officially summer
Well! We had the near royal flush tonight. Giants won (fabulously and thanks to darling Noah, and I have such a huge crush on both Kruk and Kuip it's kinda ridiculous. They use the telestrator to scribble over the faces of fans who didn't bring gloves and drop foul balls, they talk about the seagulls having season tickets, they are wonderful beyond words and I adore them), A's won (oh Danny. Oh Swish. Oh Mark Kotsay. Oh Kielty, who ever woulda guessed that hair could really be that color), Nats won (sorry sorry, the FIRST-PLACE WASHINGTON NATIONALS won), Dodgers lost (seven straight, motherfuckers! Now that's what I call a good week), Yankees lost, Mariners and Rangers lost, and all that was needed for it to be perfect would be the Angels and BoSox to go down too, but alas. We can only get so close to perfection.
Anyway, I call that a righteous day. The official four-point play is A's win, Giants win, Dodgers lose, Yankees lose, and all the rest is just gravy.
4-0 at the Coliseum, yo. Ugly tie, possessed. Batting practice home run ball, acquired! Watch tan, progressing spectacularly.
*
I know I said I'd never do it, but, well, don't believe anything I tell you.
Informed Consent
Harden comes back late, summer constellations in the sky and the pink flowers sweet as candy on the right side of the driveway. He sways, catching his balance on the cars, the heel of his hand slipping off the simonize. He’s drunk, a familiar place, planning his way through each step.
He gets the door open only because they leave it unlocked and he doesn’t have to deal with keys, then trips over the doorstop and admonishes himself, “dude, quiet,” his hand up on the wall.
Harden carefully toes off his shoes and tries to hang up his jacket, but misses the hook. He bends down slowly, loses his balance, and sits hard on the carpet, his mind reeling. He catches his breath, tips his head back on the wall.
“Rich?”
Harden opens his eyes and Crosby is crouched down beside him, smelling like toothpaste with the collar of his T-shirt damp. Harden smiles and reaches out to stroke Crosby’s face clumsily. “Bobby.”
Crosby leans on one knee and puts his hand on Harden’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Perfect,” Harden mumbles, his fingers on Crosby’s face, feeling blind. He tweaks Crosby’s nose, scuffs fingertips on the stubble across Crosby’s cheeks. “Never been better.”
“C’mon, you need to go to bed,” Crosby tells him, and stands, drawing Harden up with him. Harden’s jacket stays on the floor, crumpled up with one sleeve turned inside-out.
“You need to come with me,” Harden says, pressing his face into Crosby’s shoulder, breathing in fabric softener and the sharp green soap scented on Crosby’s skin.
“Be quiet. Whisper, okay? They’re asleep.” Harden nods and widens his eyes, holding a dramatic finger to his lips, making a low shushing sound. Crosby rolls his eyes. “Just like that.”
They walk silently on the outsides of their feet, Crosby’s arm around Harden’s waist, Harden draped like a coat on his shoulder.
Crosby gets Harden into his room and lays him down on the bed. Harden tries to pull Crosby down with him, chanting softly, “bobbybobbybobby,” but Crosby stays up on one knee, shaking his head.
“Come here, why won’t you come down here?” Harden whispers with wet eyes, his heart all twisted up and Crosby’s hands on his shoulders, holding him down.
“You’re drunk,” Crosby answers, not looking at him, smoothing out the sheets around Harden’s body, nice pale yellow cotton sheets that warm in the sun.
“I know I’m drunk. You think I’m stupid? I know, I was the one who was drinking.” Harden grins foolishly, certain he’s come up with an irrefutable argument. “I woulda drunk ever’body under the table tonight, even, even Huddy. Oh.” He stops, blinks up at the ceiling for a minute. “Never mind, I didn’t say that.”
Crosby half-smiles at him. “It’s okay.”
Harden shakes his head, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes angrily. “You should come down here. s’lonely down here.”
He tugs at Crosby’s arm, trying to fuck up his equilibrium and send him sprawling atop on Harden’s body. But Crosby spends most of his time off-balance and still catches the runner, and he won’t be moved.
“Not gonna do anything when you’re like this,” Crosby says, his jaw tensing. “You only ever ask when you’re like this.”
Harden rolls his head from side to side, tears burned at the corners of his eyes, sliding out and running into his ears, tickling him intolerably. “I ask all the time.”
“You never do.”
“All the time,” Harden insists. “C’mere.” He pushes up and opens his mouth on Crosby’s arm, just above his elbow, where it’s half T-shirt and half skin and everything tastes the same. Harden licks and bites and sucks a bruise there, sees Crosby’s eyes close and feels him start to shake.
“Stop it,” Crosby says, and pushes Harden’s head away. “Sleep it off.”
“Don’t wanna sleep it off. Wanna sleep with you.” Harden makes a big smile, so clever, and Crosby’s still on the bed, still within range.
“You won’t remember.”
Harden laughs. “I never remember anything,” he says too loudly, and Crosby puts his hand over Harden’s mouth, keeping him quiet, sky-eyed with his lids swollen, his pulse thready and stringing them both along. Harden kisses the palm of Crosby’s hand and Crosby flinches, takes his hand away.
“Just go to sleep, Richie, will you,” Crosby says, looking frightened and much better-looking than Harden can deal with when he’s this drunk.
Harden’s mouth is sticky and he imagines the sweat that will rise on Crosby’s stomach and throat, the short brush of Crosby’s hair under his palms. His eyes roll back in his head, and he stretches his arms back, gripping the headboard, hearing Crosby’s breath catch. Harden’s shirt pulls up and he knows how he looks, flat hard stomach and the square trace of muscle under fair skin.
“I’m so fucked up, baby, you could do anything you wanted to me,” Harden says, pulling his lower lip through his teeth, turning his head into his arm. He feels perfect and beautiful and strong, as high as the moon, nothing anybody could turn down. He twists his hips and arches up and Crosby hisses out a curse.
“Knock it off,” Crosby says roughly. Harden smiles, lets his eyes open halfway. Crosby’s staring at him with sick fascination, kneading one hand anxiously in the sheets.
“Anything,” Harden repeats, licking his lips. “Offer’s good for a lim’ted time only.” He grins, feeling shark-like and so cool.
But Crosby’s shaking his head, smiling sadly to himself, whispering, “that’s the problem.”
“Not if you get your ass over here, it’s not,” Harden answers, poking Crosby’s side with his foot. “I’m drunk, but this is. Informed consent. I swear. C’mon.” He rubs the knob of Crosby’s hip with his socked toes. “C’mon.”
Harden’s watching, he sees Crosby’s shoulders fall, sees Crosby shaking his head but reaching back to take a handful of his shirt and strip it off, breathing out unevenly. Harden grins hugely in victory, and sits up to take his own shirt off, so eager that he gets fabric-burn on his arms.
Crosby won’t look at him, bending down to scrape his teeth on Harden’s chest, and Harden sighs happily, wriggles down into a better position and finds the back of Crosby’s neck.
Crosby crawls all the way onto the bed and his tongue is wet and seared and clean on Harden’s neck, and Crosby is whispering, “never again, never again,” like a song, but Harden’s got what he wants and all he can hear is the blood-rush in his ears, the far-away rumble of the washing machine, the dust in his eyes.
THE END
oh man. i love it when richie's a slut. like, whoa.
Anyway, I call that a righteous day. The official four-point play is A's win, Giants win, Dodgers lose, Yankees lose, and all the rest is just gravy.
4-0 at the Coliseum, yo. Ugly tie, possessed. Batting practice home run ball, acquired! Watch tan, progressing spectacularly.
*
I know I said I'd never do it, but, well, don't believe anything I tell you.
Informed Consent
Harden comes back late, summer constellations in the sky and the pink flowers sweet as candy on the right side of the driveway. He sways, catching his balance on the cars, the heel of his hand slipping off the simonize. He’s drunk, a familiar place, planning his way through each step.
He gets the door open only because they leave it unlocked and he doesn’t have to deal with keys, then trips over the doorstop and admonishes himself, “dude, quiet,” his hand up on the wall.
Harden carefully toes off his shoes and tries to hang up his jacket, but misses the hook. He bends down slowly, loses his balance, and sits hard on the carpet, his mind reeling. He catches his breath, tips his head back on the wall.
“Rich?”
Harden opens his eyes and Crosby is crouched down beside him, smelling like toothpaste with the collar of his T-shirt damp. Harden smiles and reaches out to stroke Crosby’s face clumsily. “Bobby.”
Crosby leans on one knee and puts his hand on Harden’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Perfect,” Harden mumbles, his fingers on Crosby’s face, feeling blind. He tweaks Crosby’s nose, scuffs fingertips on the stubble across Crosby’s cheeks. “Never been better.”
“C’mon, you need to go to bed,” Crosby tells him, and stands, drawing Harden up with him. Harden’s jacket stays on the floor, crumpled up with one sleeve turned inside-out.
“You need to come with me,” Harden says, pressing his face into Crosby’s shoulder, breathing in fabric softener and the sharp green soap scented on Crosby’s skin.
“Be quiet. Whisper, okay? They’re asleep.” Harden nods and widens his eyes, holding a dramatic finger to his lips, making a low shushing sound. Crosby rolls his eyes. “Just like that.”
They walk silently on the outsides of their feet, Crosby’s arm around Harden’s waist, Harden draped like a coat on his shoulder.
Crosby gets Harden into his room and lays him down on the bed. Harden tries to pull Crosby down with him, chanting softly, “bobbybobbybobby,” but Crosby stays up on one knee, shaking his head.
“Come here, why won’t you come down here?” Harden whispers with wet eyes, his heart all twisted up and Crosby’s hands on his shoulders, holding him down.
“You’re drunk,” Crosby answers, not looking at him, smoothing out the sheets around Harden’s body, nice pale yellow cotton sheets that warm in the sun.
“I know I’m drunk. You think I’m stupid? I know, I was the one who was drinking.” Harden grins foolishly, certain he’s come up with an irrefutable argument. “I woulda drunk ever’body under the table tonight, even, even Huddy. Oh.” He stops, blinks up at the ceiling for a minute. “Never mind, I didn’t say that.”
Crosby half-smiles at him. “It’s okay.”
Harden shakes his head, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes angrily. “You should come down here. s’lonely down here.”
He tugs at Crosby’s arm, trying to fuck up his equilibrium and send him sprawling atop on Harden’s body. But Crosby spends most of his time off-balance and still catches the runner, and he won’t be moved.
“Not gonna do anything when you’re like this,” Crosby says, his jaw tensing. “You only ever ask when you’re like this.”
Harden rolls his head from side to side, tears burned at the corners of his eyes, sliding out and running into his ears, tickling him intolerably. “I ask all the time.”
“You never do.”
“All the time,” Harden insists. “C’mere.” He pushes up and opens his mouth on Crosby’s arm, just above his elbow, where it’s half T-shirt and half skin and everything tastes the same. Harden licks and bites and sucks a bruise there, sees Crosby’s eyes close and feels him start to shake.
“Stop it,” Crosby says, and pushes Harden’s head away. “Sleep it off.”
“Don’t wanna sleep it off. Wanna sleep with you.” Harden makes a big smile, so clever, and Crosby’s still on the bed, still within range.
“You won’t remember.”
Harden laughs. “I never remember anything,” he says too loudly, and Crosby puts his hand over Harden’s mouth, keeping him quiet, sky-eyed with his lids swollen, his pulse thready and stringing them both along. Harden kisses the palm of Crosby’s hand and Crosby flinches, takes his hand away.
“Just go to sleep, Richie, will you,” Crosby says, looking frightened and much better-looking than Harden can deal with when he’s this drunk.
Harden’s mouth is sticky and he imagines the sweat that will rise on Crosby’s stomach and throat, the short brush of Crosby’s hair under his palms. His eyes roll back in his head, and he stretches his arms back, gripping the headboard, hearing Crosby’s breath catch. Harden’s shirt pulls up and he knows how he looks, flat hard stomach and the square trace of muscle under fair skin.
“I’m so fucked up, baby, you could do anything you wanted to me,” Harden says, pulling his lower lip through his teeth, turning his head into his arm. He feels perfect and beautiful and strong, as high as the moon, nothing anybody could turn down. He twists his hips and arches up and Crosby hisses out a curse.
“Knock it off,” Crosby says roughly. Harden smiles, lets his eyes open halfway. Crosby’s staring at him with sick fascination, kneading one hand anxiously in the sheets.
“Anything,” Harden repeats, licking his lips. “Offer’s good for a lim’ted time only.” He grins, feeling shark-like and so cool.
But Crosby’s shaking his head, smiling sadly to himself, whispering, “that’s the problem.”
“Not if you get your ass over here, it’s not,” Harden answers, poking Crosby’s side with his foot. “I’m drunk, but this is. Informed consent. I swear. C’mon.” He rubs the knob of Crosby’s hip with his socked toes. “C’mon.”
Harden’s watching, he sees Crosby’s shoulders fall, sees Crosby shaking his head but reaching back to take a handful of his shirt and strip it off, breathing out unevenly. Harden grins hugely in victory, and sits up to take his own shirt off, so eager that he gets fabric-burn on his arms.
Crosby won’t look at him, bending down to scrape his teeth on Harden’s chest, and Harden sighs happily, wriggles down into a better position and finds the back of Crosby’s neck.
Crosby crawls all the way onto the bed and his tongue is wet and seared and clean on Harden’s neck, and Crosby is whispering, “never again, never again,” like a song, but Harden’s got what he wants and all he can hear is the blood-rush in his ears, the far-away rumble of the washing machine, the dust in his eyes.
THE END
oh man. i love it when richie's a slut. like, whoa.