intentions.
It quickly became apparent that Noah, like Zito, had more invested in Danny than was easily explained. Zito caught him, on the pool deck of their apartment complex, staring at Danny floating on his back in the water, chlorinated blue as sharp as glass and clean warm sunlight in the thin gap between buildings. Noah’s mouth was open a little, his hands curled in loose fists on the hard white plastic of the deck chair.
Zito pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and sat down on the cement next to Noah, squinting up at him. Noah’s hair was sticky and black, the marked skin under his eye sparkling.
“Hey,” Zito said low, wanting badly to wreck something outside himself for once, and Noah flinched, folding his shoulders back into the chair. “He’s not, you know.”
Zito knew. Zito and Danny had met on the set of a commercial, at the ballpark in Phoenix, Danny in the Oakland home whites for the first time, his eyes a deep and startling blue. They spent a day messing around on the grass, the high desert sky reddening like a bruise, sweat damp on the back of Danny’s neck when Zito had briefly touched him to draw his attention. When the sun went down, Zito drove Danny back to his hotel, already kinda fucked up by the size of Danny’s hands and the length of his legs. Foolish, sun-drunk, Zito had put his hand on the side of Danny’s face and Danny’s eyes went huge and he jerked back, almost fell out of the car.
Danny wasn’t. Such is life.
Expecting Noah to sputter and cough out denials, Zito was surprised when he only exhaled, squeaking his fingers on the plastic chair, and said sadly, “I know.”
And of course Noah would know. He’d lived with Danny all through college, small white-ceilinged room at Pepperdine with bunk beds and a green view. He was Danny’s best friend, and if Danny had ever done anything like what Zito wanted of him, Noah would know every breath and gasp and slick and fall and hold.
Instead, Noah had a dirty red T-shirt, torn through at the collar, a chipping faded logo of Danny’s favorite band.
A month later, when the A’s were on the way up and the Giants tracing down like a reflection in a lake, Danny had Zito over to watch Lost and Noah was back in town again. Zito was mildly disquieted to find that he had missed the kid, painted face and all.
Next to Noah on the couch, Zito noticed how he tapped his fingers on his knee, his mouth small and confused. The show wasn’t making any sense, but then, it never did, and during the commercials, Danny cracked jokes and Noah smiled downwards, sliding his hand under his leg.
Danny’d been drinking all day, a rich cloud surrounding him, and as the credits rolled fast, Zito asked him something, looking past Noah to see that Danny had fallen asleep, his chin tucked against his chest like a kid.
“Aw,” Zito said before he could think better of it, and for one hard bright moment, Noah grinned at him.
They carried Danny into the bedroom, his head hanging slack. Zito had his arms, Noah his legs, and Danny was heavy as all hell, deadweighted and slumped in the middle. Breathing unsteadily, they stood over him and debated whether he should sleep in his jeans or not, both of them looking at the strip of Danny’s stomach where his shirt was tugged up.
“Hmm,” Zito said wonderingly, and glanced at Noah, whose mouth was cocked open again. Noah was so put-together, so neat and still. He calmed something in Zito, the drag and kick of Danny in Zito’s heart.
“You see how his hands are like that?” Noah asked absently. Danny’s hands were fisted, thumbs on the inside. “He always does that when he’s asleep.”
Zito kissed him then, ducking his head and holding onto Noah’s chin. Noah kissed him back immediately, opening his mouth and pushing his hand into Zito’s hair. His chest fit solidly against Zito’s own, hard muscles of his stomach twitching through his red T-shirt. Zito swiped his tongue into Noah’s mouth and touched the birthmark under his eye with his thumb.
They went hard to the floor, Danny’s foot hanging over the side of the bed and clocking Zito gently across the cheek. Noah put his hands on Zito’s belt and asked breathlessly, “Okay?”
Zito nodded so fast his neck cracked. Noah got him undone and pulled out, pushed him down on his back on the carpet and went down on him like he’d been planning this for years. Staring up at Danny’s white-socked foot, Zito thought maybe he had.
But then there was heat and wet, splinters of light, a curl of Noah’s tongue and Noah’s cold knuckles pressed like pearls into the crease of his thigh, and Zito decided that it really didn’t matter that much.
He came like his spine had been snapped, crying out. His eyes refocused on Noah kneeling over him, his head turned, staring at Danny on the bed.
“Awake?” Zito managed, his mouth feeling thick and numb. He was starting to shake. Noah glanced down at him, shook his head. Zito reached up, fingering the hem of Noah’s shirt. “Take this off?”
Noah obliged, stripping it off and leaving it tied around his wrists, blinking down at Zito with his eyes lidded and his lip beginning to swell. Zito wound his hand in Noah’s shirt, pulling him down by his wrists, and rolled them over, pinned Noah’s arms over his head. Dark hair against the pale rug and Zito spread his free hand out on Noah’s stomach, feeling him hitch in a breath, his head craning back. His mouth was wet-open, teeth white as powder.
The A’s were in town for two days after that, and Zito left Noah’s apartment once for a change of clothes, rubbing his eyes on the sidewalk, trying to get used to sunlight again. He came back to Noah’s, and Noah kissed him in the hallway, up on his toes with his hands laced on the back of Zito’s neck, pulling his face down, and then they went upstairs to Danny’s place, Noah’s fingers hot around Zito’s wrist in the stairwell.
Danny burned the macaroni and cheese, caught up in some story that neither Zito nor Noah was really following that well, and they ordered Chinese instead, Noah’s face flushing red, his lips twisted. Danny grinned and tossed Zito a beer and Zito felt the familiar sideways wrench in his chest, kicking at Noah’s feet under the table.
That night, Zito fucked Noah on the couch, Noah’s legs wrapped around his hips, Noah’s face turned into the cushion, his eyes screwed shut.
They were still there in the morning, Zito’s head on Noah’s chest. They’d long since dried, sticky patches on the small of Zito’s back, the crook of Noah’s elbow. Zito couldn’t remember if he’d slept.
“We should tell him,” Noah said, and Zito thought for sure that he was joking. He listened to Noah’s heartbeat for awhile, then answered:
“It’s not really his business.”
Noah snorted, jostling Zito a little bit. “Sure.” He was quiet for a minute, distantly running his hand through Zito’s hair. “He’s your teammate.”
Zito bit him lightly on a pre-existing hickey. “He was yours once, too.”
Noah didn’t say anything else. Dawn skated over them, silver and purple, and after awhile, Zito got up slowly, dressed and left. He had a plane to catch.
They went on like that for the rest of the season, though it really wasn’t much; they were hardly ever in town at the same time. It made it less real, eight hours with Noah before the Giants went to the Midwest, thirteen hours in a Los Angeles hotel when they were playing the Dodgers and Angels, respectively. Zito sent him text messages from the airport shuttle, unable to keep the Giants’ schedule and his own straight in his mind. Noah texted back, i’m in ny. i’m in stl. i’m on eastern standard time. i’m drunk, i donknow where we are.
Noah ate about five apples a day as the summer faded, sweet and cool when Zito finally got his hands on him again. Noah wasn’t talking to Danny much anymore, but Zito didn’t think that meant anything, just the nature of their odd lives. Zito had lost count of the friends he’d fallen out of touch with, and he kept coming back to Noah, telling him about dumb things that Danny had done, girls he’d picked up, new jeans and his same old Chucks, splits growing in the rubber of the soles.
Noah didn’t seem to care, though, tightening his mouth and pushing his knee between Zito’s legs. Zito still wanted Danny, but it had become dull and petulant, a phantom ache like his once-broken collarbone before it rained. Danny was just a bad habit, no better than the leaded coffee in the clubhouse, white painkillers, Coke and Sprite and gin. Zito thought about Noah more than was healthy, dreamed of licking that spot under his eye, skidding his forehead down the notched path of Noah’s spine.
Zito was laid so low. Noah was waiting for him at the end of the season, when Zito had been awake for three days and couldn’t for the life of him stop trembling. Noah was sitting on the curb outside his apartment building, eating an apple, his cap tugged down almost to his nose.
Something rushed through him, joy and anger and remorse all twisted up together, Noah’s knees drawn up and his hand dangling loose. Zito took the apple from him, whipped it on a string into the sewer across the street, and then stood there, exhausted, as Noah whistled at his feet.
Noah took him upstairs, peeling his shirt off carefully, not saying a word. Zito let Noah guide him through the dark hall, his eyes scratchy and dug out. Laying him down on the bed, Noah told him softly, “I don’t think this is doing either of us any good.”
Zito nodded, keying his fists into Noah’s hips. Noah brushed the hair out of his eyes, smiled down at him.
“I was in love with Danny for a very long time,” Noah said, the mark under his eye looking like a contusion in the dim streetlight through the window. “And I’m not anymore, and that’s okay, but it’s not really reason enough to keep barely seeing you.”
“But the off-season,” Zito started, and then stopped. He was almost certainly going to be traded over the winter; he felt it like gravity in the pit of his stomach. Anyway, the physical distance had never really been the thing that kept them apart. Noah shook his head, standing to unbuckle his belt and slip out of his jeans.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” Noah whispered, and slid on top of him, the heels of his hands catching along Zito’s ribs.
They didn’t see each other for a long time after that.
Zito wasn’t traded, and he came back to Phoenix still kinda shell-shocked, distrusting and tachycardic. Pitching again was like learning to do it with his right hand, starting over from scratch.
Danny was the one who told Zito that Noah’d gotten hurt, so early in the season that Zito was still living out of boxes. He wanted to go see him, but there wasn’t much he could think to say. He’d moved to the East Bay, taken shelter in the hills, and San Francisco was just a wish across the spark and flare of the water. Noah was hurt for a long time, came back at half-strength, too early.
Rich Harden asked Danny once why Noah never came around anymore, and Danny shrugged, said that Noah must have traded up in the friend department. The glass Zito was holding shattered in his hand, and everyone started shouting, but he was okay. He felt weirdly invulnerable, like no matter what he did, he’d never miss a start.
The Giants came to Oakland for interleague in June, and Zito avoided the dugout and the field, holing up in the clubhouse with the roof shaking overhead. Noah was up there somewhere, black and gray, and Zito kept thinking of Noah lying in a patch of sun on the floor, his shirt draped over the coffee table, the slit skinny shadows of his fingers moving across the carpet.
He picked fights with Danny, broke away from him as savagely and painfully as possible, and pretended he didn’t see the hunted look on Danny’s face, his blue eyes clouded. Eric Chavez asked him if he was trying to preemptively make people hate him so that his free agency would be that much easier to bear, and Zito almost hit him.
Zito didn’t want to think about free agency, nor about the funneling drive across the bridge, the rips in Noah’s red shirt just the right size for his fingers. He kept the bits and pieces that Noah had left him, photographs and plane ticket stubs taped to his bathroom mirror, the edges curling from steam. He memorized the Giants schedule and forgot his own, ran late for everything.
He figured out in August that he was probably more than a little in love with Noah Lowry, and that just pissed him off, information that came way too late to fix anything.
The A’s played for the pennant and the Giants finished under .500. Leaving the Bay Area was like having a rib taken out, and Zito promised himself that he would stop letting things get to him so much, he would grow up and move on and sleep the night through again.
In December, just after Christmas, he signed with the San Francisco Giants and realized helplessly that he had a serious problem.
Noah showed up in Hollywood on New Year’s Eve, leaning his shoulder on the lightpost outside Zito’s apartment, his arms crossed over his chest. He might have been waiting for hours; Zito hadn’t made it home last night.
Zito came up the sidewalk slowly, feeling his blood gather thickly in his chest, weighing him down. Noah was like always, unreadable with his head angled down, his cap low. The sight of him called something out of Zito like a prayer, a cry for help.
He stopped in front of Noah and wished he’d gotten a chance to take a shower, his skin tight and grimy. Noah tipped a speculative look at him from under his cap brim, his eyes wide and black as a bird’s.
“So,” Noah said, and then he took off his cap, letting the sun fall gold and clean on his face. He smiled. “You gonna invite me in?”
Zito swallowed, reached out to take Noah’s cap from him, crumpling it up in his hand. A hundred and twenty-six million dollars later, nothing important had changed. Zito was still only second-rate, second choice, and he wondered for a moment if he should care, as he let Noah in, leaving the cap snapped across the brim, broken like a heart on the sidewalk.
THE END
Write me something bittersweet. No one’s fault and everyone’s to blame. But we still cling fiercely to each other, the way we don’t throw out worn-through t-shirts and chucks splitting through the rubber-not because we can think of things/place they might be good for someday, but because we know they were good for something once.
And if my stoned ramblings don’t make sense then just make zito fuck lowry at noah’s apartment, all loud and dirty and wearing the home whites, and if danny wants in he’s gotta put on a giants’ cap.
as you can see, all the best parts are hers.