choking on your alibi

chapter sex: beeshboil

"I think I want to get into baseball."

Dorian dropped that bomb in the middle of dinner. Considering how little interest he had ever taken in any sport whatsoever, much less partaking in them, it was no surprise that this change of heart would be taken with disbelief.

You could hear a pin drop in that banquet hall. Dorian sweat profusely yet kept his composure while picking at his dinner to feign casualness. Cosette was the first to snort before being jabbed in the rib by Madeline; Elise simply stared at him incredulously, containing her laugh in a deep frown.

Rosalind's smile turned into one thin, concerned line. "B-Baseball? But honey, you–"

His father could not have been more elated, to the continued horror of Rosalind. "My son, the batter! Things are really shaping up. Very much so, yes."

Score.

"I actually had a coach in mind, Father." Dorian smiled. "I've been speaking with Andreas; we've become good friends, you see. He wouldn't mind teaching me a thing or two." He took a hearty bite out of the lobster he was eating. It was too good, too, too good.

Cosette kept giggling, and Madeline kept jabbing her.

"I don't see why not! I'll speak with the team manager to allow you and him to stay past closing at the field, post-practice."

Dorian smiled sweetly. "Alright. I'll contact him for his schedule."

—--------

Dorian knew it had been a good idea when he saw Leo walk into the field with one of those sleeveless muscle hoodies. The bright overhead stadium lights deliciously highlighted the curvature and dips of his sun-kissed shoulder and biceps. His pants were on the baggier side (much to Dorian's dismay), but the overall "off-duty athlete" look was definitely to his liking. Still gawking, he beamed at him from the middle of the baseball diamond. "Hi!"

Leo smiled; he was walking toward him, a baseball bag slung over his shoulders and a cart of plastic perforated baseballs dragging behind him. "I've never met someone with more ulterior motives. You've got some nerve, Creswick."

He flashed him the same smile he had given his father at dinner, dripping with mischievous, feigned sweetness. "Whatever that means." He watched him carefully as he put down the bags and cart; his hair had been picked up into a tight, low bun, small, shorter strands curling lightly and framing his face. He mapped out the moles on his cheeks, nose, and jaw like a cartographer drawing a journey's course, or perhaps like an astronomer charting the cosmos. He thought of kissing every one of them, finding where else they lay on his body and marking those, too. He found himself gnawing on his lip, deep in intellectually stimulating (emphasis on stimulating) thought when Leo, who was finishing setting up other practice equipment, turned to him, hands on hips.

"I hope you don't think you're getting away with this without at least the slightest amount of work."

Dorian's smile dropped. "Huh?"

Leo grinned. "Whatever it is you're looking forward to, you'll have to work for it. Or, you know–" he crosses past him, ghosting the slightest touch on his arm as he did, "Whatever that means."

He meant to rile him up; he knew this—that touch alone felt iron-hot on his bare skin, and he had to work for it. He frowned. "That's not fair."

Leo pointedly ignored him, wearing the smirk of a man who knew he'd won. Without looking at him, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled: "Fifteen laps around the bases. Go!"

Expectedly, it was torture. Just by looking at Dorian, one could tell he wasn't cut out for this type of thing. He panted excessively, having started his run in a sprint and continuing it in an exhausted, miserable jog. Orange sand made its way into his sneakers and painted his pant legs with grime. When he somehow did not pass out after his laps, which he thought to be the extent of his exercise, he was instructed to continue with warm-up (warm-up?!) with a series of stretches, drills, and other cardio. The worst part was how much of a kick Leo was getting out of this; he was actually being helpful, yelling out tips to straighten himself or to watch his breathing while running. He wouldn't allow him to do an exercise wrong just for the sake of it and was a surprisingly constructive coach, but he simply could not wash that smirk off his face.