The SoulWatch: AfterMAGA (BL)

David didn't sleep much. Even with Abby's voice in his head—Play it cool. Buy us time—his nerves kept sparking like live wires. By the time the final bell rang, he felt like he'd been walking on glass all day.

So he didn't go home. Didn't go to the shelter where questions waited. Instead, his feet carried him to the only place that still felt like Johnny's—before Eli, before doctrine, before the boy he loved became a stranger.

The baseball field was empty. It always was now.

David climbed to the top of the bleachers, hands clenched so tight his knuckles went white, eyes scanning the field like he could will Johnny into existence. The broken scoreboard hung dark. The pitcher's mound stood abandoned. But in his mind, Johnny was already there—winding up in the late afternoon light, loose-limbed and laughing, the ghost of who he used to be.

David closed his eyes and let the memory take him.

In David's mind, Johnny stood atop the pitcher's mound. His lean frame coiled with potential energy, he wound up and hurled a fastball towards home plate. Each throw was a symphony of motion, the potential energy, the beginning with a slight wind-up, the coil of his powerful shoulder, and the ending with the explosive release of the ball. The fastball cut through the air with a sharp hiss, a sound as menacing as it was precise. The ball slammed into the glove of David's mitt with a satisfying thwack, echoing through the empty stadium.

David had agreed to catch for Johnny's practice session without hesitation, though baseball existed at the periphery of his world. The animal shelter where he volunteered after school had closed early for a staff meeting, and Johnny had texted with his request. Now here he was, knees slightly bent, arm extended, trying to look like he belonged on this field that Johnny claimed as naturally as breathing.

The fluid motion of Johnny's delivery enthralled David - the power emanating from those long limbs, the intense focus etched on his handsome face. He watched the way his muscles bunched and released with each pitch. There was a rhythm to it, a dance of sorts. Johnny's blond hair glinted like burnished gold in the molten light. To David, he looked like the Apollo sculpture, discarded by the church, but now come to life in his mind and heart.

These nights mesmerized David. Johnny mesmerized David.

Lost in admiration, David missed catching a pitch. The ball ricocheted off the edge of his glove, sending David rushing to the backstop to retrieve it.

"Really?" Johnny responded with a smirk.

"You know," David said, his voice carrying across the field as he returned to position, "I never understood the appeal of baseball. But I guess... it's like art."

Johnny turned to him, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Yeah?" he called back, his voice warm with genuine pleasure. "It's all about control, David. Every pitch is a choice, a decision. It's not just about throwing hard, but throwing smart."

David nodded, though he only half-understood. What he did understand was the intensity in Johnny's eyes, the passion that fueled every movement. The passion that he knew had not slipped away. Here, on the field, Johnny was free, unguarded. And David couldn't help but feel a pang of longing, a desire to see that freedom in every aspect of Johnny's life.

As Johnny continued pitching, his movements took on a hypnotic rhythm. David found himself drawn ever more deeply into a reverie, contemplating not the mechanics of the pitches but the essence of the boy throwing them. Beneath the all-American golden boy facade, who was the real Johnny Ashford? What thoughts and feelings churned beneath that confident exterior? Did he, too, feel the subterranean pull of something deeper between them?

"Do you think I can actually go pro?" Johnny asked more to himself than to David.

As Johnny prepared to throw another pitch, David found himself holding his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. The world around them faded away, leaving only the two of them suspended in this moment. The ball left Johnny's hand, a blur of white against the green of the field, and David couldn't help but feel that this—this right here—was where Johnny belonged. Not in the sterile halls of Stricton Academy or the oppressive pews of Giant Faith Church, but here, under the open sky, his body moving with purpose and grace.

"Ready?" Johnny called, commanding the empty field.

David nodded, adjusting his borrowed catcher's mitt. The weight of it felt foreign compared to the delicate pressure of piano keys he was accustomed to.

He saw the truth of Johnny again in his mind—not the all-American athlete, not the commissioner's son, but the boy who loved the game, who found solace in the rhythm of the pitch. And it was that boy David wanted to know, to understand, to love.

The lengthening shadows painted the infield dirt in stark chiaroscuro, darkness bleeding into light. Soon the sun would set, and they'd return to their separate orbits, playing the roles assigned to them. But for now, in this liminal space where day met dusk and longing met restraint, David allowed himself to imagine a different future. One where he and Johnny could stand together in the light, unafraid and unashamed. One pitch at a time, he etched the vision into his mind - building a virtual world to revisit in the solitary hours to come.

Johnny's fastball struck David's glove with a satisfying thwack that stung his palm through the padding. The impact traveled up his arm, a small price for watching Johnny in his element - a jolt of connection.

"Nice!" David called back, trying to sound knowledgeable, though he wasn't entirely sure what made that pitch better or worse than any other. He just knew it looked right when Johnny threw it—like something inevitable finding its path.

Johnny grinned, catching the ball David tossed back with casual ease. "That's my fastball. Eighty-eight miles per hour last time Coach clocked it." His pride was evident but contained, as though he was trying to measure it out carefully. "Probably ninety by now."

"That's the one everyone wants to see," Johnny said after his next fastball, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. The field lights caught in his damp hair, turning it from dark blonde to something burnished and rare. "That's the pitch that makes the girls cheer."

Johnny's smile didn't quite reach his eyes when he said it, a detail David cataloged without fully understanding why.

David felt a flash of disgust.

The fastball was impressive, yes—direct and powerful and everything Stricton valorized—but David found himself more interested in the quiet concentration on Johnny's face between pitches than in the raw force of his throw.

"I can see why," David said, the expected response. The words felt hollow in his mouth.

Johnny nodded and squared his shoulders again. The next pitch came just as hard, just as straight. David caught it, the impact traveling through his body, grounding him to the diamond's dust.

It felt like a special conversation—Johnny throwing, David receiving—spoken in the language of leather and trust.

In the distance, the broken scoreboard stood sentinel, its digital display dark for months now. Another casualty of the city's selective neglect. David remembered when it used to light up with Johnny's statistics—the commissioner's son, baseball star, Stricton's pride.

"Your form is perfect," David said during a pause, the words escaping before he could examine them. It was obvious he wasn't talking about his pitching. He felt heat rise to his face, though Johnny wouldn't notice from sixty feet away.

"Years of practice," Johnny replied, rotating his shoulder. "ROTC helps too. Discipline transfers." His voice carried a new formality, as if he were reciting someone else's words.

David nodded, though something in him recoiled at the mention of the program the Giant Faith Church had established. He focused instead on Johnny's stance, the way his fingers splayed across the seams of the baseball, the controlled tension in his jaw. These were the details that mattered—the human beneath the uniform, the boy behind the public face of Johnathan Ashford, Commissioner Saul's perfect son.

As Johnny wound up for another pitch, David realized he wasn't watching the sport at all. He was watching Johnny—the grace in his movements, the focus in his eyes, the brief, genuine smile that appeared when a pitch went exactly where he intended. David's hand tingled in the glove, anticipating the next connection, the next moment when something of Johnny's would fly across the space between them and land, perfectly, in his eager grasp.

The ball cut through the air, a stark white line against the gloomy sky, as if defying the very atmosphere to slow it down.

David leaned against the rusted pole of the backstop, his eyes tracking Johnny's every move.

Johnny paused, turning to David with a grin that could light up the dullest of days. "You know what I love about the fastball, Dave?" he said, his voice carrying that charisma that made people stop and listen. It had authority, it had command, but not of the variety instilled by the church - not back then.

David shook his head, curiosity piqued by the sudden shift in Johnny's demeanor. "What's that?"

He held the ball in his hand, his fingers tracing the red laces like they were old friends. "It's straightforward. No holding back, no hiding, no deceit. It's just you, the ball, power, and the catcher's mitt. You put yourself out there to the world. There's honesty in that."

David felt his lips curl into a small smile, Johnny's enthusiasm infectious. "Honesty, huh?" he replied with a hint of accusation, his voice barely above a whisper. He knew all about honesty, about the truth that bubbled beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to break free.

David nodded slowly, considering the idea. There was something appealing about that kind of honesty, the willingness to lay oneself bare without reservation. "If only life could be more like that," he mused silently. "If only we could all be so direct, so unafraid."

Johnny seemed to sense David's introspection, his gaze softening. "But sometimes," he continued, his tone growing more thoughtful, "sometimes you need a little more finesse. Something to keep 'em guessing."

His expression shifted, a subtle change that made David's breath hitch. There was a quiet anticipation in the air now, a sense of something different about to happen.

"Now for something different," Johnny called across the diamond, his voice lower than before, almost conspiratorial.

He rotated the ball in his hand, fingers finding new purchase on the seams. "Watch this one carefully." The way he said it—like he was sharing a secret—made David lean forward slightly, mitt extended with renewed attention. This wasn't the fastball anymore; this was something Johnny didn't show everyone.

Johnny's windup changed subtly. His body still coiled with the same tension, but there was something different in the angle of his wrist, the position of his fingers against the red stitching. When he released, the ball didn't rocket forward with brute force. Instead, it seemed to float, tracing an elegant arc through the darkening night.

"That's my curveball," Johnny beamed fiercely at David, "That's my real secret weapon. What can get me out of any jam, no matter how tight."

The pitch fascinated David, despite his lack of interest in the sport. The ball spun differently, creating its own small energy system as it traveled. It didn't conquer the space between them; it negotiated with it, finding a path that seemed to defy gravity. It was elegant and unexpected.

David watched the next pitch approach with something like wonder -it demanded a different kind of attention. The ball's path reminded him of a phrase from piano—rubato, the gentle stretching of time. This pitch wasn't about power; it always seemed to find its own path, it was about patience and precision.

When the next ball left Johnny's hand it just seemed to glide into David's glove, like it always already knew it belonged there.

David became so engrossed in the ball's movement that he misjudged the arrival of the next pitch. It sailed past his outstretched glove, and as he lunged to compensate, his foot slipped on the loose dirt. David went down hard, one arm extended to break his fall. The impact sent a shock through his wrist, and he felt the sharp sting as his forearm scraped against the ground.

"Whoa boy! You okay?" Johnny's voice carried genuine concern. He was already jogging toward David, his expression tight with worry.

David sat up, slightly dazed, more embarrassed than hurt. "I thought I had it," David covered for himself. I'm fine, just—" He looked down at his arm where a patch of skin had been scraped raw, beading with tiny drops of blood. "Just clumsy."

Johnny reached him in seconds, dropping to a crouch beside him. His eyebrows pulled together as he examined David's arm, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone who could hurl a baseball with such force.

"It's nothing," David insisted, but Johnny was already reaching into his practice bag, which he'd left at the pitcher's mound.

"Curveballs have a way of surprising you," Johnny said, his voice low and gentle. "They make you think you've got them figured out, and then they throw you off balance."

"I've got a first aid kit," Johnny said, producing a small, worn pouch emblazoned with the ROTC logo. "Baseball means scrapes. Comes with the territory." He unzipped the kit and removed an antiseptic wipe and a bandage, his movements efficient and practiced.

David watched Johnny's hands—the same hands that had just thrown that impossible curveball—now carefully tearing open the antiseptic packet. There was a tenderness to his actions that contrasted with his public persona, the disciplined baseball star and cadet that everyone at Stricton saw.

"This might sting a bit," Johnny warned, his voice softening as he took David's arm in his hands.

The antiseptic stung, but David scarcely noticed. His focus was entirely on the warmth of Johnny's fingers, pressing gently against his skin with a tenderness that made his arm feel cherished. Johnny's hands bore the callouses of years spent playing baseball, each touch creating ripples of sensation wherever they grazed David's skin. As Johnny turned David's arm to inspect the injury, his strong yet gentle grasp offered an unexpected comfort. The careful way he held David revealed a softness beneath his usual charisma and confidence—a vulnerability reserved for moments like these with David alone.

Johnny brushed away a small bit of dirt from the scrape, his brows furrowing slightly in concentration. "You gotta be patient with curveballs," he murmured, almost to himself. "They take their time, tell their own story. You can't rush them."

There was a quiet strength in Johnny, a depth that David yearned to understand, to be a part of.

"Does it hurt?" Johnny asked softly, his eyes meeting David's. There was a world of unspoken words in that gaze, a conversation that neither of them was quite ready to have.

David shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "No," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "It just... surprised me, that's all."

Johnny's lips curved into a soft smile, and he helped David to his feet. "That's the thing about curveballs, David," he said, his voice low. "They're full of surprises."

Johnny's knee brushed his thigh—light, casual, devastating.

"Not too bad," Johnny murmured, his breath ghosting over David's skin. "But let's cover it anyway."

He unwrapped the adhesive bandage with the same precision he brought to everything, fingers nimble despite their strength. The bandage was too small for the scrape, but Johnny positioned it carefully over the worst part, smoothing the edges with his thumb. His touch lingered a moment longer than necessary.

"Thanks," David said, his voice emerging hoarser than he'd intended. He cleared his throat. "You'd make a decent doctor."

Johnny laughed softly. "Not likely. My future's already been mapped out by the commissioner." There was something in his tone—a resigned acceptance that didn't quite mask the underlying frustration. Johnny had just told him that he wanted to go pro.

As Johnny finished with the bandage, he looked up, and suddenly their faces were inches apart. David could see the flecks of lighter color in Johnny's eyes, the slight sunburn across his nose, the way his lips parted slightly in surprise at their proximity. Johnny's hand still rested on David's arm, a point of contact that seemed to concentrate all the blood in David's body to that single spot. Something passed between them in that moment—unspoken but undeniable.

The late afternoon light caught in Johnny's eyelashes, turning them gold at the tips. Neither of them moved. David's breath stalled in his lungs. He was acutely aware of every sensation: the slight pressure of Johnny's fingers against his skin, the fabric of their clothing where their bodies nearly touched, the warmth radiating between them that had nothing to do with the fading sunlight.

"That's why you've got to watch the curveball," he said, his voice deliberately light. "It doesn't go where you expect."

The bleachers creaked behind him—a sound too deliberate to be wind. David's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn.

Not yet.

He wasn't ready to let go of the memory, the phantom warmth of Johnny's fingers still ghosting across his skin.

Another creak.

Closer.

Then the soft scrape of shoes on metal. A branch splintered with a sharp crack under someone's foot. David jerked his neck, startled, the warm fog of memory shattering like glass in the cold. Micah stood at the edge of the bleachers, hands in his jacket pockets, one eyebrow raised like he'd been there longer than he probably had.

David blinked, unsure whether to feel exposed or grateful. "How'd you find me?"

Micah shrugged. "You're not that hard to read, Sheffield. Especially when it comes to him."

He climbed the bleachers slowly and sat beside David, not touching, but close enough that the space between them felt shared. The sky was darkening now, bleeding violet at the edges.

For a moment they just sat there, both watching the pitcher's mound like it might move. Then Micah asked, quieter: "So. Did you... see it?"

David didn't answer right away. He only nodded—barely. Micah didn't press further. He didn't need to.

The silence between them settled into something almost companionable as they rose and began walking across the infield, their footsteps muffled by the soft dirt. The wind picked up, rattling through the chain-link fence with a whispering hiss.

David was the first to see it—spray paint scrawled on the side of the first base dugout: FUCK FAITHWATCH LIES. THE TRUTH WILL SET US FREE.

He stopped dead, staring. The words were jagged but bold, the red paint still fresh enough to shine. A rush of something—vindication, fear, solidarity—surged through him.

Micah slowed beside him. "Guess it's not just us," he murmured.

"I thought you were one of the church-boys," David probed, surprise edging his voice.

"We gotta do, what we gotta do... sometimes," Micah replied, a hint of shame creeping in.

David nodded, his voice quiet but certain. "I understand."

And for the first time that day, David didn't feel entirely alone.