fuzzballsheltiepants:

This prompt made me chuckle, given Neil’s disdain for baseball.  Hope you enjoy this bit of fluff!

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“I’m being punished, aren’t I.”  

Neil’s arms were crossed and his eyes were narrowed, and Andrew struggled to keep his face straight.  “Yes.”

“Ugh.”  Neil cast another glare in the direction of the stadium rising up in front of them.  “I didn’t mean to do it.  I can take her back, if you want.  It was just…she was looking at me with those eyes, you know?”

Andrew did know; Neil was looking at him with those same piteous eyes, just as he had a week ago when he had brought home yet another hard-luck kitten.  This made four, with fifteen legs and seven eyes and three tails between them, and Andrew had warned him after the last one what would happen.  Neil knew Andrew always kept his word.

Besides, it wasn’t like Neil would actually take the thing back.  When they had left the little tripod beast had been asleep in Andrew’s boot and Neil had gushed and taken seventeen photos with his goddamn phone before Andrew had shoved him out the door.

“You know the deal, junkie.  Add a cat, go to a baseball game.  Add two, and it’s season tickets.”  It was the only recourse Andrew had at this point, short of homicide.

By some gift of a minor deity they made it into the stadium and to their seats without being recognized.  Once Neil was slumped in his seat like a sullen toddler, Andrew left in search of alcohol.  At least this park had semi-decent beer; he ordered a comically overpriced ‘76 and a miniature plastic baseball cap heaped with moose-tracks ice cream and headed back towards his seat.

As he came down the steps he realized there was a strange hubbub down in their section.  A strange, Neil-related hubbub.  Of fucking course.  A cluster of college-age kids were all gathered around a flustered Neil, waving programs in his face for him to sign.  

“But I don’t even play baseball,” he was protesting when Andrew made his way into their row.  He was fully prepared to dump his twelve dollar beer on someone’s head if necessary, but it turned out conspicuously stepping on people’s feet and pretending you didn’t notice was a highly effective method of getting them out of your way.  Who knew?

Neil blinked up at him sheepishly.  “They’re, uh, fans.”

Andrew gave him his best “No shit” look, and Neil grinned when one of the fans squealed as they recognized Andrew.  

“Oh my god.  Oh my god, you’re Andrew Minyard.  You’re like my brother’s favorite player!  He has a fathead of you up on his wall!”

Neil snorted; the girl continued to gush despite Andrew’s flattest stare until her friends tugged her away.  “Well, now you know why they made you pose for that,” Neil said with sweet venom.  “It was all so one teenage boy could have a life-sized vinyl version of you forever on his bedroom wall.”

“Thanks.  That’s not fucking creepy or anything.”

It was already the bottom of the first inning and Neil hadn’t so much as glanced in the direction of the field.  They were close enough to see the sweat on the batters’ faces as they headed for first base, not that Neil appreciated the good seats.  Andrew wondered if it still counted as punishment if Neil succeeded in getting through all nine innings without watching a pitch.  Probably, judging by the restless jiggling of one long leg.  

Andrew finished his ice cream and sipped his beer, ignoring the twitching coming from the seat next to him.  Vendors wandered up and down the steps, and Neil bought himself a hot dog and onion rings, the latter of which Andrew mooched half of before he even noticed.  

By the top of the fourth, Neil had started to watch despite himself, the junkie.  At the bottom of the fifth, he leaned over.  “Fastball.”

Andrew studied the way the pitcher was eyeing the catcher, the angle of his shoulder, the stance of his feet.  “Curve.”

“Five bucks?”

“You’re on.”

By the seventh inning stretch, Andrew was twenty dollars richer and celebrated by escaping the off-key singing that reverberated through the stadium to get another beer.  This time he returned to find his idiot arguing with a hard-core baseball fan from the row in front over whether replay was killing the sport.  Neil had the glow in his eyes and flush across his cheeks that he got when he was fighting just for the sheer love of being difficult, and Andrew wanted to drag him out of there, if only to find a dark corner and kiss him senseless.  He wasn’t even paying attention to what Neil was saying, just the way he lit up and laughed at the response he got.

Play resumed, and this time it was Andrew having trouble concentrating on the game.  It was impossible.  Neil was impossible, with the sun highlighting the curve of his cheek, shooting gold through the flame of his hair.  He glanced at Andrew, the corner of his mouth quirking up and promising trouble later.  With a herculean effort, Andrew dragged his eyes back to the field; if his thoughts were racing ahead to newfound plans for how they would spend the rest of their evening, nobody needed to know.

The game ended with a strikeout from the young relief pitcher.  The roar from the crowd had Neil joining in, swept away in the noise and almost palpable joy that rippled through the stadium.  Andrew remained in his seat as his junkie leaped to his feet, silently shaking his head at how spectacularly his plan had gone awry.  

“That wasn’t so bad,” Neil said once they were back in the merciful air conditioning of the Maserati.  

“I’ll have to think up a different deterrent.”

The smile Neil shot him with was painful in its beauty.  “You know Lady Whiskerton has a brother.”

“You are not naming it that.”

“Too late.”  Neil caught Andrew’s hand where it rested on the gear shift and brought his palm to his lips.  “You’re stuck with us.”

A thousand acid retorts marched through Andrew’s brain only to die on his tongue.  He had been trapped in flypaper before, knew the sticky helplessness of it.  This was different; this was a plant turning to the sun.  It was warmth, and strength, and the slow sure deepening of roots through rocky soil.  This was every dark corner and recess being illuminated, every demon exposed by the sanitizing light, and saying yes anyway.  It was the opposite of stuck.

“You’re an idiot,” he said, keeping his voice as flat as possible.  But Neil—damn him, Neil was fluent in Andrew as he was in everything else.  He heard the truth behind the words, and the look he turned on Andrew was preposterously beautiful.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking at me too loudly.”

Neil laughed, bright and warm. Andrew could bask in the sound.  “You can hear what I’m thinking?”

Andrew could; after all, he was good at languages too.  And it was the same as the thought currently taking root in his own chest.  The words echoed through the car, unspoken but not unheard, as Andrew steered them towards home.