Maybe
Blaseball, Canada Moist Talkers Commissioner Vapor, Mentions of the rest of the team, depression
Published on June 18 2022
He tries to avoid checking on the league.
It’s just him in the apartment now. Buddy sits by his side like always, but even the good dog knows it’s not the same.
Commissioner Vapor is finding it harder and harder to get out of bed.
It’s been some time now since York, some time since Jesús picked up the base.
He wanted to say he’d be better than this.
More and more often, he’s found himself floating out of his suit, avoiding it all together even, filling the room with soft white vapor, floating above the lamps, if he isn’t careful, he even clings to the popcorn ceiling.
Calling this place home almost felt wrong.
Isolation was bad. Mooney told him this once. She recalled when Jesús first came from his universe. She recalled what it was like all those seasons ago losing people he never knew. In a rare instance, she even brought up her wife…
He’s unsure if he should be grieving like this. Grieving what has been gone for some time now. Grieving what should have been were it not for existing in this exact place.
He finds himself asking if calling this place home matters.
The memories hurt. So much of York is still here, action figures and artwork and enough pokemon plushies to fill a chair. Looking at the sticker-covered door of Jesús’ room he remembers the night’s he’d spend there, laughing and crying and finding all of the brand new ways he could feel. These are memories that feel good, he knows this, and yet…
Why does it feel so distant now?
He can feel himself running out…fading out. Enough energy to perform is one thing. It’s not like he has streamed recently at all.
Dot and Workman will bring over food, Mooney checks in on his suit, he makes sure the apartment is clean and Buddy is taken care of the best he can possibly manage.
But managing isn’t enough, is it?
He’s tired.
He’s so, so tired.
He checks the league, reading the numbers, he makes sure Jesús is safe.
He reads the names of teams, places so far from home.
Maybe he won't stay either, not like York, not ike Jesús, maybe he’ll be able to see it all on his own terms.
Maybe he’ll try again.
With one last thought, before he feels his form drift into exhaustion, is that maybe things can be better.
Buddy whines at the ceiling, and he floats down to the warmth of his companion, despite the lack of physical contact, Buddy cuddles close.
Yeah.
Maybe.