Fantasy Baseball
Dec. 25th, 2011 04:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Fantasy Baseball
Author:jackofknaves
Rating: R
Pairing: Neal Cassady/Jack Kerouac
Summary: Allen thought it was a sign of genius. Neal thought it was a sign of torture. Bill didn't think much of anything in those days.
Allen thought it was a sign of genius. Neal thought it was a sign of torture. Bill didn't think much of anything in those days.
Jack tried explaining it to Neal once. He understood the fantasy baseball bit--he was a man after all--but not the obsession. Not the endless dice thrown or notes or the muttering under his breath as another imaginary game played out.
"It helps," he had said cryptically, but Neal didn't have to pry because it was obvious what Jack had meant. The headaches, insomnia, bouts of depression, and the drinking. Neal was used to drugs and alcohol and fucking. Hell, he reveled in them, they all did, to each their own vice. Who was he to judge? Jack flip-flopped, trying to clean Bill out of his heroin, then getting so drunk he fell down and couldn’t figure out which way was up anymore.
Bill and Al and Neal did it for new experiences, new perspectives, new memories to hold onto; Jack drank to forget, to let go.
On some bleak nights, Neal would wake up and find Jack on the floor, knees touching his chest, rolling those damned dice and making obscure marks on a card. He sat lounging next to him on the floor, patiently waiting for Jack to notice him. He would let a slow smile spread across his face and ask, "Who won?" as casually as if it were a real game.
Jack answered some nights with his own shy smile and collected the dice with his white hands. Then Neal would take him back to bed and stroke his skin and his hair until he fell into an uneasy rest.
On the other nights, when Jack gave him a desperate, clawing soulless stare, Neal would gather the dice and scoreboard up himself, pull Jack to bed, and make love to him. Neal tried to call it fucking, but Jack said it wasn't, and Jack's words, sparse or ugly or gold, were true, so Neal called it making love, though he doubted Jack loved him. Not by Jack's definition, and maybe not by Neal's, either.
It was slow, leisurely and careful, Jack closing his eyes and trying to exorcise some demon in his head while Neal took his time. Jack never looked at him those times until they were through, then he would kiss him sweetly and Neal felt like John in the Bible, because it was honey in his mouth but bitter in his stomach.
He would hold Jack close, urging him to bury his face in Neal's chest and stay there until dawn, while Neal quelled the restless feeling that stirred under his skin and concentrated on holding Jack close.
Maybe it was the only way either of them could find peace.
Author:
jackofknavesRating: R
Pairing: Neal Cassady/Jack Kerouac
Summary: Allen thought it was a sign of genius. Neal thought it was a sign of torture. Bill didn't think much of anything in those days.
Allen thought it was a sign of genius. Neal thought it was a sign of torture. Bill didn't think much of anything in those days.
Jack tried explaining it to Neal once. He understood the fantasy baseball bit--he was a man after all--but not the obsession. Not the endless dice thrown or notes or the muttering under his breath as another imaginary game played out.
"It helps," he had said cryptically, but Neal didn't have to pry because it was obvious what Jack had meant. The headaches, insomnia, bouts of depression, and the drinking. Neal was used to drugs and alcohol and fucking. Hell, he reveled in them, they all did, to each their own vice. Who was he to judge? Jack flip-flopped, trying to clean Bill out of his heroin, then getting so drunk he fell down and couldn’t figure out which way was up anymore.
Bill and Al and Neal did it for new experiences, new perspectives, new memories to hold onto; Jack drank to forget, to let go.
On some bleak nights, Neal would wake up and find Jack on the floor, knees touching his chest, rolling those damned dice and making obscure marks on a card. He sat lounging next to him on the floor, patiently waiting for Jack to notice him. He would let a slow smile spread across his face and ask, "Who won?" as casually as if it were a real game.
Jack answered some nights with his own shy smile and collected the dice with his white hands. Then Neal would take him back to bed and stroke his skin and his hair until he fell into an uneasy rest.
On the other nights, when Jack gave him a desperate, clawing soulless stare, Neal would gather the dice and scoreboard up himself, pull Jack to bed, and make love to him. Neal tried to call it fucking, but Jack said it wasn't, and Jack's words, sparse or ugly or gold, were true, so Neal called it making love, though he doubted Jack loved him. Not by Jack's definition, and maybe not by Neal's, either.
It was slow, leisurely and careful, Jack closing his eyes and trying to exorcise some demon in his head while Neal took his time. Jack never looked at him those times until they were through, then he would kiss him sweetly and Neal felt like John in the Bible, because it was honey in his mouth but bitter in his stomach.
He would hold Jack close, urging him to bury his face in Neal's chest and stay there until dawn, while Neal quelled the restless feeling that stirred under his skin and concentrated on holding Jack close.
Maybe it was the only way either of them could find peace.
