Chapter Text
Ryan is thanking every deity he can think of for his competitive streak, because otherwise, he would've lost his fine motor skills the second Chad checked him out, muscle memory be damned. There was no way that once-over could be attributed solely to “sizing up the competition.”
As it is, he’s channeling every ounce of acting ability into not blushing. Keeping up his end of the banter is easy, familiar, but reacting—or, more accurately, trying not to react—to Chad’s comments is actually torture. Like, does he even realize what he’s saying? I’ll show you how I swing? This game is an hour-long innuendo. It has more homoerotic subtext than Twelfth Night, for fuck’s sake.
So as much as he wants to respond “Is that a promise?” he bites it back and laughs instead, the exaggerated haughtiness echoing in his ears, because Chad is smirking and twirling the bat and fuck, straight boys should not be allowed to look this good, for the sake of his sanity.
When Ryan dances across the diamond, Chad calls out, “I'm here to play ball, not dance hall, man! I'm making a triple, not a curtain call.” And he fucking bows, hand twirling, natural as anything, and Ryan curses whoever invented heterosexuality.
“Hey, you better spin that pitch you're gonna throw me!” Chad calls the next time Ryan is pitching to him, and Ryan bites his lip and repeats he doesn't know what he's saying he doesn't know what he's saying because the alternative is a lot harder to compute and looks from most angles like Chad’s fucking with him, and not in the way he keeps implying.
So Ryan rolls his eyes and says “You could hit any pitch I threw,” and hopes it just sounds like a compliment.
“How about stop talking so much and show me what you got, Evans,” Chad fires back, and fuck if he doesn't want to follow through on that.
It goes on like this until Ryan has exhibited an impossible amount of self-control, and then they're sprinting home and Chad beats him there but more importantly Chad’s head is between his legs, Ryan’s legs draped over his arms, and despite all of the exertion, he's pretty sure he doesn't breathe until Chad's out from under him and they're standing up. And his team lost but, wow, what a way to go.
He turns to go because it feels like the spell is broken; the game is over, therefore so is this other game he's not sure Chad knows they've been playing. But then Chad shouts, “Hey, Evans!” and it takes everything in him not to whirl around, but he's so glad he doesn't because it means, thank God, that Chad can't see his face when he continues, “I'm not saying I’m gonna dance in the show. But if I did… What'd you have me do?”
Dear God, Ryan hopes he doesn't gape for more than a split second, hopes his smirk looks to everyone else like it's because he's gotten what he wanted, hopes they can't tell how far he is from getting what he really wants.
He walks off without responding because how do you trust yourself to reply to that, he's an actor but he's not superhuman, and catches his breath against a back wall until he figures the locker room is empty; he really needs to make sure this shirt doesn't stain. His brain unhelpfully supplies a reminder of them sprawled across each other on home plate, and yeah, it's worth it even if he can't get the dirt out.
There's no one else in the locker section, at least, so he prays the showers are equally empty and grabs the emergency Woolite from his bag. He carefully takes the shirt off—stained designer is still designer—and heads to the sink—
And Chad Danforth is walking out with a towel around his waist. Ryan looks away, feeling light-headed.
“Oh, hey, man. Headed to shower?” Chad asks, flaunting his ability to talk in this situation, and Ryan forcefully composes himself.
“No, I don't really have enough time. Just wanted to rinse this before it's too late to get it out.” He gestures to the shirt and swallows.
“You would've had time if you hadn't been so slow getting your ass over here,” Chad laughs, walking to a locker and pulling his clothes out.
“Oh—no, I uh, I don't do communal showers.” He realizes this sounds exactly like a snobby rich kid response, so he elaborates, “Other people get… uncomfortable. With me being there.”
Chad shakes his head. “People are idiots, man. So you're just going to be sweaty all day?”
Ryan wrinkles his nose. “No, I'm going to shower at home.”
“Hell no.” Ryan blinks. “You've gotta stay for the team lunch.”
“I wasn't invited.”
“Well, you're the choreographer; you're part of this team now, and I'm inviting you, so hurry your ass up and shower before Gabriella’s mom’s brownies are gone.”
“Oh—okay, thanks, just let me wash this first.”
“Did you hear me say brownies, man? There’s not time, I'll do it. Here, you can wear my stuff.” He shoves his clothes toward Ryan. “The pants, too, if you want it to match,” and he's smirking, but Ryan hesitates because the list of things he'd let Chad do is long, but designer.
Chad rolls his eyes. “I've been cleaning my own jerseys for years, I won't screw it up.”
So Ryan hands him the shirt and goes to the shower, thanking a dozen more deities that Chad is heading to the sink furthest away, not that that's minimizing the amount of times he thinks holy shit I’m naked and Chad Danforth is in the room.
Once he's out and dressed—and these are Chad's clothes and they smell like him and holy shit—he tosses his pants to Chad, who has Ryan’s shirt on and the towel still around his waist, and Ryan sees that he did mostly get the stain out although it's still damp and white and just see-through enough to kill him.
He goes to get his hat while Chad gets dressed, and then Chad comes up behind him and settles his baseball cap on Ryan's head, then adjusts it to the angle he always wears them at, and Ryan wonders how much attention he was paying during that golf game.
“Like I said, you're part of the team now. It looks good on you.” Chad smiles, and Ryan grins and puts his hat on top of Chad's ponytail, and wow, if he didn't love his hats so much, he'd tell him to keep it, wow.
“So. Brownies?” he says before he can say something for which he'll hate himself, and Chad whoops and they run to join the others.