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The hotel room is whirring with ambient noise, the clank of the A/C, the cars rushing by down the street, strangers moving across the floor above their heads, keeping Yoshinobu awake. Besides that is the heavy sound of Shohei’s labored breathing, the slight snore only upset by a whistle whenever he exhales, and if he would not be so used to it by now, someone else in bed with him, Shohei’s routine before a pitching day highly thought-through and rigorously calibrated to give him the most rest he could get, he would be seriously pissed off by the fact that he hasn’t gotten any proper sleep in days and tonight won’t be any different. Road trips suck, and Yoshi hates pitching on the road because the facilities are all different and mess up his routine, and they shuffle him from the airport directly to the stadium, and he cannot sleep in his own bed which he categorically loathes, and he misses his dog.
He’d rather be at home, he thinks with a sigh, twisting on the mattress until he can get a proper look at Shohei behind him, who is shirtless as per usual, despite the obvious sniffles that had accompanied their path to his hotel room door, his soft hair falling into his face, so long that it has begun to curl around his ears and the nape of his neck. Yoshinobu would never let that happen to himself but he likes how unmade Shohei looks, so unlike the billion-dollar worthy superstar looking back at him from countless billboards.
One glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table, red numbers a blur in the darkness of the room, confirms that it is well past midnight by now. Yoshinobu, undeterred by that, wrestles his hand free of the blanket they share and touches his palm to the center of Shohei’s chest, sun-shy skin hot to the touch, the resistance of every inhale followed by the quiet relief of his exhales. Sometimes, he will wake up and cough before falling back asleep again, barely noticing that he is awake at all, and it will wake Yoshinobu up, usually, did so in Pittsburgh and on the plane to Baltimore, but mostly due to worry. Before his own start, he slept in his own room just to make sure that he would get enough hours in; he might love Shohei but this thing between them cannot cost them games, cannot grow so big that it is impossible to ignore.
Compartmentalization, Yoshinobu has learned early on in his professional career, is the key to leading the life he wants to live. There are parts of him that can never cross over, that can only exist within two parallel lines running along each other, and occasionally, Shohei will hop from one to the other and make him forget that there is a separation to begin with. But Yoshinobu is better at this than Shohei, impossibly so; the grapevine goes both ways, of course, and it was Shohei who had nudged Lars into his direction until the outfielder had worn him down, his insistent touches, his warm hands enough to lull Yoshinobu in. But there is no reality in which Yoshinobu could not will it away at the drop of a hat; when he faces Lars on the mound now, there is only the quiet click of the pitchcom, Will or Dalton across from him, and the deep-seated, almost ancient knowledge of an inevitable outcome. Strikeout.
What Yoshinobu wants to say is that he does not let this part of him ever get in between him and the sport. He’s learned all the ways to fuck another teammate, the silent rules and a strict standard to maintain, had to navigate the delicate difference of polite interest and actual attraction. Some had rejected him, early on, and he had swallowed it without another word, if you won’t tell so won’t I. That kind of thing. He would imagine he is more graceful about it these days but the parameters have shifted, the zone has expanded; with Shohei always around him, within arm’s reach, it is sometimes difficult to tell the difference. To remind himself that they cannot exist in the dugout the way they do in the bedroom or the confines of Yoshinobu’s expensive house.
Sometimes, though, it is hard to resist. When Shohei pitches, Yoshinobu feels himself unravel from where he is perched in the dugout, eyes glued to the field, the long lines of Shohei’s body while he is coiled tight, ready to pounce. That gritty determination coursing through him, making him snarl, get cocky, celebrate outs and defensive plays that save their asses. It all does it for Yoshinobu, who has long learned that this game is just an extension of pleasure for him, a convoluted way to introduce sex into his everyday life. When he doesn’t have to start, when there is nothing to worry about, he can sit back and observe Shohei at the plate, enjoying that swagger when he rounds the bases for another home run. Traces Freddie’s batting stance silently with his eyes, knowing he could sit and watch all day, mouth running dry when he has another view on Will from his vantage point to the side, how he will crouch low, the mask obscuring his view, strong, naked arms on display. And Hyeseong, that’s a whole other beast. His want has many faces, he has learned to not ascribe any weight to it—unless. Until.
Whenever it pertains to Shohei, though, Yoshinobu has learned to pay attention.
It is stupid because he really didn’t think he had even an ounce of a chance, considering for how long he had made his interest known. Separated by a million time zones and different leagues, he had eagerly awaited any proof of life by Shohei, anything that was not just another start or a press bite—though he consumed those, too, feverishly—coming in the form of sporadic Instagram updates. The Angels stuff didn’t really interest him but the gym videos did; Yoshinobu had no illusions, he knew his type well enough to be unfazed by the heat washing low in his gut at the sight of Shohei’s thighs in those flimsy athletic shorts, his bare arms lifting whatever he could. The flex of his hands around a bar or a kettle bell or, even better, a bat. Knowing exactly what he was doing, making Yoshinobu wonder: who were those videos for? Or was Shohei just gratuitous enough to get off on mere attention?
Those questions had kept him awake at night more often than not, had him ponder the subject of Ohtani Shohei for ages, thought into impossibility. But then last year had happened—Orix had posted Yoshinobu and he had flown over to the states to do some window shopping even though his decision had been made as soon as word of Shohei’s own decision made it through the grapevine. Teams had offered him millions, more than he could ever possibly have spent, but only one team had what he really wanted, and Yoshinobu had feigned polite interest for as long as it was necessary, until the deal was finalized and the ink barely dry.
It worked out wonderfully, in hindsight.
Now, Shohei is calm but not silent next to him, and Yoshinobu reaches up to check his forehead, if he’s running too hot; it’s bearable but they should monitor it either way. He knows damn well that Shohei won’t, that he will play despite the discomfort, but Yoshinobu will keep an eye on him anyway, make sure that he makes it though the pitching start as well as he can.
He presses the back of his hand to the high point of Shohei’s cheek and watches his eyes flutter open, gaze tired and unfocused, and can stop himself just so from pulling his hand away in guilt.
“Sorry,” he says anyway, murmuring it into the small space between them. With any luck, he will catch the same chest cold Shohei has been fighting, that’s been going around the dugout like the plague. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Shohei just shakes his head and grunts. Then, he turns his head into the pillow and coughs, once, twice, until whatever is stuck in his lungs dislodges and his entire body shakes with the force of it, so loud in the quiet of the room that Yoshinobu is temporarily afraid for what the others might think. Hotel room walls are infamously thin, he should know; Shohei and him have spent half the season figuring out just how much they could get away with. Mostly due to Shohei’s obsession with making Yoshinobu lose some of his regal composure and all the noises he could procure out of him at the twist of a finger.
“My fault,” he croaks because his voice is completely shot, hoarse, and Yoshinobu pulls a face in return, invisible in the dark but they are close enough for Shohei to make out some of the lines. “Have I been keeping you up? Sorry, I thought it would be better by now.”
Shohei doesn’t wait for an answer and squeezes Yoshinobu’s wrist instead, pulling the hand on his chest closer. As if Yoshinobu’s touch could sink into his skin, tie them together like that.
“It’s fine,” Yoshinobu assures him, leaning forward to press a kiss to Shohei’s chest, right above his heart. He smells like his body wash and hotel room air and Yoshinobu wants to crawl into him without the fear of getting sick too because that would be kind of really fucking stupid and ruin their playoff chances. Still, he leaves another kiss before pulling away to roll over and grab the water bottle he had deposited by the bed frame hours earlier.
When he rolls back, Shohei has sat up against the headboard, the display of his phone illuminating his pale skin, the shallow rifts beneath his eyes. He really does look tired and sick, and Yoshinobu gets closer just so he can reach up and run a hand through Shohei’s hair, hear him hum, the noise off-key and rough but there regardless.
It doesn’t last too long, because when does it ever? Shohei coughs again, turning away to stifle the sound in his shoulder while Yoshinobu unscrews the cap of the water bottle and hands it over. They don’t need words for this, the kind of communication that is borne out of familiarity, Yoshinobu existing with and around Shohei for so long now that they can do these things with their eyes closed. Shohei downs half the bottle in two large gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before surrendering it, and Yoshi takes it willingly, putting it aside for later.
“You need anything else? Any meds?” He asks, unable to edge the worry out of his voice completely. Shohei gives him the kind of look that tells him he definitely knows what Yoshi is doing but won’t be able to stop him either, so he is practicing a bout of rare radical acceptance. Yoshinobu almost likes him like that the most because it guarantees that he will get his way, and he loves little more than getting his way, on the field and off the field. The catchers know that and so does Shohei, obviously. Perhaps better than anyone else, even.
Shohei, unaware of Yoshinobu’s mental tangents, thank god, just shakes his head and slides back down, into the pillow, the warm blanket. He tugs at Yoshinobu until he settles back down as well, back to Shohei’s chest, who wastes no time in wrapping one strong arm around Yoshinobu’s middle, pulling him even closer. Their breathing falls into rehearsed synchronicity, and Yoshinobu wonders if this makes it easier for Shohei, too, to breathe through the sting in his chest, the friction, that heavy weight. He sounds a little lighter already but Yoshinobu does not trust it to last. Still, he closes his eyes and lets his fingers slot in between Shohei’s, into the gaps, squeezing slightly until he can feel Shohei squeeze back, just the lightest amount of pressure imaginable but it is enough.
He kisses Shohei’s biceps and closes his eyes, and when he drifts into strange dreams, the descent is accompanied by the rattle of Shohei’s chest and warm breath against the back of his neck.