Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You know how to drive a boat?

You don’t drive a boat. You pilot a boat.

Oh, my God, shut the fuck up and be normal. For once.

We’re getting on a boat to go to a concert. That’s normal.

You’re correcting my grammar after a red eye. Not normal.

Godforfuckingbid you learn to talk like an adult. 

I do! 

Whatdaheck. Whatdaheck.

Fuck you, 7. Fuuuuck yoooouuuuu.

Pull over. I’m gonna move so it looks like you’re my driver.

Sitting? In the back? Oh, that would be you.

I will beat your dumb fucking ass. Put your finger down. Put. Your. Finger. Down.

Philadelphia to some place called Piedmont Triad International Airport, overnight from the lights of a big city to the dark expanse of forest and woods, Trea waiting for him with a nod and a small smile and a slap on the shoulder. Warm hands. Kinda a drive, we can swap out when one of us gets tired or bored. Cool. Wait. Am I gonna get lost? No, you’re not. I’ve done this before. Oh, cool. So it’ll be your fault if we get lost. The bright greens of huge forest borders, some destined to die gloriously as Christmas trees in famous places. Did you know I cut my own tree a few times? No shit? Yeah, when I was at State. They let you do it if you donated $50 to charity. Ax and saw and everything. Was it fun? Swinging an ax is incredibly fun. Can’t imagine you in flannel. I was a great lumberjack. Still can’t imagine any of it.

Off the highway, down a feeder, and into the trees, following a trail of concrete cursive laid to be as invasive to nature as possible, hiking for people with SUVs, Trea’s old suburban a dirty white dot vanishing deeper and deeper into primordial green. They do this out here every year? Yeah, been a thing since the 90s? At least since before I could drink. Wow, that’s old, you’re like 50. Are you ever not a douche? No, it’s why we’re friends. Duh. I thought it was because we’re infielders. That too, I guess. Have I heard of this band or group or whatever? I mean, likely not, you listen to Morgan Wallen. Sand In My Boots is a great fucking song. I’m sure it is. It is! Bryce thinks so. Bryce has the taste of a junior in high school. And he’s right about it here. I’m spending the Break with you, doing this. I at least want to know if we’re doing something cool. It is very cool, yes, so stop worrying. Do you think I would drag you down here for something boring? Kinda, yeah. Your idea of a practical joke is something out of Saw. I am not that bad. Mmm, kinda are. But it’s funny. How is it funny? Cause you’re you,7. Cause I’m me. Yeah, you. There’s just the one last I checked. 

Trea looks over, sees Bryson smiling in the reflection of the tinted window. 

Dumbass. Guilty. 

Water somehow so blue that it pulls green from trees and light from the soon to start setting sun around and shines it back in their eyes. They fumble for sunglasses, almost matching pairs of aviators. At least we look cool before getting lost. We are not getting lost, I do this once a year, and yes, we do look cool. You look cooler than me somehow. It’s because I’m older. I don’t think that’s how it works. It does this time, trust me. The dirty white old Suburban slowing as the road runs parallel to the water, blue-green glimmering glass leading the way, slats of wood, docks made of former trees, jutting out in the distance, a boat floating carelessly at the end. The crunch of gravel as Trea parks. Don’t forget your phone, it might melt. How is North Carolina this fucking hot in July? It’s the South, dummy. Dummy? Fuck, you are old. Dumbass? That better? A little. Fucker. Asshole. Bitch. 

Bryson looks over to silently mouth one last endearing term. Trea raises an eyebrow.

Careful, Stotter. You get in big trouble these days for saying that one. Well, it’s accurate.

The boat beats forward over small waves, a small wake trailing behind. Bryson without a hat or a bandana, his hair full of volume, curls and locks flowing, the wind running its fingers through it, Trea wondering what that feels like, if it’s something Bryson would like. Look at you, the Old Man and The Lake. No way you read that book. I did! Casty made me. Why? Dunno, I didn’t argue, he’s scary. He is very scary, you’re correct. The thwudthwudthwud of the boat going through the water, the sun behind them throwing the last bright beams of the day before retreating into soft delicate primary colors, their wedding bands glinting. Shapes in the distance, man made and artificial, technology. The fuck? Da Fuck? I do not sound like that. Kinda you do. The shapes form, a screen caged on the sides by lights, a floating stage, turntables and synths and keyboards. Da fuck? See, told ya. The boat comes to a stop, far from the only one. Knowing nods between passengers, a secret club, Bryson the newest member.

Blue hour comes. Bryson stretches out, watching the stage. He is tan, darker now in the night than in the day. A glisten of sweat around his hairline and mustache, a day already busy and full. The feel of an unspoken countdown, Trea settling in next to Bryson, lights twitching to life on the floating stage, cheers building, ready to rise and greet the moon, which is soon to be a white manhole cover on the lake. It starts. Sound across the water, rolling against pristine white hulls, vibrating down to the lake bed, confusing the local marine life. Trea is nodding to the beat, eyes closed, occasionally singing along, in a deeper peace than Bryson has ever seen him. The drink bottles of water, empty plastic soon at their feet. Keep it in the boat, no littering. I wasn’t gonna. Smart kid, I’m raising you right. 

Bryson looks over to see that Trea is looking at him. That little not-a-smile smile he’s perfected. The night goes and goes. 

Neither tracks the time, the idea of it irrelevant, especially when the song hits. It’s from a movie no one ever guesses that Bryson would like, the idea of such a meditation on life, death, and whatever else not matching his face that looks like it loves things like The Hangover. He is, after all, a human being, a real one. Bryson leans forward, leans back, this slower version, synth and bass heavy, filling and replacing the air, pulling him back and forth. His fingers search blind in the dark, eyes on the stage. Trea’s find his first. They coil together. Towards the last verse Bryson raises them, kisses the back of Trea’s hand, keeps his lips there, smiles. Trea hums, happy. 

They are the last boat to leave, the last to pull into the crowded dock. Something in the night has cooled, the drive back no longer a necessity. Trea opens the sun roof, night and stars drifting above them as they lower the rear bench seat and look up, shoes kicked off, left on the lowered tailgate. I’m big spoon, who cares if you’re old. I can live with that tonight. They shift and arrange themselves to the inelegant interior of the SUV, rigid against still warm skin. Trea raises a hand and traces the ink on Bryson’s tan shoulder, Las Vegas and the Cross, a quiet laugh at the idea of God watching. 

Thank you. For this. 

Any time.  

Chapter Text

The dirty white Suburban, covered in the woods, in the half circle driveway, the only car there, the house dark and empty when they walk in. Silence granting permission as well as scaring them to death. Nothing to stop them now, no more planned or otherwise distractions. The kiss burning the back of his hand, the feeling of sleep warm skin pressed to each other lingering. Nice place, this your hideout? Yep, for later in hurricane season mostly. He could make a joke about this feeling like a storm of its own, out of nowhere but not truly. Weeks months years of building strength off in the rumbling distance. Bryson runs a finger over the point of Trea’s elbow as he puts his car keys on a table by the door. It’s very you. Is that good? Why wouldn’t it be? Stupid kid and his happy face that knows everything. Shoes off, wife would kill me, or worse make me clean. That’s what she’d kill you about? Turning to look back, away, back again. Good question. You hungry? Nah, not yet, too early. Or too late, I can’t tell yet. Either one sounds right, we slept a long time. The younger man blushing, the memory of waking up to his face buried in the sloop of Trea’s neck still new behind his eyelids, arms looped around the wraith like body. We did, yeah. You were tired, like my kids after the zoo. I’m 27. Are you now. Bryson walking up to him, the inch of difference in height barely there. Makes you a dirty old man. I get the feeling that’s not a red flag for you. Not at all. The kiss they didn’t share last night or this morning, Trea sighing a dream against Bryson’s lips, pictures of his wife, children, and wedding day watching from the walls. Dumbass. Mhm.

There is no voice in either of them telling them to stop. Trea’s Catholic Guilt silent and grateful for the baffling relief of this blessed sin, intoxicated by Bryson’s smell and scratch of his mustache against his cheek and lips. Dumbass mumbled again. Me or you? Sure, yeah. My dirty old man. Yours, huh? Yep, and don’t forget it. The kiss ending with a smile against the corner of Trea’s upturned lips, their heads light. Trea thinks about his name being tattooed somewhere on Bryson, dark across the tan fields of his perfect skin, competing with the billboards of Las Vegas and the Cross of their Savior. Did you plan this? This? Getting me out here, the concert for an excuse? No. No? No. You sure? Yes. Really? You kissed my hand first. You made me fly out here. For a concert and a break from our job. You strike me as the planning type. Normally, yeah, not with this.

Bryson blinks, his grin growing huge and wide.

You were afraid to make the first move. I’m sorry? You heard me. I was not. Oh my God, you were. Laughter that runs to the rear of the house and back, stopping in every room. You are too cute for words, 7. I am what. You heard me. His voice bold, a playing field now leveled, age and experience non-factors. Were you crushing on me? I do not, and have never had, crushes. That’s a yes. Get fucked, Stotter. No personal space between them as Trea moves through rooms, turning on ceilings fans with wide blades, checking for dust. Bryson snickering, victorious. His black Vans by the front door like he lives there, and always has. The laces white like his teeth. So when did you know? Know what? That you had a crush on me. Again, please get fucked. So before you were a Phillie. Exasperated brows betrayed by bright shining eyes. All smiling youth in reply. Seriously, when. They finish the circuit of the first floor, the question and its source trailing behind, demanding an answer in polite silence. Trea drops on to the couch, wood floor grunting. Bryson follows, his head in Trea’s lap before the other can even find the remote. The brown hair relaxes, flows everywhere, Trea running his fingers through it before he can think to do so, the younger man looking up at him like he might purr. If I had to guess, probably the first time I saw you in the Powder Blues, can’t remember if it was in person or TV. Why’s that? You looked so you. Huh? Dunno, that’s just what it felt like, like you were supposed to look like that. That’s… It’s what? You know, it’s, like… Like what? Romantic.

The room stops, drawing in and holding its breath. Trea strokes Bryson’s cheek with his thumb, time and everything outside meaningless, in here eternal. Yeah, guess it is. And it worked. That too. Bryson makes no attempt to move, Trea flipping through channels and streaming services, resting the remote on Bryson’s chest, where it rises and falls with his content lungs. You know, I had a plan too. Oh? Course I did, I was getting tired of waiting on your slow ass. What was your plan? Sailing lessons, down in Key West. That’s…actually cool. Almost clever. Bryson nods, mane rubbing Trea’s lap and groin. Was gonna wait until you were finally tired from everything and just plant one on you. What a gentleman. You weren’t leaving me with many options, 7. Sorry for needing time to think about this. Think about what? This, stupid. What’s there to think about? A laugh. Bryson, are you gay? No, fuck no, are you? Nope. Hmm. Oh. Yeah, oh. Another laugh. This is different. Yeah? Yeah, just is. Good enough for me. Their fingers lace together as they watch TV, something boring because Trea likes boring, Bryson too enthralled in getting what he has always wanted to care or even notice, his eyes on Trea rather than the screen. This is just you’re stuck with me. Trea looks down, quirks an eyebrow. Am I? Yep, when you’re sitting behind a desk at MLB Network and I’m DHing for like the Guards or Rangers, I’ll still be texting you all the time, ice all over my fucked up knees and everything. Trea’s nose twitches as it draws in a breath. He raises Bryson’s hand to kiss the back of it, squeezes with his fingers. And I’ll answer all of them. You better. And you said I was the romantic one. You are, I’m just clingy. Don’t I know it.

They don’t have to define whatever this is, they know deep down they likely couldn’t if they wanted. Trea lands on AppleTV+, fond of their Godzilla show. In the corner is the logo card for Lessons In Chemistry, his wife loves it. She is my how, and she is my why. Trea looks down. Apparently, obviously, so is Bryson. Whatever that means. It’s good you know, Trea hears from his lap. What is? That you’re such a corny lovey-dovey guy. Why’s that? Makes all this better. But for the oddity of their positions they aren’t doing anything more exciting than watching TV. They’re fully clothed, at a level of intimate that barely meets the definition. What can I say, Stotter, you bring out the best in me. Someone has to.

He is his how.
And he is his why.

Chapter Text

The world, which cannot touch them and so forgets their presence, drifts by outside. For unknown hours there is little movement beyond Trea’s fingers stroking or running along the angles of Bryson’s face or the curls of his hair, Bryson’s hands looping over and gripping whichever part of Trea they land on. Weren’t kidding about the clingy part. A laugh against his thighs. Told you. I kinda like it. You better. I didn’t figure you would take a hint anyways. Not with you. I’ll take that as a compliment. Bryson drums his fingers under Trea’s chin, the perfect angles of jawline. He could call him pretty, which he is, but that sounds weird. Having fun? Mhm, always. That song put you in a trance last night. Love it, great song. Huh, you’ve got better taste than I thought. Was trying to tell you that I did. You’ve actually seen that? Yeah. I always thought that was some weird joke Bryce liked to make. I’ve seen Drive, 7, It’s a very famous movie. Ok, ok, fair, just had you pegged as more of a Remember The Titans fan. You really do think I’m a kid, huh? 23 at the oldest. Wow, I said Dirty Old Man as a joke. A groaning laugh that sits in his chest. Stop being so weird, Stotter. A smile back up at him, the sun in his lap. I wasn’t complaining. 

Bryson looks around, scanning the bright old room around the screen, eyes finding the glass-fronted box. Is that? Yeah. Cool! Can I? Yeah, sure. He’s up and over there and back again, sitting down and throwing his legs over Trea’s thighs with the wooden square in his hands, the looping red W shining. Can’t be the first one you’ve seen. No, but its yours. Why’s that any different? Bryson looks over, offended by the question. Trea leans to open the box, the click of the clasp the loudest noise they’ve heard since last night’s second encore. Have at it, kiddo. Bryson’s fingers, tan and nervous, pick the ring up, roll it his flat palm. Damn, look at that. Didn’t know you liked jewelry, you should hang out with my wife. I prefer you. Eyes not moving from his new sacred relic. Clearly. You know, I had the bullshit bruise from that call for a month. The interference? It wasn’t, but yes. Had to sleep on my chest for a month cause my ass hurt. Bryson looks over, waves of laughter building. What are you looki-, Oh for fuck sake, Stott, grow up. You throw that one right down the dick and I was supposed to let it go by? Jesus Christ. Trea laughs, smile lapping the bright outside the windows. I’m gonna make lunch, go rub one out in the bathroom or whatever it’ll take for you to be normal again. Gotta admit, 7, playing hard to get the day after is ballsy. I’ve been doing it for years according to you. Fucking tease. Bryson puts the ring back in the box and stands, following Trea’s pointing finger down a hall, putting the box back and wandering off. Wait, are you actually gonna g- Yup! How loud you want me to moan? Trea covers his face with his hands, trying not to laugh, failing and starting to wheeze in the middle of the living room. You don’t like me cause I’m normal, Turner, you like me cause I’m like this. Don’t forget to moan my middle name, champ, not even you can make that sound sexy. 

Bryson takes his time and somehow does. Trea makes two grilled cheese, somehow doesn’t die of embarrassment or arousal when the man in his bathroom loudly rides out his climax, and feels flattery that borders on narcissism, the idea of being an obsession new and alluring. He plates the sandwiches and almost drops both when Bryson enters the kitchen, eyes half-drooping and content. Don’t make that face in my kitchen. Why not? Because it looks like you just got laid. Well, kinda did? Trea points at the sink. I already did. Well, do it again. Bryson looks like he might say something, mouth quirking into that perfect annoying little grin. Alright, out with it, you’ve clearly got something in your head. Bryson washes his hands, slinks over, and whispers it to the shell of Trea’s ear. That is, uh, um. Disgusting? Vulgar? Gross? All of those, yeah. Trea swallows what could have been a grunt, finds a smirk. You’re a little impressive. A hand up the back of Trea’s shirt, damp fingertips drumming against his spine. Surprised? Didn’t know you had it in you. Well, I guess don’t anymore. Fucking Hell. Bryson smiles a kiss against Trea’s jaw. Now you. Bad timing as Trea bites into his sandwich, cheese pulling from the bread to the corner of his mouth. Now me what? Was gonna say that you should kiss me, but I don’t want a mouth of half-chewed sandwich. Why not? Funny, 7, very funny. Trea swallows, moves to the fridge, plucks a glass bottle out and twists the cap off, carbonation hissing against his hand. He kills the neck in a gulp, pulls Bryson in, lips a secure lock, matching Trea thinks. A caramel dark drop of soda rolls down Bryson’s chin as it and other liquids are swapped and swallowed. Trea pulls his tongue back, licks his lips. What, never had Cheer Wine before? Not like that. His eyebrows are hovering near his hairline, a different kind of afterglow. Where’d you learn to do that? Around. Lucky me. Lucky you. Good to know I’m not the only one with imagination. Makes up for me not knowing how to do anything first. Bryson turns to look. So I was right? You were, good guess. So if the concert didn’t work what were you gonna do, sneak into the shower here? I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Bryson reaches out to flick one of Trea’s knuckes. Waiting on me, huh? By the end there, yeah. Now you know why I think you’re cute. A blush, the color of the logo on his World Series ring. Now you’re just trying to mess with me. Have been since you signed here. 

Bryson smiles and looks somewhere between his years. 

Mr. Long Game, huh? I mean, I knew exactly when I was down bad for you. How weird is this gonna get? A little. Well now I’m curious. Bryson fishes his phone out. Trea swears he can smell the lake. A thumb goes jogging back through days weeks months years of memories, landing after a while. The phone slid over. Trea looks down. Team USA, wait, no wrong hat… is that… the CNT? Bryson nods. Fuck, I look like a fetus. Bryson nods again. That means you woulda been… shit, really? Laughter rolls off the counter top. Now that is the long game, Stotter, well done. Who knew all that patience is a virtue BS was true. Good things take time. Sweet line for a guy who flirts like a stressed out high schooler. Just with you. What, I make you nervous? You can’t prove that. Bet I could make you say it. Don’t you already know it? Yeah but I wanna hear you say it. Why? Because. Not an answer. Bryson rolls his eyes. You are the worst flirt, 7. We’re flirting? I like that you’re kinda a dumbass.  

Trea smiles, the last chewed mouthful of sandwich pressing against his cheek. You actually might give me ego problems. A cardboard box can have an ego? I really regret showing you that. It’s accurate, even if you can drive a boat. Pilot, you pilot a boat. I do not fucking care what you do with a boat, unless it’s us maybe one day making out on the boat. That’s what it would take to fix your grammar? Yup. Huh, maybe we need to do those sailing lessons after all. Great plan, told you. The day floats on, they do nothing. The sun sets, not as cool as last night, a one time gift. Bryson stands and stretches, joints cracking in unmatched places. Ow. All that from sitting on a couch? Can’t wait till my knees feel like yours. My knees feel fine, maybe. We’re both better off than Casty, it sounds like a cement mixer when he moves sometimes. He’s also a giant, we’re more like…deer, I guess. You’re a fox, or a really evil coyote. Thanks? It’s the hair and the face. Good to know, Stotter, good to know, What am I? Mr. 20 Questions, huh? Mhm. Some kind of very expensive dog, no, no… one of those insane wolves that live up in the mountains that sometimes sneak into people’s backyards. Bryson blinks. What, too much? No just that’s…you put some thought into that? Maybe. Tell me more, 7. About wolves? About the things you think about me. Christ, Stotter, you might as well ask me to sit outside tonight and count the stars. I’ve got the time, I’m not going anywhere. Better not be Trea says before he can catch himself, the first glimpse of his true self. Bryson’s eyes go a little wide before settling down, face easing back into his soft default of a smile. Sounds like you think a lot. Yeah, sometimes. About me? Yeah. That make you happy? Trea looks over, their eyes linking immediately. Are you just fishing for compliments? A shrug. And if I am? 

Yes, Bryson, thinking about you makes me happy. 

Thought so. 

Bryson leans over to rest his forehead in the crook of Trea’s neck and shoulder, the other smelling still of water, sweat, and sleep. A laugh shakes him a bit. What’s funny? Could be an Onion joke. What? You. Huh? Florida Man Finally Discovers Emotions In His Mid 30s. Trea flicks the side of Bryson’s head, fingers lingering before easing through the brown hair. Don’t tell anyone I have feelings. Why not? It would confuse people, they’ll expect me to start doing cooking videos. One mess was enough. Are you talking about me dropping things or you going off in my bathroom? I cleaned up. Look at that, what a gentleman. You’re the one that told to me, and to moan. Glad it worked. Bryson’s eyes dart over, Trea’s grin sharp, impish yet masculine. You should watch next time. Trea looks down at Bryson’s arousal, obvious and yearning. Neither present as sexual beings despite Bryson’s being born in Vegas, a child of heat and neon and the belief that pleasure could and should be fulfilled in an instant. Trea is flatter, a good quiet Catholic known as the best fuck at North Carolina State, then the ACC, who eventually required a gymnast to satisfy him. He is physical in bed, sometimes domineering. They let themselves be overshadowed by the party boy primalness of Bryce and Nick. Here, now, thoughts still in the air, Trea stands up and pulls Bryson’s sweatpants down, brushes his lips against one of the firm cheeks. Sit up here. Taps an empty space on the kitchen counter. Bryson obeys, Trea’s voice direct, the actions and results already decided. He sits, length jutting. Give me your phone. He does. Trea sets himself just above thigh height, holds the phone out far enough to get his smiling face and Bryson’s oddly dark erection in frame. He kisses the tip, takes a picture, and hands the phone back. I love pictures like that, my wife has one of me eating her ass and all you can see are my eyes. The younger man nods, mouth open. You’re insane, 7. Who’s fault is that? Mine. Bryson wags himself by the base. Yep, yours.     

Chapter Text

Somewhere above and around them is the question both have but either yet to ask, afraid to puncture the serene bubble that extends to the mailbox and keeps them safe, any feeling or illusion about what they can be on the other side somewhere. Bryson finds the words first as the two get his luggage from the Suburban. How long we got here? Trea shrugs. Everyone shows up the night after next. Bryson nods. We’ve got plenty of time, Stotter. The smallest smile. To do what? Trea rolls his and lifts a maroon duffel bag. You packed light. Wasn’t sure what you had planned. Great, now I get to watch you do laundry. The sun not finished setting, everything around them blue again. Bryson’s white teeth glowing in the near dark as they go inside. I’m taking one of your shirts if I need one. We’re at the stealing clothes stage already? So you’re saying you don’t want to see me walking around in your old NC State stuff? I most definitely did not say that. Down, boy. You’re the one trying to get me up. Shit, you do know how to flirt, maybe we’ll have enough time for me to teach you how to sext. Trea shifts behind Bryson to kiss just below his ear, a shudder he feels against his chest. I think I can figure that part out quick enough. You’re being…unfair. How, you’ve spent the whole day stuck on me, I can’t do it back? Doing it before I try to sleep is kinda mean. Are you complaining? Never, 7, never. Atta kid. Bryson blushes at the term and hopes Trea doesn’t see. Trea does and says nothing.

They trudge upstairs, every other old step creaking under their feet. The house is barely changed since it was built in the 50s, Trea drawn to it for the old charm, the individual rooms, the high ceilings that hold light. He thinks about how happy he is to share the space with Bryson, how he has somehow earned this. Guest bathroom is on the left, my bedroom is straight down the hall, Your bedroom? Yes, Bryson, my bedroom. So…your bed? Yes, Bryson, my bed. Oh. Trea swears Bryson actually gulps. He stands close, fingertips on the younger man’s forearms. I’d like you in my bed. It’s really so easy, Trea thinks, to play up the minor age difference and apply the gentlest pressure on the younger man. You move fast, 7. Maybe you just get me excited. That excited? Mhm. Ok, sure, one request though. Yes? Shower with me. Teach you to try and strong-arm me, old man, Bryson says in a smirk. I’m not sure the guest shower is big enough. Oh no, a cramped space with a naked Trea Turner, what a horrible sounding idea. I think you could sell me on it. I’ll wear your underwear after. Sold. You are easy, Turner. I just know what I like and want. And that’s me? God, you’re dense. Maybe I wanna hear you say it. You really like hearing me say things you already know. Make me feel special, 7. Don’t be greedy, Stotter. Oh now you want boundaries. The most annoying toothy grin Trea has ever seen. All the dipshits in the world that have passed me by, and it just had to be you. Yep, had to be me. Trea vanishes into his bedroom and returns holding two pieces of Wolfpack Red fabric. Bryson smiles, giddy. You are a weirdo, Stotter. Am not. I believe that you believe that. 

Trea leaves the duffel in the hallway. Their clothes form a pile as Trea fiddles with the faucet knob, the shower hissing loudly from disuse. Fuck, 7, how old is this place. A high pitched whine as water drags old air out of the pipes. Trea could answer, say the whole house is one big guestroom that only sees use a few times a year, could use his chemistry and physics classes to explain the sound from the shower head. Instead he yanks down and kicks off his briefs and enters the shower, unphased under the cone of cool water. Get in here. Bryson tries and fails to stop a rough giggle before following, so close to tripping over his own excited feet. They are athletes, nudity common enough to have been compartmentalized away as another aspect of the game like batting practice or running sprints. This feels different in an instant, no communal anonymity, only the other. Bryson mumbles a wow under his breath. It’s almost cramped. Each has dozens, hundreds of things they could say to the other, flattery to profane. They say none of it. Trea grabs shampoo and rubs a dollop in Bryson’s hair, then his own. Bryson inhales as Trea’s fingers return to work the shampoo through his scalp. Smells good he manages to mumble out, mind blinking on and off. I like the idea of you smelling like me. Bryson inhales again. Trea lets out one syllable of a chuckle. Don’t be so nervous. He turns Bryson around and studies him, the tan flat muscles, the sprawls of ink, his nudity. Without the distractions of the clubhouse Bryson is both bigger and smaller than Trea imagined, an athletic but largely normal looking young man yet one he had pined over for months if not years. They remember how close they are and meet at the lips, white foam and suds running from their hair, they speak in grunts and fractures. Trea lets a pant escape. You look like you could bench press me. Want me to try? Maybe tomorrow. Dominance slides from one to the other. Did little 16 year old Bryson in Las Vegas think about this? Yeah. Yeah? A lot. Any other details for me? Weird one. That’s the best kind. We go to a strip club but I pay the dancers to watch us make out. Trea’s laughter shakes the glass door and mirror. Shit, Stotter, is there a freak hidden away there somewhere? Not for much longer. What’s that mean? Bryson pulls back the length of his nose. Tell me, I wanna hear you tell me, Trea. Tell you what? Tell me to take control. Trea looks him over, the hardcharging hardtrying little brother of the team seconds away from falling apart at the seams.

Bryson, I want you to take control.

Trea’s world and body spin as he now faces the glass door, one of Bryson’s arms, those forearms bigger than they look, looping around his abs. Suddenly, Bryson is lifting, leaning back while balanced in the water, Trea’s feet leave the tile. Bryson grabs Trea’s length. Ask me. Trea nods, the rules of the game now clear. Stotter pleeease get to work down there. Bryson’s hand begins to move at a respectable pace, a dedicated pump. Trea rolls his head back and moves his eyes enough to see the whole of Bryson’s upper body flexing. He looks like a God. Trea knows he won’t last long, his toes a curl, sounds close to moans starting to roll out. 

Bryson’s hand stops. His forearm squeezes tighter, lifts Trea a bit higher. Strength from nowhere. Don’t stop he pants out. 

Beg. What? Beg, 7. Fuck you. Oh, that’s later, Beg.

Bryson raises a finger to tease Trea’s tip, a moan probably audible downstairs. Still, he’s prideful. Bryson just hurry. I said beg, Turner. No. Do it, I want you to do it, you know you want to do it, I wanna feel strong for you. Trea’s pride snaps and he is no longer older or in charge. Stot-Bryson please please are the only full words before Bryson moves furiously and Trea is releasing against the glass wall, shouting with each ejection, body stretching and straining against Bryson. He lowers the older man down and loops his other, soiled arm around him. Trea’s limp body heaves as Bryson holds him upright. He clings to Bryson’s forearms as his legs remember how to stand. The younger man kissing his neck, the feel of mumbling lips. I just want to be strong and good for you, Trea, that’s all I want. Trea can’t speak but nods, eyes wild. His breathing slows. The fuck was that? Dunno. Trea manages to turn in Bryson’s arms, face red. He feels the younger man jut out against him. He kisses Bryson’s smile, the taste soap and sin. Take care of yourself, on me. Bryson nods, a few strokes only before he’s shuddering in Trea’s arms and offering onto his stomach and thighs, Trea whispering praise in his ear the entire time. Both realize neither will ever know complete or sure dominance over the other. This is insane, 7, all of this. Good, it better be. Bryson laughs. I knew you would break. I did not break, I just played along. Uh huh. Trea guides Bryson under the cone of water and washes the shampoo out of his hair, the shower smelling like tea tree and semen and- Bryson sniffs. Oh my God, Trea, did you fart? I was…excited, couldn’t stop it. Both are laughing as Trea puts body wash on a cloth and begins to rub wide soft circles across Brsyon’s body. He goes to open his mouth, another joke, but stops when he sees the wondrous look in Trea’s eyes, entirely beyond arousal, somewhere around an act of worship. When he feels clean he takes the cloth from Trea and goes to work on him, finger tips tracing the lithe body through the fabric. Neither needs to talk. 

Trea turns the water off and they step out, his mess still splashed on the shower door. He wraps Bryson in a large towel. They move slowly, suddenly tired after so many realizations in so short a time. Really was one of your better ideas. I just wanted to wear your undies, 7. Trea snorts. I had you guessed as the most vanilla guy in existence. I’m from Vegas, we all start watching porn in junior high. I fucked my wife on our fifth date in college…in front of the team. You wha? We like to show off, Stotter. You mean, like a video, cause some guys in the minors did that. No, I mean, hey everyone gather round in a circle and watch. That is gross and kinda amazing? Sounds about right for me. Bryson is finally dry, hair a nest of shining angles, he smiles wide as he pulls Trea’s just too small briefs on. Turn around. Bryson does and laughs, almost keeling over, the word STATE in all caps stretching across his ass. Stay here. Trea leaves and returns with his phone, immediately taking a picture, slaps a cheek and watches it jiggle, pulls on his pair. They brush their teeth and eventually end up down the hall and in the bedroom. 

Trea sits at the foot of the large bed, looking up at Bryson, who is looking down with amusement. I broke you. You did not, and you never will. You aren’t any fun, 7. No, I am a very specific kind of fun. Which is? Making people feel good. Everyone does that, Turner. Nah, Stotter, there’s an art to it, to making someone happy. I think the shower showed you’ve figured it out. That was fooling around, Stotter, that’s different, I meant…ok, hold on. Trea rises to turn off the light in the hallway then the bedroom lamp. He opens the curtains, a white almost full moon now the only light, artificial replaced by a distant lunar glow. Trea gestures for Bryson to sit. He does. Trea thinks about what Bryson had said in the shower, the words and the feelings babbled out rolling over in his head. Bryson is a man of genuine depth, but here he is easy, he wants what every man his age wants. Trea sits down next to him, lets his face relax into smiling flat line, runs a hand over Bryson’s jaw and cheek.

You are so strong, Bryson. You know that? A finger tracing from his forearms to his biceps. Not even like this, everything else. You are strong because you are nothing but heart and soul, just fire up and down. Trea’s accent, a hodgepodge of Florida beach and North Carolina warble creaks through. Bryson gulps, mouth a little loose, his overbite adorable. Do you like being strong, Bryson? Yeah. Why, tell me why. Bryson’s heart thuds in his ears, the shower had been one thing, a horny one-off that he could explain away in time, now feels different, feels real. Trea, w-w-what are you doing. Telling you what you don’t hear enough, what you deserve to hear more. He gulps again. A palm presses against his chest and slides up and down. Tell me why. I like feeling strong, like I did in there. You should because you are, not even counting the muscles....and you know what I remember about my slump? Bryson shakes his head, feels Trea kiss his chin. You in the batting cage late night after every game telling me I was the best player in the world, you being there for me, you being so strong for me, taking care of me. A noise like a whimper. Trea eases him down and kisses at his neck, Bryson’s head rolling back against a pillow. You’re so strong being repeated on a loop as lips meet shoulder, clavicle, wherever. Bryson doesn’t know when he started panting. Trea pulls back, twirls a lock of dark hair in his fingers before resting his elbow and forearm next to the pillow. Their noses brush. Only the stars and moon outside, the lake in the distance. That, Stotter, is making someone feel good.    

Chapter Text

The night is too quiet, the lack of traffic or city or population at all keeping them awake. Trea’s head rests on Bryson’s chest, rising and falling with his air. The ceiling fan spins. It is dark even after their eyes have adjusted. A first story porch light unable to reach up to the big bedroom window. Their brains and bodies wind down, shaking off the jittery adrenaline and arousal of the day, leaving Bryson with a thought.

Does your wife know about this, 7? No. Would she be mad? Who knows, probably not, she thinks you’re good for me. I am. See? Would you care if she was mad? No, probably not. Bryson lets out an unformed laugh. Trea is so much with him. Would you stop if she asked?

No.

Trea shifts, cheek against the tan of Bryson’s upper chest. Would be funny to lead off with all this, ‘Hey, honey, Bryson and I had a guy’s weekend, we jerked each other off in the shower and took some nudes. Wanna see?’ Bryson laughs loudly. Send me every photo you’ve taken, and from what you’ve told me, is that even weird for you? I’ve never actually cheated. Well till now. This isn’t cheating. It’s not? No. So… what is it then? Fuck if I know. Kinda feels like it is. I don’t think so, like you said, you’re good for me. Bryson loops an arm below Trea’s shoulders, pulls and holds him close. We’re good for each other. Bryce would get jealous. That’s not hard. What are you, Mr. Flirt? More like Mr. I Wish Everyone Would Stop Flirting With Me. Bryson looks down and glimpses a world he’s never seen, raises an eyebrow. What’s that mean? Don’t worry about it, Stotter. The sentence a heaved out sigh. Doing the tough guy act now, huh? Who says it’s an act? It is when you’re in my arms, Trea. Shit, are you actually smart? Don’t tell anyone I’m smart, and I won’t tell anyone you have feelings. Deal. Now spill. Bryson feels Trea go somewhat slack, tired from everything he knows about and all he doesn’t. Trea thinks he should shut up and pretend to fall asleep, as if that could fool a man holding him. He thinks there might be more dignity in that. Trea feels Bryson start to rub and trace small circles on his shoulder with his thumb and soon melts, this man his weakness since day one. It’s a lot sometimes, Stotter, the contract, the slump, everything everywhere being under a microscope all the time, shit they found those tweets from when I was 19, the whole world acts like it knows me, like it knows everything about me. 

Bryson nods, surprised to hear such vulnerability come from Trea Turner and touched it’s being aimed at him. Are you worried about this or something, liking guys? I don’t like guys, Bryson, I like you. Bryson isn’t sure he understands the difference, knows better than to ask. Sure, fair. Trea’s eyes raise. You’ve been calm about this. I’ve had the hots for you for a decade, Turner, don’t act so surprised. Good thing I signed here. Yeah, I wasn’t sure how to force a trade to the Dodgers. You’d look good in the blue cap. Maybe I’ll steal your old one. Just don’t get caught wearing it. Why, too sexy for you? No, our fans would chase you out of the state. Commonwealth. Huh? Pennsylvania is a Commonwealth. Who the fuck taught you that? You did, dumb fuck, I kept saying state until you left a sticky note on my bag. Oh, huh, guess I did. Bryson adjusts his upper half, a shoulder popping as he keeps Trea close. Was you putting all my bobbleheads in your locker you trying to give me a hint? I have like…one. You have three, Turner, why are you even trying to lie right now? Pride. I’ll lift you one-armed again. Fuck, I’m stuck with the world’s horniest teenager. Bryson reaches down to take Trea’s rear in one hand, squeezing hard. Answer the question, 7. Because I like you, you fucking idiot. Matching grins of triumph before Trea snakes up to kiss Bryson, sloppy enthusiasm that slows and falls into content sighs. Wasn’t sure. Hope you are now. All cause you saw me in the Powder Blues? Mhm, all cause. When did you really know? When you kept calling me the best shortstop in the world. You can’t say I’m a liar. Is that what the shower was? Huh? You trying to make me feel like how you see me? A mumbled I guess. Trea starts and ends another kiss before rolling onto his back, scooting next to Bryson. It was great, not complaining, just surprising. You spent two whole ass days winding me up, it couldn’t have been that surprising. Guess not. What about that little speech you gave me? What about it? Sounded like you had wanted to give it for a while. I would have done it sooner if I knew you were gonna whimper. Really don’t tell anyone about that. I like it better as a secret. 

Trea reaches over to lay a hand on Bryson’s thigh, eyes still on the ceiling. There’s so much they could, likely should, say, but it is night and the room and the house seem to be relaxing and exhaling after two days but in honesty after years. Smirks and looks, hugs and arms around hips that lingered a second too long. In their way they had been telling everyone before they had been able to tell themselves. Why me? Trea asks after a slippage of time he doesn’t keep track of. Why not? Funny, Stotter, funny. I mean, that’s kinda the answer. Why not Bryce? Because he’s Bryce. Trea understands in an instant, who could have a crush on a man who has gone beyond the definition. Fair, but I’m curious, it’s not like I was famous when you say all this started. That blown call at home was so funny, watching all 160 pounds of you going insane on the ump. I was safe. Never said you weren’t, 7. So video of me going nuts was what did it? Call that the start, I guess. What else? The Series in 2019, you screaming at Joe Torre from the dugout after you got ejected. Bullshit fucking call. Never said it wasn’t, 7, but were just so…alive. Do you have any early memories of me that aren’t me getting ejected from games and losing my mind on camera? I’m sure they’re there somewhere, but they take a back seat to you being insanely attractive. Oh? Ok, no more playing dumb, you are TreafuckingTurner, that’s my reason, I don’t need another. If you say so. You are the fucking worst. They relax into sheets stiff and clean. Only the moon knows who falls asleep first. 

Crickets, a breeze, a wolf howl far somewhere in the mountains. The only sounds in the night as Trea snores in Bryson’s ear, the younger man the smaller spoon. Trea’s arms around his chest. Bryson needs this unplanned moment to last all night and then forever. Now, with Trea asleep, he has the words, most cliches and standards from the Hallmark Christmas movies he watches to fall asleep whenever it gets cold. They’re pre-packaged but mean something to him, who is clumsy with words of depth. They are long and short, easy and complex. There is one that sticks out above the rest, that is now the only one bouncing around his mind half-between waking and dreams. Sleep pulls at him, loosens his nerves then his tongue as he sinks into the calm still sea of rest. 

Don’t ever leave. 

Trea pulls tight between snores, Bryson’s words getting through and landing somewhere, Bryson falls back asleep, an hour later Trea wakes up before remembering there are no diapers to change or dogs to take out. Trea feels Bryson safe with sleep in his hold and knows he is impossibly selfish. He thinks about Bryson’s eyes wide with overdue praise raining over him, a young man fully appreciated, overwhelmed by everything, overwhelmed by him. The judgmental aspects of Trea’s unknowable mind are away, somewhere he doesn’t know and intent to never chase. He angles to press a kiss against a tan shoulder, Bryson smelling like clean and him. The foolishness, if not stupidity, of this doesn’t weigh on him. It’s yet to feel like a mistake, closer to acknowledging basic fact. He’s a grown man in your underwear a voice from somewhere chimes, almost amused. Trea enjoys that.