Chapter Text
By the time Junwan gets home, the apartment is dark and silent. It’s hardly surprising - his surgery had overrun by two hours, and he’d missed a text from Jeongwon saying he was going home first - but as he slips off his shoes in the empty hallway, a stupid, petulant part of him is annoyed that Jeongwon hadn’t waited up. He should be asleep by now; he deserves to rest well after a long week.
That doesn’t mean Junwan doesn’t miss him.
He drops himself on the couch, too heavy to do anything else. After the surgery, he’d asked if Jaehak wanted to grab a drink with him, and Jaehak had stared as if he’d grown a second head. “Now?” He’d asked - and he had a point, Junwan supposed. At this time of night, most people had families to go home to. Most people wouldn’t sit despondently on the couch, staring at the wall and yearning for anyone to talk to.
He’s on his third beer when Jeongwon shuffles in, one hand tangled in his hair and the other scratching beneath his pyjama shirt. His eyes are squinted with sleep as he tugs open the fridge and fumbles for a bottle of water. Junwan snorts. For all his reputation as an angel, at this moment, Jeongwon is nothing more than an unshaven forty year old who probably reeks of Betadine.
“Oh, hello,” Jeongwon mumbles, leaning back against the fridge. “Surgery finished?”
“Evidently.”
“All good?”
“All good.” Junwan tries to smile, even a little, but it’s just so damn tiring. Everything is, nowadays. He should be happy that Jeongwon is talking to him now, but he isn’t, because this half-awake conversation will be over in seconds, and it won’t mean nearly as much to Jeongwon as it does to him. Jeongwon has other people to talk to; he has Gyeoul, who will always come first to him. Junwan doesn’t come first to anyone, anymore.
“You okay?” Jeongwon asks, watching him. There’s concern in his eyes, despite his sleepiness, because Jeongwon is a fucking saint, and no wonder his girlfriend still loves him.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay.”
“Goodnight then,” he says, and leaves. Junwan can hardly beg him to stay. The apartment settles again, and he sits there on the couch until the shadows on the wall fade into sleep.
When he wakes the next morning, Jeongwon has already left for work. Junwan assumes he must have an emergency surgery, until he sees the cooling mug of coffee on the table, and beside it a note:
Having breakfast with Gyeoul. Made you coffee. Have a good day!
At the end, there’s a smiley face. A smiley face. Junwan groans, and grimaces around the bitterness of cold coffee on his tongue. Maybe Jaehak will agree to get another one with him this morning.
He’s so fucking lonely.
*
Because Lee Ikjun is the best person in the universe, he buys them all dinner. They eat it in Songhwa’s office, huddled around the coffee table, where Junwan inhales three bowls of ramyun without drawing breath.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ikjun says. “Sorry, Jeongwon.”
“No, you’re right,” Jeongwon says. “Can you two slow down before you choke to death?”
“No,” he and Songhwa say in unison, then exchange a silent high five. Junwan likes this side of himself; the side who always has a place at the table, whose friends know his favourite flavour of ramyun and how he likes his coffee. Their company fills him up like a battery, so that when he's not with them, it aches a little less.
They manage to spend a whole half hour together before Seokhyeong is called away - “Tell her to hold the baby in until you’ve finished your dinner,” Ikjun advises, straight-faced, then acts all wounded when Seokhyeong flips him the bird - and then, minutes later, there’s a code blue in the PICU, and Jeongwon abandons his meal half-finished.
Ikjun sighs, giving his head a slow, exaggerated shake. “And then there were three.”
“Two,” Songhwa corrects, standing up. “Time for outpatients.”
“Have fun. Text me when you’re done and I’ll buy you a coffee.”
“Hey,” Junwan interjects. “Why don’t you ever buy me coffee after outpatients?”
“Because you don’t deserve it.” Ikjun pokes his tongue out childishly. “Besides, you have Jeongwon to buy you coffee.”
“Not anymore,” he grumbles. “He’d rather buy coffee for Dr Jang.”
“Aw, is someone jealous?”
“Piss off.” Junwan lunges playfully for him, and Ikjun leans back, raising his hands in surrender.
“Woah, okay, chill. I was just asking.”
Junwan glares at him, aggressively slurping a noodle. “Bastard.”
“Asshole.” Ikjun gives him a punch on the shoulder as he stands, then tousles his hair, a touch which is extremely irritating and far too brief. “See you around, punk.”
And then he’s gone, too.
Junwan sits there in the sudden silence of Songhwa’s office, feeling the weight of solitude resettle between his ribs. The table is still strewn with the skeletons of their meal; plastic convenience store bowls stained with vivid red sauce, coke cans half empty. He should be familiar, by now, with their brief snatches of time together; it’s a necessary burden of their job, the fact that their patients’ lives will always come before their own. Junwan is lonely, grieving a breakup he can’t get over - and, quite honestly, he’s fucking depressed - but there are people to save, and that’s more important.
Junwan’s phone rings. It’s Jaehak.
He sets down his chopsticks and gets back to work.
*
“Get a drink with me after work,” Jaehak says a few days later, and Junwan blinks. It’s odd for Jaehak to invite him out, not because they dislike each other - in fact, he concedes with surprisingly little reluctance, they’re quite close nowadays - but because recently, Junwan has always been the one to ask first. “Please?”
There’s a strange feeling in Junwan’s throat. He swallows. “Aren’t you having dinner with your wife?”
“Not tonight. She’s watching a movie with her friends.” Jaehak beams at him, bright and unapologetic. “So I thought it was only fair for me to spend some time with my favourite person too.”
“Fine,” Junwan says. It comes out slightly strangled, and Jaehak looks at him with concern.
“Is your throat hurting? There’s still time for you to get some tea before your rounds.”
“Goodness, stop fussing.” Junwan waves him off. “Go away, you’ll be late for clinic. I’ll see you tonight.”
“It’s a date.” Jaehak winks and shoots finger guns, which is an annoying new habit of his, then springs away down the corridor with far too much energy for so early in the morning. Junwan sighs and shakes his head as he watches him leave, but realises he is smiling. And when, that afternoon, he returns to his office to find a cup of tea on his desk, with a pink post-it attached - I added honey for your throat. Hope your day is going well :) - he finds himself smiling again.
Overall, it’s one of the better days he’s had in a while, so he’s surprised when, that evening, Jaehak looks at him pensively over the rim of his beer and asks, “Are you okay?”
“What? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve seemed kind of down lately. And don’t say it’s none of my business, because everything to do with you is my business. I can’t be happy if you’re not.”
Junwan rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Is it dramatic to care about my best friend?”
“You’re not - I’m fine!”
“Uh-huh.” Jaehak folds his arms and leans back in his chair, giving him a knowing look. “Breakups are hard, you know. When I was in college, my first girlfriend broke up with me -“
“I really don’t need to know this.”
“Because she said I was too clingy. I was inconsolable. I cried for days. Everyone tried to comfort me, but all I wanted was for her to come back. It was heartbreaking.”
He pauses, and Junwan waits, rather sceptically, for the conclusion to the story, and whatever trite moral it will have. But Jaehak just sips his beer and smiles serenely, showing no inclination to continue. Eventually, Junwan bites down his pride and says, “So?”
Jaehak blinks. “So what? That’s the end. I got over it eventually.”
“You - !“ Junwan stares, his lips twitching. “Was that supposed to be helpful?”
He grins. “Well, it cheered you up, didn’t it?
He shakes his head, exasperated but irritatingly fond. “I hate you.”
Jaehak blows him a kiss. “Love you too, professor.”
Late at night, he lies in bed and thinks of that - how long it’s been since someone told him they loved him, how she used to say it in every phone call - and his tears stain his sheets in the darkness.
*
After Jaehak, no-one else asks if he’s okay. Junwan doesn’t know whether he’s grateful for that or not. It’s a relief to know he doesn’t look outwardly terrible - nothing beyond the realms of ‘overworked doctor’, anyway - and his pride allows him to battle on, but there’s something draining about his pain going unnoticed.
He doubts it really is unnoticed. His friends must know he’s struggling, at least, but they’re all preoccupied with work, and none of them are exactly proactive about solving their own problems, let alone anyone else’s. In their profession, personal issues are something to be vaguely thought of while slipping into a sweaty post-surgery nap, lacking the time or energy to fix them. He’s expected to keep going as if nothing is wrong, because the lives of so many people rest on his shoulders.
Junwan is not okay. He knows that. But that doesn’t mean he has to do anything about it.
Sometimes, he catches Ikjun looking at him with a strange, contemplative expression, but whenever Junwan catches his eye, he holds up his hands in a display of innocence. The others are less obvious; Jeongwon sends him gentle smiles whenever they cross paths, which is nothing out of the ordinary, but is too distracted by Gyeoul to really pry. Songhwa is her usual self; perceptive and kind but ridiculously, overwhelmingly busy. And Seokhyeong… well. Who knows what’s going on in that guy’s head?
Junwan pounces on opportunities to spend time with them - lunch breaks, night shifts, a few snatched minutes in the line to buy coffee - but even as he does, he finds himself feeling more alone, because they don’t feel the way he does. Their conversations are all surface-level afterthoughts to a busy life, barely more than small talk. And when Junwan does mention how lonely he feels, Songhwa just chuckles and tells him kindly that there are plenty more fish in the sea.
Junwan doesn’t give a damn about the fish in the sea. This isn’t just about Iksun anymore. It’s about everything.
One afternoon, when Junwan is drinking cold coffee in the courtyard and staring at nothing, Seokhyeong appears in his line of vision, wielding an ice cream cone in each hand.
Junwan blinks at him. “What?”
“I bought you ice cream,” he says simply, pushing one into Junwan’s hand. His fingers close around it automatically, baffled.
“Why? It isn’t hot today.”
“Why not? Ice cream is ice cream.” Seokhyeong takes a seat beside him on the wall and begins to unwrap his own, apparently oblivious to Junwan’s somber mood. “I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.”
“I want it,” he snaps. He tears the wrapper and takes a defiant bite, feeling the cold of it thrill through his teeth and to his head. It hurts, but it’s better than feeling nothing. Seokhyeong gives him a satisfied little nod and looks off into the distance, humming occasionally as he eats. It’s not unusual for them to sit quietly like this, catching a brief reprieve from the noise and stress beyond the glass doors, but it feels strange today - everything is dull and slightly blurred, as if Junwan is watching the world pass by through a cloudy veil. His sadness dampens everything and wraps itself around him like a blanket. Eventually, Junwan says, “Are we really going to sit here in silence?”
Seokhyeong smiles placidly at him. “You can talk if you want.”
“Why am I the one who has to talk?”
“You don’t have to, but you can if you want. About anything. If you ever want to talk, you always can.”
Junwan blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just wanted you to know, that’s all.” He shrugs. “But if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. I don’t mind.”
“I never fucking understand you.” He shakes his head, baffled by the entire awkward exchange. “You’re a nutcase.” He stands up and crumples the wrapper in his hand. “I need to go back now. Thanks for the ice cream, I guess.”
“Mm-hm.” Seokhyeong gives him a small wave. “Take care.”
As Junwan walks back into the white light of the hospital, there’s something nagging at him, telling him he had handled the conversation wrong. That he had missed an opportunity. But he’s too tired to think about it; even thinking takes energy, nowadays, and it feels impossible through the fog that weighs him down like a headache. How can he be lonely if he doesn’t talk when he gets the chance?
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore, except that he’s numb and empty and so, so tired. It doesn’t seem like anything can fix him, but that doesn’t matter the way it used to. He doesn’t care anymore. If he could lie down and sleep forever, he would. But instead he presses on, shouldering the weight of a thousand lives like Atlas holding up the sky.
*
It shouldn’t surprise him, really, when people start drifting away. He knows he’s poor company, but he feels a stab of irrational hurt when Songhwa stops asking him out for dinner and asks Ikjun instead, and when Jeongwon spends almost all his time with Gyeoul. They still grab lunch together sometimes, all five of them, and they meet at the weekend for their monthly rehearsal, but Junwan knows he’s become a silent and gloomy presence, and everyone seems more tense. Their discomfort angers him, although he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t understand a lot of his emotions nowadays.
Even Ikjun’s teasing doesn’t rile him the way it used to, so while Ikjun is still as loud as normal, he starts turning to the rest of the group for reactions instead, and Songhwa delivers. Gradually, they stop expecting a response from him at all, and he feels himself drift like a shadow to the edge of their conversations.
“Come on,” Ikjun tells him one afternoon, as they eat lunch in Songhwa’s office. “Cheer up! You’re not the only one having a bad day.”
“Exactly,” Songhwa says, casting him a sympathetic smile. “I spilled cola all over my laptop this morning, and now the keyboard isn’t working properly.”
“Want me to take a look?” Ikjun offers. “I could fix it for you.”
“Seriously? Please do. I really don’t want to have to shell out for a new laptop. You’re a lifesaver, Ikjun.”
“My pleasure.” Ikjun winks and refills Songhwa’s glass - and, once again, Junwan is forgotten.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter. Ikjun is right; he isn’t the only person with problems. At least the others actually have real worries; their families and their patients. Junwan doesn’t even know what’s wrong with him. His breakup had been weeks ago, and although it still aches unbearably, he should have moved on by now. He has a comfortable apartment, good friends, enough money to live as well as he likes…there’s no reason for him to be feeling like this. He has no right to be suffering when his life is fine.
So he carries on as normally as he can. He gets ready for work on autopilot, follows the script for outpatients, forces his brain into focus for his surgeries, then goes home and lies on the couch in the empty apartment with a can of beer, too exhausted to think of anything. He’s miserable, but he’s still doing everything he needs to, so it can’t be too bad. On the rare evenings Jeongwon comes home before he’s in bed, he sends Junwan concerned glances and tells him he shouldn’t be drinking so much. He doesn’t pry - prying isn’t Jeongwon’s style - but Junwan almost wishes he would, even though he knows he wouldn't tell him the truth, not when Jeongwon’s life is so perfect.
It becomes a matter of pride - the shreds of it he has left - to glare away any pity directed at him. He doesn’t need pity; he just needs to not be alone. He needs Iksun back. He needs to fucking toughen up and get over himself.
Still, he relies on the others’ energy to keep him afloat, so when he walks into the break room to find Seokhyeong and Jeongwon sitting in morose silence, picking at their instant noodles, he is taken aback.
“What’s wrong with the mood today?” He huffs, dropping into a chair. “Who died?”
His quip is met with stony silence. Jeongwon curls in on himself, and Seokhyeong sends him an incredulous stare. “You’re really tactless, you know.”
“Shit.” Junwan glances between the two of them - Jeongwon’s hunched shoulders and red eyes, Seokhyeong’s solemn sympathy - and his heart drops. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Jeongwon gives him a weak half-smile, then lowers his head again. Losing a patient is always hard, but to lose a child, especially for someone as sweet and sensitive as Jeongwon, must be heartbreaking. Junwan knows he considers these things a personal failure - they all do, to an extent - but Jeongwon has said before in moments of drunken discomposure that if he were a better doctor, all his patients would survive. It’s unrealistic, and Junwan has told him so. For every hundred lives he saves, he loses one, and it’s this Jeongwon always dwells on.
There’s no point trying to reason with him. Junwan sighs and places a hand on Jeongwon’s knee. “I’ll drive you home tonight. We can pick up some more beer and watch that godawful movie about the dog.”
He’s handled this before. They have a routine for each of them; when Junwan loses a patient, they sit silently at the table in the dark, drinking beer, and Jeongwon pretends not to notice the tears in his eyes. For Jeongwon, they curl up on the couch and watch a terrible turn-of-the-century tearjerker, and Junwan pats Jeongwon’s back and passes him tissues while he bawls his eyes out, and listens patiently while he sobs about how he should never have become a doctor. Then Jeongwon inevitably passes out on his shoulder, and Junwan stays completely still until he wakes and stumbles sleepily to bed.
Perhaps it would be bad to say that Junwan enjoys this routine. He hates to see his friends in pain, in a way that sears right to his bones, but it’s good to feel needed. To know that he’s capable of comforting them and feeling their closeness. Except -
“I’ll stay at Gyeoul’s apartment tonight,” Jeongwon says wearily. “Thank you, though.” He places his hand over Junwan’s and gives him a dampened version of his smile, but Junwan isn’t listening anymore. He feels blurry again, distant in a way that has come and gone over the past few weeks.
He isn’t needed anymore. He’s untethered. Yet another thread of his and Jeongwon’s weakening friendship has snapped, and he is sinking deeper with one less thing to hold onto.
Jeongwon and Seokhyeong don’t notice. Of course they don’t - why would they? They are mourning the death of a child, as Junwan should be doing, instead of making this about himself. It’s only natural that Jeongwon would choose his girlfriend’s comfort over his - after all, if the situation were reversed, wouldn’t Junwan want Iksun to comfort him?
No. He won’t let his mind go down that path. Why should he expect his friends to lean on him when he can’t even hold himself upright?
So, finally, he gives in. It isn’t a cataclysmic moment; it’s more of a sigh, a slow release of everything he didn’t realise he was holding so tightly, like sinking into a warm, soft bed. He doesn’t need to try so hard. It isn’t worth the effort.
He breathes out and lets himself fall.