Opening Day

[amuly]

Title: Opening Day
Pairing: Donny/Utivich
Word Count: 1,157
Rating: R
Summary: It's opening day in 1946. Post-War AU: Donny's alive.
Warnings: baseball nerdiness
A/N: I miss baseball. ;__; Stupid basketball and football. Is it April yet?

 

 

When Utivich walked into the apartment, stamping late-spring snow off his boots, he should have known to be quiet. Should have known, because Donny didn't immediately greet him with a grope to his ass, tongue down his throat, and an offer to help with the groceries as a thinly-veiled excuse to chow down on the deli meats housed within. Moreover, Utivich should have recalled the eerie silence at the grocers, and the way Sal had practically thrown the meat at him before disappearing into the back room.

Should have. But it was April, and there was still snow on the ground, and Utivich just wasn't used to these ridiculous Boston winters yet that clung to the city and refused to let go like his mother every time the subject of “This nice girl...” came up.

(At least Donny's mother appeared fully aware of their relationship, and satisfied herself with pursed lips and an arched brow whenever they came over together for Shabbat, before piling Utivich's plate high with food and pinching him on the cheek. “Eat up! You'll catch your death, walking around this city with no meat on your bones!”)

“Donny?” Utivich stomped his feet once more for good measure on the mat before stepping over the threshold and into the kitchen. “Donny? Where the hell are you?”

A loud thump sounded from somewhere in the apartment – Utivich thought it sounded like it had come from the bedroom. He just shrugged, busying himself with putting the groceries away. “You know, my mother called again last night when you were out,” he shouted back to Donny. “She wants me to meet some new girl. Stella, or something.” Finished with the dry goods, Utivich moved onto the icebox, storing the meats and cheeses he had bought. “I think I should just tell her about us. What's the worse that could happen? Dad's dead, and all she can do is stop calling, you know?”

Another, even louder thump sounded across the apartment, making the thin walls tremble. Yanking his head out of the icebox, Utivich glanced across the kitchen and down the hall, in the direction of their bedroom. “Donny?”

“Utivich! I swear to fucking Gawd, if you keep up your yappin' I'm shovin' you outta the window and not lettin' you back in until Octobah!” Donny's voice reverberated throughout the apartment, followed by a sudden, dangerous silence.

Oh. Utivich shut the icebox door. It was opening day at Fenway. Utivich could have hit himself for being so dense. It was the first season for the major league teams back from the war. Donny had been going on about the return of Teddy Williams for months – Utivich really should have remembered what today was.

As quietly as he could, Utivich rummaged around the kitchen, putting together a quick lunch for Donny: beer and a sandwich. Actually, the sandwich was more a hollowed-out wedge of bread with meats stuffed inside, but that's the way Donny liked it (Utivich's mind supplied, in Donny's southie accent: “Nah, that's the way I like yous!”). Making his way down the hall, Utivich pushed open the door to their bedroom. Donny was sitting naked on their bed, sheets shoved off to the footboard, radio clutched between his thighs as he stared out the window with the sort of intensity Utivich had only ever seen when Donny was either listening to baseball or busting Nazi skulls in. He had a cigarette in his hand, ashes strewn about the sheets, nightstand, and ashtray sitting on the nightstand. Utivich sighed. He had to wash the sheets soon, anyway.

Listening carefully to the radio, Utivich only stepped into the room when he heard the sportscasters announce an inning change. “Donny.” Utivich held the plate of food out in front of him like a shield, or an offering to some god's altar.

Sure enough, Donny's eyes snapped to him, mouth already falling open in reproach. But then his eyes slid down, to the sandwich and the beer proffered out to him, and he snapped his mouth shut, lips curling up into a grin. “Aw, Utivich: you're such a good froy.”

Utivich bristled at the title, having half a mind to remind Donny who brought in more money each month: Donny, working at his pop's hair salon, or Utivich, with his paralegal position at Harvard Law.

The announcers came back on the radio, signaling the start of the bottom of the eighth. Utivich opted to shut his mouth for the time being, and handed the meal to Donny without another word.

To his surprise, Donny set the sandwich and beer on the nightstand untouched, and reached his free arm out to tug at Utivich's wrist. “Come're,” he grumbled, focus still on some point out the window as he kept his ears on the game. “Gotta listen to the game, otherwise everyone's gonna think you're a feygele.”

With much disingenuous grumbling and grousing, Utivich let himself be pulled into Donny's lap, radio carefully transferred from between Donny's legs to his own during the change in position. Settling back against Donny's chest, Utivich tried to turn his attention to the wireless, attempting to paint a picture in his head amid the sea of unfamiliar terms that the announcers were rattling off.

“Pesky's up to bat,” Donny supplied, lips brushing against Utivich's ear. “They say he's gonna be hawt this season. Not bettah'n Teddy, 'course, but good.”

No sooner had Donny spoke the words, than the announcers' voices rose, relaying: “Pesky knows he has a solid hit, there... and it's gone! That's a two-run homer for Pesky, right around the foul pole in right field.” Behind him, Donny whooped right in his ear, bouncing in triumphant fashion on the bed.

“Atta boy, Pesky! Nice hit, hawt damn!”

“Are the Red Sox ahead?” Utivich kept his voice low, trying his best to be as unobtrusive as he could be, sitting in Donny's lap.

“Yeah. Team's lookin' good for the Series, this year. We got Teddy, Pesky, Wally... no Joe, but fuck 'im, Teddy's got a bettah hitting average...” Donny trailed off as the announcers picked up again, relaying the next at bat. Utivich settled against Donny's chest, hoping Donny would just pretend that he wasn't obviously snuggling against him. In turn, he pretended he didn't feel Donny's arms wrap around him, squeezing him tight as they continued to listen to the game together.

The end of the game found Utivich rolled over onto his stomach, cheek pressed against the rough wood of the headboard as Donny whooped and hollered his victory as he fucked Utivich from behind. Utivich grunted, jerking himself off with one hand as he felt Donny pick up speed and pound his way toward completion.

Only six more months, and a hundred and fifty or so more games, to go.

 

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[amuly.livejournal.com]

Thanks ^.^ Pr0n and baseball are very possibly my two favorite things in the world. (Okay... maybe numbers 6 and 7, but who's counting... :P)