Chapter 1

Darkness swirls around him like a phantom, shrouding his eyes until he can see nothing but pitch black. He feels no air around him. It's like he has fallen into a pit. He gropes around in desperate search for something he can use as purchase to climb out of this hole, fingernails scratching against the moss-covered walls. 

He finds nothing. He's trapped. 

The cold, dank atmosphere clings to his skin like mold. 

Then the shadow enveloping him slips away, and a ray of light — dim and hazy — drifts in, coiling around him like a blanket of comfort. 

Maybe… maybe this is all just a dream. A nightmare.

He can hear voices — some faint, some ringing clear and calling his name. Then he is dragged out of the dark hole as if he is being pulled out of the quicksand.

The acute pain pulsating in his head is unbearable like a jackhammer is being driven through his skull. Dylan tries to push the sound of agony out of his mouth. But he can’t. He can’t cry out. His mouth and throat feel like they're coated with sand. Too dry. Too painful.

Something bitter clings on his tongue, and it makes him want to throw up. He heaves and retches, and then he swallows by reflex. The thick and acrid taste gets stuck in his throat. And it burns. It burns. 

White light, bright and blinding, greets his eyes when he cracks them open. The radiance is like a sharp needle that pierces through the surface and his eyelids slide close on impulse.

Someone — a woman — says, "He's awake," while a different voice is calling out his name.

They all sound vaguely familiar, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows there are images to match them with. But he can’t bring himself to identify them at the moment. The constant thrum in his head and the excruciating twist in his gut make it difficult for him to focus.

"Dylan," someone calls out again. He hears several voices coaxing him to open his eyes but…. 

He doesn't hear the one voice he needs to hear, craves to hear. The voice that always makes him feel that he's home, safe, and loved. 

It's because he's gone, Dylan. He's gone, a small part of him says and he wants to scream No, no, no! but deep down inside he knows that it’s true.

A nasty chill curls around his arms and legs like frosty vines. Then it coils around his body as if he's embraced by Death himself. The thought makes him shiver with fear. Every inch of him trembles. His skin feels like ice but his insides are on fire, hot blood rushing through his veins, and—

"He's in shock," someone yells. 

The voices around him gradually become muffled, eventually fading into soft hissing sounds – a white noise. Something both hard and soft is pressed against his face. A string of cold air slips through his nostrils and gently crawls into his mouth. 

He falls back into the pit, slipping into the darkness where he can only hear echoes of his grief-stricken wails.

*

The season was almost over. One more week and he would be off on his own, would finish renovating the house by the lake where he planned to spend his sweet early retirement. Just great. Forced to retire at twenty-nine because of a recurring shoulder injury sucked big time.

Dylan wanted to say he was excited but then he would be lying. Baseball had been his life since he was ten, when his parents sent him to a baseball camp. He soared through grade school and middle school, playing for the little league. The sport was practically part of his daily routine through high school and college. Then he started playing in the regional games before he went off to the minor leagues.

Then there was also the fact that the team had become his family on the road. Every person was his confidante, his drinking buddy, his shopping companion… his friend. He would miss them all. He would miss Lance the most.

A thousand thoughts ran through his mind. His chest was heavy with emotions he couldn't name. He had never expected that these feelings he'd been harboring for Lance would grow into something deeper.

Dylan had done stupid things – had acted like a creep and whispered, "I love you," when he held Lance close after winning a game; had been flirting incessantly with Lance; had almost kissed Lance when they won the championship last year — Fuck, that was so stupid.

What exactly was he thinking?

Dylan was too immersed in his rumination, unaware that he was no longer alone. He startled when he sensed the presence beside him. His head spun so fast he almost got whiplash. A shy smile sat on Lance's lips

"Thought you could um…" Lance's tongue slid between his lips fleetly and Dylan had to swallow the urge to pull him close and fucking kiss him. "Thought you could use some company." 

A smirk tugged at one corner of Dylan's mouth. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?"

Lance claimed the empty spot beside Dylan on the small couch, said, "Yeah. Mick and Bryan are having a snoring competition. Again," and huffed a short laugh. "Bet you can't wait for the season to end." 

"Not really." Dylan's head reeled. He wanted to throw caution to the wind and say 'fuck it' then ask Lance out but… but he didn't want to ruin it for Lance.

"You'll be a great loss to the team, you know. I don't think there's any other catcher I work well with." There was an edge in Lance's voice that Dylan noticed – like there was something else in his mind. 

Dylan hadn't meant to say, "What is it, Lance?" but the words slipped out before he could bite them back. His eyes rested on Lance's mouth, watching Lance worry his lower lip. 

Lance just shook his head.

Several wordless seconds passed between them with nothing but the whistling of the wind to fill in the silence. 

A dark veil stretched endlessly outside with only a few lights flickering in the distance. They were staying at a hotel by the sea in whatever city. Dylan often lost track of where they were.

After what seemed like an eternity, Dylan cleared his throat and said, "Two more weeks, Lance," at the same time Lance uttered, "I'm going to miss you." At least that was what Dylan thought he heard. 

The woeful expression that unfolded on Lance's face was enough to make Dylan feel like shit. He wrapped an arm around Lance's shoulder. "I'll miss you too, Lance. So much." He wanted to say more — wanted to tell Lance how he felt but he reminded himself that Lance was too young, was just twenty-five going twenty-six, and still had his baseball career ahead of him.

His musing was short-lived when Lance said, "Dylan," with purpose and Dylan felt a sharp blow in his chest when he met Lance's gaze — a hint of nervous certainty and something that Dylan couldn't fathom pooled in the depth of Lance's eyes. "I was thinking about what you said last week when you um... you came to my hotel room drunk off your ass." 

A bucketful of apprehension was poured over Dylan's head. He did his best not to fidget while thinking Shit, what did I do?  All he could remember was Lance's warm hand rubbing circles on his back and the cool cloth Lance had placed on his forehead. He could've been mumbling nonsensical words but…

Fuck.

"Please don't hate me for not remembering." Dylan's arm slid off Lance's shoulder and fell on his side. "I'm afraid I was way too wasted to recall whatever it was I said or did. And I'm really, really sorry that I ended up in your room."

"It's fine." Lance's gaze fell on the floor and the disappointment that marred his pretty face sent a pang to Dylan's heart.

Without thinking, Dylan grabbed Lance's hand, gave a light squeeze and said, "But if it's the same thing I said after we won the game against the Barkers, then I meant it. Every word. Intoxicated or not." 

A tinge of crimson hue surfaced on Lance's face, a shade of scarlet shining on his cheeks. His lower lip was wedged between his teeth when he looked up at Dylan through his thick, dark eyelashes. 

"I um…" The tip of Lance's tongue glided between his lips. "Uh—I feel the same way. I mean that is if you um… if you meant what you said in a special way and not just brotherly or as friends and maybe we could—you know—hang out or some—"

The rest of Lance's words disappeared in Dylan's mouth when Dylan captured Lance's lips in a kiss. Lance tasted like heaven — a dash of mint and freshness. 

Dylan initially regretted that he acted out on impulse as he did after that game. But when Lance started kissing back, regret flew out the window.