Tim wakes up naked.
He doesn't usually sleep naked, especially not in hotels where there are maids, and teammates who like to con the front desk staff out of keys so they can play pranks. It seems like a better idea, generally, to sleep with his clothes on. Naked is risky.
Buster's not wearing much either, just boxer briefs. Blue. A color that would match his eyes if they were open, which they aren't and which Tim is incredibly grateful for. He doesn't know what he's going to say the next time that he sees Buster with his eyes open.
He doesn't want to say anything at all. He just wants to go back to what they were doing, making out and goofing off and pretending that it didn't mean anything, that no one's feelings ever got hurt. Tim thinks maybe he'll try that--not saying anything--and seeing if it flies.
Buster is sprawled across the bed on his back, one arm above his head, legs apart, face turned slightly away. Even with a night of scruff on his face (scruff, Tim thinks, rubbing his own face ruefully), Buster looks like a upstanding young man, the kind that would live next door and eat apple pie and say "yessir" and "no sir" and not even be ironic about it. He couldn't be more All-American if he was waving a flag and shooting fireworks out of his ass. Tim fights the urge to slide in under his arm and rest his cheek on Buster's chest.
He's always fighting urges when it comes to Buster nowadays.
Before that night, that first night, he'd never thought of Buster that way.
Well, he thinks now, looking at the slope of Buster's thigh where it meets the cotton of his briefs. Not never. But it was just in the idle way that he thought of any attractive person, a fleeting thought that didn't even make it into his daily jerk off sessions. Buster's physical attractiveness was just another thing Tim knew about him: Buster is right handed, Buster is from Georgia, Buster is hot.
And then Buster put his hands on Tim and something in Tim had woken up for the first time in a long time and that was how he ultimately ended up naked in Buster's bed, even though he knew that was a bad idea and he wasn't even drunk.
Tim eases off the edge of the mattress and heads to the bathroom. In the shadowed mirror, his reflection looks like he's underwater. He can't read the expression on his own face. After he pisses, he washes his hands and swipes the damp towel across his stomach. He thinks maybe he'll go back to his own room before Buster wakes up. That will be easiest. Then they can face each other with their clothes on, which Tim--
Tim struggles to keep from putting his hands over his crotch. It's not like Buster hasn't seen it before, and covering up might make him seem guilty or ashamed. He's not either.
"Yep. Just a few minutes."
Buster rolls to his feet and comes over, heading toward the bathroom. He moves sleepily, running his hand through his hair, his thighs flexing impressively. Tim steps aside, but Buster hooks an arm around his waist and pulls him in until they're groin to groin, kissing Tim high up under his ear. "Morning."
Tim wants to resist, to pull back, but Buster is bigger than him and warm from sleep and his solid thigh is between Tim's, and his mouth is on Tim's neck. And he apologized and gives fantastic head. And his wife is okay with it, so it's not even cheating. And blue of his underwear matches his blue blue eyes, and his shoulders have a dusting of freckles across them that Tim doesn't remember seeing before. And he kisses Tim's neck and his jaw and then the corner of his mouth, his fingers cradling Tim's face. And he's going to be behind the plate for Tim's next game, and the game after that, and the game after that, and the thought makes Tim a little dizzy with anticipation. Tim tips his head back and gives in to Buster's kisses, hooking his fingers together behind Buster's neck.
When their mouths part, Tim is straddling Buster's leg, held in place by Buster's big hands on his ass. Buster's smile makes Tim feel like he's standing naked in the sun.
"Good morning," Tim sighs.