Archive of Our Own

Choi Seungcheol bursts into the athletic trainer’s room an hour before the scrimmage game against the Kia Tigers. His hair is windblown and falling into his face. He pushes it back impatiently, heaving a sigh as soon as he crosses the threshold of the door.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he says to Jeonghan. His eyes are bright and unhappy. “Could you take a look at my knee? The right one.”

Jeonghan sets down his inventory paperwork. “Of course. Show me where it hurts.”

Seungcheol hesitates. “Well, it’s. I have an old ACL injury—”

“Your ACL is bothering you?”

“A little. Coach said I needed to check with a trainer. Is Minhyuk here today?”

Jeonghan makes a show of looking around the room. It’s hardly bigger than the shoebox apartment he shares with Joshua. Just enough space for two cots, a cooler, and a small desk. The window peeks into the grandstands beyond left field. There is no one else here today. If the other athletic trainer was in, Jeonghan wouldn’t be. Obviously.

Seungcheol’s smile goes sheepish. “Right. Um. It’s Jeonghan-ssi, right?”

I know you know my name, Jeonghan wants to say, but holds his tongue. Since his first day at Munhak Stadium, Choi Seungcheol has treated him very carefully—distantly, even. He doesn’t behave like the other players. He rarely visits the trainer’s room for free sports drinks and refuge from the heat. This is the first time he has ever held a conversation with Jeonghan longer than Hello. Nice to meet you. Welcome to the Incheon Shining Diamonds.

It would bother Jeonghan if he thought about it. He decided months ago not to think about it.

“Yep.” Jeonghan grabs a clipboard. “Go ahead and sit on the cot, please.”

When Seungcheol gets comfortable, Jeonghan places a hand on his knee. The baseball pants are thin and slippery underneath his fingers. Seungcheol’s leg twitches, tight with nerves. The A/C kicks on, a low rumble that sends a ripple of cold air across Jeonghan’s neck, under his low ponytail. Seungcheol is the one who shivers.

“This shouldn’t hurt,” Jeonghan says. When Seungcheol doesn’t relax, he adds, “But tell me if you feel any pain and I’ll stop right away.”

Seungcheol nods and grips the edge of the cot with white knuckles. Jeonghan places his index finger at the soft junction of the femur and tibia and presses, gently, like he’s about to start a massage.

Immediately, Seungcheol winces. “It feels tender.”

“How about this?” Jeonghan slides his fingers back.

“Still strange. Not like it hurts, yet, but like it will hurt.”

Jeonghan leans back. He watches Seungcheol’s heel dig into the tile, his jaw clench. All the soft lines of his physique are tense with anxiety. Jeonghan has the strangest urge to put his hands back on Seungcheol’s body, to soothe him with touch. If they knew each other better, he might have.

“Let’s schedule an appointment with a specialist,” Jeonghan says quietly.

If Jeonghan thinks about it—which he doesn’t—he might be confused.

He and Seungcheol are the same age. They’ve spent early morning drills and long caffeinated nights on the field together. He’s watched Seungcheol lead practice with more patience than his seniors have in their pinky fingers; Jeonghan knows his charm and talent. Once, they stood elbow-to-elbow at the dugout fence, watching a tense at-bat against the Dragons, and Seungcheol absent-mindedly touched Jeonghan’s shoulder when it was over.

They should be friends.

Except they aren’t, really. They don’t talk to each other. In groups they tend to stand on opposite ends. Sometimes Jeonghan finds himself looking at Seungcheol longer than he means to. The tilt of Seungcheol’s jaw, the particular shape of his mouth, the light turning his eyes warm and deep—these are details Jeonghan has memorized over the past eight months.

He never catches Seungcheol looking back. Not even once.

“Am I allowed to do jumping jacks?”

“No.”

“Am I allowed to go for a walk?” Seungcheol sighs.

“Yes.” Jeonghan considers this. “Under my supervision.”

They’re sitting in the grass, bundled into hats and gloves, the breeze grueling at their backs. Jeonghan smooths the doctor’s note flat on his clipboard and briefly gets distracted by Park Chanyeol across the field, who looks to be butchering his own wrist with a foam roller. The stadium smells of wet chalk and leather.

“It doesn’t hurt right now.” Seungcheol frowns at his own cleats. His voice catches on a whine. “I promise. I’d tell if you if it did. You trust me, right?”

Jeonghan smiles. “Of course.”

“Then am I allowed to—”

“Nooo,” Jeonghan sing-songs.

Seungcheol groans. He’s so clearly his family’s maknae. Two days into his six-week athletic suspension and he’s already whining. It’s ridiculous how much Jeonghan is endeared by it.

“Sorry,” Seungcheol mumbles. “I know it’s not personal, I’m just…” His expressive face goes flat. “Frustrated.”

“You know what you can do?” Jeonghan says, taking pity on him. “Go for a swim. Excellent cardio. No strain on your ACL.”

“I can’t!” Seungcheol huffs. “I can’t swim.”

Jeonghan turns to hide his surprise. He looks intently at the doctor’s paperwork, half-finished. Patient: Choi Seungcheol. 178cm. Right-handed. Mentally he adds what he’s learned in the past eight months: Hard-working. Prone to martyrdom and dramatics. The strongest batter on the team since Jung Taekwoon. A weak swimmer, apparently.

If Seungcheol doesn’t have something to occupy his time, he’ll go stir-crazy and exacerbate the injury. He might be out for months instead of weeks. And if he doesn’t recover properly, he could cost Jeonghan his job.

“That’s okay,” Jeonghan says suddenly, relaxing. “I can teach you.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I’ll take care of it.”

Seungcheol looks torn between suspicion and heartbreaking relief. He takes off his cap, pushes his hair back, and puts it back on. There’s an appealing shadow on his jaw where he’ll need to shave tomorrow. He glances very quickly at Jeonghan, then away. “Isn’t it a lot of work, though? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” Jeonghan closes the file. “Pick me up after work on Thursday.”

Seungcheol shrugs. His face clears. “All right.”

Jeonghan goes off to rescue Park Chanyeol from himself. It’s important to look like you have a plan, he thinks. Even when you’re just winging it.

Jeonghan knows his own charms. He’s well-liked because he’s a good listener, and he’s a good listener because he’s often sick of his own dry inner monologue and would rather pay attention to just about anything else.

Also, he likes listening. Likes remembering details to surprise people with later. Coach’s favorite brand of peach iced tea. Jinki’s birthday. Seungcheol’s hyung’s name. People are entertaining. It’s fun to figure them out.

Jeonghan knows his own faults just as well, though. Lethargic. Pessimistic. A bit of a disappointment, even when he tries to be accommodating, because people so often look at him and see a doll. A pretty thing to prop on their bed. Which he isn’t, most of the time.

Sometimes the only person he feels fully comfortable around is Joshua, and by proxy, Joshua’s dumb little cat.

“You offered to teach Choi Seungcheol how to swim?” Joshua asks on the couch that night. Steam rises from his mug, which smells like one of those gross American hot chocolate packets. “You mean, the sexy pitcher?”

“Yep.”

He looks at Jeonghan blankly. “Why.”

“It sounded like fun.”

Joshua says ahhh and sips his hot chocolate. He’s an insufferable bastard. Thinks he knows everything. Jeonghan stuffs his hands into his pockets and pretends to watch whatever Song Joongki movie pre-credits are rolling onscreen. He’s too tired to reach over and change the channel.

“Is he gay?”

“How should I know?”

“Well, let me know how it goes,” Joshua says delicately, placing his mug on the coaster with incredible precision, “when you fuck him.”

“You are a vulgar, classless boy.”

“That’s not what your mother thinks.”

“Eugh.” Jeonghan stretches out and digs his toes into Joshua’s rib cage. “Hey, did you ever tell Johnny about that time in Cheongdam station—”

Joshua swats his foot away like a gnat. “No. Don’t change the subject.”

Jeonghan wilts dramatically, feeling his body liquidize against the cushion. He wonders what kind of embarrassing skeletons Choi Seungcheol has in his closet.

“Well, it’s not like that,” Jeonghan continues. “With Seungcheol. Technically, he’s my patient.”

“Not really. Sounds like you’re kinda his babysitter.”

“Even worse.”

Jeonghan drags a hand down his face, regretting the day he convinced Joshua to watch a KBO game and pointed out all of his coworkers. The problem is that Seungcheol looks particularly buff on television. Like a classic hero from a period drama. Now that Joshua thinks he’s found something worth gossiping about, he’ll never let it go, even if it takes two or three weeks to bring it up again. Jeonghan is debating if he wants to nip this in the bud when a mrrrrow echoes down the hallway.

“My nemesis!” Jeonghan gleefully turns toward the noise. “You’ve returned.”

Sunny swishes her long orange tail. She must take Jeonghan’s acknowledgement as an invitation, because she picks her way across the carpet with regal steps and launches herself into Jeonghan’s lap. Her paws dig into his thighs uncomfortably.

“Meow,” she says.

Jeonghan humors her. “I’m listening.”

Sunny’s claws slide out. She presses them against Jeonghan’s thigh.

“I’m listening carefully,” he amends.

Joshua makes a tiny tut-tut noise and calls her over to the opposite end of the couch. The movie starts in earnest and the conversation about Seungcheol falls away. Jeonghan continues to turn it over in his mind, though.

Choi Seungcheol is the ideal of the ideal. La crème de la crème. Handsome. Stocky. Charismatic. Exactly Jeonghan’s type, if he’s being honest with himself. How would it feel to be the object of Seungcheol’s attention, even if only for a moment?

Jeonghan wants to find out.

The backseat of Seungcheol’s car is littered with crumpled receipts, fitness magazines, and hoodies. It settles something unquiet in Jeonghan. This he can add to the list of Seungcheol’s imperfect qualities: he can’t swim, he whines, and he keeps a messy car.

“Do you want coffee?” Seungcheol turns into the left lane with one hand. Against the purple dusk his profile is stark and pale.

“No thank you.”

Seungcheol clears his throat. “Well. I’m about to trust you with my life. And we’re the same age. Let’s speak informally, at least.”

“Sure.” Jeonghan grins. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes! Shit. I’m terrified!”

“Ah, you’ll be okay. I’m a professional. Sort of.”

“Don’t let me drown,” Seungcheol pleads, and Jeonghan laughs, but Seungcheol is still saying that after they’re dressed and standing at the top of the pool ladder.

The pool at Olympic Park is beautiful beyond Jeonghan’s wildest imaginations. He wishes he weren’t dazzled, but he is—the ceiling is tall enough to be mistaken for sky, spliced with fluorescents that cast long sparkling ropes of light over the surface of the water. The air is humid and sticky, even through his one-piece swimsuit.

Jeonghan ties his hair up and wades down the staircase. In the shallow end, the water comes up to his chest. He turns and holds out a hand to Seungcheol, watching him watch the water.

Seungcheol steps in and takes his hand, lowers it beneath the surface. It might be the first time they’ve touched outside of treatment. Jeonghan hesitates for half a second, his mind blank, the water passing like silk through their entwined fingers.

He takes a deep breath. Refocuses. “We can start by standing.”

“I know how to stand,” Seungcheol protests, but it’s half-hearted.

“Okay. Do you know how to float?”

“Maybe.”

Suddenly Seungcheol lets go, dips down, and submerges his broad shoulders. A focused expression falls over his face. Jeonghan doesn’t realize what’s happening until Seungcheol sputters, his arms akimbo, churning the water desperately. He gets his feet steady again and bounces back up, eyes wide.

“No,” he says resolutely. “I cannot float.”

Jeonghan bursts out laughing. Immediately, Seungcheol laughs, too, and the strange, cool tension between them falls away. Seungcheol looks at Jeonghan properly for the first time, his face open with surprise. Jeonghan feels his own pulse flutter in his neck like a trapped bird.

Ah, he thinks. So this is how it feels.

“Here,” Jeonghan says breathlessly. “Watch me first.”

It feels like casting a spell—Watch me. The whole pool hushes. Seungcheol looks at him. Really looks. Jeonghan spreads his arms and lets himself fall straight backwards.

Afterward, Seungcheol buys him a sports drink from the CU across the street. They sit at the rickety plastic table, chopsticks politely digging through a shared cup of instant ramyeon. Everything they touch smells of chlorine.

Now that Seungcheol has started looking, it’s like he can’t stop. It’s actually quite embarrassing. It feels like a kick in the stomach every time Jeonghan catches him. His warm, dark gaze. Butterflies, so sharp they’re almost painful.

Jeonghan pushes a rehydrated vegetable around the bottom of the cup. He can feel Seungcheol’s eyes on his face like a hand.

“Why did you go into PT?” Seungcheol asks.

“It’s nice to feel like I’m helping people.” Jeonghan is surprised by his own honesty. “Same question! Why do you play baseball?”

“Because I’m good at it.” Seungcheol shrugs and smiles. “Because I like being part of a team, a legacy.”

“It’s not just for good press, then? The Diamonds are actually friends.”

Seungcheol sets down his chopsticks and speaks carefully. “I’m close with some of the team members. It’s—Can I tell you something?”

Jeonghan mirrors him. Sets down the chopsticks and folds his arms on the table. They lean closer and the air goes thin.

Seungcheol lowers his voice. “They’re considering me for captain this year. If I can recover in time for opening day.”

“Oh,” Jeonghan breathes out evenly. The atmosphere loosens. He sits back and surveys the line of Seungcheol’s nervous, noble shoulders. “Congratulations, jujangnim.”

“I haven’t—nothing’s been decided yet. I have to fully recover. Totally clean bill of health. From both you and Minhyuk.”

Jeonghan waves aside this requirement. “Keep doing exactly what I say and you’ll be fine.”

“I will,” Seungcheol says earnestly. “I trust you.”

“You’re my mum’s favorite player, you know,” Jeonghan says immediately, before those words can land. “Nowadays she only watches the games you pitch. She’ll be happy for you.”

Seungcheol beams. They talk for so long that Jeonghan loses track of time, starts to feel sticky in his dry swimsuit. The drive home is short and loud and leaves Jeonghan grinning at his bedroom ceiling afterward, trying not to kick his feet like a sixteen-year-old after a first date.

Joshua walks by his open doorway and gives him a look. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to, with those holier-than-thou eyebrows and pursed lips.

That asshole.

Preseason baseball is Jeonghan’s favorite time of year. Spring is warm and blustery. Cherry blossom petals dot the field, carried all the way down from Seunghagsan. Players are cheerful with ambition, fresh-faced and eager to show off for the cameras, which start dropping by the stadium in March and don’t leave again until September. Everything’s slow and heavy with anticipation.

It’s a good time to be injured, all things considered. Seungcheol isn’t missing much action. He shadows Jeonghan at most practices, mollified by the doctor’s prediction that he’ll be ready for opening day, and works through what appears to be his biggest obstacle: ennui.

“You’re like my sister,” Jeonghan says one afternoon, his feet kicked up on the desk. Seungcheol’s eyes briefly bug out of his head before Jeonghan adds, “She also drinks banana milk like it’s water.”

“Oh.” Seungcheol frowns at the box in his hand, like he didn’t notice he was drinking it at all. Jeonghan is familiar with that particular lethargy. “Um, sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine. The team pays for them. Would you help me with something?”

Seungcheol sits up straighter on the cooler. “Yeah, of course.”

“Deal these.” Jeonghan tosses over a pack of playing cards. “I want to play Go.”

Seungcheol lights up. They play three rounds before switching to thumb wrestling, then rock-paper-scissors, then a game of flicking envelopes into the trashcan on the other side of the room. No reward except bragging rights and no punishment except shame. It’s probably an abuse of Jeonghan’s privileges as the athletic trainer, but he doesn’t care.

It’s the most fun he’s had in a long time. Jeonghan feels useful, appreciated. He makes Seungcheol’s day easier, and in turn Seungcheol treats him like he’s the only person in the whole city worth looking at. The force of his gaze is astounding.

Thank god, Jeonghan thinks that night, dizzy with the memory of Seungcheol looking up through his lashes, the full weight of his smile shining out of his face. Thank god Seungcheol refused to look at him for so long. Jeonghan wouldn’t have survived it his first week on the job. He knows himself; he would’ve been scared away.

He’s still scared. A little bit. But he texts Seungcheol before bed anyway, his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

Next swimming lesson tomorrow?

Jeonghan spits neatly in the sink. He wipes his mouth. When he glances into the mirror, he catches his own face, slack with satisfaction, and smiles.

One afternoon Jeonghan looks at Seungcheol and asks, “Do you think there are more doors or wheels in the world?” The ensuing debate takes all day.

All evening, too. It follows them to their fourth pool session, where Seungcheol is working to combine his kicks and his strokes. They’re alone and paying more attention to the discussion than their warm-up treading exercises, which is why Jeonghan doesn’t notice at first that Seungcheol is underwater.

It happens fast. He slips under mid-sentence. Light flickers off the dark mass of his hair just beneath the surface, his arms thrashing with wild, terrified incoherence.

Jeonghan sucks in a sharp, shocked breath. He dives.

Seungcheol is weightless beneath the water. Jeonghan wraps an arm around his chest. He goes limp as soon as Jeonghan touches him, comes calmly to the surface like a docile animal. The water is a tumultuous white-blue, blurred by bubbles, surging around Jeonghan’s legs.

“S-sorry,” is the first thing out of Seungcheol’s mouth, before he’s even taken a full breath. Rivulets down his cheeks like tears. He coughs, wet and rough, his eyes on the bright bowl of the ceiling.

Jeonghan digs his fingers into Seungcheol’s armpit. His heart pounds like he’s been running all day, feverish and fast. “You’re okay, you’re okay. I have you.”

“I—slipped.” Seungcheol’s hand grips his forearm, involuntarily tight. He coughs again. “I was kicking, I swear.”

“You were doing great, you were perfect. I just distracted you.”

Their warm skin slides together. When Seungcheol turns, their cheeks brush. He looks at Jeonghan for a long, hard moment. His eyelashes are incredibly dark and full, stark against his pale skin. There’s a rushing in Jeonghan’s head like he’s falling from a great height.

He misses a kick. Loses the rhythm of treading. They lurch, off-balance, in the deep end.

The moment breaks. Jeonghan laughs, but he’s out of breath and it comes out croaky, too harsh. He carries Seungcheol to the shallows like a slow old tugboat.

“Holy shit,” Seungcheol says as soon as he can stand. He shivers, goosebumps prickling down his chest. The muscles of his shoulders flex as he shakes out his arms, his trembling hands. “Thank you.”

Jeonghan busies his hands in his own hair. He takes out the clip and it falls around his face in wet, uneven waves. This is the worst part of swimming—getting his hair wet. He normally never does.

“Seriously,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yoon Jeonghan,” Seungcheol says emphatically, and Jeonghan’s head snaps up. They lock eyes. “Seriously. Thank you.”

All that tension rushes right back. Jeonghan’s breath catches in his throat. Seungcheol looks at him, and Jeonghan looks back, and forgive him, but he imagines it—reaching for Seungcheol. Thumbing the hollow of his throat. Slicking his hair back and gripping it tight, feeling it crisp and wet in his hands. Putting his mouth to Seungcheol’s neck, his cheek, his mouth. He imagines the way Seungcheol might surge against him, might grip his hips.

A door squeaks open on the other side of the pool area. The stiff, hot silence between them slips away.

Jeonghan turns. He gathers his hair in one hand and pins it up with the clip. “Can’t let our jujangnim die before we win the championship,” he says lightly, glad that his voice doesn’t shake.

Seungcheol laughs. Jeonghan shivers, his chest warm and tight.

“Let’s go again,” Seungcheol says.

It’s relaxing to have Seungcheol around.

Which makes no sense. The trainer’s room isn’t large enough to comfortably sit two people all day. Seungcheol is stressed, rightfully so, and sometimes he thinks so loudly that he might as well be shouting. Jeonghan has a passive preference for being alone; he’s never known himself to leave the door open, so to speak.

But that’s what he does. He leaves the door open. When Seungcheol arrives at the stadium each day, he can simply waltz right in and claim the second swivel chair.

Jeonghan can’t lie to himself—he likes it. Between their lazy games and even lazier conversations, he and Seungcheol will sit in a silence so peaceful and companionable that it nearly lulls Jeonghan into a doze. That’s how nice he feels. How safe. Just sitting quietly with Seungcheol.

They’re having one of those moments, slippers propped on the cot, when Boo Seungkwan walks in.

“Oh!” Seungkwan pulls up short in the doorway. “I—sorry! Can I speak to Jeonghan-ssi?”

“No,” Jeonghan says immediately.

Seungcheol nearly drops his phone flat on the floor like a pancake. His mouth falls open with surprise.

“Not until you call me hyung,” Jeonghan continues, wagging a finger at Seungkwan. “I’ve asked you twice already, Boo Seungkwan. Don’t make me ask again.”

Seungkwan seems flustered. He’s in the sky blue Cheermaster uniform, his hair unstyled, fidgeting with his long sleeves. His gaze hovers down around Jeonghan’s knees. “Hyung. Should I—” He darts a glance at Seungcheol. “I can… come back?”

“Not at all.” Seungcheol pats Seungkwan’s shoulder kindly as he leaves. “I should check on the guys. I’ll catch you both later.”

Jeonghan kicks the empty chair over to Seungkwan. “What’s going on?”

“Coach said you might have something for heartburn.” Seungkwan collapses into the chair. “Hyung, please help. It’s the worst. I’ve never felt like this. It hurts so bad I might throw up before the scrimmage.”

“I see.” Jeonghan eyes the half-empty cup of iced Americano dangling from Seungkwan’s hand. In one quick motion, he snags the box of extra-strength antacids from the drawer under the desk and tosses them into Seungkwan’s lap. “Take three of those. Let me hold your coffee, I don’t want it to drip on the desk.”

Obediently Seungkwan hands over the Americano. Poor, naive boy. By the time he’s finished knocking back the medicine, Jeonghan has finished every drop of liquid in the cup. He rattles the ice around, satisfied.

Seungkwan nearly chokes. He gives Jeonghan a mournful look. “Was that necessary?”

“Yup.”

“I needed the caffeine.”

“Too bad.”

Seungkwan huffs, but he’s got an incredulous smile on his face. “Wah, Seungcheol-hyung was right. You are good.”

Jeonghan settles back in his chair. “He said that?”

“Uh-huh.” Seungkwan bounces up to leave, rubbing one hand over his belly. His voice goes low and wistful. “I didn’t realize you two were same-age friends. That must be nice. I mean, the team treats me very well, it’s just, I’m not used to being the youngest, you know?”

Seungkwan is, in fact, the youngest Cheermaster in the entirety of the KBO. He will find no reprieve this season. Jeonghan makes a sympathetic noise.

“Well, thanks.” Seungkwan pauses with one foot out the door. He glances into the hallway as if checking that it’s empty before whispering, “How’s Seungcheol-hyung’s recovery?”

“He’ll be okay.”

“Are you taking care of him?”

Jeonghan laughs, charmed. “Yes.”

“Is he taking care of you?”

“I—” Jeonghan is surprised by the question but shocked more by his own stutter. “Yes.”

Seungkwan nods decisively, as if that settles everything. “Good.”

The underbelly of Munhak Stadium is a narrow humid maze of stone and dusty equipment. Jeonghan is still learning its quirks. After the monthly team check-up he ducks out of the locker room and pauses for a moment in the shadows, trying to get his bearings. One wrong turn and it will take fifteen minutes to find his office again.

The locker room door is propped open behind him. Jeonghan hears it when one of the reserve pitchers says, “So, he’s a weird guy, right?”

“Who?” A new voice. Junho, maybe. “Yoon Jeonghan-ssi?”

“Yeah. The way he looks… just his hair and stuff. It’s weird.”

Jeonghan stops breathing. He presses himself flat against the wall.

Chanyeol’s distinct baritone: “I mean, his hair’s long. My cousin wears it that way.”

“Yeah, but your cousin isn’t representing the Diamonds. We’re just—” There’s a pause and a clang like the slam of a locker. Fabric rustles. Jeonghan has no idea how many team members are still sitting in the room. “Doesn’t he make us all look strange when he’s standing there like… like he’s trying to be an idol? These are the big leagues. Our image matters.”

“Well,” someone else says, “That’s true…”

Jeonghan thinks he hears mumbles of agreement.

“If you don’t like his hair, ask him to cut it,” Seungcheol’s voice whips out, acerbic. Jeonghan flinches. “See how well that goes for you.”

That shuts down the conversation. Clearly no one has the balls to tell Jeonghan to his face that his hair is effeminate and embarrassing. He presses his palms into the wall hard enough for his carpal bones to ache. Then he walks calmly, slowly, back to the trainers’ room.

Jeonghan thinks about being blunt. He thinks about laying all his cards flat on the table: I want you to touch me. I want you to take off your clothes and then mine. He suspects Seungcheol would say yes, would do anything he asked.

He also suspects it would cost Seungcheol everything.

So Jeonghan doesn't ask.

The first time Seungcheol crosses the pool all by himself, he insists on buying Jeonghan a drink afterward to celebrate.

They rinse off back-to-back in the showers. Steam, smelling vaguely of coconut, makes Jeonghan sneeze. He’s careful not to turn his neck too far. He watches the warped reflection of Seungcheol’s body in the white tiles. He doesn’t think about anything at all.

“This is my hyung’s favorite spot,” Seungcheol says later, holding open the tent flap to a pocha in Gwangyo-dong.

The rich, oily smell of street food explodes from inside the tent. It’s too early for the university kids to be out and about, but a few suit-and-tie men sit draped around a bottle. Seungcheol waves to a bald guy in an anime-print apron and heads straight for a table in the corner, where one chair is tipped sideways on the uneven asphalt.

Jeonghan relaxes. This is the kind of atmosphere he likes. Casual. Slow. Sort of private.

“Order anything you want.” Seungcheol leans close, passes over a laminated menu of no more than six items. “My treat.”

“Well,” Jeonghan says, stretching out the vowel. “If jujangnim is paying, let’s get the rose tteokbokki and dumplings. And soju.”

“Perfect.”

Jeonghan hides his smile in his sleeve. He watches Seungcheol’s hair dry, fluffy and uneven. The sound of his voice is soothing. They eat slowly and pick over each other’s days, even though they spent most of their time in the same thirty-meter radius. Seungcheol jiggles his leg underneath the table.

“Have you told the team about—this?” Seungcheol asks, gesturing vaguely to the plates.

About us? Jeonghan wants to say. About the way you look at me? About how I know my fingers can’t reach all the way around your ankle, because I tried it, because I taught you to kick while you were on your stomach like a dog?

He doesn’t say that. He plucks a rice cake from the pan and takes his time swirling it through the thick, creamy sauce, considering what Seungcheol actually means by his question.

“No.” Jeonghan pops the tteokbokki in his mouth and chews as he talks. “I think the managers might be mad. That I didn’t ask permission.”

Seungcheol shrugs. “What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em. Have you—the team, though? You haven’t mentioned it to,” and here he hesitates, searching for the name of a player Jeonghan might be hiding in his repository of friends, “Junhui? Chanyeol?”

“Nope.”

“Oh. Good.”

Jeonghan raises his eyebrows.

“I just,” Seungcheol nearly trips over his words, rushing to continue, “don’t want them to say anything about—special treatment, you know. Sometimes the guys make things weird.”

Jeonghan tilts his head. “Weird is almost a prerequisite for professional sports. Right?”

He means it as an an exit ramp, a way to shift the topic of conversation. Seungcheol doesn’t take it.

“Hah. Well, baseball is sort of a cult. The guys aren’t—” Seungcheol fingers the lip of the bottle. His expression is difficult to read, his eyes flicking around the tent as if watching the frantic, jagged flight of a butterfly. “They don’t blame me for the injury. But they don’t like it when anyone’s attention is split from the season. They don’t like distractions.”

Silence. Jeonghan waits for further explanation. He feels off-balance, suddenly unsure where the conversation is going. Swimming isn’t a distraction. It’s a treatment. Even if the team heard, why would they care? Why would it bother them so much?

“I’m the distraction,” Jeonghan realizes. “Our—”

Seungcheol flinches. He tries a smile that sits on his face all wrong. He nods.

Jeonghan sits back. Goes cold. Abruptly, stupidly, this feels like a break-up.

The food is gone by now. For lack of anything better to do with his hands, Jeonghan pours another round of shots. Seungcheol tips his glass back, cuts a glance at the other table, and reaches for Jeonghan’s hand.

“I’m not doing this right.” Seungcheol slips their hands underneath the table where no one can see. Jeonghan, fleetingly, thinks: You’re doing this exactly right. “I wanted to say thank you for helping me.”

“I didn’t do much,” Jeonghan says flippantly. He can see the end of this conversation now, looming ugly and quiet in the distance. He smiles nicely. “And I understand. There’s no need to explain anything.”

“I want to. Let me—let me say this.”

Jeonghan pulls his hand away. He lied; he doesn’t really understand this, but he doesn’t want to. Seungcheol is trying to let him down easy. That’s all that matters. Jeonghan can make this easy. Jeonghan makes everything easy.

“During the season, I can't spend time with you like," Seungcheol swallows hard, his voice wobbling, "this. It's not personal, I can't—with anyone. I could lose the captaincy if they think my priorities aren’t straight. I have to give it everything, 120%, there's no room for anything else. And I could lose—I could lose my job if they find out I’m—that I have—”

“Seungcheol,” Jeonghan says kindly. “It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry.”

A miserable lump grows in Jeonghan’s throat. He just wants to crawl into his bed and cry until he feels less humiliated. He gets it now. Professional sports—no room for pleasure. He shouldn't have trusted subtext and chemistry. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

But god, did he.

“You’re going to make a very good captain.” Jeonghan pours out the remaining soju, halving it between their glasses. He turns away from Seungcheol as he takes his shot and stays sitting like that, sideways, facing the tent flap with its narrow, bright view of the street outside. “Now take me home, please.”

Seungcheol receives a clean bill of health two days before the season opener. The check-up is quick and professional. He’s in and out of the trainer’s room in record time, ten minutes at most. Jeonghan rolls his chair to the window and watches Seungcheol’s tiny figure emerge onto the field with the clearance paperwork fisted triumphantly in his hand.

Back and better than ever! The sports channel says. Newly christened captain and starting pitcher of the Incheon Shining Diamonds, Choi Seungcheol!

Jeonghan claps through the promotion ceremony. He claps after the first game, feeling vibrations rattle his feet as the team thunders out of the dugout in celebration. He claps and pretends that looking at Seungcheol doesn’t irritate the dull, throbbing misery that’s taken up residence in his body.

At least Seungcheol is kind enough not to look back. They return to their original orbits, cordial but distant, separated by the stone walls of the stadium. Like nothing ever happened in the Olympic Park swimming pool at all. Jeonghan tries not to feel used.

“Why do you like this guy?” Joshua asks once. “He’s got a mean look.”

Jeonghan has to triple-check that they’re talking about the same person. Seungcheol stands onscreen, centered in the recap footage of last week’s game. Incheon Shining Diamonds vs. the Lotte Giants. His face furrows as he points to the pitcher’s mound. His arms look like barrels. Jeonghan should probably stop torturing himself with the sports channel.

“That’s his game face,” Jeonghan argues. Too late, he adds, “And I don’t like him. I just thought he was cute.”

“He sort of isn’t.”

Jeonghan smirks. “You should see him shirtless.”

He looks back down at his phone, mid-text to his sister, so he doesn’t notice at first that Joshua is staring at him from the other end of the couch. Jeonghan nearly jumps when they make eye contact. The coverage of practice shatters into commercials. Blue light shifts across the room.

“You’re a good liar,” Joshua says.

It sounds like a compliment. Jeonghan’s stomach twists. He looks away.

On the opposite end of the sweets aisle, tucked into the CU across from Munhak Stadium, someone says, “Oh, um. Hello.”

Jeonghan turns. The sky is a gray smear through the window. He’s still hungover enough that it takes a moment to place the voice as Seungcheol’s. Of course, a random run-in with the person he is least equipped to see. Who could have guessed!

Seungcheol is already standing next to him, settling into an uncomfortable contemplation of the castella cakes. He smells strongly of his aftershave—citrus and rain. His hair is a thatch of wet curls. A drop of rain clings to Seungcheol’s face, right below the twist of his ear.

That is when Jeonghan almost gives up on the day and goes home to crawl back into bed. Damn Joshua for his peach soju cocktails. It feels like the leftover alcohol is beginning a conga line in his stomach. It takes genuine effort to look away from Seungcheol’s profile.

“Hi,” Jeonghan says, sort of nonsensically. “It’s Sunday. Are you in for extra drills?”

“Not for me. I’m training Eunseok.” Seungcheol self-consciously pats his hair dry. “Curveballs.”

“Ah.”

“And no knee pain! Just so you know. It’s—it feels a lot better.”

“Good. Glad to hear that.”

Seungcheol keeps patting his hair. It’s starting to look like a nervous twitch. “How’s your sister?”

“She’s well, thanks.”

An older woman in a tracksuit squeezes by on her way to the freezer, interrupting their awkward attempt at small talk. Jeonghan stares blankly at the bag of My Melody gummy candies he was going to buy for breakfast. He can’t, now. Not with Seungcheol here.

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol suddenly says.

When Jeonghan turns, Seungcheol is looking at him. Dark, pleading eyes. Cartoonish lashes. It’s that same electricity, setting Jeonghan’s teeth on edge. He doesn’t think that desire will ever go away. It’s terminal.

Dignity be damned. Jeonghan can’t do this. He snatches the My Melody gummies off the shelf.

“See you at the game!” He calls over his shoulder.

He gets all the way down the aisle. Turns the corner. Side-steps a schoolboy clutching triangle kimbap to his chest. Jeonghan is three steps from the register, and his freedom, when Seungcheol catches up.

“Let me get that for you,” Seungcheol says. Gently he takes the bag of gummies.

Jeonghan has no idea what he’s feeling but it’s big and ugly and closing up his throat. He stops thinking. “Oh,” he says reflexively, “if jujangnim is paying, then—”

Jeonghan turns and grabs the nearest shiny object. It’s a bag of squid chips. He passes it to Seungcheol, then another bag, and a third for good measure, and a chocolate bar, and a pack of pineapple Hi-Chew, and a bottle of his least favorite barley tea, literally whatever’s in reach, and two giant cups of ramyeon, and am umbrella, and then the cashier looks up from his book and Jeonghan remembers abruptly that they’re in public.

He stops. Seungcheol looks ridiculous. His arms are full to bursting. His face is half-hidden behind the ramyeon cups. He peeks at Jeonghan, his eyes wide, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Anything else?” Seungcheol asks.

That’s when it clicks for Jeonghan.

This is the long game. Seungcheol still wants this. He can’t deny himself forever. It might take months, it might take years, until he feels secure enough to indulge in his free time, but he will. Even the most noble man alive has to be selfish sometimes.

All Jeonghan has to do is leave the door open and wait.

“That’s all,” Jeonghan says. “For now.”

Hope inflates in his chest like a balloon. He looks at Seungcheol and the satisfaction must be all over his face, because Seungcheol smiles back instantly. Real toothy and big. The cashier looks at them like they’re lunatics the whole time, but Seungcheol checks out and pays for everything, just like he promised. He seems proud to hand over the bag of snacks.

They step outside together. Miraculous, how quickly the morning rain has cleared up. Sun winks off the cheery parade of cars passing by the stadium. The sidewalk is wet and already warm enough to make the air muggy. Summer is ripe. Jeonghan tilts his head back to soak it in, feeling his hair flutter against his neck.

“Do you…” Seungcheol hesitates, his brow furrowed. “Is it okay if I text you?”

Jeonghan twists the handles of the bag around his fingers tightly. He gives Seungcheol one last glance in the semi-privacy of their shaded street corner, pretending to think about his answer.

“That depends on what you're gonna say," Jeonghan says.

Seungcheol begins with, "I just," but Jeonghan shakes his head.

"Surprise me."

Then Jeonghan slings the bag over his shoulder and sets off toward his apartment. He doesn’t look back, because he doesn’t want Seungcheol to see that he’s smiling, a tiny smug little thing. He whistles as he turns down his street, considering how he might arrange for another serendipitous run-in at a neutral third location, away from the stadium and its prying eyes. Where it can be just them, Seungcheol-and-Jeonghan.

It’s important to have a plan, Jeonghan thinks. Even when you know you’re going to win.