Je regrette (Part 1)
Title: Je regrette (Part 1/?)
Characters: Clay Buchholz, Jon Lester, Jacoby Ellsbury; mention of George Kottaras, Josh Beckett
Rating: NC-17
Time: July/August 2010
Summary: When Jacoby suffers, so does Clay
Disclaimer: A fictional story, written only for entertainment purposes.
If 2008 was the Summer of Sex, and 2009 was the Summer of Frustration, then 2010 had to be the Summer of Regret.
Make that Regrets. Because Clay Buchholz had a lot of them.
Not professionally, of course, at least personally. Professionally, this was the best summer of his life, bar none. He was leading the league in ERA, and despite a stint on the DL (and how embarrassing was that, hurting himself on the base paths, when he's supposed to be one of the best athletes on the club. Christ, the guys hadn't let him forget that one for weeks), was actually hearing his name used in the same sentence as Cy Young's.
Unfortunately the injury-riddled Red Sox, by the time August was on the wane, were falling further and further behind in the ferocious AL East. Clay hated it, hated the idea of missing the post-season when he knew he could finally, seriously, contribute. But that was out of his hands. Worry about what you can control, Josh had always said, and he was right.
So naturally, he worried about Jacoby.
Talk about a situation out of his control. Hurt, mentally as well as physically, Jacoby decamped to Arizona after trying to return too soon after his rib injury, rarely bothering to call or even text. With George gone to Milwaukee (and just as well, Clay thought bitterly), and Josh on the DL for weeks and consequently more ornery than a drenched cat, Clay turned more and more to Jon Lester for the closeness and comfort he craved.
Jon, as usual, didn't say much. They didn't discuss Jacoby, or George, or even Josh. They didn't discuss sleeping together, which they did more and more routinely, until Jon finally, quietly, went to the traveling secretary and requested that they room together.
"Why lie about it? We've got nothing to hide," Lester said, when Buchholz shyly asked him about it. "You're my roomie. Ballplayers always used to have roomies."
"Yeah, but not anymore," Clay replied, climbing into bed next to Jon and sliding an arm over his chest. He'd gotten so he couldn't sleep on the road without some sort of physical contact.
"It's not unheard of," Jon said, running his hand over Clay's forearm. "And it's better than pretendin' you're stayin' in a room you're not."
"True," Clay admitted, as Jon nestled his chin on Clay's shoulder and dropped off to sleep in the blink of an eye. Clay always envied that trait. Jon never worried about anything but pitching. Or if he did, he hid it well.
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"What do you think?"
Clay chewed his lower lip, hesitating. "I think you should do what you think is right."
"That's not an answer, Clay," Jacoby stood in front of him in a Toronto hotel room, looking up from the papers in his hands. Behind the irritation in his eyes lurked something Clay had seldom, if ever, seen: smoldering anger. He swallowed hard.
"Look, Jacoby, why do you care? They're all assholes. The media, the fans..."
"Our teammates?"
Clay winced, then sighed. "Youk's got a big mouth. You know that."
Jacoby looked at the floor. "'What one guy's saying, other guys are thinking,'" he quoted.
"Where did you hear that?"
Jacoby shrugged, then winced. "Fuck."
Buchholz reached out, gripped Jacoby's upper arm, squeezed. Ellsbury looked up. The anger was gone, replaced by pain. "I need people to understand, Buck."
"I understand. Jon understands. Josh sure as hell understands. Who else do you need?"
"The media keep spreading this shit... saying I'm soft...."
"Fuck the media." Clay pulled Jacoby close, carefully. "Fuck 'em sideways. And fuck those asshole fans who never felt any kind of pain in their lives. What the fuck do they know?"
"I know, but..."
"But nothing. Weren't you and Jon the ones who told me to pay no attention to all that bullshit? Don't you remember?"
He felt Jacoby smile against his chest. "Yeah, but you really are a head case."
"Fuck you too, Jacoby."
Ellsbury vibrated, then lifted his head and kissed Clay's throat. "Thanks."
I love you. "For nothing," Buchholz said, slipping a hand into Ellsbury's thick hair. "Good luck. You need any kind of moral support, we'll be there."
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"What a clusterfuck."
Jon glowered at the TV in the locker room, which was tuned to some sports talk show - Clay didn't know which one; he tried not to pay attention. They were ripping Jacoby for his Toronto statement, mocking his use of notes to detail the timeline of his injury. Jon growled and threw the remote at the screen. "Fucking asswipes."
Clay bent to pick up the remote and changed the channel to the MLB Network. "You had to know that was gonna happen."
Jon just grunted, then threw himself backward on the couch and picked up a copy of Maxim. Clay kept packing his equipment bag, more than ready to get back on the road, away from the bullshit, and back into Jon's bed.
From behind the magazine, Jon continued to grumble. "Guy tries to explain himself, all he gets is shit, so fucking tired of all this goddamn crap, goddammit, just wanna play fuckin' baseball and not put up with this shit, fuckin' dickwad asswipes...."
Clay smiled in spite of everything, cramming his backup glove into his bag. Jonny had to be the most loyal guy on the planet, and the best friend anyone could ever have. Not to mention a great roommate.
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"Right there, fuck yeah, there. Fuck!"
"You like that, huh?"
"Oh fuck, oh yeah. Don't... don't stop. Hard. C'mon, Jon, harder. Oh hell, oh God, keep... keep going!"
"Lift your ass. Right there. Move your legs back."
"UUUUhhnnnn.... oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Harder!"
"Can't... harder... shit!"
"Yes, oh God yes, fuck me Jon, fuck me, hard, oh fuck, gonna come, fuck the come out of me Jon, c'mon, there, there, coming... FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK!"
"Oh fuck yeah, look at that, look... oh God, here it comes, here it hhhhhnnnnnggggg..."
"Give it to me, oh, man, that feels so good, oh HELL yeah."
Jon collapsed on top of Clay, their sweaty bodies coming together with a wet smacking sound. Clay grunted, then wrapped his legs even tighter around Jon's torso. 'Fuckin' A," he said.
Jon pressed his hips forward, then moved backwards, sliding his cock out. Before Clay could move, he shoved it back in. Clay groaned as Jon leaned forward to kiss him, griding their hips together.
"Jesus, you feel so good," he moaned as Jon finally broke the kiss, running his tongue along Clay's jawbone. Clay's hands slipped along Jon's shoulders, up over the back of his head. "Can't you let your hair grow?"
Jon shook his head. "Nuh uh. I've seen you pull Jacoby's."
The mention of Ellsbury's name brought Buchholz abruptly back to earth, though he tried not to show it. He moved his hands down Jon's back, slipped them over his twin mounds. Jon pushed again, and Clay felt hot semen drip out of his ass and onto the sheets. His spent cock twitched.
Jon chuckled and finally slid out and off with a groan, then got up and staggered to the bathroom, returning with two large towels. He tossed one to Clay, then stood, toweling himself, stretching his long arms toward the ceiling.
"I talked to Jacoby yesterday," he said conversationally, wiping his balls.
"How's he doing?' Clay asked, still prone, looking up at the ceiling. He wiped his ass carefully, biting his lip. Fuck, his hole was sore. Sometimes Jon was too damn much. You asked for it.
"Not so good," Lester said. "He's... y'know, pretty much alone down there with a buncha babies."
"I know how he feels," Buchholz replied.
"I think we both do," Jon said quietly, and Clay suddenly felt ashamed. Jon had had his own crosses to bear - terrible ones. He ran a hand over his face and sat up, not knowing what to say.
"Yeah," he finally offered, knowing how lame he sounded. Jon smiled and ruffled his hair, briefly pulling on the long curls tangled at the back of Clay's neck. "Looks good on you," he said. "Where you wanna eat?"
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Jon was on the phone when Clay got out of the shower, his face split by a wide, rare grin.
"No shit, really? That's great! Yeah, we'll be here, playoffs or no playoffs. Sounds good!. Yeah, that sucks. But hey, silver lining, right?"
Buchholz rummaged in his suitcase for some clean clothes, frowning, as Lester closed his phone. "Who was that?"
"George. He's coming to Boston in October. He said Jordan's got a shot at making the Bruins."
"Great," Clay said, unenthusiastically. Jon cocked his head. "What is it between you two?"
"Nothing." Clay sat on the bed and pulled on a pair of scruffy jeans. "You want pizza?"
Jon wrinkled his nose. "You gotta eat better'n that. Let's get sushi."
Clay made a gagging sound. "I'll take mine cooked, thanks."
"You got no culcha."
Clay smiled. "Just another dumb Texan."
"Too many on this club. C'mon, let's go."
They went. Jon didn't mention George the rest of the night, nor Jacoby. Clay felt real gratitude, up until the moment they curled together under the crisp clean sheets of the other bed, Jon rested his chin on Clay's shoulder, and whispered in his ear: "You ever gonna admit how you really feel?"
With that, Jon fell asleep. Clay lay beside him, listening to his even breathing, staring up at the darkness.