Twenty
Title:Twenty
Fandom: RPS; MLB; St. Louis Cardinals
Pairing: Adam Wainwright/Chris Carpenter
Rating: NC-17
Written for a request by learnthemusic. It's not exactly everything I wanted it to be, but I'm tired of sitting on it.
Wainwright makes it back to Carpenter's room well after two in the morning, but Carpenter doesn't mind. He can never get away with not going out, especially in Wainwright's honor, so he made an appearance, mostly to buy Wainwright a bottle of Gray Goose and tell him he'll see him later that night, but he always gets away with leaving early once the drinks start really flowing. He walks from the bar to Michigan Avenue, his hood up because he's still pretty infamous in Chicago even if Wainwright has taken the moniker of Public Pitching Enemy Number One. He heads up to the hotel room, orders some take out and watches TV in his boxers, replaying the game in his head. It wasn't everything he would have wanted for Wainwright's twentieth win. Sure, the Cardinals had a solid lead. And he had gone six fairly painless innings. And McClellan got his nice redemption story, finishing out the game he couldn't finish for Wainwright last year (it was hard for Carpenter to harbor any animosity for a teammate or even Tim Lincecum, but if McClellan had closed out that game, Wainwright would have more than a Gold Glove sitting on his mantle). But the game just sort of had this air of expectation, like it wasn't anything special because it had already been penciled in at the beginning of the season. Carpenter had wanted something better for him, something memorable since he couldn't get the footnote he deserved last year.
Wainwright is pleasantly drunk when he comes in, not stumbling, but flushed, inebriated grin taking up half of his face. “You should have stayed a little longer. We went to O'Toole's and sang karaoke.” Wainwright plops down on the bed next to Carpenter, pulling his sweater over his head with surprising coordination. “And you didn't even drink any of your vodka. Did you drink anything?”
“I have a bullpen tomorrow.” Wainwright narrows his eyes, working his belt out of the loops of his jeans. “And I don't like the whole going out part of celebrating. I like the part where you come back to my room and get naked.”
“It's not every season I win twenty games, you know.” Wainwright's laugh ruins his faux-petulance. He works his way out of his jeans, folding them carefully before dropping them at the foot of the bed. “I like thinking about you waiting for me here, to be honest. Feels like a reward or something.”
“A reward? Am I your gold star?” Carpenter laughs patiently as Wainwright fights with the buttons on his shirt before he finally sits up to unbutton the last few for him.
“You wanna be a gold star? I was thinking more like, I don't know, a nice Rolodex or something. Something all nice and gift packaged for me.” Wainwright, now that they're both in equal states of undress, lies down next to Carpenter, turning on his side, mostly to rob Carpenter's warmth. He puts a cold hand on Carpenter's bare stomach, laughing when he starts. “Sorry. Chicago September.”
“Oh, so you just want to unwrap me, then. Too bad I mostly unwrapped myself, huh?” Carpenter forcibly moves Wainwright's hand off of his stomach and switches off the TV.
“Will you stop ruining my analogies, please? You're too damn technical. Like you unwrapped, too.” Wainwright replaces his hand, fending off Carpenter's lazy attempt to move it.
“Good. Wanna unwrap the rest before you're too tired?” Carpenter rolls over onto his side, pressing their foreheads together.
Wainwright laughs and licks his lips, tucking his fingers under the waistband of Carpenter's boxers. “Never too tired.”
“You've had a long day,” Carpenter reasons, trailing his fingers down Wainwright's stomach, his tired half-grin widening the more Wainwright's breath starts to catch. “Six innings, waiting to see if you're going to get the win, the celebration in the clubhouse, the bar. What time did you wake up? Seven? Got to be beat. Maybe we should save our celebration until tomorrow night. Let you get some sleep.”
He stops his hand just at the waistband of Wainwright's boxers, but Wainwright catches his wrist, shaking his head against the pillow. “Tonight. Want you tonight. Well, and tomorrow night, too, but I want you right now. I was drinking vodka and Red Bull.” Carpenter snorts, but Wainwright continues on. “I could go all night.”
“Promises, promises.”
Carpenter tries to wiggle away from him, laughing, but Wainwright grabs the front of his boxers and shoves them down impatiently, narrowing his eyes. “Successfully unwrapped. Now stop playing coy. I want my whole reward.”
Carpenter rolls his eyes, but he shucks Wainwright's boxers as quickly as Wainwright shucked his, smiling as he leans over him to get into the night stand. He tosses the unopened condom on Wainwright's bare chest, raising his eyebrows. “How do you want me?”
“You mean I get to pick?” Wainwright gapes at him before dissolving into laughter. He rips the condom open with his teeth, spitting the leftover ribbon of plastic over his shoulder, but it doesn't go very far. “Just stay like you are.” Wainwright rolls on the condom and gets on his knees, positioning himself over Carpenter, laughing at the look on his face. “What?”
“Nothing.” Carpenter shakes his head, moving his legs to accommodate Wainwright. “I was just thinking. Who woulda thought the first time we met that we'd still be doing this, you know? That we'd be this... I don't know, happy. After all we've been through.”
“Shut up. I'm drunk and you're all warm and sleepy and I'm going to fuck you. Don't get mushy.” Wainwright pulls Carpenter's legs up and puts his ankles on his shoulders to punctuate his point, half-maliciously bending Carpenter in half so he can grab the bottle of lube off the nightstand. He dumps a generous portion in his hand, warming it between his hands before he gets a hand between their bodies. “You want me to go slow or...?”
He twists his fingers inside Carpenter, grinning when Carpenter makes the universal sound that pretty much means he's not going to be able to do much talking after that. “Your decision,” Carpenter hisses, arching his back high enough for it to crack.
Wainwright bends Carpenter in half to kiss him, quickly, knowing that Carpenter will be complaining the next day if he's sore in the slightest. He guides himself into Carpenter, holding his breath until he's all the way in, holding onto Carpenter's hips both to keep himself balanced and for leverage. Carpenter arches his back again, throwing his head back. He grabs at the sheets, ripping the fitted sheet off the bed at one corner. “Can I get you to come without touching you?” Wainwright asks, unconsciously licking his lips when Carpenter nods, opening his eyes for a split second to make sure that Wainwright gets his affirmation. “If I come first, I'll keep going. I'll keep going until you're with me, okay?” Carpenter nods again, grunting the way Wainwright knows loosely translates to get on with it already, you moron.
Wainwright starts slow, rolling his hips into Carpenter. It doesn't take very long for Carpenter to pull the other corner of the fitted sheet off the bed, his eyes screwed shut, his moans hitting a new octave every time Wainwright rocks into him. Before too long, Carpenter's hips or Wainwright's hands are getting too slippery to use as a base, so he puts his palms flat on the bed on either side of Carpenter's ribs, deepening the angle and eliciting a string of obscenities from Carpenter.
“Harder?” Wainwright asks, figuring he'll be polite, but he can barely stand the pace he set himself. Carpenter groans non-committally and Wainwright takes that as his invitation, slamming himself into Carpenter experimentally. Carpenter yelps a little bit, but he makes a sound of protest when Wainwright slows down again, so Wainwright locks his knees, his hands starting to slide up higher and higher on the bed, now just under Carpenter's armpits. “God, Carp.” He picks one hand up to rub his hand affectionately over Carpenter's head, hoping to get him to open his eyes just for a second, but Carpenter shakes his hand off, smiling a little despite himself, though he doesn't open his eyes. Wainwright rocks into him harder for it, the bed squealing underneath them and the headboard solidly colliding with the wall every time he moves forward. “You gonna let me see you at all?” Carpenter makes a sound low in his throat, but he opens his eyes enough that Wainwright can see blue, so he stops complaining. He does bend Carpenter in half again, giving him a peck of appreciation.
It doesn't take much longer at that pace for Wainwright to get close, his whole body covered in a cold sweat that only makes him shiver harder as he tries to control himself. Carpenter is getting louder and louder, an indication of how close he is, too, but Wainwright slows down anyway, hoping to regain some composure before speeding up again, but Carpenter props himself up on his elbows, glaring at him petulantly. “I'm with you. You come, I'll come. Believe me. Keep going or I'm going to punch you.”
Wainwright laughs, overwhelming relieved and lets himself go, his hands all the way up on either side of Carpenter's head, holding the fitted sheet in place underneath them. Carpenter grabs hold of his forearms, his back now fully arched against Wainwright. “I'm gonna... You sure you're with me?” Carpenter nods, his grip on Wainwright's forearms tightening in either reassurance or necessity. Wainwright bends him in half again. “Want to taste you when you come.” Carpenter doesn't protest, propping himself up on his elbows so he can meet Wainwright half way. He kisses him in earnest, practically keening into Wainwright's mouth as they both lose it, his curveball fingernails digging into Wainwright's forearms. Wainwright tries to pull back, catch his breath, but Carpenter grabs the back of his head, pulling Wainwright completely on top of him and kisses him until it becomes hazardous for their health.
“Holy fuck,” Wainwright breathes, climbing off Carpenter and heading to the bathroom, rubbing a hand absently over his head. “Holy fuck.”
Carpenter laughs and gets up to pull his boxers back on, shivering a little now that he doesn't have Wainwright's body heat. He remakes the bed and gets under the covers, contently exhausted. “You think you're better at pitching or fucking?”
“Don't know.” Wainwright comes out of the bathroom and gets under the covers with Carpenter, pressing himself tightly against him so he can bury his face into Carpenter's bare shoulder. “You've caught me for both. You tell me.”
“Oh, no fair.” Carpenter sighs. “I say it's pretty even. If there was a Cy Young for fucking, you'd definitely just sealed it with that performance.”
“Shut out.” Wainwright laughs, pressing his lips against the tattoo on Carpenter's arm.
“Okay. I've been thinking about this all night,” Carpenter says suddenly, shifting around. Wainwright props himself up on an elbow. “Since you won twenty games, I'm going to give you twenty random things I like about you, non-baseball related, just in case, like, I don't know. You were ever worried if I only liked you 'cause of the pitching and the fucking and what not.”
“Oh, so now that we're done with the sex you think it's time to get mushy? What, you want to spoon next?”
“Shut up and listen to me. This is a one time only thing. Okay.” Carpenter takes a deep breath before he starts, speaking fast so he can get through it all while he's still got Wainwright's undivided attention. “First, I like the way you drive a golf cart. You're pretty economical about it and you never bounce anybody that's on the caboose. Not easy to do. Second, I like the way your hair looks right after you get out of the shower. All smooshed to your head. Which is why you shouldn't shave your head again. Third, I like your truck. Fourth, I like the way your accent gets thicker the more tired you get. Fifth, I like it when you attempt to speak Spanish. Though God knows you're better at it than me. Sixth, I like all the camo. You should wear it more often. Well, no you shouldn't, but you should keep wearing the full body camo when you go hunting. Seventh, I like the way you dress yourself. I wish you could pick out my clothes for me everyday. Eighth, I like it when you sing in the shower. Ninth, I like it when you sing in your truck. Tenth, I like it when you're back in Georgia. You... I don't know, this sounds stupid, but you glow. I don't glow anywhere, mostly because I never really liked New Hampshire other than the people, so I guess seeing you in your natural environment like that is something I've never seen before. Eleventh, I like your voice first thing in the morning. Twelfth, I like all your stupid handshakes, even though I always say I don't. You do have too many, though. Thirteenth, I like the face you make when you brush your teeth. You scrunch your nose up or something, I don't know. Fourteenth, I like the ways you laugh. All of them. Fifteenth, I like watching you swim in the hotel pools. And I like the way your skin feels right when you get out, which I guess could be considered a sixteenth thing, but I've got more. Sixteenth, I like it when you get huffy about things. Your face gets all red and your eyes get all squinty and you're passive aggressive. Seventeenth, I like your name across your shoulders. I always want to trace it with my fingers, memorize what it feels like. Eighteenth, I like your addiction to sunflower seeds. You always taste like a sunflower seed. Nineteenth, I like that you still go to your high school football games. I'll go with you sometime, if you want. When we're in Atlanta. And last but not least, I like the way you say my name when you're tired. Like I'm the first and last thing you ever saw. Anyway. That's it. That's all I got.”
Carpenter squirms, turning so he can press his face into Wainwright's chest, his face warm against Wainwright's skin. Wainwright puts his chin on top of Carpenter's head and laughs, the sound reverberating through Carpenter's chest. “If I win twenty-one next season, will you come up with twenty-one more things?”
“Sure.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. You may have to fuck it out of me, though.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Okay, it's five in the morning. We need to shut up and sleep.”
“Don't wanna. Could talk to you forever.”
“Talk to me forever tomorrow. Tired. Too much fucking. Too much talking. Too much... winning.” Carpenter settles against Wainwright with finality, sighing against his bare skin.
“Thank you,” Wainwright whispers against Carpenter's head, but Carpenter merely murmurs at him. Wainwright cranes back, doing his best not to disturb Carpenter and hits the light switch on the lamp next to the bed, putting his chin back on top of his head. “You know I couldn't have done it without you, right?” Carpenter murmurs incoherently again, punching him lightly in the stomach. “No, I'm serious. Do you remember that golf outing during Spring Training? Way back in 2005? You told me I could win twenty games if I put my head on straight. And I never believed I could until you told me. Anyway. Just wanted you to know that. In case you forgot. See you tomorrow.” Carpenter hums contently and Wainwright lets his eyes slip shut. He can't imagine winning twenty games any more perfectly than this.
Fandom: RPS; MLB; St. Louis Cardinals
Pairing: Adam Wainwright/Chris Carpenter
Rating: NC-17
Written for a request by learnthemusic. It's not exactly everything I wanted it to be, but I'm tired of sitting on it.
Wainwright makes it back to Carpenter's room well after two in the morning, but Carpenter doesn't mind. He can never get away with not going out, especially in Wainwright's honor, so he made an appearance, mostly to buy Wainwright a bottle of Gray Goose and tell him he'll see him later that night, but he always gets away with leaving early once the drinks start really flowing. He walks from the bar to Michigan Avenue, his hood up because he's still pretty infamous in Chicago even if Wainwright has taken the moniker of Public Pitching Enemy Number One. He heads up to the hotel room, orders some take out and watches TV in his boxers, replaying the game in his head. It wasn't everything he would have wanted for Wainwright's twentieth win. Sure, the Cardinals had a solid lead. And he had gone six fairly painless innings. And McClellan got his nice redemption story, finishing out the game he couldn't finish for Wainwright last year (it was hard for Carpenter to harbor any animosity for a teammate or even Tim Lincecum, but if McClellan had closed out that game, Wainwright would have more than a Gold Glove sitting on his mantle). But the game just sort of had this air of expectation, like it wasn't anything special because it had already been penciled in at the beginning of the season. Carpenter had wanted something better for him, something memorable since he couldn't get the footnote he deserved last year.
Wainwright is pleasantly drunk when he comes in, not stumbling, but flushed, inebriated grin taking up half of his face. “You should have stayed a little longer. We went to O'Toole's and sang karaoke.” Wainwright plops down on the bed next to Carpenter, pulling his sweater over his head with surprising coordination. “And you didn't even drink any of your vodka. Did you drink anything?”
“I have a bullpen tomorrow.” Wainwright narrows his eyes, working his belt out of the loops of his jeans. “And I don't like the whole going out part of celebrating. I like the part where you come back to my room and get naked.”
“It's not every season I win twenty games, you know.” Wainwright's laugh ruins his faux-petulance. He works his way out of his jeans, folding them carefully before dropping them at the foot of the bed. “I like thinking about you waiting for me here, to be honest. Feels like a reward or something.”
“A reward? Am I your gold star?” Carpenter laughs patiently as Wainwright fights with the buttons on his shirt before he finally sits up to unbutton the last few for him.
“You wanna be a gold star? I was thinking more like, I don't know, a nice Rolodex or something. Something all nice and gift packaged for me.” Wainwright, now that they're both in equal states of undress, lies down next to Carpenter, turning on his side, mostly to rob Carpenter's warmth. He puts a cold hand on Carpenter's bare stomach, laughing when he starts. “Sorry. Chicago September.”
“Oh, so you just want to unwrap me, then. Too bad I mostly unwrapped myself, huh?” Carpenter forcibly moves Wainwright's hand off of his stomach and switches off the TV.
“Will you stop ruining my analogies, please? You're too damn technical. Like you unwrapped, too.” Wainwright replaces his hand, fending off Carpenter's lazy attempt to move it.
“Good. Wanna unwrap the rest before you're too tired?” Carpenter rolls over onto his side, pressing their foreheads together.
Wainwright laughs and licks his lips, tucking his fingers under the waistband of Carpenter's boxers. “Never too tired.”
“You've had a long day,” Carpenter reasons, trailing his fingers down Wainwright's stomach, his tired half-grin widening the more Wainwright's breath starts to catch. “Six innings, waiting to see if you're going to get the win, the celebration in the clubhouse, the bar. What time did you wake up? Seven? Got to be beat. Maybe we should save our celebration until tomorrow night. Let you get some sleep.”
He stops his hand just at the waistband of Wainwright's boxers, but Wainwright catches his wrist, shaking his head against the pillow. “Tonight. Want you tonight. Well, and tomorrow night, too, but I want you right now. I was drinking vodka and Red Bull.” Carpenter snorts, but Wainwright continues on. “I could go all night.”
“Promises, promises.”
Carpenter tries to wiggle away from him, laughing, but Wainwright grabs the front of his boxers and shoves them down impatiently, narrowing his eyes. “Successfully unwrapped. Now stop playing coy. I want my whole reward.”
Carpenter rolls his eyes, but he shucks Wainwright's boxers as quickly as Wainwright shucked his, smiling as he leans over him to get into the night stand. He tosses the unopened condom on Wainwright's bare chest, raising his eyebrows. “How do you want me?”
“You mean I get to pick?” Wainwright gapes at him before dissolving into laughter. He rips the condom open with his teeth, spitting the leftover ribbon of plastic over his shoulder, but it doesn't go very far. “Just stay like you are.” Wainwright rolls on the condom and gets on his knees, positioning himself over Carpenter, laughing at the look on his face. “What?”
“Nothing.” Carpenter shakes his head, moving his legs to accommodate Wainwright. “I was just thinking. Who woulda thought the first time we met that we'd still be doing this, you know? That we'd be this... I don't know, happy. After all we've been through.”
“Shut up. I'm drunk and you're all warm and sleepy and I'm going to fuck you. Don't get mushy.” Wainwright pulls Carpenter's legs up and puts his ankles on his shoulders to punctuate his point, half-maliciously bending Carpenter in half so he can grab the bottle of lube off the nightstand. He dumps a generous portion in his hand, warming it between his hands before he gets a hand between their bodies. “You want me to go slow or...?”
He twists his fingers inside Carpenter, grinning when Carpenter makes the universal sound that pretty much means he's not going to be able to do much talking after that. “Your decision,” Carpenter hisses, arching his back high enough for it to crack.
Wainwright bends Carpenter in half to kiss him, quickly, knowing that Carpenter will be complaining the next day if he's sore in the slightest. He guides himself into Carpenter, holding his breath until he's all the way in, holding onto Carpenter's hips both to keep himself balanced and for leverage. Carpenter arches his back again, throwing his head back. He grabs at the sheets, ripping the fitted sheet off the bed at one corner. “Can I get you to come without touching you?” Wainwright asks, unconsciously licking his lips when Carpenter nods, opening his eyes for a split second to make sure that Wainwright gets his affirmation. “If I come first, I'll keep going. I'll keep going until you're with me, okay?” Carpenter nods again, grunting the way Wainwright knows loosely translates to get on with it already, you moron.
Wainwright starts slow, rolling his hips into Carpenter. It doesn't take very long for Carpenter to pull the other corner of the fitted sheet off the bed, his eyes screwed shut, his moans hitting a new octave every time Wainwright rocks into him. Before too long, Carpenter's hips or Wainwright's hands are getting too slippery to use as a base, so he puts his palms flat on the bed on either side of Carpenter's ribs, deepening the angle and eliciting a string of obscenities from Carpenter.
“Harder?” Wainwright asks, figuring he'll be polite, but he can barely stand the pace he set himself. Carpenter groans non-committally and Wainwright takes that as his invitation, slamming himself into Carpenter experimentally. Carpenter yelps a little bit, but he makes a sound of protest when Wainwright slows down again, so Wainwright locks his knees, his hands starting to slide up higher and higher on the bed, now just under Carpenter's armpits. “God, Carp.” He picks one hand up to rub his hand affectionately over Carpenter's head, hoping to get him to open his eyes just for a second, but Carpenter shakes his hand off, smiling a little despite himself, though he doesn't open his eyes. Wainwright rocks into him harder for it, the bed squealing underneath them and the headboard solidly colliding with the wall every time he moves forward. “You gonna let me see you at all?” Carpenter makes a sound low in his throat, but he opens his eyes enough that Wainwright can see blue, so he stops complaining. He does bend Carpenter in half again, giving him a peck of appreciation.
It doesn't take much longer at that pace for Wainwright to get close, his whole body covered in a cold sweat that only makes him shiver harder as he tries to control himself. Carpenter is getting louder and louder, an indication of how close he is, too, but Wainwright slows down anyway, hoping to regain some composure before speeding up again, but Carpenter props himself up on his elbows, glaring at him petulantly. “I'm with you. You come, I'll come. Believe me. Keep going or I'm going to punch you.”
Wainwright laughs, overwhelming relieved and lets himself go, his hands all the way up on either side of Carpenter's head, holding the fitted sheet in place underneath them. Carpenter grabs hold of his forearms, his back now fully arched against Wainwright. “I'm gonna... You sure you're with me?” Carpenter nods, his grip on Wainwright's forearms tightening in either reassurance or necessity. Wainwright bends him in half again. “Want to taste you when you come.” Carpenter doesn't protest, propping himself up on his elbows so he can meet Wainwright half way. He kisses him in earnest, practically keening into Wainwright's mouth as they both lose it, his curveball fingernails digging into Wainwright's forearms. Wainwright tries to pull back, catch his breath, but Carpenter grabs the back of his head, pulling Wainwright completely on top of him and kisses him until it becomes hazardous for their health.
“Holy fuck,” Wainwright breathes, climbing off Carpenter and heading to the bathroom, rubbing a hand absently over his head. “Holy fuck.”
Carpenter laughs and gets up to pull his boxers back on, shivering a little now that he doesn't have Wainwright's body heat. He remakes the bed and gets under the covers, contently exhausted. “You think you're better at pitching or fucking?”
“Don't know.” Wainwright comes out of the bathroom and gets under the covers with Carpenter, pressing himself tightly against him so he can bury his face into Carpenter's bare shoulder. “You've caught me for both. You tell me.”
“Oh, no fair.” Carpenter sighs. “I say it's pretty even. If there was a Cy Young for fucking, you'd definitely just sealed it with that performance.”
“Shut out.” Wainwright laughs, pressing his lips against the tattoo on Carpenter's arm.
“Okay. I've been thinking about this all night,” Carpenter says suddenly, shifting around. Wainwright props himself up on an elbow. “Since you won twenty games, I'm going to give you twenty random things I like about you, non-baseball related, just in case, like, I don't know. You were ever worried if I only liked you 'cause of the pitching and the fucking and what not.”
“Oh, so now that we're done with the sex you think it's time to get mushy? What, you want to spoon next?”
“Shut up and listen to me. This is a one time only thing. Okay.” Carpenter takes a deep breath before he starts, speaking fast so he can get through it all while he's still got Wainwright's undivided attention. “First, I like the way you drive a golf cart. You're pretty economical about it and you never bounce anybody that's on the caboose. Not easy to do. Second, I like the way your hair looks right after you get out of the shower. All smooshed to your head. Which is why you shouldn't shave your head again. Third, I like your truck. Fourth, I like the way your accent gets thicker the more tired you get. Fifth, I like it when you attempt to speak Spanish. Though God knows you're better at it than me. Sixth, I like all the camo. You should wear it more often. Well, no you shouldn't, but you should keep wearing the full body camo when you go hunting. Seventh, I like the way you dress yourself. I wish you could pick out my clothes for me everyday. Eighth, I like it when you sing in the shower. Ninth, I like it when you sing in your truck. Tenth, I like it when you're back in Georgia. You... I don't know, this sounds stupid, but you glow. I don't glow anywhere, mostly because I never really liked New Hampshire other than the people, so I guess seeing you in your natural environment like that is something I've never seen before. Eleventh, I like your voice first thing in the morning. Twelfth, I like all your stupid handshakes, even though I always say I don't. You do have too many, though. Thirteenth, I like the face you make when you brush your teeth. You scrunch your nose up or something, I don't know. Fourteenth, I like the ways you laugh. All of them. Fifteenth, I like watching you swim in the hotel pools. And I like the way your skin feels right when you get out, which I guess could be considered a sixteenth thing, but I've got more. Sixteenth, I like it when you get huffy about things. Your face gets all red and your eyes get all squinty and you're passive aggressive. Seventeenth, I like your name across your shoulders. I always want to trace it with my fingers, memorize what it feels like. Eighteenth, I like your addiction to sunflower seeds. You always taste like a sunflower seed. Nineteenth, I like that you still go to your high school football games. I'll go with you sometime, if you want. When we're in Atlanta. And last but not least, I like the way you say my name when you're tired. Like I'm the first and last thing you ever saw. Anyway. That's it. That's all I got.”
Carpenter squirms, turning so he can press his face into Wainwright's chest, his face warm against Wainwright's skin. Wainwright puts his chin on top of Carpenter's head and laughs, the sound reverberating through Carpenter's chest. “If I win twenty-one next season, will you come up with twenty-one more things?”
“Sure.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. You may have to fuck it out of me, though.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Okay, it's five in the morning. We need to shut up and sleep.”
“Don't wanna. Could talk to you forever.”
“Talk to me forever tomorrow. Tired. Too much fucking. Too much talking. Too much... winning.” Carpenter settles against Wainwright with finality, sighing against his bare skin.
“Thank you,” Wainwright whispers against Carpenter's head, but Carpenter merely murmurs at him. Wainwright cranes back, doing his best not to disturb Carpenter and hits the light switch on the lamp next to the bed, putting his chin back on top of his head. “You know I couldn't have done it without you, right?” Carpenter murmurs incoherently again, punching him lightly in the stomach. “No, I'm serious. Do you remember that golf outing during Spring Training? Way back in 2005? You told me I could win twenty games if I put my head on straight. And I never believed I could until you told me. Anyway. Just wanted you to know that. In case you forgot. See you tomorrow.” Carpenter hums contently and Wainwright lets his eyes slip shut. He can't imagine winning twenty games any more perfectly than this.