PLEASE could you write a lil piece based on the aftermath of the warriors game and how apparently steph was playing with a fractured tailbone but was hiding it.. i need it i need to cry. sorry for getting too deep but yeah lol
hi pal, sorry you were having such a rough go of it! hopefully now you're less sad and are looking forward to next season which will hopefully have a better outcome! stay positive and all that <3
They're quiet on the ride back to Klay's place. There was a moment when they first got in the car and had to give the driver addresses; Klay had looked at him for a moment, head cocked like he was working through something, then he gave the driver his address. Steph had relaxed a bit, shoulders sagging imperceptibly back against the cool leather seat.
The big quiet of his house would have felt oppressive. He probably would've eaten cold leftovers standing over the sink before dry swallowing Tylenol and lying prone in his bed until he exhausted himself on the hundred different chances the team blew this season.
At least at Klay's house there's. Well, there's Klay. And Rocco. And the corner spot of the sectional that Steph loves to curl up in so much. Rocco lying half on top of him, perpetually slobbery and gross. Klay a foot away watching a documentary about the ocean, or something.
He leans his head back against the headrest and watches the city fold up as they drive out of it. Beside him, Klay scrolls through his phone, types with concentration, scrolls more, looks up, catches Steph's eye, smiles at him. His smile's small, just a kind uptick at the corner, but he holds it and Steph's eye. Steph immediately feels caught, seen. Not pitied for losing. Not abhorred for playing subpar. Understood, more like.
Klay looking at him like that, even in the near darkness of a drive home, makes something swell up in Steph's chest, warm. For months now, it's felt like he'll crack open from the weight of a undeserved burden, the disappointment, the frustration, the mounting resentment of a prime wasted. Vulnerable to the picking and plucking from the world.
Looking back at Klay, though. Catching his eye and his smile, holding on. Feels like a balm. Feels like a lifted weight. Feels like a deep inhale after so many months of bated breath. Feels like coming home.
He returns the smile, less enthusiastically, but that's only because he's so exhausted and worn down. Klay gets it, though; fuck, Klay's always understood better than anyone else ever could. No one could ever even try to understand Steph like he does.
Klay reaches across the backseat, long arms making it easy to grab Steph's sleeve and tug him sideways. Like he's pulled on one of Steph's strings, Steph lets it happen. He tips over into Klay's space, into the heat of him, into the comfort. He sighs and closes his eyes. Content to lean awkwardly into Klay until they get home.
At home, they'll probably still eat cold leftovers standing over the sink, too lazy to bother with dishes. Steph'll probably try to dry swallow Tylenol--again, lazy--but Klay'll push a water into his hand before he can. Then he'll grab the heating pad and sit on it on his spot on the couch and feel only a little sorry for himself. Rocco will sit on him. Klay will surprise him by choosing a history documentary instead of the standard nature doc. He'll fall asleep there in the comfortable quiet of familiarity. Tomorrow'll be a new day--a better day.
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