don't ruin the fourth of july by breaking my heart, motherfucker
i'd been trying to write a story around the line, 'you don't always need some great tragedy. sometimes things just end.' and i also wanted zito to be the one breaking it off, as i was getting bored with angelic innocent surferboy and the good-looking asshole from chicago.
i like this, it is pretty much what i wanted it to be. the mountain goats' song quoted at the end is called 'source decay.'
Pray For Rain
By Candle Beck
Zito told him it was over the night before Mulder pitched the rubber match against the Angels.
Abysmal timing.
Mulder didn’t believe him for the first couple of seconds. Zito wouldn’t meet his eyes, kept fumbling for words, his hands uncertain and his face drawn, and Zito said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore, man,” sitting there on the couch in Mulder’s living room, the house around them quiet, Chavez having gone down to San Diego for the night for his brother’s wedding.
Mulder didn’t know what that meant, asked, “The fuck are you talking about?” and saw Zito sigh, saw him pull a hand across his face, saw him looking tired and old.
Zito made a vague gesture in the space between the two of them. “This. You and me. I think maybe I’m done.”
Mulder waited for the punchline, waited for Zito’s sly gotcha grin, but Zito just sat there, like his energy had been pulled out of him.
“You’re done?” Mulder repeated incredulously, and Zito nodded.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Mulder stood up, pacing to the other end of the room, trying to figure out what the hell Zito was trying to pull. “You better not be fucking with me, man,” he said, turning to face the other man.
Zito looked at him, exhaustion dark and slow-moving in his eyes. “I’m not,” he whispered.
Mulder stared at him for a second, then shook his head. “No. Nope, sorry. No fucking way.”
Zito fell back against the couch, raising a hand to cover his face, saying roughly, “Mulder-” but then Mulder cut him off.
“No way, dude, and I’ll tell you why not. I’ve got a fucking game to pitch tomorrow, and I know there’s no way you would ever think of leaving me the night before I start.”
Zito took his hand away, looked at him with exasperation and impatient regret. “You want me to come back tomorrow?”
“I want . . .” and that’s when it hit Mulder, hit him hard, knocked him off his feet, that’s when it crashed into his mind like a plane falling out of the sky, because at that moment he realized that what he wanted was Zito, but Zito didn’t want him anymore.
* * *
What do you remember?
I remember the first day we met, and I thought you were a flake, I thought you probably wouldn’t come to much, because you didn’t look like any ballplayer I’d ever seen before.
I remember talking to my mom on the phone and saying, “I met this guy. He’s kinda weird, but he seems cool.”
I remember sitting beside the hotel pool with you in Phoenix, spring training, drinking beer and watching the sun set for hours, the dark slipping across the desert, tucking us into the night’s pocket, I remember how I couldn’t make out your features past midnight, just your voice next to me, the rhythm and the quick slide of your laughter, the way I could never quite recall in the morning what it was we’d sat out there talking about for so long, only a careful recollection of shadows and streaks of clouds and the clink of glass bottles, the burnt wood smell, the rough sand, the tight pull of the wind.
I remember getting lost in the desert with you somewhere near the Mexican border, having to pull the car over because I was laughing too hard to see straight at something you’d said, my head helium-light and filled with carbonated stars, I remember being lost in the desert and I remember feeling found.
I remember eating apples on the grass down in North Beach, the church where Joe DiMaggio had his sins forgiven rising white and sculpted like a wedding cake at our backs, the ocean air fresh, the two of us sharing a Coke and talking about Benicio del Toro and Eric Gagne.
I remember walking across the Golden Gate Bridge and chucking rocks into the bay, I remember you looking for sharks in the water and waving to the people in sailboats below us.
I remember the night when we were sitting on the roof of your apartment building, our legs hanging over the edge, when you said to me, “So, listen, I think I’ve got kind of a crush on you. You think that’s gonna make things weird?” and I was surprised because it didn’t surprise me that much, like I’d been waiting months to hear you say that, like it had always been right there waiting for us to find it, and I remember two weeks later, after I spent fourteen hopeful days and fourteen blameless nights studying you carefully and trying to figure out what I wanted, when I pushed you up against the wall and told you, “No, it’s not gonna make things weird,” just before I kissed you for the first time, and the only thing I could think was why the fuck had I waited two weeks?
I remember watching you pitch, one of those days when the sunlight was white and sharp and amazed by its own power, I remember watching your shadow cut out against the ground, the clean edges, watching the silhouette of your swift delivery, your motion etched out on the ground like something traced on paper.
I remember the night you kept mistaking airplanes for shooting stars, worrying about whether your wishes would come true or not.
I remember how you looked at three in the morning, standing at the window in your boxers and nothing else, the city lights wicking across your skin, streetlights caught up between your ribs, police siren red and blue ducking through your hair, the pale steady roll of car headlights hiding in the crook of your elbow, your eyes cast down to the street, and I was over in the dark, wide-eyed on the bed while you thought I was asleep, and it was like all the light in all the world could be found somewhere within you.
I remember not particularly liking you during that series in New York when first you hurled a three hitter and then the next day I was pulled in the fourth after giving up six runs, slamming the hotel room’s door in your face when you came looking for me that night, I remember not sleeping, a hard ache behind my eyes, something like guilt and futility, and I remember how you looked when I knocked on your door at five in the morning, all complicated tangles and shipwrecked eyes, and you didn’t let me apologize, you kept saying, “Shut up, dude, it’s cool, it’s cool,” as you pulled my T-shirt off and pushed me towards the bed.
I remember fighting with you on the black, ripped-stone street, neither of us drunk enough to excuse it, a little too much cruelty and knowledge between us, feeling hollow and disconnected as I tried to cut you down, and it was a week before we spoke to each other again, a terrifyingly blank span of time, nothing but empty and cold, and I remember thinking that I didn’t want to forgive you, I didn’t want you to forgive me, I just wanted us to stop meaning so much to each other.
I remember after we lost Game 5 of the ALDS, and I was sitting in the dugout staring at the field, trying to convince myself that in a minute or two, it wouldn’t hurt so bad, in a minute or two, I’d be able to stand again, and you came over and sat beside me, your arm around my shoulders, and you pulled me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead, for once not caring about our teammates or getting caught, because half of them were crying in each other’s arms anyway, I remember your forehead resting against my temple, your eyes closed, and you whispered to me, “We did good, you know that, we did good, next year we’ll do better.”
I remember watching the World Series with you, always the hardest part of the season, that perfect October field that we’ve never stood upon, both of us trying not to be bitter and heartbroken, not talking to each other until you whispered in the sixth inning of the fourth game, “Spring training,” and you said spring training like other people say prayers.
I remember how autumn came on lonely, all the colors rusting, and you kept calling me in the middle of the night and asking me to come over.
I remember going home for Thanksgiving and feeling weirdly disconcerted, catching up with my parents and trying to get used to the changes that my hometown had undergone in my absence, and it took me most of the week to realize that the reason I felt so out of place was because I was supposed to be with my family, but I’d left you behind in California.
I remember Christmas morning, tinsel in your hair, green and red ribbons wound around my fingers, both of us yawning incessantly, sitting on the carpet and howling with laughter until I thought I would pass out.
I remember being on my knees in the hallway, two minutes past midnight on New Year’s Eve as the fireworks exploded outside, staring up at you, your eyes dark and your mouth wet, I remember your hand on the back of my head and the broken moonlight scattering around us.
I remember you calling me an arrogant fuck, your face twisted and angry, and I remember shouting at you, “I got a fucking right to be arrogant, you son of a bitch!” and that time it was three weeks before we spoke to each other again.
I remember missing baseball with a deep, petulant ache in January, and I was scared because it was the kind of pain that one should only feel for something that has died, and I remember asking you how many more off-seasons you thought we could take, and you just kicked your feet up on the coffee table and said, “As many as it takes.”
I remember going over to your place to help you pack for Phoenix, both of us giddy and wicked with excitement, talking over each other, our voices climbing until we were basically yelling, high joyful shouts echoing back to us off the window glass.
I remember being out in the Arizona wilderness one night, the sky scrubbed clean, and you said, “Look, the North Star,” and when I turned to see where you were pointing, you touched my face and kissed me, and I knew then that celestial navigation was no good to me, no star was bright enough to show me the way home, because I was more lost at that moment than I’d ever been.
I remember playing catch with you on the sidewalk at four in the morning on Opening Day, both of us way too keyed up to get any sleep.
I remember the first game of the season that you won, that masterful performance, eight innings, four hits and no earned runs, and I remember the ovation as you left the field, your cocky grin, playing to the fans, and I remember wanting to stand on top of the dugout and holler into the crowd, “He’s mine, did you see what he did, did you see how good he is, he’s mine, he’s mine.”
I remember looking at the calendar and realizing that it had been a year, longer than anybody I’d ever been with before, I remember being shocked by that and not a little bit terrified, shying away from you for a couple of days, trying to convince myself it wasn’t that serious, it wasn’t anything I wouldn’t be able to get over, until you finally got fed up and said, “What the fuck, man?” and that was when I figured out that you were stuck inside me for good.
I remember a clean summer’s day when the sky scrolled out like a long blue pearl, standing in the gutter hailing a cab, looking back over my shoulder to see you leaning against a streetlight, your hands in your pockets, whistling something low, staring off in the opposite direction, your eyes distant, seeing all the things that only made themselves visible to you.
I remember being vaguely aware that you were pulling away from me, some hesitance in your touch, some doubt in your eyes, but I wouldn’t let myself think about it, I wouldn’t let myself even consider it, and you kept getting further and further away from me, like I was watching you go in the rearview mirror, and I couldn’t grab hold, I couldn’t do anything but stand there helpless as I lost you.
I remember thinking that it wouldn’t happen this soon.
* * *
Mulder asked why. Not really because he wanted to know (what the fuck did it matter why?), but just because he thought it would probably be pretty hard for Zito to explain, and making this hard for Zito seemed like the right thing to do, at the moment.
Zito sighed, pulled a hand violently through his hair. “It’s just . . . it’s gotten to be too much, you know?”
“Too much,” Mulder echoed slowly. His mind was working its way through this, trying to find some solid ground to stand on, but the only thing he could think of was the next morning, when Zito wouldn’t be there anymore, when he would wake up in an utterly new world, a world that would be quieter and slower and closed up, with boards hammered over every sightless window, the streets empty, the cars rusting with weeds growing up around flat tires, the ground charred and scoured by razor blades, ashes coating everything, all the blue rolled up into gray.
There was something thick in his throat, the killing knowledge that he wasn’t going to beg, he wasn’t going to throw himself on the floor, wrap his arms around Zito’s legs and promise anything to keep Zito from leaving, Mulder wouldn’t allow himself to do that, he was going to go out into the terrible next-morning world alone, with his weak flaring pride like a scar on his heart.
Zito nodded, looking ripped down, dragged out. “It’s nothing about you. I mean, I guess you probably know that, but seriously, man, I’m just . . . I’m just tired.”
Mulder almost had to laugh at the cliché of it, this sorry useless speech that had been made an infinite number of times by an infinite number of people, and every single time it had been an unapologetic lie, every single time it had been total bullshit, because it had *everything* to do with him, absolutely everything, he was the one Zito was leaving, and if he’d been a little bit better, a little bit more, then Zito wouldn’t ever want to leave him, and the reason he knew this was because Zito was better, and Mulder didn’t ever want to leave him.
“It’s been more than a year, and now you tell me you’re tired. On the night before I gotta pitch, you lay all this on me,” Mulder said, trying to make his voice hard, tough and black.
Zito shook his head, his eyes shadowed. “I’m not . . . I mean, you’ll be fine tomorrow, you always are.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never had to go out there after something like this has happened,” Mulder shot back, thinking abstractly that this was all wrong, he wasn’t doing this right. He should be angry, fighting it, he should be wanting to hit Zito, wanting to beat the hell out of the other man, but he was thinking of the sunlight in Arizona, the incomplete New York City skyline, the annihilating force of the wind atop Twin Peaks, he was thinking of Chicago at dawn, Seattle at high tide, Tampa Bay during a hurricane, he was thinking of all the places where he’d felt at home, finally coming to the realization that the one thing these places had in common was the company he’d kept there, which meant home wasn’t anywhere particular, but maybe just wherever they’d been together.
And Mulder wondered, ‘Is this what shock feels like? Is this heartbreak? Is this how I’m gonna feel forever?’
“After something like what?” Zito asked, close to a whisper. “Is it . . . is it really gonna be so bad? It’s not like you need me to be good tomorrow.”
Something hard pulled in Mulder’s chest, and he thought, ‘No, I don’t need you to be good tomorrow. I need you to be good every day.’
Mulder closed his eyes against the thought, replied softly, “I just wish I didn’t have to pitch tomorrow,” and it was the first time in his life that he could remember not wanting to take the mound.
“You’ll be okay,” Zito said with a kind of sad confidence in his voice. “There’s nothing I could ever do that would make you less of a pitcher,” and Mulder smiled without humor, thinking that it was just like Zito to not believe he had that kind of power over someone else, it was just like Zito to have faith in Mulder like that.
Letting his eyes come open again, Mulder saw Zito looking at him, something careful and wise in his gaze, like Zito had lived this all before and already knew how it would end. Mulder supposed Zito *did* know how it would end, because, after all, Zito was ending it.
They didn’t say anything for a long moment, then Mulder scraped something out of himself, saying with his voice rusty, “So that’s it, then? Just like that?”
Zito cringed, but only briefly. “Didn’t you kind of see it coming? I’ve been . . . you know, thinking about it for awhile now, trying to figure out how to tell you, and I thought you might . . . might have picked up on that.”
Mulder shook his head. “No, it’s pretty much out of the blue.”
Which was a lie, because he had suspected something, hadn’t he, he’d sensed Zito’s removal of himself, the disconnect between them, he’d had the creeping awareness of things changing, but he hadn’t let himself think about it, he hadn’t let himself consider it. Maybe if he had, he could have done something, won Zito back before he’d lost him, maybe . . .
Zito twisted his hands together between his knees and breathed out long and low before saying quietly, “I’m sorry, man. I don’t . . . don’t want you to think that I’m not gonna miss you. ‘Cause I am. I’m gonna miss you like crazy, there’s no doubt about it. But I don’t think we can really go much further, you know?”
Zito held his gaze, Mulder noticing that Zito did look tired, he looked like he was about to fall down.
Mulder pushed his thumb along the seam of his jeans, keeping his eyes studiously downward. “Might be easier if you had an actual reason for doing this. After all the shit we’ve been through, and you’re giving up over nothing,” he said, the words tasting cold and metallic in his mouth.
Zito sighed achingly, and his voice cracked as he said, “You don’t . . . you don’t always need some great tragedy, Mulder. Sometimes things just end.”
Mulder swallowed, something hot pricking behind his eyes, and he said almost too low to be heard, “Think you should go now.”
Zito stared at him helplessly for a moment, then nodded, his throat ducking up and down, and stood, Mulder following him to the door to let him out.
On the front step, Zito was lit by the yellow of the porch light, combing through his hair, soft shadows on his face, and he turned, seeming to want to say more, and Mulder waited, trying not to hold his breath, but then Zito’s eyes cut away and he just said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And you’ll be fine. I know it.”
Mulder shook his head, and something harsh and infinitely painful ripped through Zito’s eyes, Zito repeating in a whisper, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He turned to walk down the stone path towards where his car was parked, but Mulder’s voice caught him after only a few steps.
“Zito.”
Zito turned, his expression tight and uncertain.
Mulder looked at him, a thousand images flickering through his mind, superimposing themselves over Zito’s face, seeing Zito four years younger, seeing him asleep, his features smoothed out, seeing him wild with rage and despair after losing in the playoffs, seeing him rolling his eyes, seeing him laughing with tears in his eyes, seeing him terrified, seeing him happy, and Mulder said, his voice hoarse, “Pray for rain.”
And then he closed the door and let Zito walk away.
THE END
the reason this got written:
and i park in an alley
and i read through the postcards
you continue to send
where as indirectly as you can
you ask what i remember
i like these torture devices
from my old best friend
well i’ll tell you what i know
like i swore i always would
i don’t think it’s gonna do you any good
--John Darnielle
And also ‘cause me and my brother were talking about the 1948 Boston Braves two-ace pennant-winning rotation: Spahn and Sain and pray for rain.