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"it says there's only thirteen," yunie says.
"you sure?" you say.
yunie hits refresh. "er, eleven."
this reminds you of something. you forget what.
"get 'em," you command. the plane tickets, that is. "before the rest are gone. esme can two-step, and scratch'll argue her way into being a carry-on," you add, answering the question you know nadeem was about to ask.
yunie asks the question you didn't: "what about you?"
"i'll... figure it out," you say. you hate taking the ponds, but it's fine. at least you have an out, even if it sucks. you haven't told them about that, though. you kind of don't want to. it's embarrassing. and it's way more fun if you just show up somewhere and leave them guessing.
"oh, i can.. you know," yunie suggests. sort it. yunie has a way with those things. but that'd be a felony; you could deal with that, of course, eventually, but that's effort.
you shake your head. "i'll figure it out," you reiterate. "less paperwork."
pragmatic. good thing to be.
"oh, we should do something," nadeem declares, after a moment of silence between conversation subjects. "before going home."
"well, we're going to charleston next," you say.
nadeem glances over at yunie. "it's someone's home!"
"yeah," you say, with a brief laugh. esme's, too.
you could get roped into thinking it's yours, too, considering how much time you spent there before the season started. no time for that anymore.
"what'd we do, then?" you ask nadeem.
they shrug. "back in my world, we'd throw a little party after each tournament. even if it went badly, we had something to look forward to."
(you're still not entirely sure what nadeem's world was like. they talk about it a lot, but they always forget to explain the basics, so you only pick up stuff about making little robots fight? it sounds vaguely like plokémon, which nadeem always insists is "not the same thing at all". chester, their dog-creature(???), could pass for a plokémon. maybe from one of the new generations, the ones that came out after the whole--)
you look around. there's really not much to do in this hotel, or around it, and you have to check out by tomorrow morning anyway. you do, however, spy a singular grill through the window to the hotel's outside plaza. and you get an idea.
"we could throw a grill party," you say; the first thing that came to mind. the steaks threw those a lot. they could make a grill the center of any occasion. you dare think you picked up some of that from them, even.
nadeem squints. "what's that?"
(...really? they don't have grill parties in totally-not-plokéverse? now you have to do this.)
"oh, it's like..." you pause to try to shape your words. how do you convey the nuances and complexities of a dallas-style grill party in a sentence or two? "you all get together and cook over a fire," is what you settle on.
"oh!" they already seem intrigued. success. "let's do it!"-
...moments later, the doors to the hotel lobby burst open. it's eve. you almost forgot she'd be here, too. (she lives here. you knew this.)
she takes two steps into the foyer, spins around on the spot, and points at you. her eyebrows raise, like she went ah, you behind the mask for a second, and she dashes towards your spot in the corner.
"grack!" she exclaims, hitting her hands on the table between you and the yunie-nadeem cluster across the table. "you seen zem? we were sharing notes on self-combusting blaseball bats and i just made an explosive breakthrough!"
you sigh. "please don't tell zem how to make exploding bats."
"oh i won't," eve says cheerfully, "just wanted to gloat a little. wanna see?" eve swings her backpack off her shoulders and starts fiddling with the zippers.
"er, maybe not in here," you say. if she burns down the hotel it'll be even more shit you have to deal with.
"aw, you're way less fun than nines." she packs up her stuff and does another little twirl towards the exit. "oh, when you get the chance, tell 'em i found a new bagel spot across town! they've got pineapple peanut butter."
you squint.
"oh, eve," you yell as she's already halfway out the door. "we're throwing a grill party after the game, tell the others!"
she gives an energetic thumbs-up from across the hall. "i'll bring the explod--"
"no you won't!"
she gives another, slightly less energetic thumbs-up. she darts away again, and you watch her awkwardly pause to wait for the automatic doors to react. ...it's a little funny.
yunie looks back up from his laptop. "...you really doing this?"
"sure i am," you say. this is your tried-and-true method for getting things done on short notice. tell everyone first, figure out how to make it happen later. it can't be that hard. "you coming?"
"probably not," he mumbles. "i'd rather just go home."
nadeem leans to the side and lays their head on yunie's shoulder. "we'll go home after."
yunie grumbles a little. "mmh, okay."
after a second of silence, nadeem turns back to you. "so, who's nines?"
"i don't know," you lie. it stings a little. "never heard that name."
they shrug. "weird. maybe she's confusing you for someone else?"
"probably. it happens a lot."
"from the movies, right?"
you stumble. "what"?
"...weren't you a child actor or something?"
"oh-- right, yeah." you catch yourself. "yeah. i guess that makes me look familiar to a lot of people."
hang on, you never told nadeem that. you told yunie that, a while ago now, when he was prodding a little too far into your history and you made up an excuse to explain why your life's been so weird.
it was a great excuse. everyone knows child actors have weird lives. they grow up weird, like you did.
you also told them your older cousin used to play for the tacos, too, long ago, but that you never met them. gave yunie some dots to connect, hoping he'd leave the rest alone.
(....it was a terrible excuse. they could just look it up. you just realized that. you're kind of surprised they haven't called you out on it yet. shit travels, you suppose. maybe it sticks, too.)
the black hole flares up again, even harder this time, and you wince.
"you okay?" yunie says, looking back up from his laptop. "i have an advil, if you want."
"no, i'm good," you say. "those don't really work for me, anyway."
"okay," he replies, in that tone he gets when he's disappointed he can't help you. that happens a lot, and you always feel bad about it.
you find another poor excuse to leave the conversation and head back to your room. if you're going to do this, you should at least try to get vaguely rested by tomorrow.
you can't sleep. something about that conversation is hitting you harder than you expected. maybe it's the stress, maybe it's the black hole messing with your head. maybe it's just you.
when you couldn't sleep, back in houston, you'd go to the stadium and lay down on the grass. fake grass, of course, but it worked just the same.
the grass in the pocket is real, as far as you can tell. it's cold and wet and soft in the way the plastic stuff isn't.
the cold is nice. it's calming. you've lived in hot places your whole life (well, save for atlantis, where the concept of temperature barely applied anyway), but you've never had much of a heat tolerance. you brought this up to grackle once. ze said that was like chemistry - cold slows the reactions down, makes them more stable. you suppose it makes sense you'd work the same, too.
when you're outside like this, the hole's flares turn into a constant ambient pressure in your head. it doesn't feel like a headache as much as a weighted blanket wrapped around your brain. you can't think too hard about anything even if you try. that, too, is nice.
your jersey itches. you squirm around in the grass to try to catch that spot on your back you can't reach by yourself. it helps a little, but not all the way. you get used to it.
esme shows up after a while. you don't notice her until she sits down on the ground a few feet from you, in silence; close enough to be noticed, far enough to not seem like she's trying to interact with you. you crane your neck up and glance towards her. her gaze darts away quickly as you make eye contact.
the two of you sit in silence for a while, listening to the gentle hum of the black hole. you can't help but stare at it. it glows in the sky, blue-green clouds swirling around the center.
"what are you doing here?" she asks, after another while. she speaks gently. you can't tell if it's a question or an accusation.
you raise your head from the grass. it's sore already.
"sorry," you say. "i can go."
"no, no, i meant like--" she stumbles, too. "what's up? what's on your mind?"
"nothing."
"you don't come out here for nothing," esme says. she's not wrong. "you're not even pitching this series. you can go home, you know."
"i'm the captain," you say, and lay your head back down with a thud. "can't just leave."
(the old spies told you captains weren't a thing. the new spies are different. half your teammates used to be captains, in some form. you decided for them they didn't need that responsibility once again. and the rest... well. if you want something done right, or at all, you have to do it yourself.)
"why not?" she asks the question brightly, like she's testing you.
"because," you mumble, "if i'm not there, then--"
oh, big flare. this one hurts. you were going somewhere with that, but it's gone now. something about the plane tickets? something about grackle and javier tearing each other apart if you leave them unsupervised? (nothing's happened yet...)
"yeah," she says, point-provingly. yeah, you failed.
you sit up on the grass. you always feel weird after one of those. disoriented. like you zoned out to somewhere else for a second. to where, is a little different every time.
you try to look around and regain your bearings. it's easier now that your eyes have adjusted. your eyes lock onto a particular spot on the outfield.
there's nothing there. it's just an empty patch of grass. you can't look away.
esme notices, because of course she does.
she waits for you to flick your head away, for you to drift back towards looking in her direction.
"yeah," she says again, but this time, a nod of recognition. "i get them too."
"what?"
"the ghosts." she points to another spot in the outfield. "there's one over there. where they... y'know."
there's a bald patch on the grass there. there wasn't one on yours.
"yeah," you say, too. "i'm sorry."
"it's okay. they get quieter over time."
you're not sure how you feel about that, actually.
"...i kinda miss them."
guess she isn't either.
"me too," you say. it's the first time you've acknowledged... any of this, in a long time. to anyone other than, like, ankle and olive.
she pauses. "...child actor? really?"
"yeah." (ah. of course she heard that. why wouldn't she have.)
esme scoots an inch or two closer. she doesn't touch you, but she lays back down on the grass beside you again.
you do the same.
"y'know, you don't have to do that to yourself."
you don't respond. there's a lot of things you don't have to do.
instead, you let the black hole wash over you, and you try to focus on it, for once. the pulses come with little flashes, glimpses, just for a moment. they're too vague to make out, but you can feel them. you can tell from where, too. from who.
...yeah, you miss them, too. this sucks.
you zone out for a while, letting yourself blend in with the noise, until the floodlights dramatically flick on and snap you back out of it.
esme groans as she gets up from the grass and brushes off the dirt from her shirt.
she extends a hand. you grab it, and she pulls you back up on your feet. they're sore. you stumble, but don't collapse entirely.
"get some rest," she says, and pats you on the back.
you won't do that either. you have a goddamn grill party to throw.
you leave the stadium somewhere in the third inning, when you think no one's really paying attention. no one said you had to be there in the first place, but... you had to.
terrell hits a home run while you're at the grocery store. you get the notification on your phone, while you're scrolling through old chat history trying to figure out everyone's dietary restrictions. that's something he'd know, but he's busy.
you mostly get vegetables, especially the ones on sale. the agency should cover it in the end, but the paperwork takes a while, and you don't trust them, or yourself, to get it done right. or at all.
(...nadeem has diabetes. are there things diabetics can't eat? you look that up, too.)
it's cold outside already. cold, rainy, windy.
...dark. it's always dark.
you walk back to the hotel, grocery bag in one hand, and holding your hat onto your head with the other, road lit only by flickering streetlamps spaced just slightly too far to be practical. at least there's sidewalks. it's a tourist town, after all. you're just a tourist, after all.
when you turn around, heading back to the store for the second trip you should've known you needed, you unzip your coat and let the cold in.
your knife slips while dicing a particularly squeaky eggplant.
it doesn't bleed.
(you remember you used to bleed all the time. even the little scratches took longer than they were supposed to to heal up. that was a long time ago. now it just feels fuzzy for a while.)
the game ends 1-2. terrell's home run was the only point your team scored today. it's okay. none of this has ever been about winning. (although... it would be nice. for once.)
your teammates look exhausted. like they're all on the brink of collapse, and this grill party is the only thing keeping them from breaking. that's why you're doing this.
when nadeem sees you, their face lights up, and they run at you. you can't help but crack a smile. it's nice to see someone (pretend to be) excited for once.
"so..." they drop their backpack by one of the benches. "where's the party, ives?"
you shrug, and nudge towards the bowl of chopped-up veggies, the still-unopened bag of grill skewers next to it, and a stack of burger patties. (pre-formed. you never learned to do it right yourself.) "it's not really... that kind of party."
"oh. okay." nadeem drops the demeanor for a second, but quickly picks it back up. "but, this is fun too!"
you laugh, a little. "yeah. yeah!" it'll be fun. you'll have fun. it'll be fine!
nadeem runs off to meet yuniesky, who's trailing behind the rest of the group. you notice yunie flinch when they tap his shoulder. he gets like that when he's on edge. that's what tonight is for.
eve shows up with jesús, and no one else. it's okay. two isn't as good as fourteen, but it's two more than zero.
you gather everyone around the benches in the hotel's back yard. you're still not sure why the staff let you do this, or why anyone lets you do anything, really. they probably don't get much excitement out here. you're happy to oblige them.
"so!" eve slams her hands on the table. "what're we doing, what's the sitch?"
jesús gives her a glare from the side, like he's saying be normal. eve glares back like she's saying never. you don't know jesús that well, but as far as you know, he's one to talk. or look.
"i mean..." you hand her a skewer and gesture to the bowl. "put food on stick. put stick in grill."
you demonstrate with a chunk of zucchini. she plays along for a moment and flips the skewer around in her hands like it's a shiny artifact. jesús snorts. it is quite funny. (...eve's kinda cool, actually. yeah.)
nadeem watches her meticulously stack vegetables on the stick, clearly trying her hardest to order them by size and color. you can tell they're debating doing the same. they seem to decide not to try as hard.
it's going well. this is going well!
then, your phone starts buzzing on the table.
you grab it before someone gets a good look at the message. it's... just a scheduled alarm you forgot to delete. now that the game's going again, it's not like there's time. you turn it off and shove your phone back in the pocket.
"shouldn't you get that?" esme says from the other corner with a steadily-growing grin. "maybe it's important. it could be a callback."
"a what?" if that's a joke, you don't think you get it.
"y'know..." she falters. "like when you audition and they call you back to tell you you got the role-- that's how it works, right? yeah."
ugh. you roll your eyes at her.
"oh yeah--" eve looks up from her somehow-still-standing tower of veggie skewers. "are you still doing the actor thing?"
what. come on.
"no? who told you that?"
"oh, the grack did!"
you sigh, with exaggerated exasperation. you have to commit to this now. no way back out.
"oh!" great, now nadeem's chiming in, too. "i know what we should do next break."
"what?" you're deadly curious, now.
"movie night! we'll go find all your old movies and--"
"absolutely not." you don't raise your voice, but you say it firmly. you don't do that often.
esme snorts. she doesn't say anything. good.
you squeeze your eyes together. great job, now they're just going to think you're embarrassed about it and they'll never let it go of it. which, in a sense, isn't too far from the truth. just... not the way they think. at least esme's having fun.
"...i'm gonna go light the grill," you say, after getting yourself back in order.
terrell helps with that, at least. they never actually taught you how to start one back in dallas. he's very patient. he doesn't know this kind, either, the shape is all wonky, but you manage it in the end.
"--so, once the coals turn grey, they're good to go!"
you nod. you-- this... still might be fine!
you don't wait for the coals to turn grey like terrell said. you don't have twenty to thirty minutes; everyone's getting hungry, you can tell.
it feels hot when you hover your hand over it. you can see the flames poking through the grills, at least on the half you soaked in lighter fluid. that's good enough, right?
you pick up the stack of burger patties from the little table by the side of the grill, and try really hard not to make eye contact with anyone on the benches behind it.
the first one you put down starts charring while you're setting down the rest. it's burnt already. (okay, well, someone'll have to go without, but that's fine, that could be you.)
you quickly move the others to the other side of the grill, balancing the plate with one hand and wrangling the tongs with the other, trying not to get caught by the flames licking the air in front of you. now what terrell said about a cold side and a hot side makes more sense. it's fine, this'll be fine! better undercooked than burnt--
your phone goes off again.
it startles you. you drop the plate, and the food, all over the grass, and the grill, and yourself.
it's ruined.
you ruined it.
your teammates and your guests saw the whole thing. you catch them staring. you stare back. none of them laugh even for a second.
you wade out of a pond somewhere in sunken charleston. you're cold and you're wet and you haven't slept in days and you really need to be anywhere other than there right now, so.
you brush yourself off in front of the door to the lounge, just to get the worst of it off before you ruin their carpet even more than it already is. the droplets snap on the concrete. you wince.
the door creaks aggressively as you open it. "hey," you say, in that quiet-whisper you do when you feel like you should be keeping it down. there's no reason to. it's barely evening. in this time zone, at least, as much as that counts for.
ankle rustles around in their beanbag and turns to you. they stare at you a bit longer than they should. you feel like there's something on your face. there probably is, some speck of seaweed or assorted lake-gunk. it's fine.
you're definitely late, the empty bags and wrappers strewn across the floor make that much clear. the tv's paused in the middle of the credits of a movie you don't recognize by the dolly grips alone (should you?), and the little inactivity warning's up in the corner. olive's sitting cross-legged, noodling around on her phone. also, fish is here. why is fish here? (fish lives here. you knew this.)
"hey," ankle says back, and scoops up a spare blanket from the floor and chucks it at you. it hits you square in the face; too slow to catch it. you wrap it around your body and sit down next to the others like a wilted, microwave-moist burrito. "i thought you were busy."
you lay your head in their lap. "i was," you say. you were. you still are. (you save that thought for a little later.)
"you smell burnt," ankle says.
"yeah." you exhale. "umpire got me."
they don't seem too amused by that. that's okay, it wasn't really supposed to be a joke. olive snickers at it anyway, though.
"guess you got better," they say. "...what happened, anyway?"
you look down at the gash on the back of your hand. it isn't bleeding, but it stings from the water. "tried grilling," you say, like another punchline to a joke that doesn't make sense. "long story."
"we have time."
"i don't," you say. "i have to--" get back to the others and make sure they get home and make sure they get rest and make sure they get to charleston tomorrow and--
"no you don't!" olive pockets her phone and leans back in her own beanbag. "esme and margo'll handle it."
you stare at her. how did she--
"oh, they told me you've been acting weird. been texting them all evening."
at this point, you're starting to wonder if one of those shoes makes you omniscient. or maybe you're just that easy to read. you... really tried not to be, today. look how that went.
(you should probably be a little upset about this. you don't have it in you anymore.)
"it's fine! promise," she says, while you're unsure how to respond. she rummages around on the floor beside her for the remote. "we still have the threequel left. wanna join us?"
...
yeah, you do.
more than anything.