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It’s not a pretty scene that he walks into after making his way through the maze below the stands, towards the clubhouse, where Dalton has been escorted to after that awful foul ball: Dalton is laying on a medical bed, his pants discarded to free his injured leg, which is propped up by some pillows. The medical staff is checking on him as Hyeseong enters the room and he inclines his head towards them in polite greeting but they know better than to linger. When Hyeseong hovers in the doorway and makes no move to leave, they get the hint without him having to explain himself in a language that refuses to come to him as quickly as he would like it to. They leave them be then, and Hyeseong shuts the door behind himself, making sure that no one will interrupt them, before crossing the distance between them and coming to sit on the edge of the bed, close enough for Dalton to jerk his right leg as if he might be scared that Hyeseong could get him where he is so obviously vulnerable and hurt, all that bare, discolored skin on display.
Hyeseong, running out of words faster than he would prefer, points at Dalton’s naked shin, where the skin is already purpling, swollen and bruised, mindful not to touch, and asks, very intelligently, “Hurts?”
Dalton blinks at him before his brain computes what he just said, his leg elevated off the bed and strapped in ice packs. He studies Hyeseong for a moment with those startling, unreal blue eyes of his, cornflower-clear, and Hyeseong watches him frown, how the line between his brows deepens.
“Uh,” he makes, equally intelligent, making Hyeseong snort. “Yeah. Hurts really badly, actually.”
They’re both terrible at this, but Dalton is softer, doesn’t know how to grit his teeth and lie through it yet, or maybe he is just smart enough to deduce when it won’t be worth it. Everybody saw that foul ball ricochet off his knee, there’s no way to deny that damage—Hyeseong watched him fold together like a house of cards, his heart a thunderous thing in his throat, fighting the mighty urge to run out there which is just suicidal and stupid, but Hyeseong has never claimed to be particularly smart. He knows what it takes to play this game, and that’s all he needs for now; it’s certainly all that matters.
They both know how to play this game, which is why he is unsurprised to find Dalton’s face cut all saturnine, so clearly displeased. He reaches for him before he can think any better of it and stop himself, and rubs his thumb up the bridge of Dalton’s nose to the frown that won’t seem to leave, smoothening the skin with a touch. It is borderline ridiculous to do it here, where just about anyone can walk in, but watching some of Dalton’s discontent melt away just so is worth it.
“I’m sorry,” offers Hyeseong, and if he could, if he would be just a little braver than the touch of a hand, he would lean over Dalton and kiss him. He’s not, so his fingers on Dalton’s temple, sweeping along the curve of his cheekbone and the close-shaven skin of his jaw, will have to suffice. “It looked really bad.”
He’s not one for mincing his words, and in between Los Angeles and Oklahoma they’ve somehow made it work without translators, when it is just the two of them. Hyeseong thinks he might have learned a version of English that only exists for the two of them, a language that only Dalton has ever really spoken, because despite his teammates’ most valiant efforts, what has stuck is this: a desire to talk to the man he is in love with. That he likes enough to follow into the cavernous halls of a ballpark in Baltimore and check up on him in the middle of a game, while the others are still out there.
Yoshinobu had said nothing when Hyeseong excused himself, only threw him a meaningful look from his own little glass house, while half of his attention was on Ohtani at all times, anyway, making sure he was hydrated after those three and some change innings, coming down from the same chest cold Yoshinobu is trying not to catch as well. That’s what you get for being all over each other, he thinks, but the irony is not lost on him.
If bruises would be contagious, he’d sport a matching one just about now.
Dalton, blissfully unaware of his mental spirals, looks too young and unguarded stripped out of his gear and jersey, in only his undergarments, and Hyeseong finally pulls his hand away, but he doesn’t get too far—Dalton intercepts his movement and catches his hand out of the air. A defensive play Hyeseong never saw coming, struck out on first base.
“Will you not make such a face?” Dalton asks but Hyeseong doesn’t really get what he means, because he is sure he must be looking the way he always does. He almost brings his free hand up to check but remembers himself just in time, and settles for squeezing Dalton’s sweaty fingers curled around his own dry palm. “I’ll be fine. It looked worse than it is.”
Hyeseong does not believe him at all because Dalton is such a terrible liar, zero poker face, but he appreciates the effort and optimism. It is a much nicer angle than Hyeseong effectively lying to the coaching staff and front office about the state of his shoulder just to get a few more games under his belt, and paying for it in weeks on the IL and a rehab stint.
“It looked worse than bad,” Hyeseong replies, shooting Dalton another weary glance, but Dalton has no defenses anymore and Hyeseong knows. He sighs, looks at the closed door, and pulls at Dalton’s hand to get him just upright enough, close enough to kiss him easily, a chaste press of his lips that Dalton is not satisfied with, because he curls his hand around the back of Hyeseong’s neck to entrap him, and kiss him deeper, with more insistence. More pressure to pry his mouth open and Dalton makes a noise that is somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, that has warmth spread through Hyeseong, as he becomes so pliant, melting easily beneath Dalton’s hands, his wet mouth, his insistent tongue.
“No,” murmurs Hyeseong against Dalton’s mouth, who grins. “You need to rest.”
“Don’t you want to nurse me back to health?” Dalton asks, the words tucked close to Hyeseong’s skin, his breath hot. It’s hard not to go cross-eyed while staring at his red, swollen mouth. “Don’t I deserve some taking care of?”
God, he’s the worst; Hyeseong rolls his eyes.
“Shut up,” he mutters eloquently, and pulls himself back, just enough to get some air between them. There is also Dalton’s leg stretched out on the makeshift-bed, and their medical staff just beyond that door, the rest of the team fighting to win a game without them out there on the field, and an entire world waiting for results. “You’re so stupid.”
Dalton’s eyes glint in the fluorescent overhead light, sharp and wicked. “But you love it.”
He’s so infuriating, it drives Hyeseong wild.
“Shut up,” he repeats but doesn’t really mean it, rests his hand lightly on Dalton’s left thigh, far away from the injury. Feels the muscle twitch beneath his fingers, as if Dalton’s body cannot help itself, that involuntary reaction to Hyeseong’s proximity. “Can you—not?”
Not hurt yourself, not get injured, not leave just when I got back here.
But Dalton doesn’t need to hear these things to know them, or maybe not all of it, because he knows either way. This thing they never really talk about it, he understands, and he squeezes Hyeseong’s hand again, gentler this time, his thumb rubbing the knuckles, bruised by sliding headfirst into a base during training drills. A match after all, perhaps.
“Sorry doc,” Dalton says, just apologetic enough, but Hyeseong is too tired to find the humor, or the rhyme and reason in it. “Next time, yeah? I’ll be more careful.”
The hand that was curled around Hyeseong’s neck grasps his face tenderly, and Hyeseong leans into the touch, closes his eyes briefly, and presses a kiss to the inside of Dalton’s calloused palm. Catcher hands, he thinks; he used to know what that felt like.
But before he can reply, a knock on the door sounds like a warning bell, and forces them apart. Hyeseong moves reluctantly but he knows better than to force their luck—this is already more than he would have initially expected to get.
When the staff whirs back in, he bows, watching Dalton converse so easily with them, knowing they’ll be fine, but not as fine as they could be, not as fine as they should be. And still, it will have to suffice.
Hyeseong exits the hallway feeling heavier than before.
They lose the game.