"Lawrence are you sure y'really need t'paint your face too? I mean, you've already got the shirt, the pants, the wristbands, I think I even see some beads around your neck, y'got flags 'nd socks 'nd shoes,"
"Are you serious? Do you gotta ask?" Scout scoffs. "What kind of fan do you think I am?!"
Sniper, who waits timorously in the splintered frame of the bedroom door through which the young man slipped only seconds before, eyes Scout both with eyes widened and unobstructed by his glasses, sputtering the nonsensical beginnings to an answer to Lawrence's question. They taper off quickly however, the uttered phonemes themselves lasting no longer than a second at the most before Jack ultimately quashes the overall idea to respond so quickly in the first place. It was an excellent question the Bostonian posed, one easily likened to questioning the absurd or reason. Where the question of just what exactly made the cases of the latter concepts such existentialist conundrums, Sniper couldn't even say a sliver of sense applied to Scout and his high regard of Sox fanboyism and the Heirarchy associated with it. "The same kind o'fan as the ones without face paint? I dunno, God forbid the umpire can't see y'supportin' 'im from a mile away,"
"All I'm sayin' is your ass is gonna be so fuckin' embarrassed when you go to that game and see you're the only one not wearin' shit like a dumbass,"
"I think the Sox have enough self confidence in themselves that they can do without one Superfan,"
"So I'm a Superfan?" Scout asks, narrowing his eyes at his white faced reflection, caked with face paint, a contemptuous smirk curling along the edges of lips smudged bright red in what Sniper considered a self-defamation as opposed to an honourific get up in the name of his favourite team. The Australian ponders why the young man had even asked the question as if he didn't already know the answer; sporting the form fitting, red and white stripped jersey of a Mister Ray Culp (Scout's favourite player and an ace pitcher) a similarly tinted hat reminiscent of the topper the cat of the Cat in the Hat wore, Sox sweatbands, kneesocks, red trousers, closing the display with red and white baseball shoes, labeling Scout as anything other than a Superfan was to Jack utterly preposterous.
"You sure you don't want a shirt or nothin'?" Scout calls from inside of his dusty, disorganized closet. Throwing the man a wad of soft, weightless cotton seconds later, Scout decides Sniper's input wasn't all too necessary despite his having asked the older man. Sniper shakes the flowing material to better distinguish it for what it even was, the fabric almost wetly cold like unworn silk left to slither in shaded water. It had to've been a minimum of five years old, a conclusion drawn upon both by the sizing and the faded dye of the red word Boston seeping into the black-grey material. Though Scout was rather small and lean, he had a width to him nonetheless; the shirt Sniper holds in his hands however suggesting the Tee stemmed from a muscleless yet not too distant youth. "Wos's this?!" Sniper asks with unintentional repugnance slipping through his teeth with a light whistle, raising an eyebrow at the weightless garment that flutters as if its core fibers were liquefied by his somewhat disgusted glare. "'S a shirt, dumbass, what else would it be?" Scout tisks, Sniper retorting to the young man's scathing tone by curling his hands to imitate the claws of a lion. "What about it, y'want me t'tuck it away just in case little Larry needs an extra change o'clothes?"
"Nah, that ain't for me, Jack—'s for you," Scout explains, wasting no time in stripping the brown vest from his shoulders and undoing the man's red button down just as quickly. "What're you doin'?!"
"Just speedin' things along, Jack, we ain't got time to dilly dally, if we want tickets we gotta get there at least an hour early,"
"Listen t'you, makin' plans 'nd schedules like you're actually gonna follow a time table," Sniper spits as Lawrence cannot resist running his hands across Sniper's chest, even if it is once. "The Sox ain't a plan, wombat," Scout explains from the corner of his mouth, squinting through the corresponding corner of his eye as he sizes the small shirt against Sniper's front. "Try asensation,"
"Y'want me t'try this postage stamp of a shirt while I'm at it?!" Sniper growls as Scout drags the cotton over his head, tugging harshly at the ends that rest taut against his midriff. "Lawrence I look bloody ridiculous,"
The Australian grimaces at his tanned reflection, the form fitting top hugging every toned and sculpted muscle adorned on his torso and abdomen, the fabric catching against the defined breast it nearly tears its fibers in an attempt to conceal. The "B" and "N" of the "Boston" letterings stand out particularly, the outline of the man's nipples clearly visible, though one could certainly argue this wasn't necessarily a bad thing; as a matter of fact, Scout notes both with an internal "Hey" as well as an isolated hardness in his pants, the man looked downright sexy. "Lawrence I'm not wearin' your skin tight clothes from six years ago!"
"Dude, you look…" Scout drools, the sight of his favourite Australian sporting a form fitting token of support for the Red Sox yet another unorthodox myriad of conditions to add to the list of things that turned the Bostonian on. "Like a shameless hooker?! Yeah, sounds about righ!" Sniper growls, the slender slacks, slouch hat, and glasses giving Sniper a less than conservative appearance. "Like I know all about bases with the team, 'lright,"
"Dude, I'd let you swing my fuckin' bat anytime,"
"I already do," Sniper chuckles, turning to better scrutinize his reflection in the mirror. "Oi, even if it's a little snug I s'pose I do look kinda nice," he smiles innocently, though Scout would go so far as to argue that nice was a hell of an understatement. "What's that?! 'Re you poppin' a boner on me?" Sniper laughs, taking Scout into a slight headlock, the young man's queasy smile curling into uncertain 's'es and swirls. "Well I'm sorry, love; you're a right gorgeous thing but I can't say your Bozo the Sox Clown get up really turns me on,"
Scout laughs a little at the man's comment and subsequent chuckle, the image however of pleasing Sniper in the dug out returning just as swiftly as it had settled itself into his brain. "Though maybe if y'wear nothin' but those cute little Sox undies I like I'll mess around with ya t'night…" Sniper whispers, conceding to the Bostonian's unspoken wish that he keeps the shirt on by layering his brown vest overtop it. Scout tugs softly on the waist of his trousers, revealing the red waistband of the aforementioned undergarment, implying the young man was already a step ahead of him. "Now that's a Sox fan I can get behind,"
Scout smirks at the lame pun, turning sharply as the bottom of his door slides against the greying carpet, a blonde head poking through. Luc's blue eyes widen at the sight of Lawrence showing off the Boston themed briefs Sniper claimed to love so much. "You still 'ave zhose zhings?!" Luc laughs at the stony faced young man, whose toughness meant to radiate through the hardened features is negated by the pounds of ridiculous fan gear he dons. "I never zhought I'd see zhe day when you'd be showing zhem to someone as a turn on,"
I MADE AN AUDIO RECORDING OF ME READING THE STORY STARTING FROM HERE. I SUGGEST READING ALONG WITH THE RECORDING. I was on the phone with SPAZIDELIC /27078312
"How're you, Luc?" Sniper asks loudly, wrapping an arm across Scout's chest, rooting him should the urge to deck the smiling Frenchman grow any more appealing than he already knows Scout finds it to be. "Y'look sweaty or somethin'!"
"Doing yard work can be taxing at times, I'm certain Lawrence knows exactly what I'm talking about…"
"I didn't come in sweatin' and smellin' like shit though," Scout spits. "Now get the fuck outta here, we gotta go,"
"Go where?"
"I'm takin' Lawrence to a Sox game,"
"Yeah, where the fuck else would we be goin' dressed like this?!"
"Well, when you were younger you would go to zhe grocery store dressed as such," Luc scoffs, eyeing the young man in his get up once more before clearing his throat.
"You just plannin' on standin' here reminiscin' about my childhood? 'Cause we gotta get outta here if we want tickets,"
"Zhe game does not start for anozher 'our and a 'alf!"
"The game is one of the biggest of the year, Puke, seriously; the Tampa Bay Rays are playin' and if you think that stadium ain't gonna be sold out then you don't know shit about baseball,"
"Funny zhing, I truly don't, 'owever what I do 'ave is a sense of intuition, and zhis time I zhink you will agree wizh me when I say it worked in your favour,"
"Spit it out, Frenchie,"
The rectangular slips in Luc's hand appear to be nothing more in Scout's mind. The evenly cut paper and black print forming clusters of illegible, inky words, Scout can only look back up at his deadpan stepfather with the assumption that the man meant to bullshit him. Sniper observes the exchange silently albeit with interest. Progress halts until Lawrence raises a thick brow, Sniper bending slightly to take a closer look at the stubs. "Oi, those're tickets, love,"
"What?! Gimmie those," Scout mutters, snatching them up and scrutinizing them, his mouth wide with shock and utter disbelief. "Holy shit, Puke!" His fingertips slide in stilted strokes along the soft, threatless edges. "How did you get a hold of these, tickets just went on sale today!"
"Your brozhers and I stopped by zhe stadium on zhe way 'ome; it is what took us so long,"
"You serious?"
"I figured it 'ad been a while since you 'ad last been to a game, and zhat you would maybe want to take Jack, show 'im what it is you are so crazy about,"
Scout gapes, the slips moistening in the palms of his slightly dampened hands, head craned down in disbelief at the tickets still. "I can't believe you just, got 'em, Puke,"
"Well it 'elped zhat I did not ask for tickets right be'ind zhe dug out!"
"You didn't get any for no one else, though,"
"Paul is busy, Alex 'ates baseball, and your mozher and I figured you should take your friend—she said she 'as been to plenty of games wizh you in zhe past, and just to get tickets for yourself and Jack since you were discussing zhings to show 'im. By zhe way, is zhat Lawrence's old Red Sox shirt, Jack? It is awfully tight!"
"Jack's gotta have somethin',"
"It compliments you,"
"If y'mean makes it damn near impossible t'breathe 'nd it looks damn near obscene, then yeah, it's a compliment 'lright,"
"I'm surprised 'e 'as 'eld onto it zhis long, you 'ave to wonder what Lawrence could possibly want wizh a shirt zhree sizes too small for 'im. Well, I should get back to Julie, she claims to 'ave more chores, but you two 'ave, er, fun,"
"Yeah, well, thanks I guess," Scout huffs quickly, avoiding Luc's eye as he grabs Sniper's hand, handing him his ticket. The words kill him to speak and Jack knows it. That the words were even spoken at all stuns the two of them, and Sniper can tell by Luc's pursed lips and wide blue eyes that he too found hushed, swiftly uttered words of gratitude to be an unexpected pleasantry from his youngest stepson. "You're welcome, Lawrence. 'Ave a good time and try to be'ave, please…"
"Butt out, Frenchie," Scout glares, and Luc shrugs, allowing the bedroom door to slip closed behind him.
-
"I don't understand how y'don't get sick all the way up here, love," Sniper slurs, remarking how funnily different heightsseemed to be without the focus of sniping to distract him. His hands grip tightly onto the arm rests of the grungy, dark red plastic of the seat, surrounded on all sides by the deafening roar of fellow Sox fans, whose rowdy cheers escalate in deafening wavelengths; about as never ending as one at that. "NO SUMMER THIS YEAR, IN THE DAYS OF THE WAR, BUT THE RED SOX ARE WINNING…" nearly the entirety of the crowd, Scout included, belt what Sniper assumes to be song lyrics in a cohesive unison of loyalty to the Red Sox.
"I told ya in the car we'd be pretty high up there, Jack…" Scout rolls his eyes in between lyrics, digging a greedy hand into the miniature, peanut filled burlap sack the Australian had purchased him, shoved haphazardly into the cupholder. "Speakin' of things I told ya, I bet you're glad I made you put on that shirt; I told ya you woulda looked fuckin' stupid comin' in here without some Sox gear,"
Scout had made a perfectly valid point when explaining to Sniper that not a living thing in Boston didn't set aside some sort of attire appropriate for attending a game, like an unspoken dress code. "You know, 'cept that fuckin' asshole," Scout spits at a solitary man sporting a (what Sniper finds to be) particularly inoffensive Tampa Bay Rays shirt at the expense of drawing dirty looks to his person. "Look, he's even shakin', though—'s what he gets, you betta be scared, you're in Sox country, punk ass!" Scout shouts at him from across a few rows, his bellowing riding over the still singing crowd for a few seconds before getting lost in a particularly loud note of "BOSTOOOOOON".
"Haven't you or—or any other fans ever stopped t'think that maybe it doesn't matter what some other bloke is wearin'?"
"Doesn't matter? Doesn't matter?!" Scout gasps incredulously at the slowly nodding Australian. "I oughta throw your ass down there, Snipes; down in the dug out with your precious Rays,"
"I never said I supported 'em, just that you all look like you've spotted a child rapist 'nd not just a fan o'the opposin' team!"
"He shoulda known better to come wearin' nothin' with no teams on it, it woulda said the same thing; you can always tell somebody who don't support the Sox if they ain't full blown in Sox stuff, right?! If you can even call them people…"
Though only few in the crowd of what Sniper guessed to be about thirty thousand actually dress with as much spirit as Scout seemed to show, the majority of (allegedly non) people in the crowd settling with doning at least a cap with the red "B" of Boston Sniper had quickly familiarized himself with to show their pride. One man even appeared to be shirtless, Sniper notes, red letters splattered like staining crumbs of dribbled food across his flesh, though illegible due to sitting across the stadium. Jack, who was far from a prude stiff, still found he had trouble seeing the sense or justification in painting oneself.
"Surprised 's not you," Sniper extends a curled pinky to point at the thin man who jumps wildly in his seat across from them, clearing his throat and catching his gaze before it focuses on the thirty foot drop separating himself and the green deathbed of the diamond below. "Who?" he asks solemnly, the implication that a bigger Sox fan than his truly resided in the stands beside himself doing much to ignite the potential of raising his temper. Scout wobbles his head back and forth in an attempt to find him or her, straining the tendons in his neck until the tension shoots along his spine in painful pulsations.
"No, over there…"
"What, who, that dude with Sox on his stomach?"
"He looks like he smells like the nacho cheese that kid over there's been screamin' about," Sniper grumbles, shooting the third disgruntled eye in ten minutes at the pimply teenager who walks about the rows, shouting in an attempt to sell the snack foods in a black container he lugs up and down the steps. "Yeah, he looks grody as Hell," Scout comments through another mouthful of unsalted peanuts, the shells fluttering to his feet.
"What?! Like you have any room t'talk in your get up! I'd send you in the same paddy wagon to the bonkers bin as 'im!"
"I don't look like I smell like cheese, though,"
"Right, I bet it's takin' all o'ya t'not fling your shirt off 'nd write Ray Culp's name in your ownblood on your chest!"
"Yeah, you'd like that huh, Jack?! If I just took my shirt off and walked around! I woulda done it too if it didn't turn you on,"
"Turn me on?!" Sniper repeats indignantly, Scout nodding in response.
"I can't have you poppin' boners in front of my heroes, Jack, that's just wrong, wombat,"
Sniper rolls his eyes, but says nothing in return.
"Yeah well, I think the whole lot o'ya are absolutely insane,"
"You're just jealous 'cause I'd write Ray's name on it before yours," Scout snaps, Jack grumbling as he decides to neither confirm nor deny Scout's accusation.
"What's so great about 'im anyway? All 'e does is hit balls with bats,"
"All you do is run three miles away and sit on your ass and shoot. And he's a pitcher, and 'least Ray is atheletic,"
"Y'tryin' t'say I'm not fit?! C'mon now, Lawrence, y'act like I haven't got muscles o'my own!"
"Yeah, but what's hotter, a dude gettin' muscles by campin' in the forest or a dude getting' muscles by becomin' a Bostonian hero by takin' the Sox to the series?"
"Right, he can be Boston's hero all he wants, but I'm Lawrence's; would Ray Culp save your arse 'nd let you sleep in his bed?!"
"Prolly,"
"But he'd ditch your sorry self after needin' t'save ya after the five thousandth bloody time!"
"Jack, you've only saved me like, five times, and Ray's pitchin's won us like, a thousand games,"
"Y'wouldn't be here t'see it if I hadn't saved ya those five times," Sniper grumbles but Scout ignores him as the players rush onto the field, throwing the crowd showy waves and dazzling smiles, visible even in their distance. "Stand up, Jack, we gotta sing the national anthem," Scout grabs his hand, wrenching him from his seat and pulling him close. "You know it, right?"
"'Course," Sniper grunts, proceeding to mouth the words with utmost conviction, the unintelligible grumble of his Australian accent helping to mask that after ten years, he truly had never bothered to learn it. "'Lright, so now what?"
"So it's the first inning, right? The Rays are gonna bat and the Sox are defending, okay?"
"Right,"
"So you see the white shit on the corners of the diamonds? They gotta get their dudes to run to each one and get back to home plate, that's called a home run,"
"'Kay,"
"The team with the most wins; you see Ray down there? He's pitchin' and bein' a badass in general,"
"Right, but the batter's missin'! I'm sure Luc didn't pay all that money for us t'watch these goons miss for the next three hours!"
"Nah, that's good for us though. Ray's pitchin' so fast dude at bat can't hit it. He misses three times, that's an out,"
"Three strikes you're out, right?"
Sniper's question is drowned out by a loud BOOO, the one at bat striking the ball with a powerful swing. Many stand in an attempt to follow the ball's trajectory, Scout included. "FUCK! NO! STOP IT! SOMEONE CATCH THAT SHIT!" Scout roars, Sniper clearing his throat and casting an apologetic look at an indignant mother who covers her young son's ears. "Lawrence…" Sniper grumbles, wrenching Scout back by the collar of his shirt and whispering in his ear. "There're kiddies around here, now…"
"So the fuck what, daddy's over there on his third beer-COME ON GUYS, CATCH IT!"
The crowd takes a collective sigh and claps wildly as the ball is thrown about a bit just in time to sully the batter's attempt at stealing first plate. The batter walks with his head hung toward the dug out to what Sniper bets is the most awkward applause in the man's life. "That was a lucky catch, no?"
"Luck?! The Sox ain't lucky, wombat," Scout grins as within another three minutes yet another Tampa walks another batter. "They're geniuses." Though even eight innings later, Sniper can only say that even geniuses have their matches and equals. After two and a half hours of what Sniper only considered to be marginally interesting at times, (though he couldn't deny like Scout he'd developed a vocal support for the team, clapping and groaning if a well hit ball landed in the mitt of a Tampa Bay Ray) both teams were neck to neck with 5 points each. The sport was certainly valid, he could see why Scout enjoyed it so. Still, even as he asked if all they did was slide in the dirt, to which Scout replied with 'Shut the fuck up, this is the real shit right here, Jack', he found himself growing more fond of Lawrence's obsession.
"What in the world…?" Sniper mumbles as an epidemic of arm waving swivels about the stadium along with a call of "whooooo", his grey eyes watching the cycle travel lazily in a flurry of raised limbs, eyes growing wider as he find the craze nears closer to their side of the stadium. "Aw yeah, the wave, c'mon, Snipes," the young man beams, Sniper however chuckling and shaking his head softly.
"The wave," He repeats. "Why,"
"It's just what people do,"
"We 'lready got up for the seventh innin' stretch!"
"Get up again,"
"But this bloody wave 's just nonsense,"
"C'mon, stand up, here it comes,"
"No thanks, I'll pass, love…."
"Get your fuckin' ass up and do the wave, Jack,"
Sniper snarls but obliges, standing with the rest of the section as they stand and cheer, arms stretched enthusiastically. Scout cheers and laughs heavily, flashing Sniper a toothy grin, his bucked incisors poking from his upper lip. The Australian suppresses a smile, but takes a seat and drapes an arm around Scout's shoulder."You're awfully calm for your Sox, they're tied, right?"
"Dude, I ain't gotta freak, the Sox come back like it ain't shit," Scout smirks, waving his pennant quickly (the mother having left with her son three innings ago after Scout had called Tampa's pitcher out to be a cunt loudly from the stands).
"C'MON BOYS!" Scout hollers, stumbling back and falling against Sniper as a well hit foul ball flies upward toward their direction at what Sniper guesses to be a good eighty miles per hour. The whole of the section gasps and turns away from the incoming ball, Scout however too caught up in grimacing at the Australian to duck as the ball collides with the side of his head, the young man instantly stunned. "Bugger me, Lawrence!" Sniper gasps, taking Scout into his arms and surveying his blurred, swiveling eyes, his slackjawed mouth attempting to respond with gentle puckers of his lips pronouncing weary syllables. "'Re you 'lright, love?!"
Scout nods, his eyes lidded as he grips tightly onto Sniper's front, stumbling even with the Australian's support in lifting him up from the ground. "'S'lright, everyone, give 'em some room…" Jack props him back up in the hard backed chair, patting his cheek affectionately and surveying the point of impact, a bruise swirling to form a nasty, violet splotch on his poor temple. His eyes slowly untangle themselves from their cross eyed disoritentation, the young man flashing a toothy but beguiled grin at the Australian and the few in their row who watch him with the palms of their hands drawn to cover their assuredly agape mouths, raising his fist triumphantly, a small, leather ball constricted proudly within its confines.
A man cheers and slight applause breaks out on behalf of the young man, the noise staggering within his ears and temporarily shocking Scout, who compensates for the sudden vertigo he feels by simply shutting his eyes and bringing his arm to his chest. Sniper catches him as a powerful sway forward would have otherwise sent the Bostonian back to the greyed concrete of the ground, patting his cheek again in an attempt to slap consciousness back into him—despite usually attempting to inflict the opposite on the young man along with his gesture. As sense returns to Lawrence he gives the man a wide eyed jump in return for his efforts, pressing the ball tighter against him possessively from realization.
"No one's gonna take your ball, you've earned it," Sniper whispers, Scout visibly relaxing. "We'll get it signed for ya after the game, love," Scout, having been brought again to dreamy aloofness by the man's statement, attempts to respond with enthusiasm at Sniper's proposal. "I'll even let ya hold it, maybe you'll even be able t'shake Culp's hand, eh?" He rubs Scout's shoulder soothingly, the young man grunting however as what Jack presumes to be a sharp twinge of pain emanates from his right temple, causing Scout to hiss with pain. "Now y'know how it feels," the Australian grunts, producing a cigarette and lighting it calmly. "That bloody Sandman shit; you'll be fine, we were all fine after a while,"
Scout nods slowly, twirling the sweaty ball in his hands as his fingers slowly regain feeling. "Buck up if y'can, the Sox're at bat 'nd I think it's bottom o'the ninth…" Scout instantly slips from his slump, his shirt peeling from the back of the red chair as he lethargically hoists himself so that he can see the Sox rush to formation, Lawrence calling at Ray Culp excitedly from his chair, the syllables slurred but decipherable all the same. "We can do it, Jack, we can do it—COME THE FUCK ON!" Scout's slurred shouts echo down to the diamond, a decently struck ball arcing perfectly into the mitt of a Tampa catcher, who tosses it about to enough people to prevent the Sox at bat from taking the plate.
"Aw shit, come on….."
"Y'look like you're gonna piss yourself, love, y'sure y'don't need a potty break?"
"Shhhhhhh—!"
"'Lright, how 'bout I just refresh your little soda," Sniper clears his throat, but the rigid Scout neither listens nor responds orbreathes as Sniper takes the plastic cup from the dirtied dimensions of the holder on the arm rest, swiveling the flat backwash of Coca-Cola that swishes sickly in the bottom, the sweet syrup catching in Sniper's nostrils and causing him to gag. "I assume you'll jus' take another one o'the—"
Scout brushes him off with an impatient wave of his hand up and down, head glued to the events of the game transpiring below. He grunts and mumbles darkened words as the man slips in front of him, Scout pushing him out of the way and nearly causing the man to stumble on his own feet as he braves the narrow stairs back to the concessions level. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, the platform below the stadium itself drafty, resting in between two different storeys of seats. Taking a look to the left Sniper notices he is more level to the diamond itself, patrons of the game observing in a somewhat reserved, quiet manner (the mother from earlier and her family now residing in the row of seats Sniper identifies asJ13), as if the sport and etiquette had somehow shifted magically upon leaving Lawrence's side for a whole three minutes.
'These 're some nice seats, bet they're right pricey; sure as Hell don't miss out on the action…'
Julie's words from earlier that day ring reminiscently in the back of his mind, something about Lawrence not being allowed to see the entirety of the action, for he had a tendency to get very, very overexcited or whelmed by the Sox and their plays.'If Larry saw every single move those men made he wouldn't have made it to eighteen years old, he woulda had a heart attack—maybe even two, Jack…'
"I said what'll ya have, suhr?!" a snarky male voice drenched with the ever familiar Bostonian accent inquires shortly of the day dreaming Sniper, Jack startling as he gives the concessions worker his full attention. "Oi—'ll jus' take a refill if that's 'lright—he had a coca-whatsit…" The employee raises an eyebrow and snatches the cup, but not without glaring at the Australian as if he mistook the man's mumbling, Bushman drawl to be a mockery as opposed to the mere accent the older man had grown accustomed to. Sniper grumbles haughtily, eyebrows raised at the hunched figure who slams the overflowing cup onto the cool grey counter. "Oi, b'fore y'get any sorts o'ideas 'bout spittin' in it or somethin', 's not my drink, so I suggest y'watch how y'handle it—" Sniper snaps, but the tender, who opens his mouth very quickly to retort, falls silent as a collective groan issues from the crowd, players running about in a frenzy about the field, music playing over the intercom as thirty thousand voices begin to chatter at once.
"Hm—somethin' musta happened…"
"Somethin'?! More like the Sox just got their asses handed to them, pal," the man sneers. "And I ain't gonna be here when the riots break out," he huffs with finality, pulling the metallic shutter on the window quickly as fans of all ages (and all levels of sobriety) don the same repugnant scowl and flood from the stadium.
"Oh no, Lawrence…" Sniper sighs sadly as he turns to look back up at the stairs, taking the cup in hand and hoping that disappointed Sox fans were less inclined to violence upon encountering after the immediate loss of a game. He takes his time, both in an effort to not spill the drink whilst bumping into people leaving the stadium in droves as well as giving the young man some time to get over the shock of the sudden loss.
'Game was over jus' like that…' Sniper muses, and sure enough there sat Scout, rooted to his chair, the only one left in theirs at that, jaw almost unfastening his joints as it threatens to level itself with his feet, it is spread so wide.
"Lawrence?" the Australian croaks from the top of the stairs, Scout however focused on the two teams that stand on the field. "…love?" He approaches the young man with caution, sensitivity, settling himself in the seat next to him easily but with enough weight to his plop to remind Scout that life was, whether he chose to believe it or not, still meant to resume. "Larry I got ya some more soda, gremlin,"
'Whoa…'
Sniper's eyes widen as Scout's lip actually trembles, the painted, spiritedly bedecked fan of a Scout, though he releases only a shuddering, heavy sigh in response to having heard Sniper at all. "Y'want a drink?"
Scout sighs again before shaking his head no stoically, the young man clearly refusing to cry as he most certainly would have some fifteen or ten or perhaps even five years ago, though resisting the urge to do so now as a man half way to his thirties, as a man who had witness his friends breathe their dying breath in the past. Scout shakes his head, and Jack brings a caring but relatively awkward arm around his shoulder, patting the silent young man on the cheek.
"Cheer up, Lawrence; they'll—not lose next time?" Sniper attempts to actually soothe the Bostonian, but despite the now empty stadium that surrounds them both, Scout acts as if deafened by some sort of unsightly jumble of noise, a dog whistle of a roar perceptible only by the crestfallen Sox fan. After another select few minutes of sulking, Lawrence does manage to hoist himself to his feet, clutching his ball and leading Sniper back to the parking lot silently. Regardless, the younger of the two men seems steadfast on continuing the trend of moody disappointment, his thin, paint chapped lips clenched as if stapled upon their folds, as if the lack of conversation were a protest in the name of Tampa Bay's victory. Sniper sighs as his attempt at consolation only elicits an irritated growl from his best friend, Scout slamming the van's door with an intensity so distinctly unabated the Australian lurches forward with his palms spread in anticipation that the rusted door was to fall from his hinges as he'd long since expected. "Larry, I'm sorry, love!"
Sniper, who now notices his large hand is sticky and coated with dried Coke, spilled from the edge of the unlidded ballpark cup whilst taking the sharp turn onto Scout's onrey street (the unpaved, graveled roads, Sniper feared, only brought him closer to busted tires). He grumbles softly to himself, though nothing resembling any actual words, pretending to shake the hand and pick at the now gooey brown knuckle hair, giving Lawrence a chance to storm off ahead of him. He didn't always have that option, after all. Normally the brunt of Scout's anger was his to take, be it justified or not. He sympathises as he grips onto the cool metal of the sleek, slate tinted banister, the metal sliding underneath his movement bound body with ease. As his foot conquers the last step of a well swept flight of thirty (Julie must have tidied the landing in their absence), he allows himself one final weary sigh before extending the tip of his index finger to poke briefly at the Fitzpatrick buzzer.
Julie pokes her head through the frame, casting Sniper a silent but short lived, wide eyed glance before pulling the splintered front door back wider. Gesturing for the man to step into the now golden yellow living room, Julie laughs a little at what Sniper knows is the same thing he too finds interesting (precisely speaking the illuminated room), though neither actually confirm the Australian's hypothesis with concrete words. Seeing as evening approaches, the woman had flicked on the small, somewhat outdated lamp resting upon the equally fashionably obsolete side table that rests level to the left arm of the shabby maroon couch, exposed now in its worn state in brighter light. In a fit of eerily jarring deja vu Sniper could almost swear the lamp itself stemmed straight from his teenage years in the mid forties (and even back then he found the appliance to be terrible and unfitting). The familiarity of the velvet red lampshade, embellished with lace trim, the brass and marble base gleaming like a recognizable memory from a not too distant time…
It seemed well preserved, but very much out of place considering a whole twenty years had passed since then. Sniper, who nearly trips as his footing catches in a pocket of unevenness in the carpet, waves at Julie's concerned gasp on his behalf. She reddens, taking a split second's time to look around her again, and at once the oddities and imperfections of the household she'd hitherto maintained in private seem to burst from their closeted secrecy and glare in the face of their first guest in nearly a decade. As she had grown so used to bridling the shame associated with the apartment's unkempt state, showcasing it now voluntarily to the practical stranger irked her muchly, as far as Jack could tell. Luc, sitting cross legged on the couch, doesn't even look up from his evening paper let alone make any last minutes fusses about straightening up stacks of disheveled hair styling magazines or brushing dust flakes off coffee tables unlike his cherie. "It was my mother's," Julie coughs, dusting the dark brown base with a light green feather duster, brushing her hands across the richly stained cherry side table. "She gave it to me when I first married their father, Arnold…" she whispers meekly, reddening from irrational though not necessarily unexpected embarrassment.
'So then it's even older than I thought it was…'
Jack clears his throat, giving the upholstery a curt and established nod.
"'S nice,"
"It was 1930 when I first got it, and I'll tell ya, you have no idea how many times I've given that thing a look over the years, debatin' on whether or not I wanted to hock it for food to actually feed those boys—it was the depression, though, not a soul in or outta Boston would've had anythin' worth tradin' it for…" Julie sighs, and Jack nods in polite acknowledgement that he listens to her, his eyes widening as she actually picks up a pack of Camel Slims from the coffee table and strikes a match, shaking it in between her fingers once the cigarette in her mouth is adequately lit.
"I 'ave to wonder if Jack truly 'as any interest in 'earing about zhat lamp in any greater detail ozher zhan it brightens zhe room," Luc chuckles, batting his eyes at her in mock innocence as she towers over him, smirking at the bemused Frenchman with her hands on her hips, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her made up lips like a stiffened noodle.
"Well with the way Larry just came stormin' in a few minutes ago and bumped all over the place, I'm just lucky I caught it in time before it shattered all over the floor—guess you really don't know what you miss until you don't have it; speakin' ofmissin', you know how much I would have given up for a pack of these in those days?!" she asks, her voice smooth and even, though a hint of hysteria lies at the end of her question as she holds up the carton, blowing smoke through her narrow nostrils. "I'll tell ya, that damn thing oughta be glad it's still sittin' around—that table too, I remember seein' that old thing inmy grandmother's house growin' up, bet it's worth a lot…"
She tisks, giving the varnished top a smoothing over with her soft hand.
"My mother would have had a heart attack if I'd sold it when she was alive anyway, 'specially for somethin' like cigarettes…"
"I thought y'didn't smoke, Miss Julie…" Sniper mumbles, and in a dainty display of ultimate femininity, the woman plucks the white stick and pincers it in between her smooth fingers, the tip of the filter coloured a faded, carnation pink from the smeared lipstick's imprint upon it. "Eh, you know, in those days when you're goin' through a divorce and you've got seven little boys and no money in the worst part of Boston—well, let's just say a lot of other mothers livin' on this very street were probably addicted to worse things, if you know what I mean. I'd never let my boys play with those Carruthers kids—their mother was hittin' the bottle harder than, well..." Julie clears her throat, sighing at the radiant gleam of the accursed light and its illumination of the dirtied walls and the once white carpet, questionably sullied over time.
"...The lamp certainly does it's job, even after nearly forty years," she spits, flushing as she takes a damp rag from a small plastic bucket left in the corner, evidence that the woman had been cleaning at some point that day. "I'm sorry you gotta see this, Jack…" the woman snarls at the steadfast dirt flecks, her hand jutting against the bumps of the wall as she attempts to scrub it clean with added pressure from her elbow and wrist.
"'S alright, Miss Julie,really, I'm not a king, 'nd honestly I'm here for you all, not t'inspect your flat," he assures her kindly; Luc saying nothing, but the tips of his warm and ever present smile are visible over the slightly lowered edges of the night's paper. "Tho' if I must be honest with ya, 's kinda shockin' t'me how different y'are around Lawrence,"
"Different?" the woman asks, her lips rounding to form a soft "oh" of a face, dropping the rag back into the bucket and raising her ebony brow. "I didn't know I was different, did you Luc?"
"I dunno quite how t'explain it; maybe not different, but, well, y'certainly would never smoke in front o'Larry,"
"I used to when they were younger, but now? No, I could never!"
"I 'onestly do not see what zhe big deal is, it is not as if smoking zhe occasional cigarette in zhe company of your fully grown adult sons will automatically label you a bad mozher,"
"I don't want the kids thinkin' it's okay to smoke 'cause Mommy does it!"
"Julie, Cher, what kids?! I can assure you zhat you 'ave done a fine job of seeing to it your boys stay on zhe right track; zhat said, zhey are grown now, zhe brunt of zhe responsibility is off your shoulders, dear…"
"Yeah but its different with you, it's not so bad for you men! A mommy's always a mommy, especially with little grand kiddies; you can't tell me you think it looks good to see me smokin' in front of the babies,"
"Define good," Luc sneers suggestively, Scout's mother scoffing and striking her cigarette hand through the air dismissively, a small, wispy chain of smoke making a visual note of its path. "Oh stop," she chirrups, giggling lightly behind her bejeweled left hand. "You're too sweet, Lukie-boo,"
"Larry would not say so,"
"You're both ridiculous,"
"Glad at least you acknowledge 'im along wizh myself,"
"You're both crazy and I have half the mind to get ya both institutionalized!"
"Yeah, about Lawrence," Jack begins, deciding against confirming Luc's theory that he had no interest in the apartment décor and simply keeping his relief that the topic voluntarily shifts from thirty eight year old lamps to his heart broken Sox fan. "Forget it, he always gets like that when they lose," she sighs lightly as if she had no other thoughts on the matter, taking a seat on the couch next to the Frenchman and intertwining her long fingers with his.
"'Lways?!" the man croaks, Julie nodding slowly.
"Oh yeah—those Sox are his everything, I'll tell ya, but he handles it better now than he did when he was a lot younger—Larry would wail and keep the whole house up until he fell asleep. Boys and their sports, I'll tell ya I don't get 'em—but you know, the others don't really seem to care about 'em like Larry does, it was always him and his father rootin' for 'em and really gettin' excited. I mean, the rest of us rooted for 'em, sure, but we weren't mopin' a week after a loss!"
"'E's simply dedicated, fleur,"
"Oh Luc stop," Julie attempts to scold, giggling darkly into the palm of her hand.
"Yes, zhey lost five to six," Luc explains gravely, his eyes brushing over the sports' results briskly. "I am surprised 'e did not give you too 'ard of a time in zhe stadium, Jack…"
"No, not at all, was cute seein' 'im so excited, least 'til he sat there for twenty minutes tryin' t'process that they'd lost,"
"Well did you have fun otherwise?" Julie asks sympathetically, Jack nodding.
"I mean, yeah, 's a nice sport 'nd I get why he's so crazy about it, but I mean, I don't get the runnin' away 'nd cryin' 'nd paintin' yourself 'nd threatenin' t'beat up supporters o'the visitin' team—where is 'e anyway?"
"Larry? Oh, he's in his room, he always runs in there to get his little pouties out,"
"'Nd his brothers?"
"Alex drove Paul back to the shop, he must have left about an hour ago, though I'm sure he'll be back before dinner, that boy never misses a meal,"
"And yet you still cook for zhem,"
"It's just outta habit, no matter how old those boys get they're gonna be my babies. They hate it, but I really can't see them as anythin' else, you know what I mean? Plus,I was harder on 'em growin' up, when money was rough and you were always gone for work. I mean come on, I had to be a bit of a crab every now and then, I was raisin' seven boys and then Larry had his issues. I smoked a lot more then, Jack, I used tones of voices I ain't proud of and I had a paddle they ran from until they were in their twenties. It's still in the closet, you know," she laughs as if recalling careless summers or fruitful picnics, her cheeks round, full, instantly reminding the Australian of her youngest son. "I was harsh on those boys, but ya had to be with seven of 'em and one with issues like Larry; even when I took him to an alienist and got him prescribed on little pills, he stillgave me trouble. I guess I always try to be sweet around him, he's..."
"Issues?"
"Jack, he's twenty four years old with the emotional restraint of maybe a ten year old," Julie rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she pats Luc on the cheek, resuming her cleaning. "He was diagnosed with a severe behavioural and emotional disorder. The alienist didn't say it was Bi Polar disorder directly, but sometimes I had to wonder if maybe Larry wasn't sufferin' from a minor case of it. Tthe alienist hinted he may have even been, well, I don't wanna use the word retarded, just..." she falls silent, letting her hand swivel the rag in light swipes against the wall once more. Luc smirks, and Sniper growels at the man who apparently finds humour in Scout's condition. "...emotionally unaware, he sees what people do to him much, much differently than the way normal people do, it's why he acts the way he does,"
"I—he never told me he had—" Sniper shrugs, sighing and darting his eyes to the stain speckled carpet.
"He doesn't like talkin' about it,"
"I mean he mentioned once that he had t'go see doctors when he was younger, but he acted like it was a waste of time,"
"To him, maybe, in the fifteen year old memories he's got wellin' in his brain, but, I mean surely ya noticed somethin', he sure ain't normal,"
"Mnh, I won't say he doesn't strike me as a bit extreme sometimes..."
"I try to be soft around Larry, there's his condition, and him losin' his dad, and then his problems with Luc growin' up—Luc wasn't exactly as mature as he should have been regardin' Lawrence, but a lot of the tension came from Larry regardless," Jack scratches behind his neck, the woman clearly still unaware that the Frenchman had resorted to physicality in the young man's teenage years out of frustration of Scout's defiance and behaviour, though he knew now was no time to enlighten her. Luc blanches as well, remaining firm in his prior decision to maintain his silence. His thin, hueless lips twitch softly the longer the sudden quiet prolongs itself, though collected all the same. "...So then Lawrence was to blame?" Jack asks quietly, Luc clearing his throat and placing his paper on the coffee table, giving the Australian a nod before sauntering casually into the kitchen. "For their problems growin' up?"
"I wouldn't say that, sweetie, it's never the child's fault; adjustin' to a new man as his stepfather was hard for him, even though he was too young to understand that his real father was hurtin' me and his older brothers. I'll give it to Arnold, he really did care for Larry when he was in his life, but I mean, look, he's gone nearly twenty years without givin' the poor baby a sign he's even still alive—and I ain't talkin' about money, Jack. Those boys don't love me because of riches, but because I was there to love them, see them grow up, take care of them and be there for them. Bein' a mom ain't just pushin' a baby through yo' birth canal, you're their docta, the teacha, the referee, the financial provider, Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easta Bunny, you're everythin', Jack. If that man had even shown up to take Larry out on the weekends, Hell, I woulda had a lot more respect for him. But forget his father—Arnold—that's easy for us. The point is Larry can't. It's hurt him for years, but the thing is Larry doesn't understand that his father hurt him more than anyone else ever has and probably ever will. He talks about him with that same affection he had when he was eight years old, but you can't tell that to a boy like him, you know?"
"No, I—I understand, Miss Julie..."
She shrugs a little, but utters a soft, whimpering sigh to go along with it, and raises her eyebrows briefly before bringing her gaze back to the attentive Australian. "But no matter what, he'll always be my baby; Larry's had it rough and my heart really goes out to him, but he'll be okay,"
Jack nods, the woman looking over her shoulder at the bustling Frenchman, who comes back with a copper tinted glass bottle in his hands, Sniper presuming by the French scrawl on the foil label he intends to savour French imported ale of sorts. "Me and Luc love that boy to death; we'll always be here for Larry,"
Luc nods, but wastes no time in deviating his attention to the television which he turns on, groaning as he is met with white garbles of noisy static on every channel he switches to. "Of course, Lawrence means a lot to me; even if we do not 'ave zhe best relationship," he mumbles, Jack uttering a soft "aye" and hoisting himself from the wall. "I'm gonna go check on Lawrence, make sure he's 'lright," he grumbles, turning his head in the direction of the bedroom.
"Yeah, he could use some cheerin' up," Julie nods, Luc and Jack sharing a brief look before the man nods a final time at the two, his knuckles clapping softly against the light wooden door of the young man's old bedroom, allowing Scout a few seconds' time to either allow or reject the hopeful company that awaits him on the other side.
"Scout?" he calls lightly, turning his head and peering over his shoulder to see the Julie and Luc sandwiched together on the dusty sofa, chatting in hushed voices overtop the low hum of the evening radio one of them must have turned on just seconds ago. Turning the brass knob, the man inches his way into the bedroom slowly, the bottom of the door skidding in a soft fwoosh against the carpet's fibers, the man instantly aware of the unlit state of Scout's room, his vision straining painfully in order to better adjust and distinguish the silhouettes, labeling them viable objects as opposed to leaving them unmarked and ambiguous shadows.
He closes it behind him with a light snap, treading toward the rectangular bed pressed against the wall as if applying pressure to soles of his feet would disrupt the balance of all there was to logically define. He hones and coils his even, soft breath in his chest, though Sniper knows that Scout can sense his presence no matter how the experienced hunter means to conceal it; it is with the same sense of intuition that Sniper knows Lawrence too was in the room. The stronger his aforementioned awareness grows, the all more careless Jack becomes about masking his intentions; he lowers himself softly onto the bed, instantly bringing a silent, weightless, but sensibly affectionate arm around the young man's shoulder, making a literal shot in the dark as he puckers his lips to press softly against Scout's temple, bringing the other arm to cradle the rest of his frame.
"'S alright, love..." Jack whispers in his ear as Lawrence wordlessly nuzzles him, his thin fingers twirling in the neatly combed and dapperly adjusted strands of (currently) invisible hair, their physical being their only indication that the fine hairs exist in moments such as these where his eyes otherwise fail him. His heart plummets as with a soft shake and hiccup the emotion Lawrence intended to stifle with the aid of visual impossibility breaches from his dry, trembling lips, the man giving his shoulder a reassuring rub as his hand brushes across Lawrence's wet face. "What's wrong…?" he asks him sympathetically, Jack's head tucked against his chest in order to better face him, Scout however taking his time before wiping at his running nose with the back of his hand, his teeth clenching onto his lip in order to better control it.
"I just wanted—I wanted to show you what I love, Jack…" Lawrence mumbles, Jack thankful the lack of lighting masks the raised eyebrow he isn't even all so aware he allows to slip upward in order to better express his befuddlement; it certainly was nothing to rush away and cry over. "I just wanted to get you excited too, ya know? I always talk about the Sox, and—" He sniffs again, Jack bringing a hand to dry his face with maudlin, gentle strokes. "I just wanted to show ya why they were so important to me…"
"I don't understand why you're so bothered, love y'did show me, I had a wonderful time with you out there, really—c'mon, Lawrence, we—we got sodas 'nd did the—the wave," Sniper recalls, quick to remove any traces of (arguably irrational) distaste he may or may not had harboured toward the act itself. "Y'were all dressed up, 'nd y'rooted your heart out; seriously, I didn't see a single person out there with 's much spirit 's you, y'know?"
Jacks sighs and goes to grab his hand, the appendage however already preoccupied and curled around the very same ball that had collided with his head just hours ago, the very same one the team had been unable to sign due to time constraints. "I know they mean the world t'ya, love; we all do. 'S why Luc bought you those tickets, 'nd it's why I took ya. I wanted t'see 'em too, Lawrence, I wanted t'be there with ya, I wanted t'see your baseball 'nd cheer you all on, 'nd I did; but it was nothin' compared t'seein' you happy."
Jack plants more kisses against Scout's tear moistened cheeks, and as his breathing evens out and his body falls closer against him, Sniper notices his arms cannot envelop him any closer, any tighter. "'Sides, doesn't matter if they win or lose, y'know? Point is they gave it their all, they really stuck it out 'til the end, love, 'nd no matter what I know they'll come back around—"
"The last time I went to a game for real was fifteen years ago, with my dad…" Scout interrupts dully, the man gaping both out of the assumption that he is not finished speaking as well as a lack of a worthy response. Regardless Jack allows the quiet seconds that elapse between them to do so without trying to rush the natural allotment of things and allowing Scout to take as long as he needed to complete the rest of his assuredly taxing thought.
"…I know, 'nd it's your first time home in four years, with your mum 'nd brothers, 'n your bed, 's a lot on ya, love…"
"We were so fuckin' pumped, so excited, Jack, you just don't understand—we loved the Sox together, it was our thing, you know?"
Jack nods, shuddering slightly as Scout's cool breath fans out over the crook of his neck, his lukewarm skin growing clammy as their closeness causes a sweat to build up between them, the tips of Lawrence's nose and lips brushing against the man's collar bone. It was surreal, the longer this moment between them prolongs itself and the more prevalent the silence void of Scout's chatter. He had seen Scout cry under a variety of circumstances; some from pain, others from laughter, some from easily irritated sinuses the young man often complained about. Frustration had even been a catalyst once of some of the wetter aspects of his emotional spectrum. Sniper was used to emotions, and Lawrence was no marvel of an exception to notpossess them. However as Jack finds his arms grip onto him, harder now than ever before, their bodies moist as a result of Scout's watering eyes and the cool excretion of sweat that simmers as a result of their intimate proximity, he realizes that never before had he felt so human.
"They lost that game; it was the first one I'd been to that they'd lost," he sniffs, and Sniper, who was by all means sympathetic and by all means pitying for Scout and his severe disturbance on behalf of the Soxs' loss, still finds it internally baffling that the raw emotion the young man experiences leads them here, to this state, to this moment. Jack gapes as, for a few seconds, he tries to mold words to fit the soft shapes and formations of his thin lips, settling instead with grazing more caring hands across Scout's body.
"…and a week later he left,"
"…I'm sorry, Lawrence," he whispers, giving him a firm hug. "I'm sorry y'have that memory,"
Another sniff escapes his person, and a soft awww escapes Jack's in response, the flesh of his skin growing cold and wet as moisture drizzles onto it swiftly, boosted in speed by the curve of Scout's round cheek.
"…you're not gonna leave me too, are you Jack?"
Sniper smiles as Scout refuses to wait for the man's answer before slinging his heavy, leanly muscular arms around his neck, imprisoning him under the desperate, mawkishly tender weight of himself. He feels Scout's fingers brush against the nape of his neck, the young man pressing his face into the Australian's chest, and releasing a soft hum as Jack runs his broad, amative hands to trail up his back, even if the act usually set Scout in a very amorous disposition.
How could he even wonder such a thing, let alone legitimately fear it to the point of tears?!
Sniper takes the young man's wettish cheeks into both his hands in order to better focus on his expression, his eyes now completely settled onto the darkness around him; it was an unsettling view of him, Sniper notes. The usually affable Lawrence with the easy smile and broad laugh instead sat dimmed under the potential threats of abandonment and becoming suddenly worthless in the eyes of the Australian of whom the young Bostonian thought the world. Jack finds himself stumbling on his own words as the shock of Scout's question still wears off, the older man confused and almost nearly insulted he had to ask the man at all with a legitimate worry of his fears coming true; of all the people in the world to ask, the very one who would remain by his side no matter what.
"Never."
-
Sniper leans forward and his mouth parts as he yet again attempts to warn the young man that the light blue, plastic batter's helm threatens to slip from atop his head. The protective cap settles with deceiving wobbles, or at least from the Australian's angle. This time, as Scout bends his frame and brings the bat back to nearly smack his own ear, Sniper doesn't even bother with either the beginnings of a shrill warning or a whole one outright; even as he takes a powerful swing and his steel bat collides yet again with a quickly flying ball the batting cage throws at him, the helm stays rooted to him like luck.
He hadn't missed a beat or a swing; every single ball the automated pitcher had thrown at Lawrence, the Bostonian had hit with the precision of a veteran. Even better for the one man Australian audience, who sat rigid with anticipation of having to dodge a wonky one in the event Scout should miss, though history was doing much to prove the notion had little chance to become anything more than unlikelihood. A final ball escapes the metallic chute with a deep and hollow pwoomf and Scout too meets it, centered and honed, the machinery whirring and cooling down as he snatches the helmet and tucks it under his arm, taking a seat next to Jack and a swig of the water he'd brought along. "You're a right pro if one were t'go jus' off o'lookin' at ya," Sniper comments pleasantly, swearing the young man could flush from the compliment, despite the soft heaving of his chest and his sweating brow, suggesting the reddish hue of his cheeks stems instead from over exertion. "You've got a serious swing,"
Scout beams, half the contents of the bottle pouring past his lips and drizzling instead into the young man's already soaked shirt, Lawrence gasping and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks." He flashes Sniper his toothy smile again, swiping a rosy palm through his drenched hair and fanning himself fruitlessly. "I don't usually have streaks that good; prolly just luck, wombat,"
"Hmph, 's not somethin' I'd usually expect ya t'admit,"
"Yeah well, it ain't like I'd fool anybody sayin' I was a pro,"
"Don't say that, y'coulda had me fooled—I really think your mum was onto somethin' when she said y'coulda gone t'some real serious places if you'd done somethin' with baseball,"
"Nah, she doesn't know what she's talkin' about though—if I wanted to play in the Major Leagues, well, it's really freakin' late now,"
"What? How so?"
"I'm in my prime now, Jack, you ain't gonna see many players in their forties'n fifties just dickin' around on the diamond, 'least not Major Leagues. I mean don't get me wrong, I dreamed about playin' for the Sox my whole childhood—I still do, but now I know it ain't nothin' that—some kiddie dream,"
"Oi now, think positive, love…"
"Nah, really, my chances were blown years ago, Snipes; when I was applyin' to colleges 'n shit when I was younger, no one wasn't tryin' to pay for some poor ass kid to play and study when he hadn't even played for his high school,"
"Oh?"
"Yeah—I couldn't play in high school, and if you weren't on no high school team there was no chance in Hell you were gettin' on some varsity—and you weren't gonna get no scholarships, neither,"
"Why didn't y'play, you're phenomenal! I mean, how did y'even get so good without playin' somewhere?!"
"This cage was my home, Jack," Scout sighs, tossing a ball at the man who, although he catches it, does so with a lot less ease than the younger man to whom he tosses it back. "We didn't have the money for me to play on the team, and even if we did, well—Ma said I wouldn't'a been able to handle it 'cause of my—well, fuck it," he snaps, Sniper blanching; Scout had no idea he knew about his disorder, and the older man had no intention of enlightening him otherwise. "She just said it woulda been bad for me; figures, huh? The one thing I loved,"
Sniper frowns, and drags a loving across his cheek before bringing his wrist level to his eye. "'S nearly eleven, love, I'm sure your Mum would 'ppreciate it if I brought y'home now,"
"Yeah," he nods, slinging his bat and actually holding his hand out for Jack to grab and intertwine with his own, Sniper bringing his lips to graze across his cheek as well, the two separating as they begin a lazy saunter back toward the apartment. "You know, I actually met Jackie Robinson,"
"Who?"
"He was the first black man to ever play in the Major Leagues with white dudes,"
"Hmph, 's a real feat for him, 'nd one for you too for meetin' 'im,"
"Dude, I cried," Scout smiles as the memory returns to him, a distinct jump henceforth visible in his step. "He told me he knew what it was like, facin' circumstances 'nd shit 'nd tryin' to overcome 'em to follow a dream, right? Fuck, he knows it better than anyone I'll prolly ever meet—dude's a hero, Jack; all my heroes are named Jack,"
Sniper chuckles, the diminutive summation of racial prejudice Scout had felt content to encompass as "circumstances" striking him as humourous. They walk in silence a bit longer, Lawrence smiling as Jack grabs his hand again, brushing his thumb over the younger man's sweaty, calloused fingers. "Y'know he's right? That you can do anythin' y'set your mind to,"
"Yeah," Scout responds lightly, kicking at gravel with the toe of his cleat, sweat glistening under the influence of the streetlights that flicker above them once reaching his street of residency. "But I don't wanna play for the Major Leagues no more; it ain't gonna happen Jack, and I'm glad it never did; if I'd played, I never woulda met you, and a jersey with my name on the back ain't shit when it comes to you. You can't compare baseball to what we got."