As Whizzer rode the subway to Coleman Park, he knew he was probably making a mistake.
Bumping into Jason in Washington Square Park had been a pleasant coincidence, and the right decision would have been to politely decline the kid's invitation to his upcoming little league baseball game. To deflect, and instead tell a story about his little league coaching days as a teen.
But ever since the whole… situation, Whizzer had found himself in two years prior, he made a resolution to be more honest with himself. He really did want to see Jason again. So, here he was, taking the F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.
He could feel his palm sweating onto the pole he gripped for stability. Physical, and perhaps mental, too.
Marvin could easily imagine a dozen things he would rather be doing with his time, over being at his son's baseball game. He loves the kid, so much, but no amount of love can outweigh his hatred towards baseball. It doesn't help that these kids are no Sandy Koufax. According to Mendel, that is. Marvin heard the word Koufax and assumed it was the name of some medication the psychiatrist prescribed to his patients.
“He throws the ball like his arms are numbed past his elbows. It's making me sad to watch,” Marvin remarked, earning a vaguely entertained “you should be taking this more seriously” from Charlotte, and a more firm “Stop it, he's learning,” from Trina. He wanted to bite back you’d think after two years of learning he’d at least have voluntary appendage movement, but swallowed it.
Marvin, curious to see the rest of the onlookers' reactions to his son's athletic shortcomings, began to scan the bleachers next to him. Suddenly, he felt all the symptoms of a heart attack in a matter of seconds.
“Oh my god,” he spits out, dragging Charlotte by the forearm back onto the bench.
“What? What are you..” she follows his gaze, and sees a man scrupulously watching the game and gingerly taking off a pair of purple-tinted aviator sunglasses. She also notes his tall, intimidating frame, perfectly coiffed dark hair, and cutting cheekbones. She hesitates to look at Marvin, who is now making a childish attempt to hide behind her as he mutters in a trance, “What is he doing here?”
Charlotte recalls endless nights spent with Marvin in her and Cordelia's apartment, 2 bottles deep into cheap red wine, moping about his ex-lover with, in his words, “Impossible legs, unrighteously flawless hair, and a face probably sculpted by god himself.”
Oh no.
Cordelia, who Marvin frequently remarked must have some sort of hive-mind connection to Charlotte, also senses the presence of the man and leans over her girlfriend to harshly whisper-shout, “Marvin. Is that..?”
“Yes. Shh. I thought I was hallucinating. You can see him too?”
Charlotte looks at him incredulously. “Yes, Marvin. This isn’t Phantasm.”
“Thank god it's not,” Cordelia adds. “That movie sucked shit.”
Marvin peered around Charlotte to look at his ex-lover once again. In a matter of seconds, the two women watched as he went through a journey on his face, starting with fear, turning to confusion, and finally landing on embarrassment, as he looked down and realized he was in his sunday-worst.
“Does this look better unzipped? Oh, god, is my hair a mess? Should I just kill myself?”
“Marvin, Jesus. Relax. You look fine.”
“Fine? Fine? Great. Thank you for the reassurance. You know, maybe it's Body Snatchers. ‘78, though. So I can at least kill myself in color.” He halts, realizing that Whizzer was now facing him, and had been listening to his antics. Trying and failing to keep his amusement from Marvin’s ever ridiculous neuroticism off his face.
“Hello Whizzer,” Marvin managed to get out, feigning impassivity.
“... Marvin.”
He struggled to keep eye contact and panicked. “Say hello. My neighbors.” Marvin nods his head towards the women next to him, who felt as if they were witnessing some sort of sadistic humiliation ritual.
“Hi there. Whizzer Brown. Pleasure.” He says, plastering a bright smile on and shaking both of their hands and Marvin is reminded of Whizzers sweet southern charm, however performative it may be. He felt as if he was losing a competition based on courtesy.
He finds himself desperate to have the man's attention on himself once again, and asserts “You look good. Exactly the same. How is that possible?”
Whizzer shrugs, as he sits down next to Trina, and says “I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.”
Marvin feels a grin coming on despite himself, thrilled to even just be in conversation with the man and knows he should stop it all now. To remember how this turned out the first time around. But he can't.
“That's okay, I don't mind.”
“I'm sure.”
“What was that? Sorry, I can't hear you. I'm aging like a regular human being. Come sit in front of me. I wanna see if that hairline can prove otherwise.” Marvin says, as he reaches over and lightly tugs on the loop on the shoulder of Whizzers leather jacket.
“Marvin-” Whizzer starts, but is reminded of Marvin's incorrigible nature and gives in to the request. He apologizes to Mendel and Trina, who have to get up to make space for him.
He notices Trina's bothered expression, and is hit once again with his past guilt-ridden urges to make her laugh. He turns to her and asks, “Is he still queer?”
She lets out an exasperated sigh and simply says she doesn't know.
“Am I queer? It's been so long since I could tell,” Marvin drolls.
The two men, who could already feel themselves being pulled into each other's orbit once again, were brought back to reality after hearing the sound of a baseball bat meeting ball. Whizzer watched the game for a moment, reminding himself why he had come here in the first place, when he feels hands lightly grazing the hair at the nape of his neck, as Marvin often had two years ago.
Whizzer turned around, fixing Marvin with a stern look, and Marvin looked around shocked, as if some unknown force had been touching him too. After a few seconds he felt it again, and whipped around, saying “Stop, Marvin,” who looked away and pretended to wave at a non-existent friend in the crowd. Marvin reveled in how he could hear the repressed smile in his words. Whizzer turned back around with an eye roll knowing better than to believe Marvin had engaged in any kind of socialization at these games. He realized Jason was on deck and got up to advise him on his swinging technique.
Marvin intently watched Whizzer as he walked towards the dugout, feeling the heat of Charlotte and Cordelias judgemental glances. Cordelia opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by her starstruck friend.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“For some reason, I’m doubting that.”
“Well, don’t.”
Charlotte and Cordelia shared another skeptical look as Marvin was all of a sudden invested in the happenings on the field, posture upright, as opposed to his usual insouciant slouch.
He could faintly hear Whizzer telling Jason something about keeping his eye on the ball. Marvin couldn’t keep his own eyes off of Whizzer, bicep muscles visible even through his thick jacket as he gripped the bat. Jesus.
Marvin tried to remind himself of every difficulty they had experienced in their previous relationship. Sure Whizzer was gorgeous, funny, and had an endless list of skills to his name. But he was catty, and cheap, and lacked any semblance of responsibility. Then again. Marvin wasn’t exactly the ideal partner either. But he’s changed, he knows he has. So where does he benefit from punishing himself with solitude?
Soon Whizzer was walking back towards the bleachers and Marvin started going through every possible conversation starter he could think of.
“So? Any hope for the kid?”
Whizzer thought for a second, and gave a feeble smile. “...I mean, I love the kid, bless his heart, but this isn't exactly his venue.”
Marvin found himself for perhaps the first time in years, giggling. And he was too distracted by Whizzers gaze now meeting his own to cringe at the act. He had forgotten just how sweet those round, brown eyes were. He seemed almost sheepish, less challenging than before. Marvin could work with that.
“You know, I was under the impression the box is where the ball is meant to go. Are you trying to give my son a concussion?”
“Mm. Well, I was under the impression you know nothing about baseball. If I remember correctly, you think it’s the least exciting activity involving balls and weiners.”
“It is.”
Whizzer laughed that glorious laugh, dimples and smile lines on full display, and Marvin never wanted to lose that again. He decides, then, that he's got nothing to lose. He toed gently at Whizzers foot closest to his own.
“Do you think.. You’d be free sometime? To catch up, maybe? Get dinner?”
He could see the hesitance Whizzer felt. “...I-”
Crack.
They were for a second time disrupted by the echo of impact.
Jason had hit the ball. Hard. Into the… back of the field. Marvin can't recall that term in his current state of shock.
They all stood there, amazed by the lanky, uncoordinated boy's sudden bout of strength and precision. After a few seconds, though, they realized the lack of movement on the field.
“Run, Moron!” Marvin yelled, in unison with the other adults' cries of advisement. Jason sped off, clumsily letting go off the bat an uncomfortable second too late.
Marvin, also a second too late, came back to his senses, realizing he was clinging to the bicep he had minutes before been marveling at. When he nervously glanced to Whizzer, he was met with the man's now steady, assured gaze.
“I would like that.”
Marvin smiled.
Whizzer continued, “You know, the Yankees have a game coming up next saturday…”
“Absolutely not.”