Chapter Text
March 2025 - Mesa, Arizona
“Question of the day,” Wei Wuxian says as he spreads his arms across the back of the bench. It’s not often that he gets to sit in the dugout during a game. But in today’s match-up against the Cleveland Grifters, Lan Qiren actually had him start. Granted, he’s only gonna pitch for two innings, but still!
It’s been almost nine years since he’s started a major league game, since the disaster game where he blew out his elbow leading to Tommy John surgery. Now he’s a closer and spends his games in the bullpen with the rest of the misfits.
“The Cleveland Grifters have the ugliest uniforms in the major leagues. Yes or no?”
“Fuck, yes,” Zizhen says emphatically. “Orange and green? Who does that?”
“I believe they are attempting a throwback look,” Lan Zhan says, his hand on Wei Wuxian’s knee. See, this is the only reason Wei Wuxian misses being in the dugout during the game: so he and Lan Zhan can be disgustingly married.
The crowd starts cheering and the Clouds have scored another run. They’re already up like four to nothing and it’s only the second inning. It’s fantastic.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says suddenly. “You are on deck.”
“Wait, what?” Wei Ying says, sitting up straight. “I’m not supposed to bat. That’s why I’m only pitching two innings.” He stands up and walks over to Lan Qiren. “Am I batting?”
“Have I taken you out of the game?” Lan Qiren asks before turning his back on Wei Wuxian. Since Wei Wuxian and Lan Zhan got married, Wei Wuxian thought he might grow on Lan Qiren a bit, being his nephew-in-law and all. He was very much mistaken. Lan Qiren treats him exactly the same as he did before they got married.
“I don’t even own a bat,” Wei Wuxian whines. “Or a helmet! Lan Zhan. Can I use one of your bats?”
Lan Zhan is by his side in an instant, because he’s best husband. “Wei Ying, when was the last time you took batting practice?” he asks as he hands Wei Wuxian a bat.
“Who the fuck knows?” Wei Wuxian says. He pouts. He used to be a decent hitter for a pitcher, back before his injury. But now swinging a bat would use too many muscles he hasn’t engaged with for a bit. Probably best just to take three strikes and be done with it, even if it does piss-off the competitive side of his brain.
Wei Wuxian is saved from having to worry about his pride as the batter in front of him hits into a double-play, ending the inning. “Well, that was fun while it lasted.”
Ten minutes later, Wei Wuxian has pitched a perfect one-two-three inning. Spring training has been going well. His numbers are good and he’s feeling great. Plus, he’s pitching better than LaTroy Wilson. And considering he’s the reason Wei Wuxian won’t be pitching on the Clouds next year? Satisfies the side of bitterness in Wei Wuxian’s heart.
His day basically done, Wei Wuxian heads into the visitors clubhouse to ice up. During a game, it’s fairly empty except for attendants and some of the trainers.
One person who should never be in the clubhouse is any of the many special assistants to the GM. Wei Wuxian heads to his locker, wondering what poor bastard just got traded in the middle of a game.
“Wei Wuxian.”
And just like that, Wei Wuxian knows it’s him. He’s the poor bastard who just got traded in the middle of a game. “Fuck,” he whispers to himself, not even wanting to think of what Lan Zhan’s reaction is gonna be.
They were supposed to have one last season together. One season to enjoy before Wei Ying goes off and signs with another team in the NL East, preferably Milwaukee, so he could actually still live at home and just have the worst commute ever.
He was supposed to have some control over the process.
Wei Wuxian turns and tries to push away that nagging feeling of rejection, the one that practically overwhelmed him more than ten years ago, when he learned he’d been traded from the Orlando Piers to the Chicago Clouds.
“Hey,” Wei Wuxian says, walking up to the two men, one wearing a Chicago Cloud polo, the other a Cleveland Grifters polo.
“This is Ebo Desta, the GM for the Grifters,” the special assistant says. Doesn’t even bother to introduce himself and Wei Wuxian is almost a hundred percent positive they’ve never met before. “We had hoped to finish the paperwork before the start of the game, but things got delayed.”
“We are really excited to have you join the team,” Desta says. To give him credit, he actually does sound happy. “The Patriarch is exactly the mentor our bullpen needs.”
Wei Wuxian sucks in a breath. Orange and green are not his colors. They are so not his colors. “So it’s official, official? Can I tweet about it?”
“Press release is being sent out right now. And speaking of tweets,” Desta says, his voice quiet. “Johnny Bass’s people will get in touch with you. They’re looking to expand his social media presence and think you’ll be an asset there.”
Johnny Bass. The absolute biggest name in baseball. Two years ago, he signed the most lucrative contract in professional sports, worth $426.5 million over twelve years. When anyone thinks Cleveland, they think Johnny Bass.
“Um, sure,” Wei Wuxian says. People have tried to partner up with him before on social media and it’s never worked. Wei Wuxian tweets and posts videos to Tiktok on his own schedule and no one else’s. But he might as well look like a team player for now. “Why not?”
Cleveland. Wei Wuxian is going to have to live in fucking Cleveland for the next six months. He’s going to have to live without Lan Zhan for the next six months. Have to have his own apartment and take care of things by himself and fuck. This is absolutely the worst.
“Alright. The Cleveland office will be in touch with your agent to go through logistics,” the assistant says. “So you just need to clean out your locker and head on over to the Grifters’s clubhouse.”
Okay then. This is really fucking happening. “Lan Zhan is only playing three innings. Can I tell him in person then head over? Would kind of stink for my husband to find out I got traded by seeing me in the opposing team’s dugout.”
“Of course,” Desta says, holding out his hand. They shake. “This is going to be a good fit. Just you wait.”
Wei Wuxian shakes hands with the assistant and is finally left alone. He immediately grabs his phone out of his locker and calls Wen Qing.
“The fuck?” Wei Wuxian says as a greeting. “How did we have no idea they were gonna trade me?
“You know the Clouds run a tight ship. Gossip never gets out,” Wen Qing says. “I heard teams were putting out feelers but I didn’t know that the Clouds actually were listening. You okay?”
Huh. Wei Wuxian must sound more shaken than he realized. Wen Qing never asks if he’s okay. “Yeah, just more annoyed than anything. Just some warning would have been nice, you know? What’d they trade me for?”
“Jorge Bradley, the third baseman, their top Double-A starter, and considerable cash considerations. The Clouds are getting your value, at least,” Wen Qing says.
That makes Wei Wuxian feel a little better at least. When the Piers traded him, it was pretty clear that Madam Yu just wanted him out of the clubhouse, taking pennies on the dollar in his value.
“I’m going to have someone start looking for a place in Cleveland for you. Do you want to live near the ballpark?”
Wei Wuxian grabs a duffel bag and starts clearing out his locker. He tries to remember Cleveland and its ballpark setup. And then he does. It’s the worst. “Fuck, no. I hate downtown Cleveland. There’s got to be a queer area in the city, right? If I can’t live with Lan Zhan, at least let me live with my people.”
“Wei Ying?”
The confusion in Lan Zhan’s voice almost breaks him. “Just find me somewhere in a queer-friendly neighborhood. Gotta go. Thanks.”
Wei Wuxian ends the call and looks at his husband. He’s wearing his leg protectors, his baseball cap on backwards because he’s one of the only catchers left who actually wears his cap on under his catcher’s helmet. And right now? He looks absolutely lost.
“I got traded. Cleveland.”
Lan Zhan swallows. Then nods. And that’s enough for Wei Wuxian. He grabs Lan Zhan’s wrist and marches them into the workout room, which is thankfully empty.
The moment the door is closed behind them, Lan Zhan has his arms around Wei Wuxian. He’s a professional, damnit. This has always been a possibility for either of them. It’s not like they’ll be separated forever. They’re still married. It’s just, they won’t play again on the same team for however much playing time they have left, maybe five or six years.
Which sucks.
“We will have to rent another car for spring training,” Lan Zhan says quietly.
Wei Wuxian snorts into Lan Zhan’s neck. He should have figured this is how Lan Zhan would take the news. He’s probably got a million lists started in his head, trying to figure out exactly how to make this as easy as possible for both of them.
“Oh fuck, I’m back in the American League East. That means I have to play against Jiang Cheng a million times. And the goddamn Novas. Lan Zhan, this is the worst.”
That’s when it really hits him. He just pitched to Lan Zhan for the last time in their major league careers, and he can’t even remember what pitch he threw.
“I’m never gonna pitch to you again, am I?”
“You will,” Lan Zhan says, his voice sharp. He gently places his hands on either side of Wei Wuxian’s neck, a move that has conditioned Wei Wuxian to relax. He grabs Lan Zhan’s wrists in response. “During the offseason, we will still workout together—“
“But not when it matters.”
“Wei Ying, it all matters. You’ve made me a better catcher.”
Okay, well, that’s just wrong. Wei Wuxian is willing to bet their first-born that Lan Zhan is gonna be a second-ballot Hall of Famer five years after he retires. Future Hall of Famers don’t need Wei Wuxian to make them a better major league baseball player.
“Lan Zhan.”
“I’m serious. Learning your new pitches, figuring out how to best utilize them in game— It’s been the challenge of my career. I have loved every moment.”
Wei Wuxian meets his husband’s eye and the fucker looks like he actually means every word. Of course he does, because Lan Zhan doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
They hug again and Wei Wuxian tries not to shiver as Lan Zhan’s lips brush his neck. They have a firm ‘no making out in the clubhouse’ policy, but if there’s ever a day to break that rule, it’s today.
“I don’t even remember the last pitch I threw you.”
“Inside knuckleball. Groundout to the shortstop.”
Of course Lan Zhan remembers. “Who’s gonna smack your ass during games, Lan Zhan? My poor baby is gonna be ass-smackless.”
“If we both make the all-star game this year, you will be able to smack my ass then,” Lan Zhan says, tapping Wei Wuxian’s own ass. “You do have permission during workouts, if you recall.”
“Not the same,” Wei Wuxian whispers.
“I know,” Lan Zhan says. He steps back, still holding Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Would you like me to share the news to the dugout?”
Wei Wuxian shakes his head. If he’s gonna get traded in the middle of a game like this, he’s gonna take full advantage. “I’ll wave to them all from Cleveland’s dugout. They’ll be so confused.” No more bus rides next to Sizhui. No more misfits in the bullpen. No more home in Evanston for six months of the year. “I’ll say my goodbyes after the game.”
“I will keep quiet until you’re there.”
“You know you still have to give me a ride home today, right? Even though I’m now the enemy?”
Lan Zhan’s eyes go soft and he reaches out, brushing Wei Wuxian’s cheek. “Never the enemy.”
“Yeah, just wait until it’s the bottom of the ninth in Game Seven of the World Series and you need to get a hit off me,” Wei Ying says with a grin. “Can we make that happen? We absolutely need to make that happen.”
“If the Clouds were in the position to make it to the World Series, you wouldn’t have been traded,” he says, sounding sad. Of course he’s sad. The stupid Clouds have just upended their entire lives.
Wei Wuxian’s pretty good at telling when he’s stalled long enough and he’s pretty sure he’s stalled long enough. It’s time to go introduce himself to his new team.
And figure out how to pitch when Lan Zhan’s not there to catch him.