Chapter 4

Filtered screams greet Dylan's ears when he steps into the common room, followed by voices of what sounded like sports commentators. His eyes snap over to the television where a baseball game is on display and his heart leaps up to his throat. 

It's the major league world series, something he never got to experience. A small part of him breaks inside.

Dylan wants to look away, to leave the common room and be someplace else because he doesn't need  a reminder of his failure. But something catches his eye.

The teal-colored uniform of the batting team looks awfully familiar. The batter sitting dead-red looks awfully familiar.

The pitch comes — a fastball, no doubt — so the batter swings, and the resounding clunk ripples around the room. Screams erupt on the screen as the ball soars over the fence. Commentators were talking over each other but the name they're practically hollering doesn't escape Dylan's ears.

The name sounds awfully familiar, stirring a memory from somewhere in the deepest recesses of Dylan's mind. He knows—should know the name but there's a barrier, thick and tall, that stands between familiarity and the tenacious desire to forget the past. 

The camera zooms in on the player who has just hit a home run, flocked by his teammates, baseball cap slipping off to reveal straight dark hair with fringes falling over one eye.

Threads of memories start to unravel. He remembers now — remembers the feelings that had once conquered him, made him feel whole and broken at the same time. He remembers how his life once revolved around this person; remembers giving himself up entirely for him and he remembers… he remembers the heartache most of all.

Dylan rips his eyes away from the TV as if he's blinded by the sight and he takes a step back until he hits the wall. His chest swells with emotions, blood rushing up to his head in a strong current, causing vertigo to conquer his senses. He can't breathe… can't breathe. The rhythmic thumping of his heart sounds hollow against his ears.

"Dylan?" One of the nurse aides appears in his line of vision but her face doesn't register until she's standing close to him, her hand grasping his forearm. "Are you alright? Do you need something?"

No. Just leave me alone.  "I need to get some air." Dylan yanks his arm away from her grip. 

"Would you like to go outside? I can go with you, let me just—"

Dylan shakes his head. "No, I uh… I'd like to go by myself if that's alright," and starts walking backward — away from her, away from the screams and the sound.

"Okay." Hesitation flashes clearly in her eyes. Dylan hates it, hates how she looks at him as if he can't be trusted and he also hates the commentator's voices now stuck in his head, playing in a loop. 

"I'm going out for a run," stumbles out of his drying mouth before he makes a beeline to the front door in his desperate attempt to escape the memories now whirling in his head. 

Cool, crisp air hits his face when he steps out of the center's residential building and he runs down the winding path, coaxing his feet to go faster and faster until all he hears is the rush of the wind and his own breathing echoing in his ears.

*

Two years. Two fucking years together and Dylan hadn't even attempted to get Lance into bed. He was surprised he held out this long. He had struggled to take things slow because...

With Lance spread out half-naked on his bed and looking wanton as fuck, Dylan wasn't sure he'd be able to hold back.

Dylan wanted to say, "Lance, we don't have to," but what came out instead was, "I'll be gentle, I promise." Dylan swallowed the lump in his throat, his resolve weakening; self-control melting like an iceberg in the middle of a desert. 

To hell with self-control.  Resistance was futile at this point.

"Please, Dylan," Lance said in a strained voice. He'd been begging – saying please, please, please and breathing Dylan's name like a mantra. 

Fuckfuckfuck.

Dylan covered Lance with his body and kissed Lance senseless. Then he pulled back to ask, "Are you sure?" and that was when he noticed the shadow of uncertainty that clouded Lance's eyes. 

He wanted this. He would be a hypocrite not to admit that he had wanted Lance for so long. But Dylan had to ensure this is what Lance wanted. 

The look sketched on Lance's face was enough to convince Dylan to stop before things went further. Lance was obviously not ready to take this step. 

Dylan had just wanted to see Lance, had wanted to see if Lance still fit perfectly in his arms because he hadn't seen his boyfriend for months now. He wasn't even sure if Lance had been avoiding him or if Lance was just busy with practice, endorsements, and everything else his agent had been throwing on his lap.

Dylan had to know. So he sent Lance a message, inviting Lance for lunch. Lance seemed a bit distant the whole time. Then just as they were leaving, Lance said, "Can I see your new house?" 

That was how they ended here, in Dylan's room. They talked, made out like animals in heat and now… and now Lance was offering himself to Dylan and Dylan was too fucking scared to take him.

When did morals become more important than his libido anyway?

"Please, Dylan," Lance begged again, ripping Dylan out of his trance. 

"No, Lance. I…" 

The voice at the back of Dylan's mind chanted You'll be sorry.

"No I won't." It took a second for Dylan to realize he had spoken out loud and Lance looked at him with creases between his eyebrows. Dylan pressed a kiss over the wrinkled skin and gathered his boyfriend in his arms. "We can wait, babe. We can wait."

The way Lance relaxed in his embrace was enough hint for Dylan to know that he made the right decision.