Fall League
by Synchronik

Arizona sucks. That's the only thing that Brandon can think as he heads out to the parking lot after the game. He was at San Francisco. He played real ball. If they'd made it to the post-season, he would be in Milwaukee right now getting ready to hit his second Grand Slam and go on to the League Series, and instead he's here missing pitches thrown by amateurs and feeling like a total fuck-up.

He hates everything about it, here. It's too hot, even in October, and the sun is too bright, and everything is dirty all the time. But mostly he hates it here because he feels alone.

Sure, Brown is here and some of the other guys, guys he played with before. But none of the veterans, none of the team. The veterans all went home and Belt is in fucking Venezuela and he's left here. Arizona. Where their chances at the post-season vanished like a mirage.

He trudging out to his car in the back parking lot, his gear slung over his shoulder, head down, when he notices the car. At first, he notices it--shiny, silver--parked next to his Corolla because it's so nice. It glimmers even under the thin coating of Arizona desert that seems to cover everything around here. Then he realizes whose car it is.

The window hums down as he approaches. Lincecum, in aviator sunglasses and a black t-shirt, a hairband around his wrist like a girl.

"What are you doing here?" Brandon asks, trying not to smile.

"Bored," Lincecum says, like that's any reason to make the twelve hour drive from San Francisco to Scottsdale. "You busy?"

"Swamped," Brandon says and heads around the front of the car as Lincecum unlocks the door.

Tim's staying at the team hotel in Phoenix, but he's booked a suite instead of the normal rooms that the players usually stay in. "Nice," Brandon says, tossing his bag onto a chair. "We should make them upgrade us next year."

"Right?" Tim says. He slides his hand up Brandon's spine, over his t-shirt, making Brandon acutely aware of the sweat and dirt on his skin. The Scorpions have showers, but they look like petri dishes and Brandon is even more terrified of them than he is the shower at his low rent "executive" apartment.

"I should shower," he says.

Tim's hand roams over Brandon's shoulder, and then his other hand is around Brandon's waist and his mouth is on the back of Brandon's neck. Brandon covers Tim's hand with his own and closes his eyes. For a second he forgets about how sweaty he is, how depressed, how lonely. Tim is here.

Tim releases him after a minute, swatting him on the ass as he goes into the bathroom, which is huge and mirrored and has a glassed-in shower. Brandon turns on the water and strips while it's getting warm, half aware of the sound of the television coming on in the suite. The shampoo and soap smell like fresh oranges, like a trip down a California highway, and he starts humming The Eagles as he washes his hair. His mother loves The Eagles -- he's known all the words to "Hotel California" since the second grade -- and it always sounds like home to him. He rinses off and turns off the shower and when he leans out to grab a towel, there's Tim, sitting on the bathroom counter just watching him, his bare feet swinging in the air.

Brandon feels a blush rise from his chest to his face. Tim is watching him with steady eyes that look really green in the warm light of the bathroom. How long has he been there? "Hey," Brandon says. "um. I didn't know you were there."

"C'mere," Tim says.

Brandon leaves the towel and goes. Tim spreads his knees and Brandon steps between them. Tim's hands are on him immediately, skating over his wet skin and curling into his hair, pulling him down for a kiss. It's sweet and sharp, like the taste of peppermint gum on Tim's tongue. Brandon spreads his fingers on Tim's hips. Tim's been trying to bulk up a little this season, and he has, but he's still so small that Brandon's fingertips almost meet in the small of his back. Tim scoots closer, hooking his heels around Brandon's thighs, pulling him in. He's still wearing clothes and the soft relaxed demin scrapes tantalizingly against Brandon's hips.

Tim releases his grip on Brandon's hair, still kissing, and runs his hand down Brandon's chest. Tim's a little jealous, Brandon thinks -- Tim's part Filipino and can't even grow a beard, let alone chest hair -- and loves to touch it. At first it was an odd feeling, like being treated like a dog, but Tim gets this dazed look on his face when he does it, his mouth falling open, and Brandon likes the feeling that he can hypnotize Tim just by existing. He finds himself puffing up when Tim rests a hand on his pectoral.

He leans in even further, holding Tim still, bending him backward, until Tim's almost lying back on the bathroom counter, his legs locked around Brandon's waist. His mouth his hot and open against Brandon's, but they aren't so much kissing any more, but gasping each other's breath. Brandon can feel Tim's erection against his, even though Tim's jeans.

"Brandon," Tim pants into his mouth. "Brandon."

Brandon can't say anything, can't think of anything to say, so he just squeezes Tim even closer, pressing their hearts together.

The bathroom isn't workable for long; the counter is too narrow and its hard edge is distracting against Brandon's thighs. "Other room," he pants against Tim's neck.

Tim nods. "Yeah."

For a second, Brandon considers just lifting him and carrying him, but Tim rolls back against the mirror and moves his leg so Brandon can step away, then hops down. Brandon feels a little self-conscious, naked in front of Tim, like he's on display, but when he gets to the king bed and turns around, Tim isn't watching but pulling his shirt over his head. Brandon remembers the first time he noticed Tim with his shirt off, walking through the clubhouse, laughing at something Zito was talking about, his hair dark against his pale back. Tim's small, but he's surprisingly broad through the shoulders, his hairless chest a wide V down to his stomach. Brandon reaches out and places his hand on Tim's breastbone.

Tim pauses, his shirt hanging from one arm. "What?"

"You're getting a hair," Brandon says. Tim rolls his eyes, purses his lips, but he's smiling.

"Shut up," he says.

"Make me." Brandon sits on the edge of the bed. Tim flashes a grin and puts his hand on his belt. "Maybe I'll whip you with my belt."

Brandon laughs, but his face is red, he knows it. He's not necessarily interested in getting hit with a belt, not even for fun, but the combination of the idea of Tim doing it and the image of Tim's hand on his belt...Brandon shakes his head, and puts his hand in his lap.

Tim notices.

His eyes widen, but he doesn't say anything, just works his fingers in behind the leather of the belt and pulls it looser.

Brandon shifts on the bed. He was hard in the bathroom, of course, but this, Tim's hair falling into his face, his hand on his belt, this is something new altogether. He presses his palm against his erection, trying not to moan.

Tim slides the belt from its loops and drops it on the floor. His stomach is a little soft -- he's been eating like a fiend, hoping to gain weight, so he's not cut the way some guys are -- and Brandon can't stop staring at where it meets Tim's waistband, the contrast between the dark denim and Tim's tanned hands and his untouched belly. For some reason, Brandon's mouth is watering.

Tim undoes the button and slides the zipper down. His underwear are boring, white Jockeys, and are somehow the sexiest underwear that Brandon has ever seen. Tim slips his hands into the jeans, ready to take them off.

"No," Brandon chokes. "Wait. Let me."

Tim smiles and steps forward, a reversal of their earlier position, Tim between his knees this time. Tim rests his hands on Brandon's shoulders and Brandon rests his hands around Tim's waist, feeling the heat of his skin for a moment before sliding them down into the waistband of Tim's jeans and his underwear both, inching them off, feeling the smooth curve of Tim's ass rising under his palms. He leans forward, hands gliding down Tim's legs until his pants and underwear are at his ankles and Brandon's cheek is against Tim's stomach. He can feel Tim's fingers in his wet hair, and Tim's cock bumping against his throat. Tim balances, first on one foot, then the other, then they're both naked, and Brandon's hands are skimming back up Tim's legs, and Tim is falling forward as Brandon leans back, and they're kissing skin on skin, and Brandon cannot get close enough.

They are wrapped together, legs and arms entwined so tight that Brandon doesn't know which are his and which are Tim's. Tim's hair is in his eyes, and his mouth, but Brandon doesn't care; he wants more. More.

They finally settle together, groin to groin, Tim undulating against him, cock rubbing into the soft flesh of his belly. It's so good, hot and wet and clean, but it's not quite enough, even with Brandon's hands gripping Tim's ass, that Brandon finally caves and wriggles a hand in between them, grabbing first for Tim, then himself.

"Oh, oh," Tim gasps, pausing, but Brandon isn't waiting, not now, and keeps his hand moving until Tim gives in and humps against him, into him, breathing into his ear, "brandon, brandon, brandon," until Brandon can't hear anything, can't see anything, can only feel Tim shudder against him before he's coming, too, arching his back up off the bed even with Tim on top of him.

"You're fucking amazing," Tim murmurs in his ear, pushing Brandon's hair back off his forehead, kissing the corner of his mouth.

Brandon smiles, his eyes still closed. His heart is thudding in his chest, beneath Tim's weight. His free hand (the one not between them covered in...stuff) rests in the small of Tim's back. He feels like he could stay here forever.

Another kiss, just to the side of his mouth. "Do you play tomorrow?"

Brandon sighs. Reality. "Yep. Every day this week." He shifts, slides his messy hand out from between them and wipes it on the bed, then strokes Tim's back, up and down. "Monday's our first off day."

"Harsh." Tim is nuzzling his throat, rubbing his cheek gently against Brandon's scruff, like a cat on a scratching post. "When's call time?"

"Three. Or three thirty. How long can you stay?"

Tim shrugs under Brandon's palm. "Until Tuesday at least," he murmurs. "Unless you have plans."

Brandon does have plans, actually. There's a guys night thing tomorrow, after the game, and they play away on Saturday and Sunday, but "away" in the Fall League usually means a fifteen minute drive to the other side of town. "No, no plans," he says and feels Tim's smile bloom against his skin.

The End

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