
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/320930.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Baseball_RPF, Sports_RPF
  Relationship:
      Tim_Lincecum/Original_Male_Character
  Character:
      Tim_Lincecum, Original_Male_Character
  Series:
      Part 33 of High_Heat
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-15 Words: 2477
****** 33: This Is It ******
by light_source
Summary
     And then other things would happen, things that felt so good that
     neither of them wanted to ask any questions, they just wanted time to
     slow a little before they had to go back to being regular boys.
They fall asleep like that, Brandon&#x2019;s arm circling Tim&#x2019;s chest,
both of them wedged warm and sweaty in the lap of the couch, breathing in
unison. The basement&#x2019;s half-dark and silent; the only windows are the
narrow high ones in the corner, and the PlayStation&#x2019;s screen is empty
blue. So when they&#x2019;re jolted awake by Tim&#x2019;s cell blasting the
what what what what what what part of &#x2018;Superthug&#x2019;, they both sit
bolt upright like they&#x2019;ve been caught sleeping in class, all ready to
say &#x2018;what was the question?&#x2019; before they remember where they are.
Tim&#x2019;s cheek is damp from being pressed up against Brandon&#x2019;s open
mouth and his hair is all over the place. As he brings the cell, warm from his
pocket, up against his ear, he catapults himself off the couch as though by
reflex, his left foot crunching on the Fritos that are still scattered across
the rug.
- Where are you, honey, it&#x2019;s late, says his mom&#x2019;s voice on the
phone.
Tim&#x2019;s already out of there, taking the basement stairs two at a time
when he snaps the cell shut. He doesn&#x2019;t look back. As he pulls the front
door closed behind him, his mind&#x2019;s hammering out the rest of the song:
keep it on the hush hush, don&#x2019;t talk too much
thugged out entertainment, you know we touch
is you knowin what you facin?
//
The amazing thing, Tim knows now, was that things hadn&#x2019;t really changed
between them - just gotten more intense. It was like he and Brandon&#x2019;d
grown up together knowing a secret language that made regular words
unnecessary. Like pickup hoops, this being together, where nobody needed to
talk about rules. No refs or whistles, just shirts and skins and the rhythm of
layup and rebound and man-on-man press till it&#x2019;s too dark to play and
the streetlights come on.
Like always. They&#x2019;d fire up the PlayStation and play a quarter or two of
intense football, silently, because competition was their main thing ever, Tim
in baseball and Brandon in golf, no talking just doing. Rage would gradually
churn up in Tim&#x2019;s chest, pressing against his ribs, and then he&#x2019;d
let it out bit by satisfying bit with brutal tackles by the secondary and semi-
illegal holds the back judge couldn&#x2019;t see.
Eventually one of them&#x2019;d pull something - a pickoff or a uncalled
facemask or a squib kick that totally fucked up the other team&#x2019;s return
- and then the one who&#x2019;d done it would make it worse by taunting and
crowing and hissing pussy under his breath.
Pretty soon they&#x2019;d be shoving and pushing and full-on grappling with the
wrestling moves they&#x2019;d learned in P.E., till a chicken-wing pinback or a
collar-tie hold would melt into something else entirely, a bite and a marking
suck on the back of the neck or a slanted, open-mouthed kiss.
And then other things would happen, things that felt so good that neither of
them wanted to ask any questions, they just wanted time to slow a little before
they had to go back to being regular boys.
That time. &#xA0;Even though he's twenty-four now and he hasn't seen Brandon in
years, Tim still gets hot just remembering the way Brandon&#x2019;s muscles
felt through his shirt, under Tim&#x2019;s hands - fuck, the way his
eyes&#x2019;d close and his skin would get hot and he'd shake when Tim touched
him. For the longest time they hadn't even gone all that far - just French
kissing and dry-humping and messy but hot hand-jobs through their clothes - but
somehow it didn&#x2019;t matter, because it was all still so not what they'd
grown up expecting.
And as long as it they kept most of their clothes on, it was only fooling
around.
Finding time got harder and harder. Junior year, Tim&#x2019;d finally gotten
his growth spurt and made the varsity baseball team, and Brandon was busy
tearing up the regionals and invitationals. &#xA0;They both had GPAs to worry
about, and neither of them had more than a couple hours a week to do anything
outside of schoolwork and practice and games. Sometimes they&#x2019;d go a week
or two only seeing each other in the one class they had together.
Those gaps, though, were reassuring; it meant that what they were doing wasn't
a big deal. &#xA0;When he gave himself time to think about it, which wasn't
often, Tim sometimes wondered when one of them would wake up and saywhat the
fuck is this and put a stop to it.&#xA0;
//
Senior year. It's late March, sixth-period Language Arts, and Mrs. Fletcher,
her eyes puffy and resigned above her half-glasses, is handing back their
papers onThe Grapes of Wrath.
His long legs folded coltwise under the one-armed school desk, Brandon turns to
Tim as he tucks his notebook into his backpack and zips it shut.
- You starting today? asks Brandon.
Tim nods. - Interlake, he says. - they're 9 and 1.
- After, Brandon says offhandedly, - there&#x2019;s no calculus homework this
week because of the AP stuff, so I got some time?
Tim looks at him for a moment.
Then Mrs. Fletcher hands him his graded paper, twisting her mouth and shaking
her head. It&#x2019;s covered with red scrawls and Tim doesn&#x2019;t check out
the grade on the back page because he doesn&#x2019;t want to know. &#xA0;Mrs.
Fletcher&#x2019;s got that mom radar, and he&#x2019;d watched the movie instead
of reading the book.
On his way to the gym, Tim calls home and leaves a message on the kitchen phone
saying he&#x2019;s going out with the guys after the game. Since his mom moved
out and Sean started working evenings, there&#x2019;s no dinnertime anymore -
everyone just eats when they come home, all different times. But his
dad&#x2019;ll be pissed because later on he&#x2019;ll expect Tim to be there to
review tape.
Tim can&#x2019;t think about that now.
//
It&#x2019;s the first rainless day in two weeks, the blue sky streaky with low-
riding clouds that are making and unmaking right over their heads.
For the first six and two-thirds innings against Liberty&#x2019;s rival
Interlake, Tim&#x2019;s got a perfect game going, and the possibility
electrifies the crowd.
The bleachers are overflowing today for the first time in awhile - word about
Lincecum&#x2019;s gotten out, and even the guy from the SeattleTimes is here.
Coach Walker&#x2019;s arms are folded army-tight over his chest, his gum wad
poking out the bottom of his cheek, still as a bird, unblinking. Ken
Knutson&#x2019;s next to him, the UW head coach who usually makes it here for
an hour or so when Tim starts, stealing time away from his own program to watch
Tim pitch.
- Look, shouts somebody in the crowd over the crackle and thump of the
loudspeakers, - it&#x2019;s Hideo Nomo!
Tim tunes out the laughter. He's heard it before.
In the seventh, though, when Tim&#x2019;s circling the mound after fanning a
batter, his eyes snag on two guys in windbreakers he hasn&#x2019;t seen before,
guys with radar guns and clipboards sitting in folding chairs back of the
first-base side of the plate.
His hands begin to sweat. Nothing helps - not the rosin bag, not wiping them on
his jersey, not a handwash of infield dirt.
His control&#x2019;s shot, and he walks the next two batters.
But then his rhythm comes back just from the doing of it, and as his pulse
settles, the ball&#x2019;s there for him again. He&#x2019;s nearly struck out
the next batter when the strikeout pitch breaks crazy wild. The catcher manages
to spear it and peg it to third, but the throw&#x2019;s too high and the runner
goes for home.
Shit.
In left field, Joe Tomich rescues the play - he scoops up the ball, crow-hops,
and throws behind the runner at first, picking him off for the third out.
Tim gets the win. &#xA0;Sixteen strikeouts. &#xA0;A no-hitter.
&#xA0;He&#x2019;ll take it.
//
It&#x2019;s already dark, and Tim&#x2019;s hair&#x2019;s still wet from his
postgame shower when Brandon opens the Williamses&#x2019; front door. Then the
two of them are just standing there, looking at each other. Tim wonders
what&#x2019;s up - usually ringing the doorbell's just a formality, and then he
lets himself in and finds Brandon in the basement.
Something about the way they&#x2019;re face-to-face at the front door tonight
makes him feel kind of dirty and defiant, as though he&#x2019;s about to
present himself to some stupid girl&#x2019;s parents for inspection.
Brandon grins a little, in that lopsided way where his dimples line up with his
freckles and one eyebrow droops, and that puts Tim at ease. But at the bottom
of the stairs to the lower level, Tim feels Brandon&#x2019;s hand on the inside
of his shoulder, turning him gently, and then the other hand on his other
shoulder, till their eyes meet. &#xA0;And then he feels Brandon&#x2019;s arms
pulling him in, right here in the hallway next to the stack of throw pillows
and the shelf where the Scrabble board and the checkers are.
Tim sure as hell hopes Mrs. Williams is on shift at the clinic tonight. He has
no idea how they&#x2019;re gonna explain this if she suddenly appears at the
top of the stairs.
- I was there, Timmy, Brandon hisses, almost like he&#x2019;s angry. -I was
there.
His soft lips are pushing slantwise against Tim&#x2019;s mouth, his tongue only
asking, till Tim&#x2019;s mouth slackens and his head falls back into
Brandon&#x2019;s hand and he lets him in, with that shock of astonishment at
how this feels, like the first time.
And it kind of is a first time - tonight there&#x2019;s been no Madden foreplay
that lets them pretend that what they&#x2019;re doing doesn&#x2019;t count.
- What? Tim asks when he finally comes up for air, cracking one eye open.
- Sixteen, Brandon breathes into Tim&#x2019;s mouth. - Strikeouts.
When Brandon&#x2019;s hands come forward, his palms curving around Tim&#x2019;s
jaw so that he can kiss him harder, Tim notices through half-closed eyes that
there&#x2019;s a line between Brandon&#x2019;s eyebrows, a mark of something
that hasn&#x2019;t been there before.
- Hungry? asks Brandon. - You want something?
It&#x2019;s past dinnertime and Tim hasn&#x2019;t had anything but Gatorade
since lunch, but the question&#x2019;s still ridiculous. Brandon smells like
laundry and Dial soap and new sweat - his neck&#x2019;s glistening - and
he&#x2019;s run his hand slowly and deliberately down the front of Tim&#x2019;s
body to palm his hard-on through his jeans. &#xA0;Brandon's hands are
&#xA0;sensitive and supple, and he knows full well that even the suggestion of
his touch makes Tim hot. Right now Tim can&#x2019;t imagine using his mouth for
anything but kissing Brandon back, as they stumble sideways and backwards till
the edge of the couch seat jackknifes Tim&#x2019;s knees.
Brandon knows Tim can&#x2019;t do anything but let Brandon lay him back there
against the cushions, his heart hammering in his belly and his crotch and
behind his eyes.
Oh yeah. The whole letting thing, Brandon taking charge, is what makes Tim
crazy. &#xA0;What makes him want.
Brandon pushes himself forward between Tim&#x2019;s legs, stretching up until
they&#x2019;re eye to eye. He presses his tongue between Tim&#x2019;s lips,
insistent this time, teasing against the roof of Tim&#x2019;s mouth, slowly so
that eventually Tim&#x2019;s moaning with every thrust, taking Brandon&#x2019;s
tongue deeper and deeper as though he'd like to drink him down.
Brandon&#x2019;s still stroking Tim&#x2019;s dick through his jeans, but now,
without warning, he crosses that line they haven&#x2019;t crossed before.
He&#x2019;s unzipped the fly of Tim&#x2019;s jeans and he&#x2019;s using both
hands to slide them down Tim&#x2019;s narrow hips, briefs and all, till
Tim&#x2019;s just laid out there waiting, his cock springing hard against the
muscles of his bare stomach.
Breaking the kiss but not the gaze, Brandon settles back on his heels, his
tongue tightening the center of his lip. He brings his hands to his waist,
crosses them, and hauls his Green Day t-shirt off over his head, loosing a lock
of hair that falls forward into his eyes. Brandon&#x2019;s shoulders are even
more amazing without his shirt on, muscled and cut, Tim realizes. And then with
a shock he sees it - Brandon&#x2019;s got a new tattoo, a green-blue spiral
that stretches over his shoulder down onto his left deltoid.
Tim can&#x2019;t believe he&#x2019;s never seen this before. Brandon was a
swimmer before he was a golfer, and Tim&#x2019;s mind starts to drift to how
this looks in the pool, water sluicing off Brandon&#x2019;s hairless chest and
his hard belly, his Speedo making him look even hotter than being totally naked
would. And on Brandon's shoulder, this swirl like a handprint that makes him
look older, experienced, like someone who knows where he&#x2019;s going.
Brandon must&#x2019;ve seen Tim&#x2019;s eyes widen, because he smiles and
slides his hands up Tim&#x2019;s bare thighs and belly and pushes his shirt up,
his thumbs grazing Tim&#x2019;s nipples, making Tim flinch even as he&#x2019;s
lifting his arms to help Brandon drag it over his head and off. &#xA0;Brandon
wads up Tim's t-shirt and shoots the ball of fabric over the back of the couch
into the dark.
Then again - but so much slower this time, like he's making a point - he runs
his hands up Tim&#x2019;s naked torso, from his hips to his armpits, till his
thumbs come to rest on Tim&#x2019;s nipples again and linger there this time,
stroking softly at first, and then harder as they stiffen under his touch and
Tim's whole skin shivers - it's too intense. &#xA0;Brandon's hard abs are just
touching his cock, rubbing a little here and there, sliding across the
sensitive skin like a promise, and Tim wants more.
The thing that kills him about Brandon is how he knows how to make Tim wait.
Now he's lowered his head and he's kissing the inside of Tim's thighs, licking
and biting, getting closer and closer. When Brandon's hand finally,finally,
slides up Tim&#x2019;s thighs, twining around Tim&#x2019;s balls and circling
the base of his cock, and he slips the head into his wet mouth and starts
swirling his tongue around it, Tim can only manage a few minutes before his
control is shot - for the second time today.
When he comes, he's so beyond himself that he doesn't even realize he's moaning
Brandon's name.
The flush of pleasure from his orgasm feels like a dream as he fades back into
consciousness, becomes aware of the way his belly's still heaving and sticky
with come. He pulls Brandon back up for a hot, messy&#xA0;oh fuck, Brandon
kiss. And then he takes Brandon's cock in his own hand, wet with sweat and
desire, knowing that what's happening now is gonna change everything.
Brandon&#x2019;s face, contorted with pleasure, would be enough, but when
Brandon starts moaningfuck yeah with every stroke of Tim&#x2019;s tongue on his
dick, and his hands knot in Tim&#x2019;s hair, twisting, all the other stuff,
baseball and school and girls and what he&#x2019;s supposed to do, just fades
out of Tim's head, becausethis is it.
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