I’m watching that documentary “Before Stonewall” about gay history pre-1969, and uncovered something which I think is interesting.
The documentary includes a brief clip of a 1954 televised newscast about the rise of homosexuality. The host of the program interviewed psychologists, a police officer, and one “known homosexual”. The “known homosexual” is 22 years old. He identifies himself as Curtis White, which is a pseudonym; his name is actually Dale Olson.
So I tracked down the newscast. According to what I can find, Dale Olson may have been the first gay man to appear openly on television and defend his sexual orientation. He explains that there’s nothing wrong with him mentally and he’s never been arrested. When asked whether he’d take a cure if it existed, he says no. When asked whether his family knows he’s gay, he says that they didn’t up until tonight, but he guesses they’re going to find out, and he’ll probably be fired from his job as well. So of course the host is like …why are you doing this interview then? and Dale Olson, cool as cucumber pie, says “I think that this way I can be a little useful to someone besides myself.”
1954. 22 years old. Balls of pure titanium.
Despite the pseudonym, Dale’s boss did indeed recognize him from the TV program, and he was promptly fired the next day. He wrote into ONE magazine six months later to reassure readers that he had gotten a new job at a higher salary.
Curious about what became of him, I looked into his life a little further. It turns out that he ultimately became a very successful publicity agent. He promoted the Rocky movies and Superman. Not only that, but get this: Dale represented Rock Hudson, and he was the person who convinced him to disclose that he had AIDS! He wrote the statement Rock read. And as we know, Rock Hudson’s disclosure had a very significant effect on the national conversation about AIDS in the U.S.
It appears that no one has made the connection between Dale Olson the publicity agent instrumental in the AIDS debate and Dale Olson the 22-year-old first openly gay man on TV. So I thought I’d make it. For Pride month, an unsung gay hero.
❝ love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too. ❞ — yogi berra
summary: after an off-season bidding war that sent the league into a frenzy, lee seokmin is the new starting pitcher for the los angeles dodgers. problem is, he's on a superstar trajectory nearly 10,000 kilometers away from everything he's ever known. now, he has a year to decide: return to what's familiar, or fall in love and risk everything the two of you have worked so hard for.
★ pairing: seokmin x f. reader
★ genre: strangers to friends to lovers, coworkers, baseball au; fluff, smut, slight angst
★ rating: this chapter is e for everyone. however, since the final part will be explicit, i ask that minors do not interact with this or any of my work.
★ warnings: some power dynamics stuff since dk is a player and reader is a team interpreter, mentions of misogyny in professional sports, alcohol use, mentions of drug use by background characters, seokmin is an overthinking mess lmao, mentions of vomit but no one throws up, manager!seungcheol, swearing.
★ smut warnings: none for this chapter. warnings in part two tbd.
★ wordcount: 10k for this chapter. full fic tbd.
★ credits: this was originally a gift to my beloved mj (@kkaetnipjeon) but then the dodgers won another world series and are ruining baseball... so it still is but there's some haterade in it now. also a huge thanks to hali for help with baseball stuff and spitballing and agreeing to do a whole collab with me. bee (@imnotshua) and jess (@starlightkyeom) for reading this over for me.
★ written for: the aju nice baseball collab, hosted by myself and @sailorsoons! thank you so much to everyone who participated and made this such a fun experience for us. i appreciate you all a whole lot. ♡
★ author's note: hello. i've had this idea cooking for a very long time and meant to get around to writing and posting it sooner, but [gestures to the last 8 months of my life] alas. i hope you all enjoy it! no posting date for part two, but post-surgery-healing i will try to get it written and posted asap.
On average, the flight from Incheon to LAX takes eleven and a half hours.
This is a lot of time to sit and contemplate if you’re making the biggest mistake of your life.
Seokmin readjusts himself in his seat. The team had splurged for the best of the best, of course, but even plush, first-class leather isn’t enough to ease the pain in his lower back. He heaves a sigh. Reaches for the stack of paperwork his manager had printed off for him and heaves another one.
The amount of information is enough to give him a migraine. It’s also enough for him to flag down a flight attendant and order a beer, because everyone knows calories don’t count in the air. At least that’s what Seokmin is delusionally choosing to believe, considering Seungcheol would not sign off on this. Not so close to spring training. Not when both of them are risking so much.
As it stands, though, Seungcheol is in the seat next to him, mouth hanging open slightly as he sleeps. A pair of expensive headphones are looped loosely around his neck, sitting haphazardly against his shoulder thanks to his travel pillow, and he can barely make out tiny snores over the sound of the cabin noise. He doesn’t have to look over to know there’s some drool, too.
Seokmin tries not to take it personally. It’s not Seungcheol’s fault that Seokmin can’t sleep anywhere other than his own bed.
So he thumbs through the paperwork, steadfastly ignoring the bed issue, because if he thinks about the bed issue, he’ll have to think about what he’s doing, and if he thinks about what he’s doing, he’ll have to come to terms with the fact that, as of three hours ago, he won’t be stepping foot in Korea for another nine months. And if he thinks about that—thinks about his family and his friends and his entire life; the homesickness and the comfort of familiarity—he’s liable to call this whole thing off.
God, he wants to.
It’d be so easy.
Instead, he focuses his energy on any- and everything else. He studies the names of his coaches, his teammates, and members of the front office. Watches tape from his time in the KBO and allows himself a small moment of joy at hearing the chants, at the goosebumps that rise from the energy in the stadium, infectious even through his phone screen, before he buckles down. Goes over the notes from his pitching coach—the small tweaks, the bigger adjustments, the quiet encouragement—and the athletic trainer.
And then all that’s left is the packet from Seungcheol. Seokmin flips through the pages. Glances briefly at the housing options and the city’s tourist spots. Takes a pen and underlines the places he’s heard friends or teammates talk about. Is happy to learn that places and things can still feel familiar even in a foreign country. Goes over the long list of names a second, third, and fourth time. Tries to match them to their photos. Cross-references those with the itinerary Seungcheol created and attached to the last page.
Two days.
He has two days—a whopping forty-eight hours—until he has to meet with the team. Until the red carpet is all but rolled out for him and he’s introduced to the fanbase, staff, and media he’ll spend the next nine months trying to impress. Until he goes from a household name in Doosan, his number spanning the backs of hundreds of fans, to the latest in a long line of shiny new toys hailed as the next big thing, the savior of the franchise, and he’ll either live up to the claims and the pressure or he’ll buckle under the weight of it and they’ll label him a bust.
Annoyed over thinking himself into a bout of anxious nausea, he chooses a movie at random and tries to sleep it off. Sets the paperwork aside and turns off the light. Pulls his sleep mask over his eyes and his blanket up to his chin. Ignores the ambient plane noise. Tries reminding himself that nothing in life is ever truly permanent and that it’s okay to hate something or fail so long as you try.
Unfortunately for him, it’s not all that easy to figure out your life with Twilight playing in the background.
Still, he tries. He counts sheep until he loses track. Contemplates ordering some chamomile tea but feels guilty bothering the flight attendant again, even if he is in first class, and said guilt makes it even more difficult to empty his head and sleep for even twenty minutes.
So he returns to the paperwork, since it’s the only thing he can seem to focus on. Studies those same faces. Memorizes those same names. Looks at the same apartments and wonders what it’d be like to live in each one—what it’d be like to wake up to perpetual sunshine; what it’d be like to drink coffee on each balcony; what it’d be like to wake up every day in a place that’s so foreign in every way imaginable but still one he’ll be calling home.
When he reaches the last page, all the oxygen in his lungs leaves his body in a single, pathetic exhale.
Seungcheol stirs in the next seat over, lips smacking as he grips his airline-issued blanket tighter. Must be nice, Seokmin thinks briefly, not at all bitter, before his attention returns to what’s in front of him: a headshot of the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, Dodgers lanyard looped around her neck, her smile enough to steal his breath away twice. Beside the photo are your credentials: your name, age, experience, the name of the university you attended and that you’d graduated with honors.
Next to your name is your title: Korean Language Interpreter.
Seokmin knows what that means—knows the team interpreters get swindled into playing at personal assistants most of the time. Knows you’re the person he’ll be spending most of his time with and going to with any questions or concerns. He tries not to let that thought make him queasy. It’s not that attractive women make him nervous, per se, it’s just…
Everything in Korea had been an old boys’ club.
Men called all the shots, most of the time from inherited positions. Sure, the odd woman would get hired every now and then, but by no means was it common. Misogyny ran so rampant they rarely lasted long enough to celebrate their first work anniversary, let alone get anywhere near the players. They were stuck in administrative roles and other things the men deemed women’s work; roles they decided were beneath them.
Seokmin had never met any of them, only heard rumblings in the clubhouse. Talk of these elusive female employees passed down like generational ghost stories.
He doesn’t hold those views and biases himself—his mother would kill him if he did, and he loves and respects her enough that he’d rather die than disappoint her—but it’s still a stark departure from his old normal. Another reminder of how different life is going to be on this side of the globe, nearly ten-thousand kilometers away from his old luxury apartment in the heart of Seoul.
Seokmin knows how to handle the types of men professional sports attracts. Knows when to be charming and when to throw his weight around. Knows how to soothe a bruised ego. Never had to worry about the optics of anything, because you can’t be accused of dating a woman if there are no women around to date.
So, yeah, maybe the way he’s thinking about it is all wrong. Maybe it’s shitty to assume he’ll have to treat you differently—or any specific way—at all, because no matter what continent he’s on, professional sports are still professional sports at the end of the day, boys will always be boys, and if you’ve survived this long, you’ve got to have a pretty stiff backbone.
With a pathetic sigh, he slumps back in his chair and attempts to sleep once again. Do you have to be so fucking pretty, though?
Jet lag: the great equalizer of man.
Seokmin’s alarm goes off at six o’clock sharp. He snoozes it four times before Seungcheol gets up wordlessly, hits Seokmin over the head with an—admittedly—extremely firm pillow, and crawls back into his own bed just as silently. And it’s not like Seokmin can go back to sleep after that, so he swaps his sleepwear for sweat shorts and a loose tank, ties the laces of his sneakers a little too tight, and checks his pocket for the room key at least three times. Then, he slips out of the room and down to the hotel gym.
Since most people aren’t waking up early on vacation to spend their time working out, he’s the only person there. He breathes a sigh of relief. Not that he’d expect anyone to recognize him—and not that he’d mind if they did—but he isn’t his best self right now. Groggy from lack of sleep and the time difference, he’s not even sure he’d qualify as an entire person. He might qualify for fifty percent if he’s lucky, but even that would be pushing it. Still, he pops his earbuds in and warms up on the treadmill. Goes until he breaks a sweat and moves on to the leg press before finishing with a light arm workout.
Back in the room, Seungcheol greets Seokmin—who asks “Do you need the bathroom, hyung?”—with a grunt and continues scrolling on his phone.
Another grunt. Seokmin takes this to mean no, please go ahead, it’s all yours, so he pulls his sweat-stained shirt over his head, tosses it in the direction of his suitcase, and frowns when he misses. He’s got his hand around the handle of the bathroom door when Seungcheol says, “Got an email while you were gone with today’s schedule,” with a great deal of effort. As if he didn’t sleep the entire flight.
Seokmin nods. Makes a mental note to read it as soon as he’s out of the shower, because he isn’t going anywhere if he continues to smell like this. When he does, though, he can’t help the laugh that tumbles out of him at—
Good morning, Sajangnim. Please see the below schedule for today.
—and tries to hide his smile in the collar of his shirt. Sajangnim… that’s a new one. God, is he that old? No, he’s only twenty-seven: not young by professional sports’ standards, but pretty average for someone coming from the KBO. “She called me Sajangnim,” Seokmin says. He stares at the screen so long it goes into sleep mode. Seungcheol stares at him like he’s an idiot. “I’m not that old, am I, hyung? Is twenty-seven old? Why would she—”
“You’re her boss,” Seungcheol answers, each word slow and deliberate like he’s speaking to a child.
Seokmin doesn’t feel like a child, but he does feel like he’s just sucked on a lemon. “I—what? No I’m not,” he argues, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “The team is her boss.”
“Do you really think she’s calling those old white guys Sajangnim?” She might be, Seokmin thinks; considering he’s never met her, it’s not like he’s able to confirm or deny. “And, as far as this situation is concerned, you are her boss.”
His scowl deepens. Having an interpreter-turned-assistant, therefore being someone’s boss—it all feels too significant, makes him seem too important.
The team has provided a driver that will pick you up from your hotel, with whom we have coordinated, at the stated time. Please see attachment.
Once you arrive at the stadium, you will be taken to the clubhouse where I will meet you. Various Executives Officers and members of the Baseball Operations teams, including the pitching coach, will be there to receive you. After the introductions are complete, hair and makeup will be on-hand if needed. Catering will also be available.
He skims the rest, having already agonized over it a dozen times on the flight: how the execs will take questions unrelated to him from the media and season ticket holders before they move on to the main event. Seokmin will be introduced, camera flashes will blind him as he walks onto the stage, and he’ll smile wide enough to hide his fear as he pulls on his new jersey and hopes they can look past his sweat-slick palms as he shakes their hands.
So he showers to scrub off the scent of his workout, styles his hair nicely, pulls on an expensive pair of pants and shoes, spritzes on cologne. Kind of feels like an asshole when he fastens a glitzy watch around his wrist. Makes sure both he and Seungcheol are ready in time to meet the driver, who turns out to be a very nice man who speaks Korean and points out landmarks and doesn’t talk at all about baseball. Seokmin is thankful for this, because as embarrassing as it may be, he’s a little mesmerized by the scenery—the palm trees and the architecture and how blue the sky is—and snaps a few photos to post on his socials later.
And when the stadium finally comes into view, Seokmin feels the erratic pounding of his heart all the way down to his toes.
You’ve been here before, he reminds himself, trying to grab onto anything grounding he can find. He thinks about the first time he donned a professional uniform, when he started his first game; thinks about the first time he pitched in a game with actual implications, his first postseason start, being named the Korean Series starter. Had all of that felt like this? They must’ve, he reasons.
“Ready?” Seungcheol asks, pulling him from his daze.
Seokmin laughs, full of nerves and a dash of self-deprecation. “I don’t think I have a choice, hyung.”
“There’s always a choice,” his manager responds, pushing the door open. Seokmin steels himself for a feel-good lecture or some ancient wisdom. Instead, Seungcheol says, “We can always do something to get your visa revoked,” which causes Seokmin to choke on his spit.
It works, though. Seokmin exits the SUV with the confidence of a movie star. Smiles wide and dazzling and bows slightly at the employees milling around. Someone appears at his side and ushers him further into the depths of the stadium, this way and that, until they reach the hallway that holds the clubhouse. Framed magazines that seem to stretch for miles cover blue tiled walls. He walks down gleaming, waxed floors on unsteady legs. He throws a sideways look at Seungcheol, who simply raises his brows. We’re in the big leagues now, the look says.
Seokmin can’t help but snort. No shit, his responds.
Maybe he should look at all the plaques and the jerseys stitched with historical names and feel some kind of pressure. And maybe that pressure should feel terrifying, like he’ll be atomized if he succumbs to it; like he can kick and kick for the rest of his life and only ever tread beneath the surface of the expectations. Maybe he should stand outside the clubhouse door, with the team logo engraved in the center, and worry he’ll never live up to his own hype.
Instead, he stands outside the door and feels—
“You good?” Seungcheol asks, wiping his palms on the expensive fabric of his pants. “You ready?”
“No,” Seokmin answers simply, surprised at how steady his voice sounds. Expected the word to come out cracked in half and pitched too high, belying his nerves, but it’s stable enough to take Seungcheol by surprise.
“I—okay.” He looks around Seokmin and down the hallway. “Should we try to make a break for it, or…?”
Seokmin blinks. “Hyung, what? No. I don’t care about the…” He pauses, hands waving wildly in the air as he tries to find the right words to explain it. “I’m not nervous about the team,” he amends, voice dropping to a whisper even though he’s certain they’re the only two people in the hallway that can speak or understand Korean.
“What’s the problem, then?”
Embarrassment floods him. Warms his cheeks and makes that spot behind his bellybutton feel funny, like there’s a swarm of butterflies being shaken around in a snowglobe. “Ah, I mean—it’s, you know, it’s the…”
“The…?” his manager prompts. Seungcheol, the bastard that he is, can sense weakness. Can smell fear on anyone just like a rabid animal, so the smug little twinkle in his eye really isn’t surprising. “Could it possibly be—”
Seokmin cuts him off, defending himself with a very emphatic, “No!” However, he shouts this at the same time their escort opens the clubhouse door and gestures for them to go inside, so now he looks like a jerk.
A huge one.
Whose English is not good enough to apologize and explain himself.
Seungcheol is badly concealing his laughter. The poor employee just looks confused, smiling tightly but awkwardly as he looks between the two of them. Seokmin, to his credit, desperately tries to appear normal. Tries remembering all the English phrases he’d learned that are now only showing up as cartoon-style scribbles floating above his head, and the more frantic he becomes, the more unintelligible his words are.
This cannotbe the first impression he leaves on his new team. He can’t be the guy who seemingly yelled at a lower-level employee the first time he stepped foot in the stadium, he just can’t. If he thought his mother would kill him over misogyny… Well, she absolutely would, and considering she’s his mother she’d probably take it much more seriously than being rude to someone. Which isn’t to say she’d accept it, because she wouldn’t! It’s just—everything exists on a scale, right? And Seokmin just thinks misogyny would rank higher on the scale of unacceptable behavior than being rude would, but they’d both be on there. Fuck, his poor mother, having a rude misogynist for a son—
Oh god, the panic is really starting to set in.
So are the heart palpitations and tingling fingertips. And did it suddenly grow 20 degrees warmer? Because his underarms have suddenly become tacky with that itchy sort of sweat. No,he reasons, it’s the same temperature it’d been, he’s just about to throw up, is all. Which—no, he’s not going to do that, either. He refuses to be the guy who yelled at a lower-level employee and vomited all over the floor. That would be a catastrophic amount of losses to take in the span of five minutes.
Unfortunately, it seems inevitable. Seokmin has got himself in such a state that he can practically feel himself turning green; can feel Seungcheol’s concerned stare and the ‘are you okay?’on the tip of his tongue. This is so humiliating. A grown man—a highly sought-after professional athlete who had the entire league in a bidding war not long ago—having a borderline-panic attack in front of an audience. Maybe he’ll reconsider Seungcheol’s idea of getting his visa revoked, if being a jerk and vomiting on the floor doesn’t do it.
He can’t even imagine what he looks like right now: tight smile, crazed look in his eyes, perspiration beading along his hairline. Why does he even bother washing his hair if it’s immediately going to get dirty again? Why did he put that scary-looking hot sauce on his eggs at the breakfast buffet when he knows his anxiety liquifies his insides? When you really stop to think about it, why does anyone do anything? Why did he even start playing baseball? While he’s at it, why did he decide to be a pitcher, anyway? Wasn’t he aware of the shoulder damage he was signing himself up for? What an idiot. What a moron. What an absolute—
“Oh, you must be Choi Seungcheol-ssi,” says the most rapturous voice Seokmin has ever heard.
A choir of angels begins to sing a hymn that sounds an awful lot like his player chant. The clouds part. A ray of golden sunshine peeks through, warming him from the inside-out. Everything smells like warm laundry and freshly baked bread. Colors become more vibrant. His anxiety falls by the wayside, making way for a pang of annoyance at Seungcheol’s small huff of laughter, his customer service voice as he confirms that yes, he is Choi Seungcheol, and it’s very nice to finally meet you.
He sucks in a breath. Allows himself a moment to pluck up some courage before he plasters on a more normal-looking expression and turns in your direction.
Seokmin is thankful he’d already established how pretty you are because he’s ready for the gut punch, even if he’d only seen you in black and white printer quality. Face to face, you look nearly identical, just… real. And it’s so much better.
You smile, inclining your head. “Sajangnim.”
Seokmin twitches, unsure of what the protocol is here. Would it be presumptuous if he bowed in return? Are you expecting him to? Would it be another tally in today’s faux pas column if you were and he didn’t? Custom sayshe should bow, too, and he’s still not convinced his mother doesn’t have eyes on him from ten-thousand kilometers away, so he stops overthinking it and inclines his head. “You can just call me Seokmin.”
A twinkle of soft laughter. “Ah, I can’t do that yet, but it’s lovely to meet you. Did you two have any trouble getting here?”
“No, no, none at all,” Seokmin insists, “though I think I may have yelled at that guy by accident.”
You study him for a beat, blink and you’ll miss it, before turning your attention to the gentleman still holding open the clubhouse door. You say something to him in English that has the man’s cheeks reddening. He waves his hands at Seokmin: universal sign language for, it’s okay, don’t worry about it.
He’s finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.
Seungcheol clears his throat, nodding his head in the direction of the clubhouse. “Ready?” you ask, looking between the two of them.
Seokmin nods, because it’s easier than shrugging his shoulders and admitting he doesn’t know. It’s easier than unloading months—if not years—of uncertainty and doubt. It’s easier than pretending to nudge Seungcheol in the ribs before saying something like, “It’d be too late if I wasn’t!” and being so charismatic and charming that no one spares a second thought to whether he was actually joking.
Once he crosses the threshold, there’s none of the chaos he expected.
The clubhouse is quiet. Almost entirely empty. There are no photographers or reporters milling around, cameras and recorders in hand, eagerly awaiting a soundbite. There are no C-suite executives who’ve only bothered to show up to get an in-person look at their latest investment, to see if he’s worth their money as they pat their pockets with million-dollar watches strapped to their wrists. There are no seasonal interns who gape when he’s not looking but otherwise refuse to meet his eye.
Aside from you, him, and Seungcheol, there are some catering staff coming and going as they line a long table with stainless steel chafers and plastic-wrapped accoutrements; a janitor is almost done vacuuming the carpet; across the room, a man sits with his back towards them, AirPods stuck in his ears and a plethora of photography equipment at his feet in hard-shell cases.
Seokmin is thankful for the quiet, the calm before the storm. It gives him a chance to take everything in: the leather L-shaped couch in the center of the room, the flatscreen televisions mounted from the ceiling, the names and numbers on plaques above each locker. And it feels silly, but it only strikes him then that each one of those names belongs to a real person—one of his teammates, someone chasing the same dream he is, someone he’ll need to have a symbiotic relationship with to achieve it.
No pressure, of course.
He imagines the future. What song will be blasting through the speakers when they win. How solemn and tense the atmosphere will feel after a devastating loss. If he’ll be able to hear it when they pop the cork on a bottle of champagne and it arcs through the air, turning his skin sticky. What it’ll feel like with his teammates’ eyes on him after he has a bad start they aren’t able to come back from, the loss falling squarely on his shoulders.
He smiles. This is what he lives for.
“The big guns are on their way down,” you say, appearing at his side.
“What are they like?” Seokmin asks, leaning in to inspect a framed news article more closely. “To you, I mean,” he clarifies. “I’m sure they’ll be very nice to me, considering what I’m getting paid.”
Your huff of laughter lands on his shoulder. “Honestly, I don’t interact with them much. It’s mostly at things like this where there are people way more important than me.” You pause, seeming to consider your next words carefully. “I’m sure team execs are largely the same no matter what country you’re in.”
Seokmin rolls his lips to keep from laughing, hearing everything you don’t say out loud: Don’t hold your breath expecting a batch of outliers, the C-suite here are just as rich and out of touch as anywhere else.
Same old comforts, he thinks, taking his last few breaths before his entire life changes. Seungcheol is across the locker room being talked at by someone who doesn’t realize they don’t speak the same language. He looks panicked, eyes darting around the space for you (to translate) or Seokmin (to distract), but you’re going over something on an iPad that looks important and Seokmin only gives him a teasing wave, leaving him to fend for himself.
Karma comes for him in due time, though.
Seokmin watches as the last few people take their seats. Season ticket holders, you’d explained, and some members of the press sitting all the way in the back, recorders and laptops and phones at the ready.
“Be careful with that one,” you say as you silently appear at his side, discreetly pointing at a man in the second to last row. Seokmin would’ve been able to pick him out even if you hadn’t. He’s the only reporter dressed in a three-piece suit, tailored beyond what the limits of physics and wool mohair will allow. “He used to work for the Giants, but he’s some trust fund kid from New York. Loves to introduce himself by saying he’s family friends with the Steinbrenners.” You scrunch your features and tinge your Korean with an undetectable accent. “We used to go to their Christmas parties when I was a kid. I practically grew up in Yankee Stadium.”
Seokmin just smiles. “I don’t know what any of those words mean.”
A disbelieving snort of laughter escapes you, and it’s enough to calm the thrum of anxiety beneath his skin. “Just keep smiling like that and they’ll love you,” you assure him. “And for everything else, I’ll just lie. I know that piece of shit doesn’t speak Korean.”
It strikes him somewhere between his fourth and fifth ribs, your willingness to fudge the truth for him. To purposely misinterpret what he’s saying to those who don’t know any better. “Aish,” Seokmin says, scratching at the back of his neck, “we better not, huh? Could you imagine the scandal of an interpreter gone rogue?”
All he gets in return is a hum of acknowledgment. “It’s go-time in sixty seconds. I’ll be in the front row. Don’t trip, keep smiling, and don’t get stuck in the jersey when they make you put it on. It’ll be over before you know it.” Seokmin sure hopes so. He can already feel himself turning green at the edges again.
And then you’re gently gripping his bicep, your hand cool against his flushed skin, and saying, “Just remember I’m on your side, okay?” and not even the flash of a hundred cameras can blind him.
It’s late morning when Seokmin and Seungcheol climb into yet another glossy, black SUV.
Seungcheol claims the third row. Buckles himself into the left side and immediately pulls a pair of designer sunglasses over his eyes. All of yesterday’s excitement is still wearing on him, weighing him down—not to mention he’s still not fully adjusted to the 17-hour time difference. Back home, it’d be nearing 4 o’clock in the morning. Back home, he’d be long asleep by now, alarm set so he could make it to the gym while it wasn’t busy, not bound by the restraints of a normal job’s schedule.
But they’re not in Seoul anymore.
Seokmin had been aware of this before, of course, but it’s even more obvious now. Their driver navigates them through downtown Los Angeles—through the traffic and along palm-lined streets, luxury storefronts whizzing by in a blur before they give way to something grittier. People stand in clusters at bus stops, hands in front of their faces to block the sun. Brightly-painted crosswalks become less saturated and begin showing their age, asphalt cracked and graying, paint worn and faded. Seokmin looks out the window at all of the tiny strip malls with signs in languages he doesn’t recognize and smiles.
He likes the grime. Makes the city feel alive.
There’s a folder in the empty space beside him. Sheets of paper stick out from the top at odd angles, some of the corners accidentally dog-eared. Seokmin, too, was finding the time change difficult—he’d fallen asleep in the midst of going through the contents, barely dragged himself out of bed and into the shower after snoozing his alarm six times, and only had one leg through his pants when their driver texted to say he’d arrived, so suffice it to say putting the paperwork back neatly had not made it to the top of his list of priorities.
Still, he feels bad. You’d gone through the trouble of putting it all together, of organizing it so nicely, so the guilt has his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. He should be taking this more seriously, anyway, considering this is where he’s going to live for the foreseeable future.
With a sigh, he shuffles the papers so they’re flush and tucks them back in the pocket, pleased when nothing stands out. When he looks up again, he’s surprised to see that the palm trees are gone, oaks taking their place. Their thick branches sway in the breeze, dense overgrowth shading streets that seem to snake upwards like vines, like they’re in an infinite pursuit of the sky. And as the SUV lurches slightly, the engine turning over with the effort to keep climbing, climbing, climbing up these winding roads, Seokmin doesn’t shy away from the imposter syndrome that starts creeping in.
The voice that says this isn’t actually his life, that he doesn’t need or deserve all of this simply for throwing a baseball. The voice that reminds him of his salary back in Doosan and wonders why it wasn’t enough; the voice that points its finger at him and asks if it was greed that brought him all this way. Like Seokmin, this voice stares out the window as they wind around another curve and yet another mansion comes into view. The privacy hedges, the wrought-iron fence, the brand new turbo model Porsche in the driveway, immaculately polished and reflecting the late-morning sun. Is this really the life you want, the voice asks. Do you really want to be like these people?
And then they drive over a small pothole. Seungcheol hits his head loudly and painfully on the window, swearing in his raspy Daegu drawl, and the voice disappears. Seokmin suddenly can’t remember what it was saying, anyway.
—
Just because someone has an unfathomable amount of money doesn’t mean they have taste.
Seokmin learns this as he tours his fifth house of the afternoon. None of them have felt right. He doesn’t need a six bedroom mansion built into the side of a cliff, but three would be nice in case any of his friends or family want to visit. Or four, maybe, if the house doesn’t have a dedicated gym space. Privacy is a given, too, of course. Even if his neighbors have way more money than him or don’t care about baseball and have no idea who he is, the rest of his life is going to be so loud, so he wants his home to be the opposite. And maybe he’s being needlessly picky, but he wants it to feel warm and welcoming rather than impersonal and cold, the way so many of the ultra-modern spaces do. All the white walls and white marble countertops and buff oak floors—
It all feels so sterile.
Every time he walks into one of these homes, he’s constantly checking the bottom of his shoes, constantly looking behind him or underneath his feet to make sure he hasn’t tracked in any dirt or scuffed the perfectly glossy floors. Constantly closing his eyes and trying to imagine anything human: milk spilled across the kitchen counter; dirty laundry tossed carelessly on the bedroom floor; hell, even a drop of piss on the toilet seat.
Then, at his last scheduled showing of the day, he finally finds what he’s been holding out for.
A modest house tucked away in a canopy of trees. With ivy growing over the cream-colored brick of the exterior, it looks unassuming from the outside. Doesn’t look like the kind of place you’d expect a multi-millionaire athlete to live, which is exactly what makes Seokmin fall in love with it at first sight. He climbs out of the SUV feeling reinvigorated, further endeared by how quiet it is, only birdsong there to greet him. Immediately, he can envision coming back to this place after a long road trip. Can imagine himself half-delirious from sleep, bleary-eyed as he drags his feet to the front door—anchored on each side by gold sconces—and dropping his luggage just inside the entryway. He’d have to be careful of the noise, but—
“You look happier already.” Seokmin startles, having forgotten he’d been doing these tours with a full entourage, and watches you roll your lips to keep from laughing. What slips through gets carried away with the breeze, blending into the sounds of the birds. “Okay,” you say, huffing a breath. “Four beds, four baths, just over four-thousand square feet. The kitchen was renovated back in 2022, there’s a gym on the second floor, you’ve got a pool out back—”
Seokmin doesn’t even need to think about it. “This is the one.”
You blink. “Oh. I—what? Are you sure? You haven’t even gone inside.”
“I can if it’ll make you feel better,” he jokes, laughing around a shit-eating grin, “but I’m pretty good at knowing what I want.”
Much to his mortification, the statement comes out far more forward and flirtatious than he intended, like he’s some sleazy guy feeding lines to someone he’s trying to pick up in a bar. Heat creeps up his neck all the way to the tips of his ears, ruddying his cheeks. Seungcheol mutters an exasperated Jesus Christ and slaps him on the back condescendingly, following you through the front door. With no other option, Seokmin follows, thankful you’re already talking to the listing agent in rapid-fire English.
Good thing the interior of the house is nice. Seokmin isn’t sure he could handle embarrassing himself twice in the span of five minutes.
Seungcheol has the advantage of proximity.
Seungcheol has the advantage of being known only by those who’ve known where to look, and those who’ve known where to look have made his name synonymous with Seokmin’s. Now, he’s Choi Seungcheol, Lee Seokmin’s manager. Now, it’s Seokmin and Seungcheol. Now, it can just be Seokmin, but never just Seungcheol.
He likes it this way. The few-thousand Instagram followers who comment things like Lee Seokmin-nim’s handsome manager oppa~~ rather than ones Seokmin gets, which are equal parts marriage proposals and threats on his life. He likes the lifestyle he didn’t have to sell his soul for. He likes being young and handsome and rich. What he likes the most, though, is that he blends in.
Which is why he’s not here.
Seungcheol had ordered himself an Uber and told Seokmin he was going to explore Koreatown. Because he was bored. Because he was tired of unpacking and putting away his suitcase. Because his life was only loud by proxy, so he was never able to revel in the quiet the way Seokmin did.
Because he could.
Before Seokmin could object, Seungcheol was out the door, a Dodgers cap pulled low over his eyes as if it’d ease the sting of his betrayal. There were still four boxes of dishware to unpack, the kitchen floors needed to be mopped, and Seungcheol was abandoning him for the novelty of drinking soju in America.
Seokmin scoffs. What a nice hyung he’s got.
Maybe he should adopt a dog. A dog wouldn’t betray him like this.
(However, a dog would also ruin the sanctity of his newfound paradise with its barking. He’d chosen a home tucked away in a grove of trees in the Hollywood Hills for a reason, and even the thought of some small, scraggly white dog with the weird brown-stained fur under its eyes destroying that… Seokmin shudders. It sets his teeth on edge.)
Another box of glasses gets unpacked and organized in the dishwasher. He considers texting you. Joking about the dog idea. He’s not actually going to get one—wouldn’t really be fair, considering he might not be here a year from now—but maybe he can segue it into a charity thing. All the big athletes here are expected to have a charity thing, and animals seem safe. That’s not to say Seokmin doesn’t actually, genuinely care about the fuzzy little critters—he does!—but the more common options don’t really seem appropriate. He’s definitely not going to do charity work for the police (or worse, the U.S. military) and he’d been advised to stay far, far away from anything that could be considered political. So, yeah—
Animals: safe choice.
Texting you: not a safe choice.
It’s not like it’s prohibited—you’re his interpreter, after all; it’s understandable he’d need to be able to reach you—but he doesn’t want to make it weird. Doesn’t want to be the one to cross the line between professional and friendly; doesn’t want to breach that bubble. Doesn’t want to put you in a weird spot in which your responses, if there are any, are out of obligation rather than desire.
But he wants to talk to you.
Wants to ask questions about the upcoming trip to Arizona. Wants to ask what it’s like there—if the weather really is as arid and stifling as the internet says. What the good restaurants are and if there’s anything fun to do around the hotel. What he should pack. What the crowds are like.
Instead of asking you any of those things, he texts Seungcheol a request for yangnyeom-gejang and rice accompanied by a half-dozen pouty-looking emoticons. His hyung doesn’t reply right away, opting instead to thumbs-down react to the message. A few minutes later: Order it for delivery?? to which Seokmin replies, Can’t, I’m busy because you abandoned me, with a picture of the kitchen countertops, boxes strewn everywhere. Seungcheol’s final reply is an emoji rolling its eyes.
After the final set of utensils has been washed and put away, Seokmin drags himself to the living room, where he crosses his socked feet and places them on the coffee table, laptop warm against his thighs, and settles in for the rest of the night. Their first spring training game isn’t until the end of the month, but he wants to be responsible. Wants the staff to know he’s taking this opportunity seriously, that on top of all the other things he is, he’s also dedicated. That even though his spot on the roster is secure and this isn’t an audition for him, he can still do his homework.
He pulls up YouTube. Types in names of players he’s cross-referenced from rosters his pitching coach had given him, printed on glossy paper and kept in a neat little stack. Seokmin watches these highlights with a razor-sharp eye, the kind that can only be honed after a decade and a half of sacrifice—of foregoing a normal upbringing in pursuit of a dream. He notices what they swing at, what they don’t. Studies the strikeouts—which ones are swinging, which ones are looking—and jots down notes on pitch locations they’re most likely to chase.
Seokmin loses track of time. MLB Network is on the television, completely disregarded in the background. The sound drones on and on as a man in a tie that clashes with his patterned suit says something Seokmin doesn’t understand. Whatever it is, he’s certainly emphatic about it, hands and arms beginning to gesticulate wildly the more passionate he becomes. He can tell it’s about the starting catchers for the upcoming season—who had a down year last season with fewer caught stealings and lower velocity—because even when the language barrier presents a challenge, the numbers always, always make sense.
Hours must pass. The impassioned speech makes its way around the diamond, from the catchers to the position players before finally ending with the pitchers. He really ignores the TV then, knowing his name and picture will most likely flash across the screen. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to hear any more outside noise than he has already. Doesn’t want to hear their opinions or their skepticism or their praise.
Seokmin is so dedicated to not hearing a single thing that he doesn’t hear the door open as Seungcheol gets home. Doesn’t hear him toe off his sneakers and shrug out of his jacket. Doesn’t hear him dig Seokmin’s yangnyeom-gejang out of the plastic takeout bag and set it on the counter.
“Are you watching something disgusting?”
As seems to be the norm lately, Seokmin startles. An embarrassing sound is ripped from his throat, something caught halfway between a respectable scream and a high-pitched shriek. His computer bobbles on his lap, nearly toppling to the floor before he grabs it at the last second. Seungcheol giggles, draping his upper body over the back of the couch, chin hooked over Seokmin’s shoulder. He must register what’s on the screen because he groans. “You’re working?”
This is how Seokmin knows he’s drunk. It’s the only time Seungcheol begrudges him for doing his job—telling him he works too hard, that it’s okay to take a break every now and then, that his brain can only store so much information before files need to be overwritten.
Well, it’s that, and the fact that Seokmin’s personal space now reeks of whisky.
“And you’re drunk, hyung,” Seokmin counters. “I leave in a few days. I just want to be prepared.”
“Ugh,” comes Seungcheol’s reply. He does some sort of barrel roll over the couch, landing with a soft oof, either unaware or uncaring that he’d kicked Seokmin in the side of the head. “Did you know…” He trails off, becoming distracted by something on the television, watching for a few minutes. “Did you know,” he starts up again, words slurring together, “how much it sucks coming home drunk? All the—all the fucking twisty roads? I almost threw up.”
Seokmin sends him a beaming smile. “You didn’t, though!” A comfortable silence follows. Eh, mostly comfortable. Seungcheol still seems like he’s on the verge of throwing up, so he doesn’t want to push it. Doesn’t want him to be in the middle of answering some mundane question when it all blows over. Still, he can’t help but ask, “Did you have fun, though, hyung?” because he hopes he did. He hopes there are moments that make this feel less like such a massive sacrifice.
Seungcheol hums an affirmative. It’s enough to settle Seokmin’s worry, and he relaxes into the couch cushions again, back to his YouTube videos and notes jotted in margins.
Time, once again, passes easily between them. Seungcheol folds a pillow in half and places it behind his head, pulling up a streaming service to watch some drama, putting a blessed end to the ramblings of the man in the tie. Three more videos. Seokmin places his laptop on the coffee table and stands, joints cracking as he stretches, and makes his way to the kitchen to fetch his food. Smiles when he pops off the container’s plastic lid, greeted by familiar sights and smells—not so familiar that they transport him back home, but familiar enough to feel like reassurance.
When he returns to the couch, he swats at Seungcheol’s feet, moving them out of the way to make room. Rice and marinated crab balanced on a small plate in his right hand. Laptop back on his thighs as he clicks around with his left. Even though Seungcheol is half asleep, Seokmin commentates the videos anyway. Tells him what he sees, what stands out. Asks, rhetorically, what adjustments he should make once he actually pitches against these guys.
Seungcheol smacks his lips together. “Y’know that’s your catcher’s job, right?”
The question catches Seokmin off guard. Obviously this kind of research is typically left to the catcher, but surely Seungcheol understands what’s at stake here, right? Surely he understands that both of them have uprooted their entire lives for a “maybe” thing; that he, too, needs to put in the work to make it worth it. But it’s late and he doesn’t want to argue about this, so Seokmin just huffs a weary laugh and says, “I know, hyung,” as placatingly as possible.
Seungcheol isn’t placated, though. With a groan, he perches himself on his elbows, one eyebrow quirked as he stares at Seokmin like his entire being is made up of frustration and impatience. “Do you, though?” Seungcheol asks, his voice quiet and almost hesitant. “Because you’re already here. They’ve already decided you’re worth it.”
Much like he always does, Seokmin tries to be lighthearted. Laughs a little and jokes, “Hyung, you know the grind never stops,” but it falls flat.
Instead, Seungcheol flops backwards and barely resists the urge to groan again. “All I’m saying is,” he begins, throwing an arm over his eyes to block the light, which is rapidly becoming his number one enemy, “let people do their jobs. They’re professionals. You’re allowed to enjoy your life here.”
It’s late and Seokmin doesn’t want to argue about this, so he doesn’t.
Arizona isn’t so bad.
All that internet searching had been fruitless, having clearly led him astray. The weather is nice—temperate, even. Warm enough to get by in just a t-shirt during the day and cool enough for a sweatshirt or light jacket once the sun sets. Warm and sunny enough that he doesn’t feel so much like a dork when he puts eye black on just to sit in the dugout.
Fresh off the plane, he’d taken a picture of the first cactus he saw and immediately sent it to his family’s Kakao group chat. Now, it sits there next to the picture he’d taken of the sunrise on his flight from Incheon; of him standing beneath the Welcome to Los Angeles! sign at LAX, flashing a peace sign; of his name stitched across the back of his jersey, number 19 sitting beneath it; the listing photos for his rental home; Seungcheol lounging on the couch once their furniture had been delivered, to which his mother had responded with a request for a picture of the pool.
His fingers itch with the urge to send another. Not wanting to stay in a hotel for the duration of spring training, he’d opted to rent an apartment on the advice of a teammate. Vernon. You’d mentioned him in one of your early emails—another guy on the team that spoke Korean but grew up in America so he didn’t need an interpreter. Seokmin likes him. Likes how easy he is to get along with and the roundness of his consonants, the way his words sound familiar but still take Seokmin a second to make sense of.
On such short notice, all he’d been able to secure was a small one-bedroom spot. The amenities just barely qualify as being from the last decade, but it’s close to the facility and the building has a gym and a pool, so it’s more than enough for a month’s stay. It also has a balcony that overlooks this sliver of the city, the lights of some Phoenix suburb twinkling from his place on the twelfth floor. That’s the picture he wants to send and thinks better of. He still takes one, but he lets it stay in his camera roll.
Sometimes he worries these updates just emphasize the distance. Widen the chasm.
But he’s determined to make the most of this. Not only when it comes to baseball, but also being here. The opportunity to spend a month living in a new place. To spend time in a part of America he probably wouldn’t have otherwise. Even though Arizona’s capital wasn’t high on his bucket list of places to visit, he still has bullet points of things he wants to do while he’s here: the Sonoran Desert, the Heard Museum, maybe a hot air balloon ride if he can muster up the courage.
First, though—
He needs to eat dinner.
He considers texting Vernon and asking for a recommendation, and when he gets one, inviting him to go together. Naturally, he overthinks it. Worries about the newness of their friendship; worries that he’d be coming on too strong too soon with a dinner invite. Vernon obviously has a ton of other people he can go to dinner with: other teammates, friends and family that might be in town, maybe even a special someone he meets up with every spring training.
Needless to say, he doesn’t text Vernon. Instead, he spends some more time scouring the internet for suggestions that will probably let him down. Reads reviews that all sort of say the same thing and start to blur together.
So he texts you.
Any dinner recommendations? he types out, intent on not overthinking something in his life. His message is simple, to the point, and not presumptuous that you’d be interested at all in joining him. Perfect, he thinks, and then he does his best impression of someone that’s not going to throw up from anxiety as he sends it.
You [7:19pm]: Miel de Agave is good
You [7:19pm]: I think it’s about 20 minutes from you?
Seokmin searches the name of the restaurant and finds that yes, it is about a 20-minute drive from his place in Glendale. He also finds a bunch of pictures of the food that have his mouth watering. It’s these that seal the deal, and he responds to your message with a jaw-dropped emoji and a thumbs-up—mostly to keep himself in check. He’s not going to make this weird. Not going to invite you and continually overstep.
He pulls himself off the couch and pads his way to his temporary bedroom, making for the suitcase in the corner. Even if he’s eating alone, even if these people have no idea who he is, he’d still like to look nice. He settles on a trendy sweatshirt and a nice pair of jeans. Understated but professional enough, he figures, and dabs a spritz of cologne to his neck. Slips on a gold tennis bracelet his parents had gifted him and the ring he always wears on his pinky. Even though he still can’t shake that fish-out-of-water anxiety, he looks the type of good that’ll let him feign confidence.
He’s just about to order his ride when another text comes through from you.
You [7:26pm]: Mind if I join you? I could use a drink
Mortified by the way his heart stammers in his chest, he types out an affirmative and says he’ll meet you there, knowing your hotel is closer to downtown.
One second, two.
Panic takes over. Suddenly his sweatshirt looks boring and ill-fitting, his cologne is too strong, none of his plain, white sneakers match his outfit, and is that a stain on his jeans? No, no—he’s not going to do this. He specifically made a point not to overreact and be weird and now he’s overreacting and being weird, but at least it’s in the privacy of his own rental apartment. God forbid anyone was around to witness this.
Just like you said, his ride to the restaurant lasts just over twenty minutes. Gives him time to calm his fraying nerves and try to stop his hands from sweating; to scroll through his social media feeds and catch up on the latest news from the KBO. Their preseason will be starting in a month or so, the regular season two weeks after that, and he double-taps each of his former teammates’ gym selfies and pictures of questionable-looking protein shakes. Almost immediately he’s inundated with DMs, most of them asking what the U.S. and the MLB are like or wishing him good luck on the upcoming season. He responds to what he can until his rideshare pulls up alongside the restaurant, then he pockets his phone, pulls his hat down lower over his eyes, and steps out of the car.
You’re easy to spot, leaning against the gray stucco of the building’s exterior, the high points of your cheeks highlighted yellow as you stand beneath the restaurant’s neon signage. An easy smile greets him, your fingers wiggling in a wave, and Seokmin waves back, feeling the worst of the anxiety melt away.
“I put my name in, so our table should be ready soon,” you explain, meeting him halfway. You gesture behind you. “Would you rather wait inside?”
He shrugs. “Out here is okay with me if it’s okay with you. The breeze feels nice.”
You look like you want to push back a little, maybe make an argument for his privacy, but the few people milling around give no indication they might know who he is, so you nod and move back to your previous spot. “Are you settling in okay?”
“Mhmm,” he answers. “The apartment is close to the stadium and it has a gym. I got lucky.”
“Only the best for you,” you tease.
Another fifteen minutes pass before your name is called. Easy conversation follows the two of you to your table and lasts through your waiter coming to take your drink orders. Seokmin opts for a Tecate Light, not wanting to jeopardize (or give the impression of jeopardizing) all the off-season training he’d done, and you order the ceviche appetizer and something to drink called a Conejo Malo. When it arrives, there’s a blue cocktail umbrella stuck in it—not quite Dodgers blue, but it amuses Seokmin nonetheless.
After piling a concerning amount of ceviche onto a chip, he gestures at your drink. “What’s in it?”
“Coconut purée, grapefruit and lime juice, agave. And, most importantly…” You take a long sip, sighing blissfully. “Alcohol.”
Right. You’d mentioned that. “Everything okay?”
Seokmin’s question probably would’ve done a better job of conveying genuine concern if it wasn’t spoken around a mouth full of marinated shrimp; if chip crumbs weren’t falling to the table in the awkward silence that follows. As his cheeks grow warm, all you do is stare. Then, blessedly, a snort of laughter. “Yeah,” you finally answer. “Just more of the same.”
He thinks of the first time the two of you had met, back in the clubhouse—how you’d danced around the subject of the higher-ups and implied you weren’t important enough to have earned their respect. Is this more of that? He notes the tension in your shoulders and the wince you try to hide when you roll your neck side to side; the firm set of your jaw, clenched so tight he worries for the state of your teeth. Mostly, he thinks about the way you phrased it—just more of the same instead of something like you know how it is—but he’s not going to assume, so he quirks an eyebrow and hums, wordlessly gesturing for you to continue.
You break a tortilla chip in half, growing more serious. “It’s really nothing,” you insist.
“Doesn’t seem like ‘nothing’ if you’re drinking about it.”
“Are you trying to insinuate something about my alcohol consumption?” you tease.
“Why,” Seokmin lobs back easily, “is there something to insinuate?”
Despite your best efforts, an exasperated smile peeks through. Still, Seokmin is patient. He’s not going to push if you truly don’t want to talk about it, but he’s intimately familiar with the stresses that come along with existing in this world—this microcosm of professional sports and excessive wealth in which you have everything and nothing all at once; in which you’re less a person and more a number, your worth decided by metrics and achievements checked off a list.
“I didn’t want to burden you with it.” This gives him pause. He meets your eye, another tortilla chip poised halfway to his mouth. “It’s just… the bullshit’s starting already. The front office stuff. Reminders about the fraternization policy and to make sure to mind myself in public.” A severe frown creases the spot between your brows. “They don’t police the men like this. They don’t send them these reminders. They don’t give a shit when it’s one of the directors taking advantage of his interns or being coked out at a company party.” The waiter returns with your entrees and you seem to remember you are, in fact, in public. “Sorry,” you say, coughing to clear your throat.
After he walks away, Seokmin leans in conspiratorially and says, “Don’t worry, I don’t think that guy spoke Korean.” Then, after a beat, “Fraternization policy?”
“The no dating your coworkers rule. Did you not have them in the KBO?”
“We didn’t really need it,” Seokmin answers, his admission colored by embarrassment. As he studies you, he worries this knowledge will change the way you think of him—not less, but differently. Worries that, even though he doesn’t truly get it, not really, you assume he wouldn’t be on your side. That he’s in favor of upholding all those archaic beliefs about women in sports.
But you just groan playfully. Rhetorically ask, “Ugh, must everywhere be overwhelmed by the stench of too much testosterone?” and take a long sip of your drink, as if it’s causing you great distress to pretend to realize this.
With the weight of this off your shoulders, the rest of your dinner passes in a haze of pleasant conversation, both of your faces flushed and warm from laughter and perhaps one too many drinks. With the amount of alcohol in him, Seokmin is all too happy to overshare and you’re all too happy to listen—eyes twinkling with mirth and a little mischief—at his expense.
Later on, after Seokmin has fit himself between the sheets and sleep is starting to tug at the corners of his vision—after he touches his fingers to his laugh lines, sore from the consequences of good company—he realizes, for the first time, that he feels okay. Not at home, but that thread of hope he’s been desperately reaching for has finally become tangible.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. ♡
Those episodes of criminal minds in which Reid had to stay at the bureau for his leg and is in Garcias office being kinda annoying is one of my favorites. Both competing to be the smartest in the room, sibling type of antagonization
genuinely. it is so crazy that even when the narrative wanted to disregard castiel, dean wouldn’t let it. so crazy how castiel remains because dean wills him to. don’t get me wrong, cas isn’t around, but he is alive and included because dean refused to give him up. even at the end, cas is at the very least not dead somewhere in heaven specifically i believe because of dean. any other show would have kept him dead but i think the writers knew even subconsciously that they could not have left dean thinking cas was truly gone. they kept them separated and dean dead in the closet but they couldn’t let dean not know cas was alive. something something non explicit reciprocation is still reciprocation idk. this got away from me
[me on a first date] –so with this context, do you really think throwing a wedding via twitter hashtag is """cringe""" ? Or is it genuinely touching expression of love? Where are you going
the strongest minds on tumblr dot com: don't forget that WOMEN are EQUALLY BAD and that there is NO DIFFERENCE between the way that men and women are treated in society, so just DON'T FORGET that WOMEN ARE BAD. women are bad. women are bad. women are bad.
i have a post where i mentioned "don't marry a man who won't do dishes" and someone added "dont marry ANYONE who won't do dishes!!!!" and like. hey. do you think there is a historical cultural context for why, specifically, men who refuse to do housework and expect a wife to also act as a live-in maid for him are more of a problem than the reverse.
