storymonger (80s child) 🔞

So he's a gentleman? You've always thought he might be. He certainly has always spoken to you more kindly than a lot of the other players. Not that the bar is high.

"That's 80 percent of what you talk about, Cheol." And that's Jeonghan.

"Guys—" It takes you a little longer to recognize his voice. Because you rarely hear it at a normal volume. The male cheerleader with the megaphone. His regular tone is far less aggressive. It's almost soft. "I don't think—"

"Of course I fucked her."

Well, miracles don't really happen all that much. Besides, you told your roommate, so this is practically the same thing—

"Why? I mean, were there curves under that big t-shirt and jeans she always wears?" Joshua. You knew he didn't like you. It was only the tone of his voice, but you knew.

"I know Wen wouldn't care either way, but I only fucked her to be sure she had a pussy!"

The laughter is boisterous, loud and piercing.

Oh.

You'd turn around and leave if you could, but you came here for a reason. An errand the coach sent you on even though he could do it himself if he had a mind to.

You wait for the laughter to subside before entering. The silence is almost louder than the hilarity was a second ago.

"Choi," you begin, eyes forward to the empty lockers. It's only the four of them. The showers are occupied with the rest of the players. Small favors. "Coach wants to see you and Hong. To discuss today's game."

You dare to look at them then. Captain, his comrades Joshua and Jeonghan, usually up to mischief. Joshua looks a bit abashed, Jeonghan is holding back laughter, but that's hardly surprising.

The cheerleader is on the other side of you, and you refuse to look at him. Why would you care about his opinion? He's not even a part of the team. Barely.

Seungcheol nods at your summons, smirk curling at his lips as Joshua passes by you toward the offices. Your one night stand pauses next to you, saying your name low and tantalizing. Or it would be if you hadn't overheard what you'd overheard.

"Good to see you."

You raise your eyes to his (he's stupid tall). You might want to yell or even cry, but you haven't spent most of your life around men who think they know more about baseball than you to not hide your feelings successfullly.

And your blank expression is your absolute best weapon.

He falters for a second before following Joshua down the hall and away from you. When you go to pick up a discarded helmet and bat (you think it's Vernon because it usually is), you mistakenly look over to Jun who is seated on the bench, eyes on you. When your eyes meet, he tentatively smiles at you.

Does he think you're amused by all this?

Your eyes narrow (so much for the blank expression) and you quickly leave the locker room with your head held high.

You remember the first game. It felt like years since you watched a game live without being on staff. You weren't working with the team yet, your advisor was still trying to convince the athetic director that it contributed to your study and help to offset your tuition (your mom was grateful for that even if she never said so directly).

You bring along Binna, who isn't enthusiastic. Your new roommate prefers the theatre department, and spends most of her time in the art studio (you have no idea why she paired with you), but she likes going out and trying things.

A baseball game is one of them.

"I'm going to be so annoying," she prempts as you sit. "I know nothing about how this works."

You laugh. "It's okay. I know too much, so you'll probably be annoyed at me for explaining too much."

The game hasn't begun yet, but you're bringing a plate of dumplings and sodas for you and Binna to split. You glance to see that the cheerleaders have made their way to the top of the dugout. The image barely makes an impact on you, two female cheerleaders and a male leader (complete with megaphone), starting with chants and cheers to get the crowd revved up for the game.

You can't imagine that it's easy to do that with college kids. Especially on a hot nearly summer day.

"I know that guy," Binna says the moment to plop back down beside her.

"Hmm?" You offer her the plate of dumplings and she grabs one.

"The cheerleader guy…he's a second year. He's…um, he's besties I think with the TA in my Drawing I class."

"The hot one?" You're quoting her because you were not enrolled in any art class, so had never seen an Art TA, let alone an attractive one.

"Shut up. Yes." She squints at the cheerleaders. "That's definitely him. Jin or Jun or something. He's modeled for us."

"Naked?"

"No." She hits your arm, laughing. "Not yet."

You shake your head, eating a dumpling and settling in to watch the game. You occasionally look away from the field to the cheerleaders, but despite doing more than chants and call-and-response (he does a backflip and you're impressed), you dismiss them as pretty and on-rhythm.

It took some finagling but after producing a letter of reference (and a phone call that you begged your high school's baseball coach to make), you found yourself as a freshman, working alongside the equipment manager for the university's baseball team (mascot!!).

Nang Duho showed you the ropes reluctantly. You sensed the lack of enthusiasm and general distrust (because you were a girl? because you were young? because you wanted to do this kind of work?), but it wasn't the first time you'd run into the attitude.

You'd survived high school after all.

Once Nang realized you were authentically interested, he warmed to you. You think he liked being called seonsaengnim, especially since the players more often than not called him 'ahjussi' or just Nang-nim. It didn't take long for him to give you the bulk of the maintenance, the bats, the gloves, the cleats. You preferred that over laundry, even though you couldn't avoid that, especially when his back acted up.

You remember how the players watched you on your first day. Similar distrust and skepticism. You pushed the rolling laundry cart while each player dropped in his uniform. They seemed to be waiting for you to blush or avert your eyes at the exposed skin. You didn't stare, but you didn't blush either. Granted that you could appreciate eye candy, you weren't that flustered with naked torsos or legs. After years of putting up with high school players, you were pretty much desensitized.

"Oh…I do my own."

It's a soft voice. Not quiet persay, but it makes you think of a stuffed animal, snuggly and huggable.

Strange thought about a voice.

"You do your own…" you trail off as you look at him, and his uniform. He's handsome, most of the guys seem to be, but like his voice, his good looks seem softer. Warm brown hair, wavy and striking eyes.

"Jun's our resident cheerleader," the player next to him says cheerfully, knocking shoulders with Jun (?). Jun smiles, bright like the sun, nearly matching the player next to him.

You look at the long pants and top, same colors as the baseball uniforms. "Does it need special treatment?"

The cheerleader shakes his head. "No, but—"

"Toss it in. It's fine."

He blinks at you, as if he thinks you'll change your mind.

"Thank you," and tosses it with the rest of the uniforms. He turns back to his nook, giving you a glance at a small tattoo along his right shoulder blade. You can't distinguish it (something with whirls and script - pretty) and you've already stared too long.

You continue.

When you stop the cart by a senior player, Park someone, he says something oh so clever about laundry and the fact that you're female. You blink at him before pushing the cart toward the other side of the locker room. There's some guffaws and snickers.

It's not new. You don't like it, but it's not new.

"It's only because Park can't do his own laundry and still has to go home on the weekends so his Eomma can do it for him."

You snap your head to the new voice. Handsome, deep-set brown eyes, messy black hair. He's smiling with unbelievably rosy lips.

"Seungcheol," he says to you.

You nod, unsure how to respond other than to give your name. The broad-chested player, shirtless, drops his uniform into the cart before winking at you.

He repeats your name. "Pretty."

It's a miracle that you get out of that locker room without flushing (but it happens the moment you're safe.)

If you didn't love baseball so much, you might have quit after that eavesdropping experience from hell. But not even Choi Seungcheol, current captain in your second year of university, can dull the beauty of watching a baseball streak past the fence, or Chan's incredible catch in left field against NCT's hardest hitter Mark Lee.

You love the game. Your mom told you that your father had often played the game on the radio, holding up the speaker right next to your mom's swollen womb. She'd found out she was pregnant when the Korean Series was in Game Seven, and your father was convinced it was a sign of future greatness.

Was there disappointment when you were born a girl? A little. But Korea had a fantastic women's softball team, so you weren't out of the running as of yet.

However.

When you were six and had been 'playing' tee ball for two years, you didn't need your father to break the news to you that it was a delusion to hope to play in high school, college, or professionally. You knew it by your coach's expression every time you swung and missed for the tenth time, every time you tried to steal a base (not allowed in tee ball), every time you threw your cap to the ground to 'discuss' the ref's call with the ref. You knew that even at age six, you should do better, that your motor skills should have better capabilities.

You knew.

Perhaps someone else would have chosen a new direction, a new sport, hobby or passion. Your mom took you to dance lessons, sat you with a piano teacher, started you early on cram school.

You tolerated these deviations a little. You weren't exactly a rebellious child. But you were stubborn. You indulged your mother but you always ended up back where you belonged.

Baseball.

By the time you were at university, you had cemented your career path into the realm of sports management. The advisor stuck with you brought up several other options, based on your exam scores, but you denied, politely, each one.

"Why did you take it?"

"I thought Poetry would be easy. I mean, they're short, not long novels, right?" You know it's a dumb excuse, but you really didn't think it'd be this impossible. Having a 200 level literature class required for your minor in communications is heresy in your opinion. But your academic advisor shows you no mercy.

Not that you expected it, but one can hope.

Binna (you're still surprised that she wants to keep rooming with you after first year) shakes her head at you.

"You can't drop it."

"I know. They lulled me into a false sense of security starting with Robert Frost and Yun Dongju at the beginning."

"Go to the tutoring cener, they probably can help you."

"Ugh," you groan and let your head thump onto your dorm desk. "I hate looking stupid."

"You don't look stupid. Your grades say you are stupid."

You throw a pencil at her as she laughs.

When you enter the Art building, you do so with caution. You pass fellow students, some probably your age and year, and yet there is nothing in common. Their style, the way they talk, how they carry a sketchpad and fancy pencil in hand…nothing like you with your one bag that carries your laptop and musculoskeletal text book (because taking classes for sports medicine was also a terrific idea on your part).

Binna had wanted to go get a bite together and study after her painting class, so here you were. In unfamiliar and terrifying territory.

Class should be over, but you don't see your gregarious roommate anywhere. You pop your head into the studio to see the back of her head, in front of someone you don't know. But the way you can tell how fast she's talking and general vibrating of her body, you can guess who it is.

Minghao, the gorgeous art TA.

"Binna?" You take one timid step into the room, the smells of paint and some kind of cleaner accosting your nose. You sneeze then furtively look around to see if anyone is offended by your unbelonging presence.

Your roommate hears your sneeze, not her name (figures) and turns before grinning.

"Hey!" She waves you over and you wonder why people feel the need to include you in conversations when you have nothing to contribute. She loops her arm once you're in striking distance. "Minghao, this is my roommate."

The TA nods at you, face not really welcoming, but not repulsed either.

"Wait, that reminds me. She's failing Poetry and I was wondering if you knew anyone who might wanna help her out?"

You might kill Binna.

"I'm not failing," you mutter.

"Close enough. Most of your friends are humanties and arts, right?" Binna is solely focused on Minghao and you can't fault her for making use of anything to keep talking to her crush. You just wish it wasn't you and your lack of academic prowess.

Minghao tilts his head to the side as though pondering Binna's uncalled-for request.

"Actually…" he trails off when someone comes from the other side of the room. You had only noticed the easels, the visual cacophony donning the walls of current and past students' artistic expressions. But there's a curtain that separates the main part of the classroom from what looks like an alcove, an office space perhaps for the professor.

But it's not the professor pushes aside the curtain and walks out.

It's the cheerleader, Jun.

You glance away, embarrassed to be a part of this conversation now with someone from your baseball world. Even if you and he rarely interact or speak. He always says thank you when you gather his uniform, but there's no reason for the assistant equipment manager to make conversation with the cheer team.

If you had to tell the truth, you were intimidated by Jun, Raon and Dohee (his counterparts). People that pretty tended to be unwelcoming to people like you, so you avoided as a precaution. Raon and Dohee never left their uniforms for you to launder and you never sought them out to offer.

And you've never forgotten that laughter.

"I was gonna say that Jun's solidly a Literature major. He likes poetry."

"It's a minor," Jun says, wrapping his arm around Minghao's shoulders casually.

"Not the way you take each and every class offered."

"They're fun." Jun smiles winsomely at his friend who huffs at him, but it's goodnatured, you can tell. There's an ease between them that tells of years of friendship, even if they're both only third years.

"Sure they are," Minghao answers easily. Jun winks at him, coy and flirtatious before turning to you.

"Hi there."

You wave, like an idiot.

"You two know each other?" Minghao asks.

"She's on staff. With the team."

Minghao nods and you wonder, as an artsy person, what he thinks of your sports bent. You also appreciate that Jun says nothing about you doing his laundry. You do much more (equipment manager includes all matter of bats, gloves, helmets etc), but it seems that's the only thing the players ever say about you (That's a bit unfair to several members of the team, but for generalization purposes, a laundress is basically what half or more of the team sees you as).

"I can help…if you want. I took that class and the prof likes me." Jun is smiling at you, practically the same smile he uses on his friend.

Why?

"Uh…I wouldn't want to put you out."

Binna pinches your side and heavens favored, you do not externally show the jolt it gives you.

"She'd be so grateful. As would I, who has to hear her tangents about how none of it makes sense more often than you'd expect."

You think about pinching her back, but she would not handle it gracefully and bring about all the attention to your 'abuse.'

"It's not problem." He slips his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans that hang on for dear life. You force your eyes from the sliver of skin showing between hem and waistband. "Give me your number, I'll text and we can set up a time. What poem are you working on now?"

You shrug because you do not remember, handling his phone so you don't get your fingerprints on it (you feel grubby next to these three: Binna in her wrap dress that should seem too formal for class but her painted shoes make it work, Minghao in black ripped jeans and a t-shirt, but with a bandana tied in a belt loop and long hair pulled-half back—he looks like a sixties beatnik artist, and Jun in those low hanging jeans and t-shirt that looks like it shrunk in the dryer). You type your number in, hoping no one notices that you delete a couple times, highly anxious so you can't remember your number. They're all chatting about something that you can't follow when you hand his phone back.

"Thanks," you manage to get out. Jun's smile widens and except for when he's leading the chants, you've never seen him like this. In the locker room, he's subdued, quiet, almost unnoticeable among the larger personalities (and egos) of the players.

It's a nice smile.

"It'll be fun."

"Yeah, Jun loves to share all his useless knowledge."

Jun laughs before clacking heads with Minghao who gives him an unimpressed look (but his eyes are amused).

You tug on Binna's arm, hoping you can make a quick getaway. Your roommate is staring with big ole heart eyes at her TA.

Subtlety is not Cho Binna.

"We'll, uh, see you guys," you mutter, again pulling, this time harder, on Binna's arm.

"Yeah, see ya. Thanks again Minghao, Jun," she effuses, finally coming with you.

You wait until you're way out of earshot:

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"You used my failures as a student to talk more with your crush."

"I did. And I would support you if you did the same." She is unbothered.

"I don't have any crushes."

"Yes, well, that's your issue. Not mine."

After your last crush, you took a firm hold on yourself and decided not to crush again. Certainly not anyone related to baseball.

"I don't even know Jun, he could be a jerk." He probably is.

"He is not a jerk. I've drawn him twice now, and he's really sweet."

You pull up short. "Naked?"

Binna's haughty expression is a facade, you know it, but it still makes you roll your eyes.

"Why would it matter? It's art, not porn."

"It's just weird. If you've seen my soon to be poetry tutor without clothes."

"Would rather see Minghao—" She cuts off laughing when you break away and jog several steps in front of her, effectively ending that line of conversation.

You tap your pencil against the open page of your poetry textbook (still expensive and weighty despite poetry being a 'short' medium), half-looking across the lawn for the baseball cheerleader/poetry tutor.

He'd texted you that very evening about a good time to meet. He was well aware of when baseball practice was, so you couldn't really use that as a fake excuse.

You don't have to like him and he doesn't have to like you for the tutoring to be successful. As long as you don't say anything about that conversation and he doesn't, well, then, it's old news. You just need to pass this class.

Your brain meanders off of your impending tutoring session and onto duties for tomorrow's practice. Mingyu, true to form, stumbled into the only muddy puddle on the field after the rain days ago. You've treated his uniform, but are doubtful that it'll come clean when you wash it.

"Hi!"

You jump (observational skills lacking today it seems) at the super close voice. You barely noticed the shadow he cast across the table you'd commandeered in the quad.

Jun is holding two takeaway cups.

"I got two drinks; a flat white and a pumpkin spice. I like both, so I figure one of those could be your type of coffee."

You're staring at him with your mouth partially open, like a buffoon. It's not entirely your fault. The pink of his tshirt is the brightest pink you've ever encountered outside of the Barbie doll aisle at the toy store. Possibly brighter.

"Do you drink coffee?" he asks, sitting down across from you with grace you envy. Especially with a bag slung over one shoulder and a cup in each hand. "I just assumed—"

"I do, um, thank you. I'll take the pumpkin spice if you're sure."

He sets (presumably the pumpkin spice one) in front of your text book.

"It's completely fine. I promise." His smile's brightness matches his shirt's and you wish you'd thought to bring sunglasses.

"Thanks again. For doing this. I feel like Binna kind of bullied you into it."

"She strikes me as someone who is very…proactive when she wants something," he says easily, sipping his coffee and letting out a satisfied sigh. "Caffeine, nectar of the gods."

"That's Binna. Very…forthright."

Jun's smile turns mischievous. "And she wants Hao."

It takes you a second to realize who he's talking about, Binna only every calls him by his full first name.

"Oh, um…" You don't exactly want to out her if she prefers not to have the rejection option. For all you know, Jun and Minghao might be more than just friends.

"It's not hard to see."

"Does—he know?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Jun chuckles. "He moves as fast as a glacier in personal matters. All he cares about is art, classes, his family, and his friends. In that order." He points to your textbook. "Ready then?"

"I guess." You open the textbook to the most recent poem that you have a quiz on tomorrow. "I appreciate you doing this. I imagine you have enough to do with cheering, the art class modeling, and your own classes."

"We're all busy, arent we?" he says, brushing off your 'thank you.' "You just have to make time. Besides, we're…kinda teammates."

You blink at him. "I suppose. I don't really do much for you or Raon and Dohee."

"You wash my uniform every time."

"That's not impressive." You look down at the poem, eyes going over the words again like it'll make sense.

"I've always admired you."

Your head snaps up from the anthology. You imagine the dumbest expression is on your face, but you can't help it. You never expected to hear that from anyone, let alone him.

"You do? I mean, did?"

"I do." He leans forward, not in a seductive way, but like he enjoys being closer to you. "A lot of people wouldn't want your job. It's not exactly glamorous."

You roll your eyes. "I don't think even glamorous jobs are all that glamorous."

He laughs, a light and breezy thing. It's unfamiliar to your ear. "You have to do their laundry. I know what they smell like after a game. All too well. It's beyond disgusting."

You can't help wrinkling your nose. "I always want to plug my nose with something. I'm kinda desensitized, but some days it's bad."

"But you still do it."

You rest your arms on the open book, half-covering Tennyson. "The uniforms, the bats, the balls, the gloves…all of it needs to be in the best condition."

"So they won't complain? Or blame a bad hit on you?"

You know who he's talking about. It makes you shift in your seat. Early in your time, one of the seniors, now gone, definitely blamed the care of his glove for a fumbled catch.

It hadn't been your fault, but you'd still taken the criticism because sometimes it's easier.

"It's not about them."

"It's not?"

"It's about the game."

He rests his chin in his hand, eyes direct. It's disconcerting how focused he can get. "You really love it?"

No one usually questions this. You're surrounded by baseball players and coaches and staff. Your long-suffering roommate doesn't get it, but has never asked. She assumes it's about the players.

It can be, but not in the way she's thinking.

You nod to his most likely rhetorical question.

"Why?" Okay, so not rhetorical.

"Why?"

"I mean…I get enjoying sports, but you don't really seem interested in our football team or even our state-winning volleyball team."

"I went to a match last year," you mumble. Freshman year had had you attempting to do social things. The campus was full of opportunities to meet people, try new things, and in general be someone new.

The attempt didn't last fall semester.

He's smiling at you, not patronizing or condescending. Like he enjoys whatever you're saying.

"I just like what I like."

He taps your textbook. "And you don't like this?"

You know you're pouting, but you can't help it. "I don't see what this…war poem has to do with me. Or anything I will ever encounter in my life."

"Well," he begins, finally leaning back, but stretching way up revealing more inches of his torso. It's not chilly yet, it's summer's last gasp, but you already anticipate the impending briskness with your baggy long-sleeve sweatshirt. "It is about a battle. But it's more than that." He returns to touching the poem in your textbook. "Look at the numbers. You're good with numbers, right?"

You nod, still skeptical, as you reread about whatever a light brigade is. He hands you a highlighter. It's neon pink.

"Doesn't seem to fit the vibe of the poem."

"I bet Tennyson loved pink," he says easily. "Mark each mention of numbers. What do you notice?"

"It's only 'six hundred'."

"Now look at the words around each mention."

You do so, lips twisted with mild distaste.

"'Left of the six hundred,'" he quotes. "They didn't all make it."

"So?"

"So….how often do you go into a situation, already knowing you're gonna lose?"

"That's stupid."

"Is it? Or is it brave?"

"Stupid."

"So don't play another team that's so much better than yours?"

You sit back and cross your arms. "Playing a better team usually makes you better. But this is war. People die..and…that's stupid."

He doesn't say anything immediately, head tilted to the side, like a cat judging you. "Okay." He points to another line. "Sabres…you know what those are?"

"I'm not stupid. Swords."

"I don't think you're stupid," he says quickly. "Soonyoung would have said it was a tiger."

You laugh, knowing that's exactly what the shortstop would think. "Are you close with the team? I know you have to use their locker room, but I never see you with them other than that."

His smile freezes before dropping. "I wouldn't say close. Some of them are friendlier than others."

"Soonyoung."

"Obviously." He grins, some of the light in his dark eyes returning. "Mingyu. Chan. They're nice."

You hear a lot in the silence. "Not any of the others?"

He meets your eyes. "Sabres…swords, as you correctly named them. Swords against gunners." He indicates line 29.

"Wait, what?" you look back at your textbook. "They didn't have guns?"

"No."

"That's…more stupid."

"That was their orders."

"Screw their orders. They should have ran…um, retreated." You follow toward the end of the poem.

"They do. See the repeated 'Cannon' lines?" He continues when you nod. "Notice the change in directions."

"They're leaving." You huff a sigh. "How'd-you know all this?"

"Well, I've taken this class before. But also…" he pauses, thinking. "I like them? I mean, it just takes time and thought to figure out what's going on. I like doing that. Like a puzzle, or scavenger game. I like trying to figure stuff out, especially when it's not obvious."

"Weird."

His smile is a flash, but it strikes you that it's not as happy as it should be. "I guess."

You want to say something, that 'weird' isn't a bad thing, that you appreciate that he is good at this because you are definitely better off than an hour ago with this poem before he sat down.

But you don't because he's moved on to talking about the last stanza. But you think about the dropped smile after he's left and you're still sitting at the table in the quad. You watched him walk away in those jeans and short hot pink t-shirt for longer than you'd care to admit.

And how his laugh didn't sound like any of the laughter you heard in the locker room that day.

"The words…" you groan. "The words are…not words."

"They absolutely are words. Just not the ones we use now." Jun is laughing at you. You can't blame him because you are being petulant to the extreme. "You know what, just listen, okay? I bet you understand more than you think."

And so he begins to read the fourteen lines by one John Keats. You try to focus, but you zone out a bit. Jun's voice is nice to listen to, not bracing or strident, or combative. It rolls like waves, gentle.

"What do you notice?"

"It rhymes."

He half-grins. "Yeah. What's the scheme?"

"Alternating lines. every four then it changes." You pause, looking over it. "Except the last six?"

"Exactly, which goes against the rhyme scheme for a sonnet."

"Okay, yeah, fourteen lines."

"Other than the title spelling it out, what do you think it's about?"

You stare at it for a lot of seconds. "Honestly? If it wasn't called 'To Sleep' I'd think it was about death. I mean…the whole final line—'casket'."

He nods. "You know Keats died at twenty-five years old?"

"I think I read that in the introduction."

"He also, through his letters, seemed to think he would die young. A lot of his family died of the same disease, tuberculosis. So…maybe it is about death and not sleep. What else makes you think that?"

"Embalmer."

"Good. What about poppy?"

"What about it? It's a flower."

"It's the flower that makes opium, which they used to treat sickness back then."

You stare at him. "That's…that's horrible."

"Yeah, it was the only way they knew how to mitigate the pain." He stares back. "Opium is a downer, meaning is slows things down, whereas something like cocaine is a upper, speeds things up. So opium and sleep and death…"

"All peaceful, but not."

He cocks his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Well, opium might make you slow down, but its deadly, right?"

"Certainly can be and is addictive which doesn't help."

"Sleep can be peaceful, but often not. People have nightmares, night terrors, tossing and turning, just can't rest."

"And death?"

"Its not peaceful. Even if someone goes 'peacefully.'" You even do the air quotation marks with your fingers. "It's not peaceful. It's still loss. And that rips a hole into those who are left."

You don't notice how he watches you while you close the textbook and recap your highlighter (he brought you your own this session, a beautiful serene blue) and start to pack up.

"You okay?" he asks after a moment.

"Yeah. I just…I remembered I need to take care of some stuff." You finally meet his eyes. "Thank you for your help. I think I'll be okay on the quiz next week."

"I think you'll be just fine."

You shouldn't have told Binna that you passed that quiz because now she's got your phone, texting Jun about it and that has somehow elicited an invitation to go out with he, Dohee, Raon, Minghao, and some guys named Seungkwan and Seokmin. All artsy students to your understanding.

"No fucking way."

"Come on. You never hang out with my friends."

"I don't hang out with anyone. Except you."

"Yeah, that's for your therapist to dive into."

"I don't have—"

"But you could," she says and goes to her closet. "Come on. I've been to one party with the baseball team." You wince even though she doesn't mean anything by it. But it was that night. even though that was this past spring, it still haunts you.

Probably because the last sex you had was disappointing and…unfulfilling.

"Wear this." She tosses something at you and you grab it because you don't want to argue, or maybe you want something different.

Who knows?

The bar that you ride to, in an Uber with Binna, is one you don't know, which is unsurprising as you're not a big drinker, even less when it costs you money, but still you've heard enough from classmates and the team to be familiar with names of the local watering holes.

But Cheers doesn't sound like a place anyone of your age would readily spend time socially.

"It's great. It's where most of the art students hang out. I've been hoping for an invite."

"I won't fit in."

"Enough alcohol, everyone belongs."

True words.

Binna easily gets a pass from the bouncer who doesn't seem to even care that you might not be of age (you are, but still). Inside are splashes of color, music you've never heard (but it's nice and not too overpowering), and people.

So many people, but despite that, it's not impossible to keep up with Binna who heads to the bar. She orders two shots of something. You try to decline, but she isn't dissuaded. You knock it back and ask the bartender for a lemonade as she gets something you've never heard of. When it comes out, you take a sniff since she offers you a sip and you think the alcoholic fumes singe your eyebrows.

Binna plans to party.

"I'll stick to the lemonade."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't protest. She grabs your hand and drags you away from the bar. You see some familiar faces, or are they just familiar from the alcohol burning in your stomach and through your body, in the flashing lights? You don't know but you're happy to let Binna lead this race.

"Found you!"

Jun jumps up to hug Binna; a tight, real hug before he turns to you.

You have no idea how she found them. Maybe she does have Minghao radar because there he is, leaning against the wall, looking oh so artsy and broody. He's listening to a guy you don't know, jabber on about something, incredibly expressive. You see Raon and Dohee sitting on a couch with another unknown guy, all laughing.

It shouldn't be intimidating, but you are tempted to run home.

"Hi."

You look up at Jun, decked in long sleeve shirt, the neck of it defines the word 'plunging'. His hair, that you've never considered long, is half pulled up and he's wearing glasses.

"Hi," you remember to reply. He's grinning widely at you. You wonder if he's drunk to be so happy to see you.

"I knew you'd do well."

What? Oh the quiz. Binna's excuse for all this.

"I wouldn't have without your help."

He leans closer and you repeat your words. You're sure the flush on his face is from alcohol and the warm room, not your gratitude.

"You look nice," he says, glancing at the skirt and top Binna forced on you. It's by no means too revealing, but as you live in work out clothes, or your staff uniform, it's practically a costume.

"Binna," you explain.

He grins again and clinks plastic cups with you.

"You look good, too," you blurt out, unable to look away from all the collarbone you can see. Why is that more affecting than those cropped t-shirts you see him in so much? "You always do," you add in case he takes offense.

"I do? Thank you," he hugs you to his side. If he notices how you freeze at his touch, he doesn't show it. "Come, meet everyone."

You recover though he hasn't let go of you, moving his arm from your waist to over your shoulders. You remind yourself that you've seen him do this with Minghao.

You wave awkwardly at Raon and Dohee, who wave back far more gracefully and excitedly than you did.

"It's so fun to see you out!" Dohee says loudly to be heard above the din of people and music. You shrug in response, unsure of what to say.

"That's Seokmin, he's a theatre major," Jun says, mouth so close to your ear (presumably so that you can hear him) that his breath tickles. You shiver and he tightens his hold. "You won't be cold long," he says before introducing the other guy. "Seungkwan who is Mass Communications and basically never shuts up."

"Fuck you, Wen." Accompanied by a corresponding hand gesture, and a big smile.

Jun blows him a kiss. "If you ever want to meet people, just tag along with him."

"So never do that, got it."

He chuckles at your retort as you sip your lemonade. "Come on…" He leads you to sit at the small table in front of his co-cheerleaders and Seokmin. You're fairly content to stay there, listening to them chat about the university's theatre department (possibly more drama than the baseball team, so that's affirming). Jun doesn't leave your side, seated next to you, arm brushing yours every time he moves or gestures to add to the conversation.

At some point, he taps your empty cup. "I'll get you another. What is it?"

"Just lemonade," you say. "And you don't—"

"Just lemonade." He smiles. "Not a drinker?"

"Not if Binna is going hard." You point toward your roommate who has somehow convinced both Seungkwan and Minghao to go and dance with her on the dance floor. "Seems safer to not."

"Lemonade it is." He takes your cup and walks back toward the bar. You watch him go before turning back to see three sets of eyes on you.

"What? Why…why are we looking at me?" You stutter at the sudden attention.

"Jun was very excited you decided to come tonight," Raon says, smile all-knowing.

"Oh. I mean, I did do well on the quiz because of him."

"That's not it," Dohee interjects. "He likes you."

Seokmin starts to cough. "You just fucking outed him, Hee. Why would you do that?"

"It's so obvious," she laughs. "And it's cute. Like he's the sweetest guy to ever exist—"

"Hey!" But Seokmin's protest is ignored.

"And you're like the most normal person he's ever been into."

"Normal?"

"Yeah, like not high-maintenance, or drama-ful or anything like that." Dohee reaches over and squeezes your knee, casual and reassuring. "You are so much better to have around than Nang-nim. Chan loves you."

Jun plops down at that, holding out the lemonade. You take it and try not to look at him. His friends could be wrong after all.

"Chan loves who?" he asks, offer the other cups of alcohol he purchased.

"Our impressive assistant equipment manager," Raon singles you out.

"That's because you helped him with his batting stance, right? That's why he's hitting better."

You can't help but stare at him now. "How…how did you know that?"

His grin and eyes are too warm. "I was checking something with where we stand on top of the dugout. RaRa nearly tripped and fell off the last time, so I was making sure the maintenance request was actually carried out. Saw you two out there. You were instructing him, weren't you?"

RaRa is such a cute nickname is your first thought. Your second is that you had no idea anyone knew of your impromptu coaching session with Chan when he'd first joined the team. He was a first year, eager to impress, but while his fielding skills were terrific, he lacked at bat.

You noticed, you don't know why no one else seemed to. So one day, when you were searching for a missing glove (Mingyu or Vernon, you can't remember) after practice, you found Chan out in the batting cage, swinging and hitting, but the ball not going as far as you're sure he wanted. So you wandered over and made a suggestion about how he stood. He listened. And he hit better.

It wasn't rocket science.

"I'm not…players aren't supposed to be coached by anyone else. Please don't—" You can't lose your job. What would you do at university if you didn't work on the team?

Study only?

Jun regards you for several moments, eyes dark in the minimal light. You want to look away because he is almost too pretty to look at for long, but you don't; hoping he understands how important it is.

"Lips are sealed."

You let out the breath you were holding. "Thank you."

"Enough talk, we're here for a good time, right?" Raon speaks up, breaking the gaze that Jun has on you. Raon grabs Seokmin by the wrist. "Dancing, darling."

He rolls his eyes but follows her, grabbing Dohee's hand to drag her out as well. Dohee in turn, tries to grab for Jun, but he dodges her hands.

"Finishing this," he shouts as they disappear toward the crowd that writhes and gyrates. He turns to you once they're gone. "Wanna dance?" He sips his drink, eyes lasered on you.

"I…I'm not exactly coordinated. I was a pretty poor tee-ball player." You gulp more of your lemonade.

"Well, that has nothing to do with dancing," he says casually. "Dancing is about looking ridiculous and doing it confidently."

"Confidence is also not my best attribute."

"Bullshit," he retorts, setting down his mostly empty cup to lean closer. You swallow more lemonade. "You walk through that locker room with the carriage of a queen. You are more confident than the rest of us."

"A facade." Maybe that one shot was more tongue-loosening than you thought.

"Fake it till you make it, huh?" His eyes drop once before he stands and offers his hand. "One dance. In celebration of your successful quiz."

"A celebration of your tutoring skills."

He shrugs one shoulder. "I'll dance to that." He takes your hand even as you're standing, about to find a good excuse (restroom maybe?), and leads you away from the safety of the couch and table. You stumble to keep up with his long legs, your eyes dropping to how his pants fit and then you chastise yourself.

You've seen him in less than this even if you weren't meaning to. The locker room was a veritable menu of male bodies of various types and sizes. You've never thought about him like that. Ever.

It's definitely that one shot Binna made you drink.

Your nose wrinkles at the smell of so many people and perfumes, but Jun spins you so you're in a small circle with the people you know. Your eyes find Binna's, who is sporting some moves with Seungkwan, while Minghao watches her passively (or interestedly, it's really impossible to tell with him). Binna is drunk enough that she doesn't seem surprised at your presence in a dance circle (more almond-shaped really).

Seokmin is happily sandwiched between Raon and Dohee, though you'd argue his moves are more impressive than theirs. You didn't know men could move their hips like that.

Jun's hands fall to your shoulders, paused as though waiting. You don't shrug him off, so his hands slide down your arms to your fingers. He takes one and spins you back round to face him.

"I'm really not good at this," you tell him again.

He taps your forehead with his index finger. "Stop worrying and thinking so much. Close your eyes." The last sentence, his mouth is at your ear so you can hear him above the music. You nod and do just that because not looking at him seems like a much better idea than looking at him so close. He lifts your hands to drape them around his neck, his own falling to your hips.

It is easier to move to the thumping bass with your eyes closed. It's easier not to worry about how you might look if you can't see anyone watching.

He says your name, his mouth touching your ear again; you shiver. "You're better coordinated than you think."

You risk opening your eyes to look up at him. The glitter around his eyes and on his cheekbones catch the strobing lights and he looks otherworldly. You forget what he's just said and stare at him for much too long. His smile turns embarrassed and you quickly move in his arms to face the group.

Binna mouths something at you, and you don't really know what she says, but you know you'll hear about it later (you do and it's all about how Jun's hands were on your hips and waist, and how perfect you two looked together; but Binna is drunker than you've seen her so you chalk her observations up to alcohol). The song morphs into another and you move away from the group, miming that you need water. Jun is reluctantly to let of your hand and once you're away from them, from him, you let out a deep breath.

You are never telling Binna that being near Jun makes it hard to breathe.

Can't meet today

everything okay?

sick

You look at your messages for several seconds. Binna pokes you with her bottle of nail polish.

"What's up?"

"Jun's sick."

"Oh that sucks."

You text back: I'm so sorry. Do you need anything?

you're sweet. i'm good. hao fed me.

"Are Minghao and Jun roommates?"

"Yes. Since they were first years. I think the school thought putting two exchange students together would help with the transition to Korean Uni." Binna blows on a polished nail.

"Do you know where they live?"

"Why?" She raises her eyebrows. "Why do you think I'd know that?"

"Really?"

She laughs effortlessly. When you grow up, you hope to be as carefree as Binna seems to be.

"I thought I could bring him some soup. Or something."

Binna stares at you for a few seconds.

"What?"

"Do you like him?"

"What? No. He's…kind of a teammate."

"So you'd do this for anyone?"

"Well…anyone I've exchanged more than five words with."

"Valid." She still doesn't look away. "I do know where they live."

"Of course you do."

When you knock on the door, you have to set down one of the two bags you're carrying. You're actually bending down to pick it up when the door opens and there stands Minghao, bottom half of his face covered with a mask.

"Hi."

He raises an eyebrow. "You here for Jun?"

"Yeah, I figured you couldn't cook for him every meal, so I brought um…soup and other stuff."

You're pretty sure Minghao doesn't hate you, or even dislikes you. You probably don't even enter his mind unless you're right in front of him. But his resting face (mostly eyes and eyebrows due to the mask) is blank with a touch of annoyance. Binna thinks it's HOTTT, but you realize that you like when you can see what a person is thinking or feeling.

Someone who smiles.

"Come in," Minghao steps back and then grabs from a stack on the little table in the entryway. "Wear a mask. No idea what he's come down with, but better safe than sorry."

You take the mask and slip it on as you set your hoarde of 'get better' items on the kitchen counter. It's more a suite than a regular dorm room and you hope you get lucky as an upperclassroom to have an actual kitchenette and living area, tiny as they are.

"He's um…if he's asleep, I can just leave…"

One of the doors past the sagging couch opens and Jun is standing there, looking the most un-Jun-like you've ever seen him. There's a lack of pink, minus his nose being quite red. He's wearing baggy orange sweats that look like they belong to someone taller and wider than him, and a threadbare faded green tshirt.

He says your name, and it's hoarse though delighted.

"Go back to bed, you moron," Minghao monotones. "You'll hate yourself if you get her sick."

"Hey Jun," you begin, walking over with your two bags. "I grabbed some medicine for you, ginger chicken soup, and lots of cough drops. I didn't know what kind you liked, so I got a couple."

He's still leaning on the doorframe, less like a male lead in a romance, and more like someone who might collapse if they let go.

"You…" he starts coughing and you back away from the coffee table and sofa. He leans his head on his arm. He looks miserable.

"I'm guessing you won't make tomorrow's game."

He makes a face, but doesn't speak. He's probably wanting to avoid a coughing fit.

"Will Raon and Dohee be okay without you?"

He shrugs before texting on his phone. Yours pings a second later.

can you watch out for them? sometimes ppl are shit at away games.

"Of course." You watch him a few seconds longer, how his hair is matted to his forehead, damp from sweat and you feel for him.

It's not fun to be sick. Especially away from home. And he is really far from home.

"Feel better…and you know, message me if you need anything else."

He smiles the smallest smile. It's happy, as much as he can be feeling like he does. But it makes something tug in your chest to see it.

He mouths thank you before stumbling back into his bedroom, the door not closing all the way, so you see him flop on his bed, his feet covered in pink socks.

How odd that you've danced, club-danced with him, but seeing his pink socks feels more intimate.

When you turn around to leave, Minghao is watching you.

"Um, if you need anything for him, like if you get stuck here or whatever…uh, let me know? Or Binna?"

He nods slowly, eyes not moving away.

"Okay, see you," you hurriedly say and open the door to leave.

"See you," and he says your name, which you realize is probably the very first time he has. Why does that feel like you have received his approval?

You see out Raon and Dohee once you arrive at the away team locker rooms. Dohee laughs when she opens the door for you.

"You know you don't have to knock. You are one of us."

You know she means your gender, but the 'one of us' phrasing feels especially kind.

"That…I wouldn't want to assume."

She laughs again as you walk in to see Raon straightening her top.

"I just wanted to see if you guys were okay. Without Jun?"

"It's annoying. Neither one of us likes having to used the megaphone, but…" Raon shrugs. "Hao said he was pretty sick."

"I saw him yesterday, he looks like the least Jun-like I've ever seen him."

Dohee and Raon share a look before turning back to you.

"You saw him yesterday?"

"Uh, I went by. We were supposed to have a tutoring session, but he said he was sick."

"So you just went by?"

All of a sudden you feel like you're in a courtroom, on the witness stand. You half-expect to hear 'objection'.

"I brought some stuff…" You feel unequiped to continue. "He asked that I look out for you guys. So…that's all."

They look at each other then at you again and it's inevitable, like an anvil falling in a Looney Tunes episode. You should never have walked in here.

When Jun wakes much much later, there's a number of texts and notifications on his phone. He squints at it for a few seconds, assessing how he's feeling and if looking at a screen will induce any nausea (as it did yesterday).

Honestly, he feels pretty good. Not like, run a lap or two (like he's even want to do that), but not like 'fall across his bed like a fainting Regency woman' either.

He'll call it a win.

There's a knock on his door, but it opens before he can croak out a 'come in'. Hao peers in, still masked.

"Alive?"

"More so than yesterday."

"Did you get the video?"

After being friends with Hao since first year of uni, Jun believes he can read the enigmatic man decently well. It's harder with a mask covering half his face, but the sparkle, slight but there, in his eyes warns Jun that something good or terrible has happened (honestly, knowing Hao for over two years, as roommates, does so little to uncover what the man is thinking).

"Video?" Jun's voice is on par with a life-long smoker's at this point.

Hao plops on his bed, opens his phone and places it right in front of Jun's eyes.

It takes many seconds (his brain is foggy with remnants of illness and medications) for Jun to understand the scene playing out on his roommate's phone. He immediately clocks Dohee and Raon, standing on top the dugout, dressed in their away game uniforms; the motions and choreo so familiar to him. The person to the right of Dohee is Mingyu, who is on the injured list currently for a possible concussion (it didn't happen during the last game, but in the locker room after practice when Mingyu decided to try and film the most recent TikTok dance challenge and failed miserably due to a bench, discarded cleats and Chan doing the dance better; this all occurred before Jun contracted the plague), standing with his arms crossed, staring down the patrons in the seats.

While Mingyu is new to the cheer lineup, that is not the change that shocks Jun the most. No, it's the person in the middle, his normal spot when he's not dying. This person is wearing his uniform top, though the trousers are definitely not his.

"Is that—"

"I got a message from Dohee, you probably have one too, though you've been sleeping."

"I'm in recovery right now."

"Sure," Hao takes his phone back, presumably looking for the message while Jun stumbles to opne his phone and see his notifications.

"It's on the team's instagram page?" Jun says hoarsely. "They never put us on there, or rarely at least."

"Hey Hao, wake up Junnie and tell him his girlfriend might just take his place. She isn't quite the peppy sort, but she does the cheers really well," Hao reads then plays the video again, this time with sound.

Jun's rarely heard you speak loudly, or yell or shout. Sometimes you raise your voice in the locker room to be heard because it's chaos in there, but it's barely more than a normal speaking voice volume.

The megaphone amplifies, obviously, but you are doing really really well. Your movements are stilted, though he doubts you even got the chance to learn them prior to participating in this. But by the end of the video, which has been spliced to include most of the cheers, probably cutting down two hours of footage to a minute, you move much more naturally, showing a little of the rhythm he saw in you the night at the club.

And you're smiling.

At first, it's a forced smile. One he's seen many times. But, probably with the infectious silliness of being flanked by Dohee and Raon, your smile grows, both warmer and in size.

It must be the medication, but he thinks he likes you wearing his uniform top despite it not fitting you in the slightest.

"Why did…" Jun coughs, covering his mouth and rolling in the opposite direction from where Hao sits.

"Why did she fill in your spot? I dunno. Guess you'll have to talk to her." Hao starts out of the room before pausing at the door. "I ordered some chicken and ginger congee from the place in the city."

Jun pushes himself up. "You are the perfect man, Xu."

"Fuck off."

When you walk into the locker room before practice after the away game, the room turns silent. Which never happens, not since you were introduced back in the beginning.

"Um, here to check on any last minute equipment issues? Something we might have missed." You always do this. Come in before practice or a game, a secondary check that even in your and Nang's meticulous surveying the items needed for the players, something could be missed. Sometimes there is nothing. Sometimes a player sees a crack or dent or missing cleat. It's never hostile.

The atmosphere feels hostile today.

"You know we lost," Seungcheol begins, breaking the brittle quiet.

You nod. You might not have been going back and forth with bats and gloves, but you were still very aware of the score and its resolution.

"Why do you think that is?"

You want to answer. You're know that the Boyz were a stronger and younger team, primarily made of up underclassmen who had a lot to prove. Also, the team had been without Mingyu due to the incident with his head and the bench, and that loss would make the team struggle.

But you rightly assumed that the captain's question was rhetorical.

"Because you decided you didn't need to be doing the job you were brought on for. No, you're up in the stands, playing at cheerleader. What the fuck?"

You hear a couple grumbles, echoing his statement.

"Nang-nim was there—"

"Shut it, first year!"

You move instinctively between Seungcheol and Chan who had spoken up. It hasn't escaped your notice that the captain is hard on the baby of the team, who shows immense promise and works so hard. You also know that Chan has the making of being a leader in his own right, leading by example.

He is also, exceptionally more talented than Seungcheol is. You guess the captain probably knows this.

"I cleared my absence from game duties with both the coach and seonsaengnim. I don't see how my not being there contributes at all to the final score."

Seungcheol laughs; and unsurprisingly, Jeonghan and Joshua do as well. It's a mean, mean-spirited laugh; full of poisoned barbs.

"You don't think I couldn't tell the gloves hadn't been properly oiled? My cleats were weak? Were you so excited to be seen as a girl that you forgot your actual responsibilities for the team?" He scoffs. "You're like the worst kind of cleat chaser. In it for the nearness, but can't even offer something in return."

It feels like a punch to the gut. The very idea that anyone would compare you to a baseball groupie. You know that isn't true. You know that most of the team knows that isn't true. You know this, but it hurts anyway.

You are trying to come up with the right response, when you hear someone else come in the locker room.

"Wen, you're back!" Soonyoung would always misread the room and signals, but his happy reaction to Jun returning does distract you for a moment. You turn to see Jun, looking far more healthy than the last time you saw him, though still a bit peaked.

He doesn't go to his cubby but walks up to you, and something in his face tells you that he isn't unaware of the words just pronounced in this space.

"So…captain," Jun begins, standing next to you calmly. "You admit that you need her, but accuse her of being just a 'cleat chaser' when all she does is clean up after all of us, makes sure that you have what you need for every practice, every game. Doesn't make a lot of sense. Did you get hit on the head or something? Might need the team physician to check you out."

"This isn't your business, Wen. This is about the team."

"Oh, okay, so now she's a part of the team."

You can see Seungcheol's frustration at how Jun undoes his poorly constructed argument.

"She's staff and—"

"So not a cleat chaser. Man, you really have to get your story right."

The moment Seungcheol lurches forward, as though to hit Jun, or you, who knows at this point; Mingyu, Chan and even Soonyoung break in between, stopping Seungcheol's intention. He looks more surprised than angry at this point, though the narrowing of his eyes returns when he realizes that he's being blocked, by part of his own team.

Neither Jun nor you are physically intimidating, but Mingyu's height and build, Chan's wiry muscle, and Soonyoung's chaotic energy…all of it is enough to be threatening.

It doesn't hurt that the coaches enter right then to get the players on the diamond for practice. The entire team all trudges out; your little protective squad last to go. Chan squeezes your shoulder as he passes.

You fall to the nearest bench when all that remains is you and Jun.

"You okay?" he asks softly, moving to sit next to you. "I only caught the last bit, but—"

"I'm okay." You look at him, your heart slowly down as your body realizes it doesn't need to fight or flee. "Are you? You were really sick."

"I'm better." He clears his throat, betraying that he's not totally healed.

"You look better."

He says your name. "Are you really okay? That was…that was aggressive."

"I'm sort of numb, I guess," the words slip out before you can hold them back. " I've heard a version of that probably most of my life, though usually not so directly. That the only reason I do what I do is because of guys." You straighten your shoulders. "I appreciate the back up, but you have to spend more time with them in here. I don't want you to—"

He leans forward, his forehead knocking yours, but lingering there. "Stop worrying about me, I'm fine. I didn't grow up doing Wushu for nothing." He lifts his head.

Your expression shares your confusion.

"Martial arts." He flexes a bicep. "This isn't just from my nights at clubs or cheering."

It pulls a smile from you. "Noted."

He lets his arm fall before reaching to cover your hand. "He's an asshole."

"Yeah."

"He always has been, he just hides it better than others."

"I really have shit taste in men, huh."

You both freeze as you realize it's the first time you've acknowledged that you slept with Seungcheol to anyone other than Binna.

"No. If you had shit taste, you'd still be into him…you aren't still into him, are you?" Jun's been looking at your hands, his still holding yours. He looks up at the end of his question, eyes betraying the answer he wants to hear.

"No." You laugh, drawing your hand away, feeling horribly embarrassed by the entire turn of conversation. "I have my issues, but I'm not masochistic."

"Good." He straightens up and looks around the empty locker room. "Speaking of…that day that you walked in on him…talking about you."

You turn on the bench, shaking your head. "It's nothing. It's not surprising."

"I should have said something. I should have defended you. I'm so sorry I didn't."

You look back at him, surprised. "You didn't laugh."

"No, of course I didn't, but I didn't speak up—"

"You didn't laugh. I thought you did. Because I didn't know your laugh then. But I do now. And you didn't laugh. Thank you."

He shakes his head, looking at his lap. "Don't thank me. I should thanking you…and asking why you filled in for me at the game? One of them could have done the megaphone part."

You feel your face heat so fast you imagine you look like a cartoon character with smoke rising from your skin.

"It was Raon and Dohee. Their decisiion, they were adamant at having me fill in. I didn't want to, I did a terrible job and…we are all happy you're back."

"I'm not mad. I was just surprised. You seem like someone who permanently likes to stay in the background."

"I do. I will not be repeating that experience. So do not get sick again."

He laughs before coughing a bit, turning his face away from you. "Okay. But you weren't bad at all. You were pretty cute."

Can your face get hotter?

"I was not."

He makes a face at you, disbelieving. "I saw the video…videos, actually. I stand by my statement."

You stand up, hands fidgety because you don't know why he's saying things like this. "I should…go to practice. I am happy to see you, less pale and ill-looking."

He stands as well, tucking the cardigan around himself like he's cold. He looks soft and far less sparkling. More glowing like a single candle over fireworks.

"Me too. Happy to see you." He looks over at his cubby. "Can we meet later? I need to make up the tutoring session we missed."

"Jun, you don't have to—"

"Sure I do. It's still Romanticism, isn't it?"

You shrug. Like you have a clue.

"I'll text you."

"Okay," you whisper and hurry out the door.

It turns out to be easy to reschedule, because the Carats do not make the playoffs. The final loss, which has nothing to do with you because you are back in your regular position, doing the things you always do, clinches the 'out of the running' for the team. It's your second season with them, first time full season, and you forget how much time you have when you're not at the ball field every free minute.

Seungcheol, Joshua and Jeonghan, all seniors, are quiet and sulky when the locker room is on final clean up. You watch all the players trod out, taking their personal things with them, leaving the team properties behind.

Chan turns to grin at you and wave.

You'll place money that he'll be captain by his junior year.

Clean up is well, gross, as a season's worth of sweat and dirt and general man has built up, but it's a nice thing to have done, especially when everything is inventoried and put up for the off-season. The players will still hit the gym to keep up with their health regimens, but you're no longer needed.

Unfortunately, poetry class is not over, not yet.

"It's all death," you claim, your voice more shrill than you prefer to keep it. But you've just read the poem for this week—there is another but this one is effing long—and you are over it. "Every single freakin poem is about death."

"Most art is? I mean, literature is about sex or death…usually. That's a freebie, when you take the exam and maybe get stuck; write about sex or death."

"But this is…stupid. It's long and wordy and stupid."

He chuckles. "So you don't like American romanticism, so noted."

"'Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,  / Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed  / By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,  / Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch  / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams'," you read monotonously. "Like I said with the Keats poem, death is not peaceful, or calm or pleasant!"

You realize you are almost yelling and even though it's not the library, but the common area in the student union, you still attract attention. You hunch over and frown.

"Did you read the other poem?"

"No. This one took me forever to get through."

"Here, let's go through the other one." He stands up, leaning over to flip the pages in your textbook, apparently able to read upside down. You look up at him, some of your ire fading at his proximity. He's finally given into the approaching winter; wearing a long-sleeve shirt, another cardigan, and corduroy trousers. His hair is messy from the wind outside and he looks fully back to healthy, cheeks rosy from the same outside zephyr.

"Jun?"

He sits back down, nodding to the pages. "Read it."

You don't say anything, not entirely sure what you would have said anyway. Your eyes scan the poem, catching the rhyme first, then the repetition, then—

"Wait, what is 'the good night'?"

"Take a guess."

Well, it's been pretty much the same theme, so you apply death to 'the good night.'

"It was the poet to his father. When he was dying."

You mouth the words of the final line, also a repeated line, "'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"

"It's also called a villanelle, which is a really specific poem structure, and really hard to do and—" He cuts off and says your name. "What's wrong?"

You wipe your eyes, aware now that you're leaking tears. "Nothing."

He reaches out, hand over yours. "Tell me."

"I don't—"

He looks around, how public this all is, and scoops up your book and bag, along with his. He tugs on your scarf, still around your neck and you follow him outside.

It's blustery, leaves dancing in circles around the quad. His hair dances in sync with the leaves, and he leads you to a copse of trees where the wind is slightly blocked. He slides your book and pen in your bag before pulling out a small package of tissues.

You wipe your face, trying to not think about what you're thinking about, but it's impossible. You keep seeing the words of the poem.

Jun doesn't say anything. He leans against a tree, waiting and watching.

"My dad loved baseball," you say slowly. "Like…loved it. Knew every member of every team, coaches, and why teams did well and why they didn't. He knew everything."

"Is that where you get it?"

You nod.

"I figured he wanted his only kid to play, but I'm not good. I'm really not good. So I did the next best thing. I learned everything about it. Statistics, the players, the trades, the fact that if someone would just plant his foot a little to the left, he'd swing so much better." You sniff and look out across the quad, feeling the wind play with your hair. "He died. When I was ten."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too. He never properly got to be traumatized by teenaged me." You laugh, but it's hollow. "He refused an experimental drug. After chemo, he was tired and so sick. It wasn't guaranteed, nothing is in a hospital, but he could have tried. Even if it didn't work. Even if all the possible side-effects, like memory loss or no appetite happened." You force yourself to look at Jun. "I wanted him to fight more, but he didn't want to." You swallow the lump in your throat. "We…I wasn't enough for him to try and stay."

He doesn't ask, and you're glad because you would have said no, but he pulls you in for a hug, tight. He rests his chin on top of your head.

"I doubt that."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe he didn't want you to see him worse?"

You look up at him, surprised to see his eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

"Maybe the drug could have made him worse, um, his body, or his mind."

"Like the memory loss, like not recognize us?"

"Yeah."

"Wouldn't that be worth the risk if you got to stay alive?"

You realize he's still holding you, but he's warm and his cardigan is really soft. You don't move.

"I can't speak for your dad. I've never been in that situation. But if…if it meant possibly losing memories of those I loved? I think I might have considered not taking the drug." He kisses your forehead and you freeze. "Maybe he wanted to keep those memories and that love for as long as he could."

Your eyes well up again, and he tightens his hold.

"I'll mess up your shirt."

"And I'll survive that," he replies, so you bury your face in his chest, tears flowing. He rubs your back as you do, seems unbothered that you're gripping him like you might collapse without him.

You miss your dad. You always miss him.

When you finally let go, Jun relaxes his hold on you, but doesn't let you detach completely.

"Wanna go get ramyeon? My treat."

Later that evening, after you're both so full of noodles and broth, and talked about baseball, cheering (he got into it because someone he liked in high school was one and they had an opening for a male cheerleader; he got the position but that someone never returned his feelings —'honestly, they were kinda a horrible person, so maybe you're not the only one with bad taste in romantic partners') and poetry, he walks you back to your dormitory.

"Thank you, Jun. With the class, and just…you know, being a really nice person."

He grins. "It's not hard to be nice to you."

"Oh please." You wrinkle your nose. "I was definitely not friendly to you in the beginning."

"You weren't?"

"I never understood why baseball needed cheerleaders, so no, I wasn't exactly amicable."

He's still laughing. "But you still offered to wash my uniform. And you still always nodded at me when you saw me. Besides, cheerleading isn't a needed thing. It's a joyous thing, to be encouraged, to join together as a group, to lift up and not bring down."

He stops where the sidewalk intersects with the path to your dorm. You look at him in the light of the streetlamps. He still is exceptionally pretty; bright smile and bright eyes, hair messy from the day.

You're wrung out from all the emotions, so you can't be held totally responsible when you raise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. Maybe the forehead kiss gave you permission, or you've gone crazy.

But it feels like saying 'thank you' isn't quite enough.

When you land back on your feet, he's staring at you.

"Sorry if that—"

"Can I kiss you?"

Perhaps you shouldn't be surprised. Not after the way Dohee and Raon talked at the club that night, or how Binna has teased you about bringing him soup when he was sick.

But you still are.

"Yes."

He leans down, cupping your cheek in his hand. You're frozen, unsure all of a sudden how kisses work. He doesn't kiss you immediately, just sort of breathes you in, his nose brushing along yours before fitting his lips to your lips. It's incredibly soft and warm, like him. And you find yourself leaning into it, mouth opening for a taste. He returns taste for taste, teasing and igniting heat in you.

It doesn't go very far, only enough for you to miss him the moment he breaks the kiss.

"So…we'll have to revisit that," he says, his face even more rosy post-kiss.

"You mean, not on a day that I dump my entire childhood trauma on you?"

He catches your smile and leans in for another kiss, this one quick. "Next time, I'll share mine." He straightens up. "And in case it wasn't obvious, I like you."

Shouldn't really be surprising, but somehow hearing it is marveling to you.

"I like you too."

"Oh, that's good. Be weird otherwise."

You laugh, outright laugh after crying only hours earlier. "Just a little bit."

He nods toward your dorm. "You go in. You have a quiz and soon final exam to study for."

"I have a really good tutor."

His blush, even apparent in the bad street lighting, is so cute.

"Good night."

"Good night, Jun."

poems mentioned:

"Charge of the Light Brigade" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"To Sleep" by John Keats

"Thanatopsis" by William Cullen Bryant

"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas