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He can see it—the blood on his hands.
He can hear it—the frantic cries for help.
He can feel it—the warmth turned ice cold.
Dongsik-ssi.
He can’t breathe.
He can't breathe.
He can't—
It catches in his throat. Straps him down. Strangles him, suffocating.
—your fault. It’s your fault. You had a responsibility. You knew how reckless they could be. You knew they would do this. You knew, you fucking knew, and you didn’t stop them. You could’ve. You should’ve. If you weren’t—
Again, it happened.
Another partner chasing justice, another partner chased down.
—such a coward. You could’ve saved them. You could’ve saved them both, and god fucking knows, they needed you. But you weren’t there. You’re never there, not when they needed you most.
“Dongsik-ssi!”
He grabs the patrol keys, grabs his vest, rules and regulations be damned.
“You shouldn’t drive—”
Dongsik yanks his arm away, tears himself free from the claws that dare restrain him. He has to go, he has to see. Even if it wrecks him, even if it kills him. He has to, he must.
“It’s okay,” he hears Nam Sangbae say, distant now. “Let him go.”
The door slams shut. The tires screech as he pulls the car into a sharp reverse. His grip tightens around the wheel, his foot presses down on the gas. Faster, faster. Dammit, not fast enough. Too many cars, too many red lights. Fuck. Fuck the law. Being good has never helped him. Not then, not now, not ever. He hits the console. The siren wails. Down the street, across the way, a screeching streak of white and blue.
Faster, faster,
Faster, goddammit.
“Dongsik-ssi,” a voice comes through the radio. “Slow down. You’re going thirty over—”
He silences it and swerves onto the exit ramp. The seat belt chokes him mid-jolt.
Promise me, you’ll catch him.
Promise me, I didn’t die in vain.
Promise me, Dongsik.
He sees red.
It blinds him, rolls down his cheek, stains his trembling lips.
His heart thrashes against his ribcage, but he doesn't shake. He can't panic, he shouldn’t. He has to stay calm, breathe. Just breathe.
There.
He slams on the brakes and gets out. He doesn’t lock the car, doesn’t care enough to. There’s only one thing on his mind, one person—
“Han Juwon. What room is he in?”
The receptionist eyes him. “Are you family?”
He throws his badge onto the desk. “Police.”
“Unless you’re his family, I cannot—”
“He’s under investigation.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s regulation—”
His eyes darken, he presses forward, fists tucked. “Tell me what room he’s in, or I will arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
She stares, then utters a number.
Room 303.
He barges in not a minute later.
The nurse jumps. “Can you be more—”
“How is he?”
His eyes flicker to the heart monitor.
A steady beat.
Alive.
“Sir, I need you to—”
“Will he be okay?”
The nurse purses her lips. “He’ll be fine.” When she sees that he’s not leaving, she continues, “Dislocated shoulder, minor fracture to both legs. Not too bad. Should heal in three month’s time with therapy. He’s lucky.”
His shoulders slump.
His chest expands.
He can breathe again.
Alive.
“Are you his father?”
“His partner.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Patrol partner,” he clarifies. “No one else has visited?”
“You’re the first.” She readjusts the blanket and gestures at the call button. “Buzz if you need anything.”
He gives a mindless word of thanks and lets her leave before ushering to the bedside. Juwon—does not look well. But his chest rises and falls, and he’s breathing steady. In the end, that’s all that matters.
A minute ticks by.
Then another.
He leans over, his hand stills along the curve of Juwon’s bandaged jaw. It’s odd. In the few months they’ve known each other, he has only seen a hardened front: brow furrowed, nose wrinkled, frowning. But as Juwon lies here sedated, his features are softer. Younger. Innocent, almost. Dongsik lets his eyes drift from the long lashes to the pale lips.
Alive.
He reaches up and brushes a few stray strands of hair aside. Juwon twitches under the caress.
Alive.
He pulls a seat close and settles in, his gaze trailing down to Juwon’s hand. It’s unharmed. No bruises, no blemishes, no blood. A miracle. His fingers curl around the open palm, and he holds it just as tightly.
Alive,
and warm.
He lowers his forehead to their interlocked hands.
His eyes close, his pulse slows.
“Thank God.”
*
It’s ironic.
He has always been comforted by silence, but this time, he finds himself scared smaller. He’s reminded of distant memories: mornings spent listening to a language he didn’t understand—evenings wasted on envy, watching kids his age laugh with their parents. He’s been alone all his life, but he’s still not used to loneliness.
(He never will be.)
When he wakes, he keeps his eyes closed. He surveys the hospital room with his ears, hoping to find another heartbeat, anything, anything but the quiet. He hates it. How weak he feels, how vulnerable he has become to want the company of another. But he nearly died, and just this once, he wants to know who would’ve cared. Money, status, power. Reputation, title, pride—none of that matters if no one mourns at his funeral.
His eyes open, slow.
The room is empty.
He almost laughs.
Who was he expecting to be here? His father? As if someone as self-centered would wait around or worry.
(He hates him, he hates him, he hates him—but he has to be honest. Even if his father is the last person he’d ever want to see, he would’ve been glad to see him nonetheless. It’s funny, isn’t it? What fear can do to the strong, what desperation can do to the weak.)
His eyelids flutter shut.
He draws in a breath.
Something shifts next to him.
No, not something.
Someone.
He looks over—and scoffs.
Lee Dongsik, someone who he barely knows and who barely knows him, is sleeping by his bedside. His hand is curled loosely around his own, his cheek pressed against his thumb. He’s turned the other way, but Juwon recognizes the way he breathes.
His fingers twitch under the warmth.
Dongsik stirs awake.
He notices the redness in Dongsik’s eyes and the puffiness beneath. It’s almost as if he’s been—
Crying.
His fingernails dig crescents into his palms.
No one has ever cried for him before.
(Not that he wants them to. He’s learned how to live on his own, how to exist without bothering others. But it feels good, doesn’t it? To be known, to be missed.)
(He knows it’s evil to want another’s grief. To want their sadness, their sorrow. He wants it as much as their anger and their guilt—because it’s proof that he means something to them. That he, in some way, has left an impression, an imprint.)
“How are you feeling?”
“... Why are you here?”
“Should I be somewhere else?”
Juwon’s jaw clenches, he doesn’t answer.
Dongsik offers him a tired smile before dipping down to retrieve a plastic bag. “Heard you liked clementines,” he says, nonchalant.
The corner of his mouth twitches. He knows for a fact that no one has told him that; Dongsik must’ve seen his bowl of oranges sitting out when he visited the flat, uninvited.
“Did he come?”
“Your father? ‘Course, he did.”
“You don’t have to lie.”
“He left a few hours ago.”
(He wonders, albeit briefly, how that interaction went. Likely not well at all, considering Dongsik's curt answers and who his father is as a person.)
Dongsik pushes a slice against his lips.
Juwon turns away. “I can feed myself.”
“Let me take care of you.”
He frowns. “I don’t need your pity.”
Dongsik’s gaze catches his own. A pause, then—his voice dips, his eyes lower.
“You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for me. Now, open your mouth.”
The slice prods his lips once more.
He accepts it this time, though reluctantly.
It tastes bittersweet.
(Which is sweeter than usual.)
Dongsik feeds him another piece.
“Stay at mine.”
Juwon pauses mid-chew. “I don’t want to burden.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
His hand bunches around the thin blanket. “I’m fine.”
“You can have my bed. I’ll get new sheets.”
“Dongsik-ssi, you’re not obligated—”
“I want to.” His eyes flicker to Juwon’s shoulder cast. “I’m not giving you a choice.”
Juwon stares, then asks, “How much?”
At that, Dongsik scoffs. “Keep me company, and we’ll call it even.”
His eyes narrow. This isn't what he wants, but he recognizes that it's what he needs. He'll let go, he'll surrender, just this once.
"Okay."
Time passes by.
Silence presses on.
Then, Dongsik’s phone rings.
“—Hey. Yes, he’s awake. Grumpy, as always. Come up.”
Juwon’s stomach sinks. “Who was that?”
Dongsik eases into a smile.
“Everyone.”