Tag Archives: Don Mitchell

WIP Amnesty

Author’s Note: Hey! This piece of fic was written for the Blaseball Zine Jam 2022, and was for the collab zine Foreward [To Finish Later]. Please consider checking out the zine and the whole collection!
This piece was inspired by a personal experience! I have always lived close to trains, and the Amtrak Southwest Chief route from Los Angeles to Chicago has always deeply fascinated me. I think the use of slower travel across the U.S. as symbolism for both Baby severing ties from xer life in San Francisco, and as a metaphor pulling them towards the call and the life that being a firefighter demands is so interesting to me.
This piece was originally gonna be a solo zine, however my friends talked some sense into me! I hope to return to this eventually.

‘Train Tickets?’

That’s one voice xe will miss.

Sigmund’s voice in hir ear is soft, all things considered. They knew xe was going to do this for some time. The ache in hir bones, the burn of the sun, staring at the band of lovers that have come to center around hir siblings, the overwhelming rise of the LARP, the fight xe had with–

Knight.

It boils down to Knight.

Their fighting has only gotten worse with the talk of the game they fell in love with on a bout of some quest. Neither of them dared to comment on their relation to time, and how they were brought here; but where Baby wanted to settle, Knight created ripples and waves in their wake, between falling within the mess Theo began, or upsetting time to kill a god, or the cult of personality they formed around their love and their honor.

It felt suffocating.

The more xe stayed, the more hir beliefs took to Knight’s like oil to water. Xe couldn’t be like them. Xe couldn’t be in their shadow anymore.

Xe couldn’t keep living with clipped wings.

It’s why she’s here. It’s why xe is trying to get through Sigmund’s halls as quiet as xe can.

From Parker, xe heard that the Amtrak was just a few hours away in L.A., and if xe really wanted, xe could ride it to the end of the line.

‘You know I hate driving.’

Xe can feel Sigmund’s sigh of resign. In all reality, she knew that Sigmund would support xim. They talked about hir room, about how it would stay, if xe needed it.

She was hoping ey wouldn’t need it.

The train ticket purchase wasn’t difficult.

The line read LAX to CHI.

Chicago Union Station.

Something tugs at hir chest.


Of course, Sigmund told them.

Their conversation wasn’t long.

They straightened xer coat before she left.

Even in California, the early morning November air stings against the tear stains.

At least if they know, it will maybe make the split easier.

Somewhere, the threads that hold them together are stretched thin.

They do not break.

She’s glad ey called in this favor.

Don’s sitting in his black low rider, the tail pipe sputtering gray among the darkness. Don was usually up this hour, up to something, and had a double excuse as his ‘legal advisor’ was at a conference in L.A.

By the time hir bags are in the trunk, Don is tapping out the last of his cigarette. He tosses the spent butt in the dashboard ashtray, and he turns to xim.

“You ready to go?”

Xe nods, “Let’s go.


It’s around 2:55 when xem and Don finally stop talking, and the car is quiet.

The drive to LA isn’t a bad one, the late night air flowing through the open windows against their skin calms the flush on xer face.

She knows he won’t miss the empty sky, or the constant artificial lights. Xe’s never seen…most of the country before, frankly. Xe has read the stops and the breaks. Hopefully wherever she stops will be fresher than this.

Only after xe swallows the anxiety in their throat, does Ruthless realize how thirsty they are.

“Hey, Don?” their voice cracks, but Don hums in acknowledgement.

“Do you mind if we stop somewhere quick, I need to get something to drink.”

Don nods, “Sure thing kid, I could use something myself.”

The nearest exit is about a mile drive, and sooner than Ruthless can really process it, Don is parking in front of a 7/11.

Wandering the isles gives hir a headache. Between the florescent and the bright packaging of everything in sight, he goes for the largest bottle of water and the least disgusting energy drink she can find.

Don is still meandering around, which gives her more time to look.

A lot of the conveniences are things xe already packed, or snacks that would make hir sick, but one section does catch hir eye.

Usually, she would ignore the section of what Helga explained was ‘school supplies and stationary,’ but a particular object stood out.

It was plain and brown, no bigger than the palm of xer hand. Embossed in leather, the book read ‘Travel Diary.’

Xe remembers, a long time before San Francisco, Knight would write about their travels, sit their with parchment bound by leather, reading off stories and quests when xe was young. Xe would sometimes sit, when Knight was gone, reading off old books and notes that they took, tracing the letters with their fingers, wondering what traveling like his sibling would be like.

A voice breaks them from the thought.

“You ready to go bud?” Don’s head peeks from the opposite isle, and Ruthless nods.

“Yeah one sec.”

Without a second thought, Ruthless grabs the diary, along with a pack of pens, before joining Don at the register.

Savor What’s Yours

Author’s Note: Hey! This piece of fic was written for the Blaseball Zine Jam 2022, and was for the collab zine To The Hall and Back: A Zine About Marriage, Divorce and Everything In Between. Please consider checking out the zine and the whole collection!

They stare down the television. The tiny CRT sits on top of boxes and milk crates in the equipment shed. Usually, things wouldn’t be…this tense. The fear of the idol board isn’t unknown amongst the players in Hawai’i, but they’ve felt nothing like Don’s instant rise to stardom.

The boss’ announcement comes, MVPs are awarded, and the man in question groans in ache.

Ego sits well on his skin when the modification takes. It’s Yosh’s eyes who meets Don’s now amber tinged first. This wasn’t new to the Fridays, but back in San Francisco, ego was the far from their concerns. Don was talented, Don was good. A part of him wished that Don Mitchell would put his energy into anything other than a love for the things and people he cared about.

This, Yosh knew, was out of the question.

He gets it.

Yosh gets it.

He’d be hypocritical. All things considered, the ache in his bones from several seasons back makes that no clearer. They both did what they did for love, it’s how they both got here in the first place.

The discussion from the team and the word from management is “wait it out, see where the vibes take us, we can try to prevent you from getting vaulted if we can.”

Being an optimist has never been Yosh’s forte.


Yosh comes to him with the idea.

“I’ll learn to bat, it will be fine, if you’re not on base, that will get the statisticians off of your back.”

Out of his entire blaseball career, Don has pitched a ball a total of maybe twenty times. Most of which, were homoerotic flirting attempts with his husband, or inebriated bets that varied wildly in result. He’s used to the run, he’s used to the fast-paced nature of the lineup.

He knows the sting of Ego. He knows his husband’s fear embedded in FaceTime calls and texts between timezones and air travel.

He says yes.

Yosh is a smart, smart man. It’s something Don has always admired, but even then, calling up his husband for the weekend so both of them could teach him to pitch as a bit…much.

He tugs at his collar, the height of the mound has him looking bouncing between the Sandford’s eyes as his catcher and Yosh’s eyes as the batter. Percival is serving as their ump, Roland is in the outfield, this is for him. He knows this whether feedback demanded it or not they are here for him.

Don can’t tell if that makes the shining weight in his stomach and lungs feel lighter or heavier,

He pitches the ball.

“Strike Three!”

Percy is grinning under her mask. He watches Sandy squeeze the ball in his mitt. Yosh’s grip on the bat loosens, and he signs.

“You’re a natural.”

Don steps off the mound, and runs his free hand through his hair, cringing at the stick the pine tar has against it.

“Well I had good people to learn from.”

Sandy takes off his mask, rolling his eyes, “You sap.”

Percy hollers for Roland to come in from the outfield, and goes off to the dugout to clean up, “You three got it here?”

Yosh nods, “Yeah, yeah, we got it.”


Laying in bed now, Don feels an ache in his shoulder, and he groans, “How the hell do you two do it.”

Sandy laughs, “Honest answer? It’s all in the elbows.”

Yosh chuckles into the pillow, and Don lightly hits him on the chest.

“Okay haha you shitheads.” Don is grinning too, despite everything, and he lets out a sigh.

“Are you two gonna be okay?” Don doesn’t finish his question right away, and the air hangs still.

“Like, if I really still get vaulted, are you two going to be alright?”

It’s more than the ego that makes his chest feel tight.

“Don-” Yosh starts. “This isn’t the first time the thought of losing someone has been at the forefront of my mind.”

Right. Fuck. Right.

“And because of that, I know that, whether you are vaulted, I will still have my love for you.”

Both him and Sandy are staring at Yosh now.

“I know I can’t speak for you Sandford, but, when Sebastian and I-” Yosh chokes on his words, and he takes a breath, “When we got married, we knew that with everything we had going on in our lives, that letting ourselves fall into grief would only hurt us. I miss him, I miss him every day.”

He pauses.

Yosh lets himself set his hand against Don’s bare chest, and Sandford joins him.

“He told me while we were living back in Trinidad, that if something were to happen, he wanted me to keep going, to keep trying, to keep loving, to not let myself break the cycle of filling the world with some tangible part of me, and of him.”

“Don, whatever we can do to keep you out of that vault we will do. But even if the worse comes to worst, we will keep going, for me, for you-” Yosh squeezes Sandford’s hand, “For us.”

Sandy rests his head on his shoulder, “You’ve always had a way with words, Carpenter.”

Yosh chuckles, “I try.”

They don’t talk about it anymore, at least for now. Sandford is quiet drawing his finger up and down Don’s chest hair, focusing on the slow pulse of the ceiling fan.

Don moves his arms, ignoring the strain in his shoulder. He wraps his arms around the pair, and pulls them close.

“Hey, we have the night to ourselves, why don’t we just enjoy it instead?”

“If by ‘enjoy it’ do you mean fall asleep in ten minutes?” Sandford smiles against his neck,

“Shut the hell up you old man.” Don kisses the top of his head, then turns to offer Yosh the same

Blaseball Mini Prompts: A Photo in their Element

Photographers itch for the opportunity, journalists only hope to write the headline. Newspapers and television alike, they all clamor for a photo of Don Mitchell as the scene of a crime.

They call it his natural element, where the criminal is most himself, in the heat of a heist, under the rush of a chase, to say journalists have tried to capture the infamous bastard, was an understatement.

It was Sandford who took joy in clipping the attempts. It was one thing to follow his husband around, trial after trial, getting him out of any consequences just when he tries one last heist. But in a way, the newspaper clippings and photos kept as memories. The bank heist in New York was their first date. The art gala in L.A. was a getaway.

The list goes on and on, maybe Sandford was a hypocrite, that he knew. He enjoyed the rush of crime just as much as Don did, and defending the man heart and soul, again and again, was as exhilarating as any time the two got away for a weekend.

None of the headlines are accurate though, not in the slightest.

No journalist will ever lay their eyes on Don truly in his element.

In the back of Sandford’s pocket, always with him, always there, is a small photo printed off from Milo’s cheap Polaroid. They were drunk, they were dumb, partying after a post season they didn’t want to forget.

Sandy is forever grateful for Milo’s keen eye.

Don’s old hat rests on Sandy’s head, the man’s hand rests on Sandford’s face.

This is Don Mitchell in his element.

Absolutely in Love.