Work Text:
i.
Espinoza knows the fans, all of them, are gunning hard for Fire Protector. It's still surprising when the Artists get their shit together to win it, enough so that when ce reads "Agan Espinoza of The Canada Artists has been awarded Fire Protector!" on the election screen, ce has to take a few laps around the building before going for the back cabinet where the champagne held in reserve for championship wins is kept.
“Don’t celebrate yet,” Euclid says even as they reach for a glass. “We don’t know if it works.”
“Live a little, Eu! It’s me. It’ll work.”
ii.
Agan's loved the spotlight since ce got cast as Narrator in cir elementary school’s production of Little Red Riding Hood. There was something about being on stage with eyes on cir that was energizing. Still, ce didn't get good at performing until ce started being an understudy and internalized two things:
1. Nail it the first time and you don't have to agonize once the curtain goes down.
2. If you don't nail it, keep going with all the confidence in the world.
Cir trouble has always been nailing it the first time but confidence? Agan’s got confidence in spades.
iii.
Agan remembers cir first in a series of frames, like closing your eyes for seconds at a time while watching a zoetrope. There’s Damir on second, itching to steal third. There’s the pitcher winding up. There’s the umpire with a hand up to its mask, just in the periphery of cir vision and a whisper of “just nail it the first time” at the back of cir mind. There’s the feeling of swinging around on instinct and instead of connecting with the umpire, connecting with the flame of incineration, cir bat crumbling to ash that clung to cir for days.
iv.
The Artists go out for drinks after. It’s rowdier than it’s ever been after an Eclipse game, even the ones where no one died. Agan’s reveling in the ambiance, Murphy yelling to the music and all, when Hardison brings cir a drink, something fruity with an umbrella in it, and slides on to the stool next to cir. She leans her head against her hand and raises her eyebrows at Agan.
"How's it feel? Being a lifesaver and all?"
Agan laughs, voice still throaty from the smoke of cir bat going up in flames. "Good. It feels real fucking good."
v.
It happens again the next week, cir bat in ash instead of Kesh, and after that it's easy.
Agan still practices. Ce practices the motions for Fire Protection more than ce does for blaseball. Ce runs even if it doesn't improve cir stats. Ce gets into the locker room early to make sure ce knows who’s not at their best, who might need cir to get in front of them a little faster. Cir whole life becomes planned around eclipse days, more than it was already planned around blaseball. Ce starts applying eyeliner just in case of close up shots.
vi.
It’s the bottom of the tenth and the game’s tied. Euclid’s in right field, wanting to get back to the dugout. Agan cups cir hands to yell at the batter to get a fucking move on already when the hair on the back of cir neck stands up. There’s an umpire and ce doesn’t have a bat and when ce turns, it’s looking at Euclid.
Ce doesn’t think. Ce runs for them. Ce pulls them into a dip. Cir back explodes in flame and neither of them die.
The crowd yells loud enough that it’s registered as a small earthquake.
vii.
It's hard to feel invincible in anything but especially in blaseball where everything can be taken from you the moment you have it in your hands but Agan gets close, even as cir voice gets lower from smoke inhalation, even as cir eyes get brighter from absorbed fire. Cir makeup for eclipse games gets more elaborate. Ce leans close to a mirror in the locker room, lining the flames ce’s layered in with eyeshadow.
Pemmy’s watching cir and asks, half in awe, “Why doesn’t everything run off your face?”
Ce grins. “Setting spray, Pem. It works against everything but ash.”
viii.
Agan watches the footage of the Immortals getting incinerated again and again. It’s not healthy but ce needs to know. Ce can protect one person, sure, but the whole team? Ce watches the umpire, the movements that ce’s gotten used to, the way it raises its hand up and how the fire seems to curl forward from it like it’s part of the umpire’s body, how it moves like the flame is its own organism. Ce doesn’t think about the warmth tucked behind cir eyes, doesn’t think about how they feel if you split cir open light would spill out.
ix.
Damir slides cir another margarita. It’s getting late but it’s the middle of the week and the usual crowd has cleared out. They have a back corner to themselves. “What happens if you fuck it up?” she asks.
“Fuck what up?”
“Y’know. Your whole...thing.”
“That’s where we get into my flawless plan.”
Damir puts her chin down on her hand. “I’m listening.”
Agan takes a long drink and holds up a finger. “Step one. Don’t fuck it up. There is no step two.”
She laughs and it’s enough to get off the topic for the rest of the night.
x.
The feeling is wrong. Agan gets a full body shiver as the umpire raises its mask. Ce’s watched the footage of the Immortals getting incinerated. Ce’s never protected more than one person at a time but--
The head umpire raises a hand and Agan mirrors it.
The flame from its hand tries to split to follow the Artists while their backs are turned but Agan can feel the pull of the fire deep inside of cir and it comes to roost in the home ce’s made for it behind cir ribs and in cir bones and it is not enough.
xi.
“Did it hurt?”
“What?”
Agan’s sprawled across the big couch in the apartment. Ce’s shoved the pile of blankets to the floor. Euclid’s leaned over the back of the couch, studying cir hands where the ash has settled instead of cir arms and chest where ash and scarring become lacework across cir ribs and up around cir heart, where it’s part of cir. Euclid puts a hand over cirs and it’s cool, cooler than Agan expected. “This,” they say, and what they mean is “saving me.”
“Nah. It looks worse than it is. Umpires are all bark and no bite.”
xii.
Agan lands hard on the marble floor, ash billowing out from cir like a dust cloud. For a moment ce feels at not being able to breathe, that ce can’t make cir diaphragm move (“Breathe deep into your belly,” says a choir director, “out slowly through your mouth,” says their first good therapist. “Get your shoulders down, Agan, they’re bunched up at your ears,” says Euclid, “you need to have an open chest if you’re going to hit the back rows,” says the director) and ce takes in a rasping, gasping breath ce doesn’t need. It tastes like spent charcoal.