When Buster wakes up, the first thing he sees is Lincecum's shoulders. Lincecum's curled up on his side, turned away, and Buster is surprised by how broad Tim looks through the back, the line from his shoulders to his waist a slope with a surprisingly steep incline.

He shouldn't be surprised. He's not a fan or a journalist (funny how sometimes those are the same thing); he shouldn't buy in to the hype about little Timmy Lincecum and how impossible he is. Buster's seen just about everything Lincecum has on the mound, and he knows the kind of strength it takes to throw it.

But he's surprised anyways.

He curves his hand around Lincecum's shoulder, feeling its warmth through the thin cotton of his shirt. He sort of hopes that Tim will wake up and is also terrified by the idea. He's not sure what the etiquette is on post-blowjob mornings with teammates, mostly because he's never had one. A post-blowjob-with-a-teammate morning, that is. He's had plenty of blowjobs.

"Shut up," Tim mumbles from the other side of the bed.

"What?" Buster's pretty sure he didn't say anything.

"I can feel you staring at me," Tim says.

Buster snorts. "I'm pretty sure my eyes don't make noise."

Tim makes an annoyed sound.

Buster lies quietly, his hand still on Tim's shoulder, and looks at him, and tries not to think too loud. His jaw still hurts from the foul ball; he wonders if he has a bruise. Another game tonight, which means he's got--he glances at the clock--three hours before the ride to ballpark. Cain's up in the rotation. Good old Cain, who fades into the background behind Lincecum's spotlight, looking grateful. Buster wonders about that sometimes: does Cain ever get jealous? Does he ever want the kind of media attention and fan adoration that Lincecum has? Does he ever dream of being the ace?

He doubts it, but he might feel Cain out about it, maybe, if he gets the chance.

"What are you thinking about?" Lincecum asks, suddenly.

"Matty," Buster replies without thinking.

"I knew it." Tim rolls over to face him, sliding forward so that Buster's arm falls around his waist. "I could tell you were thinking about the game."

"How?"

Tim tucks his arm under his head. "Just could. You feel okay?"

Buster shrugs and says "my jaw hurts," before he realizes that Tim might have meant something else, something...more.

But apparently Tim doesn't, because he says "lemme see," without hesitation.

Buster leans in, lifting his chin, and feels the brush of Lincecum's fingertips along his jawline.

"It looks okay. A little bruised."

"Yeah?" He brings his head down and he and Lincecum are so close that their noses bump. His eyes are a strange color, somehow both brown and green together. Buster's sure there's a name for that. Lincecum can't be the first person ever to have this color eyes, right?

"Yeah," Tim breathes. "You'll live." His hand has traveled from Buster's cheek to his arm to his side, and now slips under Buster's shirt. "Probably."

"Probab--" Buster gets out before they're kissing.

It's closed mouth at first, television kisses, but then Buster feels Tim's fingers light on his stomach and remembers those same fingers on his cock and drags Tim closer with one hand.

Tim hesitates for a minute, murmuring something about brushing his teeth, but Buster insists, pressing his body into Tim's, pushing one leg between Tim's thighs, and finally, finally, Tim opens his mouth.

Buster rolls him onto his back and yanks both of his hands above his head, careful not to squeeze too tight around his wrists, careful not to hurt the franchise. Tim lets him, mouth and eyes open now. Buster kisses him, again and again, his free hand roaming under Tim's shirt, beneath the waistband of Tim's drawstring pants. He's not wearing underwear and Buster suddenly regrets falling asleep the night before. Three hours isn't enough time for anything serious.

He licks his palm and slides it down the front of Tim's pants. He's cheating a little, he knows--this isn't exactly turnabout for the amazing head he got last night--but he wants to see Tim's face, wants to catch his breath when he comes.

Tim is writhing beneath him, legs spread wide. He makes hardly any noise, but Buster can see every move he makes, every stroke, every pause, written on Tim's face. Buster slows down, speeds up, tries every variation he can think of, fingertips, palm, hard, soft, until Tim's breath roars in his ear.

Tim plants his heels in the mattress and thrusts up into Buster's hand, knees apart, stomach flush with blood. He's close; Buster can tell from the trembling in his thighs.

He leans in, squeezing lightly in time with Tim's rhythm and, just at the last second, covers Tim's mouth with his, kissing him and stroking him until he collapses back on the mattress, gasping for breath.

They lie still for a minute, Tim's chest heaving beneath him. Buster surreptitiously wipes his hand on the bedspread. After a moment, Tim pulls back a bit. "You need to shave," he says, rubbing his face, grinning sheepishly.

Buster grins, nuzzles his cheek. "You don't."

Tim smirks at him. "Jason said it was like making out with a chick."

Buster doesn't know what that means, not really. He's been with Kristen since high school, and before her there weren't many girls. I've made out with more guys than girls, Buster realizes. The thought stuns him.

"What?" Tim asks.

Buster tells him. Tim bursts out laughing, really laughing, his body undulating under Buster's.

"Shut up!" Buster deadweights him, half because that's what you do when a guy makes fun of you and half because he wants to feel Tim move beneath him. He presses his erection into Tim's thigh. Tim doesn't seem to mind.

"Sorry," Tim gasps. "Sorry. Really. It's, I don't know." He laughs again. "It's just...you. Mister Married."

"Yeah." Buster says. He wonders what his wife will say when he tells her. She'll probably ask for photographs.

"So, um." Tim clears his throat and when Buster glances at his face, he sees that Tim is really anxious about what he's going to say. "She's really okay with this? Like, really?"

"You want to call her and ask her?" Buster makes a grab for his phone on the nightstand, rolling his full weight onto Tim in the process. "She won't mind being woken up, I'm sure."

"Shut up." Tim slugs him in the ribs. "It's just...unusual...you know..."

Buster nods. He knows. It's one of the reasons he married her.

"So you can, like...date?"

The realization crashes over him like someone has dumped a cooler of Gatorade over his end at the end of a summer game. Lincecum thinks they're dating.

Dating.

And why wouldn't he? They make out, they hang out, they sit next to each other on the bus and in the bullpen...we do everything but hold hands and share malted shakes, Buster thinks.

And that's the thing. His wife is fine, comfortable, even sort of turned on by the fact that he sometimes gets it on with guys.

But he's never spoken to her about...whatever this is. Dating.

Why would he? It's never come up before. In all the years that he's been doing this, he's never thought of it as dating. Fooling around, making out, fucking, sure. But this ongoing hanging out, talking, sleeping together, this has never come up.

And Buster's not sure he wants it to come up now.