Unbetaed, Friday Night Lights fic. Don/Mike. Title from Allman Bros. "Ain't Wastin' Time No More".
His ma’s sleeping soundly; Mike can hear her breathing, nice and easy. The door’s open like always, so if something happens he’ll hear.
He’s sitting out on the back step, leaning against the screen door. It’s hot, and little bit of wind kicks grit up onto his hands. Stings a little, when it gets in the cuts on his knuckles.
Don sits on the top of his car, across the gravel driveway and stares at his feet. He doesn’t drive out here unless it’s real bad, and so he doesn’t say much when he does. Just sits there on his car, and Mike sits with him, and Mike doesn’t say much either.
Mike’s house isn’t too far from the highway, and when he closes his eyes he can hear them rushing by. When his brother first left, sometimes Mike would sit out here and listen to the cars and wonder where people were going.
You have to drive by Odessa to get from one end of Texas to the other, doesn’t matter if you’re going north or south or east or west. Odessa’s pretty damned close to being the center of the whole state, maybe the center of the whole world.
“We’re dead without Boobie,” Don says, voice quiet.
Mike rubs his thumb over his knuckles, and shrugs. When he looks up, Don’s watching him. Don looks different when he’s not wearing a helmet or a hat, when he’s just sitting out here at night with Mike. His face gets soft, like maybe he’s scared.
Mike can stand being scared himself, but Don’s different.
“Could be,” he says after a while. “Could be we aren’t, too. But if we think we’re beat already, then we might as well not show up.”
Don’s eyes meet his, and they swallow up the light from the kitchen. Wind pulls at Mike’s collar, gets down the back of his shirt and makes him shiver a little, but he can’t look away until Don does. He never can.
When Mike’s not on the field, it feels like his skin’s too big for him. Parties make it worse, because they’re too loud, too much altogether, so he just stands by the windows and watches.
Chavo’s kissing some dark haired girl in the corner, his big hands all over her small back, her round ass. When he meets Mike’s eyes over her shoulder, Chavo winks, like he does after a good play.
Mike doesn’t get how Chavo is always the same as he is when he’s playing. He’s always got that same walk, that same smile, like he’s just pulled down the biggest damn guy in West Texas, and there’s not a scratch on him.
When Don’s not on the field, he tries too hard to be like he is when he’s playing. He isn’t like Chavo – this doesn’t come easy to him. That’s probably why Don’s on top of table pulling off his shirt and drinking beer out of a funnel until it dribbles down his chin, his throat, over his collarbone, down.
Something about how Don dances makes the tracks of beer on his chest glisten, makes him look like he’s not just another kid who’s got a good arm who can run. Makes him look like some kind of young god. He’ll fall off the table, soon enough, and it’ll be over – he always does – and Mike will forget he ever thought that.
When Mike’s throwing, he doesn’t have to wonder what the hell his ma’s going to be like when he gets home. He doesn’t have to think about the way that sometimes he thinks Odessa’s this big, mean-mouthed monster that eats up kids like him and Don and Boobie and spits them back out as the slope-shouldered men who sit around talking about the championship rings on their fingers.
He doesn’t have to think about anything but Don, who catches the ball and runs forever, his perfect legs pumping up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down until Mike’s back arches and he screams, exultant.
There are times Mike wonders if maybe he isn’t crazy as his ma is. People always say she isn’t right.
But he can’t be right either, because he doesn’t think about how nice some parts on the cheerleaders look when they bounce and jump. He doesn’t think about Melissa’s long legs under his hands, or the little sounds she made when she grabbed his hand and dragged it down between her legs so she could come, too.
He didn’t think about how good it felt when he was fucking her, just ran it through like a play in his head. This hand to the right breast, thumb on the nipple, lips up the neck and pull her leg around back. Break.
“You gay?” she asked him. “Prove it,” she said.
His ma doesn’t know the difference between what’s real and what isn’t, and Mike, with his hands all over Melissa’s body, with his cock in and out of her, well Mike didn’t think much of what was real. He just kept thinking, “Is this what Don does? Is this how Don would kiss her? Is this – “
Anyway, they say that kind of thing can run in families.
It’s Sunday morning, after a good game and a better Saturday. Chavo’s home, studying, and Mike and Don are out behind the oil rig, lying on top of Don’s car.
“What do you think you’re gonna do next year?” Don asks. “You think you’ll go somewhere in Texas?”
Mike closes his eyes against the sun, and when he shrugs, his shoulder moves against Don’s. “Haven’t thought it out all the way yet.”
“Me neither,” Don says, turning his head a little and his hair brushes over Mike’s nose.
Makes him sneeze, and Don laughs. “What, that tickle?” He pokes Mike in the ribs, and Mike yelps, smacks his hand away. Smiles without opening his eyes.
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“Yeah, you too, shithead,” Don says cheerfully, and Mike smiles wider.
Next to him, Don’s chest moves up and down every time he breathes, nice and easy. There’s a steady buzzhum coming up from the grass, where the bugs hide in the dust.
It’s lazy and warm and Don says, “You were great last night, you know.”
Mike opens his eyes, and Don’s looking at him, and behind him there’s light and it makes his hair even brighter, and his eyes even bigger. Mike breathes deep, and says, “You, too.”
And Don puts an arm around his shoulders, and Mike closes his eyes again, and this – this is what Coach Gaines is always talking about.
This is perfect.