#one-shot

Minghao is not new to the game. He knows the mechanics, the statistics, the mood around the stadium and outside of it. He's seen matches with the members and attended some— never with just one of them, though, but it seemed to him like the right thing to do now that they're abroad and, as they rarely are, with some free time.

A breeze hits the crowd, him among all the people, and the sweat from the early afternoon while it was hot makes his skin feel sticky, cooled down. He's getting a little chilly alright. The jersey Seokmin lend him is a little big on his small frame, but it's how they wear them, he said.

Who?, he remembers thinking. The youths? The players? Who?

But he stayed silent and just nodded, accepting the white and blue jersey, the adjustable cap (it was too big for him, but got it fixed quickly before entering the gates), the invitation.

He's always so brainy about everything it makes him a bit annoyed at himself. He tries not to think about it, but as the people around him, attentive to the game, stare at the players, he feels a little weird.

He, on the contrary, looks around and tries to find his friend, suddenly feeling estranged.

Chilly and estranged.

Seokmin comes back before he follows his train of thought and just as he sits by his side, the shortstop tags out a red player. People get up even though they're in the middle of the inning and the teams are yet to roll to the next inning, but eager for a bathroom break, a beer and snack refill, or just leaving for the night, the seats around them start to empty.

It's the middle of the 6th and the home team is... well, not in a good position to brag. But the white and blue players are good, Minghao thinks. I believe the red ones have it better, though. That happens.

He remembers what he read about baseball before Seokmin picked him up and recalls the white and blue team actually won the world series last year.

Why are they losing right now? Aren't they good?

But he won't ask Seokmin that.

"Hao, take this," Seokmin urges, teeth clasping the rim of a plastic cup and handing him one. "I didn't know if you wanted iced tea or soda, so I brought one of each."

Minghao's body feels more at ease as he reaches for the cup in front of Seokmin's chin, which he sees is the iced tea. Good. He's not in the mood for beer and his friend knows this.

Seokmin smiles him back as if he knew what he'd choose, a bit cheeky, Minghao guesses, since he knows him so well.

"What did I miss?"

It's hard to explain when you don't know the precise name of every play, but Seokmin's smiles and stares at the scoreboard and grimaces before Minghao can even start digging in the information he tried to memorize before all of this.

Because, yeah, why wouldn't he study or research how baseball works if he's about to attend a game? Isn't that like... the proper thing to do?

Minghao is not looking on the same direction, though, as he peeks his friend's hands and sees he's carrying two buckets of dakgangjeong on his right hand.

And suddenly he realizes he's starving. He's probably not eaten since hours before the game.

"Ah... the guys in red are good," Minghao falters, still looking at the food. "I don't know if your team is gonna win."

Seokmin chuckles. "Our team, Hao," he corrects, pointing at the jersey. But Minghao is not invested, he's not getting the joke although he smiles back— a little. "I think we all know it's hard to come back around a scoreboard like this. That's fine. We cannot have perfect games all the time. Here, I brought snacks too."

Minghao suddenly feels hot. He doesn't need to look in a mirror to see he's pinking up and feeling a little bit flustered.

Great. Sticky, chilly, estranged, and now flustered.

He also feels a little like a fool. Which he hates.

Your team? Our team? The red ones, god. I should've looked up on the team names. Maybe even the star players.

Seokmin is already eating when Minghao looks around for a pair of chopsticks. He rummages through the napkins (Seokmin brought a bunch of those, he doesn't know why), but he sees none. He's about to ask his friend for a pair, maybe he forgot, but then a sound to his left makes the stadium roar with emotion and Seokmin's face disappears as he stands up and screams atop of his lungs.

The batter runs, not fast since he's hit a homer, and he does small motions— like small dances and wavings— that Seokmin later explains are small celebrations to his teammates and the fans. He dances too, and even though Minghao thinks he looks cute swinging his arms around like a noodle, he feels a pang in his heart.

A bit left out, could it be? How come I don't know any of this? What a fool.

Minghao, still holding his bucket and untouched iced tea, waits for the excitement to dwell a little and waits. Seokmin looks at him, beaming, and he smiles shyly, picking up on the excitement. Only a little, though.

"I bet we can turn this around," Seokmin says, hopeful, but it's so silly to say it when they're losing 13 to 1. Minghao raises his eyebrows and looks at him, and when his friend catches his gaze, he just shrugs. "It's free to have hope, isn't it?"

Something eases inside Minghao's gut. They laugh and Seokmin resumes his food way too fast for him to catch up with the missing chopsticks subject, and when he's about to ask again the crowd goes wild again and his friend is, again, nowhere to be seen.

Alright, he sees him: not his face but his hips and his butt as he jumps from his seat and waves back to another player, now scoring a hit— and a good one, at that!— running to second base as the red players juggle positions to catch the damn ball before the run stretches and the bases load.

Interested in the game but still starving, Minghao presses himself towards his friend's seat so he has his attention once he's sat again, but Seokmin is way too diverted and not paying much mind to the proximity, still eating while he sips his soda and just not paying attention to him whatsoever.

Minghao sees the chopsticks on Seokmin's hands and thinks about just taking them. He wouldn't mind. He so wouldn't. Seokmin is pretty chill and when it comes to food, he's aware that eating is a necessity and yeah, sometimes he gets a bit defensive when it's his food, but he would never, ever, leave any of his friends hungry.

Or starving. Which Minghao pretty much is.

Another hit rolls through the grass and Minghao thinks it's time to give up on the pair of chopsticks. He could just eat with his hands, use the handful of napkins his friend brought, and then go wash them; he has to use the restroom, anyways.

"Could it be?" Seokmin murmurs, but Minghao is close enough to hear him.

Minghao looks at Seokmin, still standing, bucket and soda on the side, occupying another seat, but chopsticks still in his hand, grasped firmly between his fingers.

He resolves he'll never eat again. Not until they're back at the hotel. Or at least not until the game is over, or whatever.

He's getting moody alright.

What if it never ends? Isn't baseball the kind of sport that goes long until they break the tie? I think I saw once the statistics of the longest game in America, but...

He no longer recalls the time it lasted. But he remembers it was long.

He looks at the scoreboard again. They're 5 to 13 now and the crowd, including his friend, is bursting with energy, excitement. His friend, on his side, is also a part of all this.

Could it be? That a scoreboard like this can be turned?

Three more runs make the people go crazy. Minghao even feels like standing up, too, but he doesn't consider himself much of a fan and—

"Holy!"

People look up, including him, as a foul ball flies up and reaches the upper levels of the part they're sitting.

Seokmin puts his hands up, even though the ball reaches a whole different area that is very far from them, and his eyes are shining as he looks at his friend.

"Eyes up, Hao! They're free swinging!"

Minghao doesn't know what that means. He'd be glad to ask, but another foul ball flies up, now to the right section, and Seokmin hollers and then coos as a man catches it with his glove and hands it to what he thinks is his son.

The curiosity is heavy enough for Minghao to sit up and lean forward to ask.

"What's a free swinging?"

Seokmin sits down to explain, pointing at the batter.

"They know the pitcher is having a hard time deciding between striking him out or throwing him a ball, so he's swinging away and trying to score by contact."

Many questions rise inside his head. The first one, long overdue, regards his missing pair of chopsticks and his untouched bucket of dakgangjeong, but the batter scores a hit and the player on third base rolls to home and now the scoreboard is dangerously close to be even.

The question that comes out of his mouth is not about the food, though. "What's that gotta do with the balls flying up... and stuff?"

How does he ask questions about a game that he doesn't quite know without looking like a fool?

But Seokmin smiles and is eager to explain before catching up on his food, and his tea.

"Hao, why haven't you eaten?" he's genuinely worried, leaning forward, looking around for something wrong. "Did you want something sweet? I'm sorry, I'll get you—"

A ball, flying without being perceived by none of them both, arches with the proper momentum of the height it reached, and then falls quickly between them both.

Minghao feels his shirt, damp, against his skin. He's no longer holding his bucket— and it pains him, he's so hungry— and feels his friend's hands patting him while reciting a never-ending echo of sorrysorrysorrysorryhyungi'msorry.

But he sees it. He sees the way the ball bounces between their bodies and their stuff, the food, the grabby hands of the people around, people that got up from their seats (thank god people around them left before the game got good, otherwise they'd be fighting for the ball), and grasps it with his now food-free hand.

"I got it!"

Minghao, seeing how his friend's jaw has dropped and is holding a bunch of napkins on his right hand while juggling with his empty cup of soda on the other, doesn't care about anything anymore.

"Is this luck or what?"

Another batter swings and hits a homer as they both stand, drenched in soda, buckets on the floor, and now Minghao screams with his friend, forgetting about the chilly sensation on his skin, the stickiness (which got worse in seconds, thanks to the soda), the feeling of estrangedness—

The inning ends as the batter strikes himself out. Soon enough as the 7th inning rolls, the lights start to fade and shimmer differently, leading the night into the lucky seven stretch.

Minghao knows about this: how everyone takes some time to stretch, swing their bodies side to side, have a break and sing Take me Out to the Ball Game softly, to themselves, to the team, to the sport itself.

He feels his friend's arm around his shoulders and they both swing, singing (well, Seokmin is singing, Hao is just shyly mumbling what words he thinks are next), as the moment, like the lights, fade.

The light comes up again and they stare at each other.

Ball in hand, Minghao forgets about the food, the soda drenching the white jersey (it will be painfully hard to remove the stain, Seokmin will need to call his mom for help). He smiles.

Seokmin, on the other hand, beams. "I'm never coming back to a game without you!"

Minghao feels happy. It doesn't matter if he knows the game or not anymore, or if he's hungry (he'll fix that later). He's genuinely happy.

And he is lucky, too. To have a friend like Seokmin, who is sometimes the opposite of him, still hugging him even though the moment is over and gone.