Work Text:
Francisco Preston has gotten used to the sight of fire, the crackle of feedback, the rough shaking of the reverb. He would rather not have, but Blaseball takes what it will and has no concern for those trapped on the field, on the mound, in the bleachers.
He remembers the solar eclipse, the way it curves the light into a perfect, gleaming O where it falls between dappled leaves. He used to think it was beautiful.
Now, all it can remind him of is fire, and a night a few weeks, or months, or days ago.
It was party time, he remembers that, and he’d taken a break from the grill- everyone was fed, he knew that- to go smoke in the front yard. His team was safe in the lodge and the yard, and for once, Francisco could relax.
The stars were bright above him, a glimmering ribbon of light twisting above the parkpark. That was one thing he’d always loved about Yellowstone- nothing kept you from the stars, out here. It was just the stars and trees and stones, nature moving around you in its strange way, and you moving around nature. Really reminded you of the scope of things.
He settled down on the steps of the lodge, groaning slightly as he stretched out. He wasn’t exactly
old
, but long enough playing Blaseball took its toll on you. It ripped its way through sinew and soul, and took what it wanted. Didn’t matter if you were whole or not, after. He took a long drag on his cigarette, eyes closed.
The old wooden step creaked as someone sat beside him, and he didn’t even need to open his eyes to know who it was. He’s known Workman Gloom long enough to know, after all, when they’re sitting beside him.
Of course, knowing Gloom was there didn’t stop him from jolting slightly at the cold can of beer they tapped against his shoulder.
“Here,” they said, voice softer than it had been last time they spoke to him, “got you something to drink.”
“Thanks.” He cracked it open, taking a long, slow sip.
The pair of them stayed like that for a long moment, saying nothing. The noises of the forest in front of them and the party behind them took the place of words. The creaking of trees, someone cheering on Sutton in a game of beer plong, the patter of rain from Workman’s cloud on the roof of the covered walkway they were both sitting under.
“You’re going to wear yourself out, one of these days,” Workman murmured, breaking the companionable silence between them.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“We both know you’d kill yourself for them, Preston, don’t play dumb.” They gesture behind them at the party with their head, punctuating their point.
“If it’s me or my team,” he confessed, taking another sip of the beer, “I’ll pick them every time, Gloom.”
Workman’s face twisted with something like sympathy. The pattering of rain on the roof got stronger, and around them the world seemed to fade behind a thick curtain of rain. Francisco was fairly certain that he could part it with his hand if he reached out.
“Your team’s getting ripped apart in front of you. No matter what you do, Preston, you can’t hold onto them that tight. You can’t defy the gods.”
He looked over at them. They were almost curled into a ball, knees drawn to their chest, eyes fixed on the slowly-deepening puddle at the end of the steps. Their formerly rich brown skin had purpled during their time with the Talkers, and little things had sprouted on their neck. To Francisco, the little growths looked like coral, and he wanted to touch them. He wondered if they’d feel like flesh, or like stone, or like nothing he’s ever felt before.
“I know that, Gloom,” he murmured, eyes still locked on his old friend’s face, “I know. I just want to hold on a little longer.”
“We don’t get to hold on, Preston. We just have to live with what the splort takes from us.”
The defeat in Workman Gloom’s voice was infuriating, and he’d respond in anger if he didn’t know why it was there. He’d met Beasley Gloom, after all, smushed the jowls on his face and thrown tlennis balls for him and his own dog. It’d break his heart if he lost his girl, too.
Instead, Francisco just took another sip of his beer, setting the empty can beside him and looking at the roof, watching the slight movement of a small spider who’d made her home between the support beams of the little structure. She was small, when the season had started, but the flies she’d found under the roof of the stairs to the lodge had made her into a fat little thing. Francisco counted her as another one of his kids, even if he’d never said so.
“Someday, Preston, you’re going to lose one too many people, and you’re going to break.”
“You know I can’t think about that, Gloom.”
There was another long moment of silence. The puddle of water was spreading out, on the other side of the curtain, turning the ground around the stairs to sticking, thick mud.
“You should be ready. That’s all I’m gonna say.”
They didn’t say anything to each other for the rest of the night. One of them, or both, got up, and left, back inside or to the bathroom or to the backyard. Maybe Eiz needed help with the grill. Maybe Mooney needed something. Either way- they went their separate ways.
They would meet again on the field, the same way they always had. The game’s pull was omnipresent and inevitable, after all- even when Preston had tried to defy it, tried to sleep the day away in his tent, he’d awoken standing over home plate, bat clutched in his hands.
When he saw the fire that day, Francisco didn’t realize the screaming was coming from his own throat.
He didn’t realize he was running, abandoning his position on the field to run towards the conflagration- no idea what he’d do when he got there, only knowing that
Workman was burning.
He had to do something. He had to do
something
, anything, he couldn’t lose him, couldn’t-
The last Francisco Preston ever saw of Workman Gloom was a small, sad smile.
He fell to his knees before the pile of ash, letting himself, for the first time, mourn.