Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Playlist: BIG Naughty (서동현) - Day After Day

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The call came just after midnight.

Yoon Si-eun had been awake anyway, fingers poised over his keyboard, staring through the flickering blue light of his screen without seeing a word of the article he was supposed to be reading. His phone buzzed once. Then again. Then again. He thought it was a spam caller — until he saw the name.

Yonsei University Medical Center.

His blood turned to ice.

He didn’t remember picking up, only the sudden sound of breath in his ears, the voice of a nurse calm and professional:
"Ahn Su-ho has regained consciousness."

For a moment, Si-eun couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The world dropped out from under him, and when it snapped back into focus, he was running — shoes barely tied, hoodie half-zipped, the cold air of the night biting at his skin as he tore through streets toward the only place that still tethered him to the boy he’d lost a year ago.

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He was panting by the time he got to the hospital, his lungs burning, his hands shaking as he pressed the button for the elevator over and over again like it would make the doors open faster. Everything inside him screamed.

Su-ho was awake.

Su-ho was awake.

Su-ho was alive.

The sterile white corridors were exactly the same — he hated that. Hated how the world stayed still even when lives had stopped inside these walls. He didn’t knock. He just opened the door.

And there he was.

Su-ho was sitting upright in bed, propped up with pillows. His face looked thinner, paler, but his eyes were open. Glazed, yes — dulled with confusion and medication — but open. Alive.

Si-eun took one step in. “Su-ho.”

The boy in the bed turned his head slowly. Blinking. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no sound came.

Si-eun moved closer, heart hammering. “Do you… you remember me, right? It’s me. Si-eun.”

He tried to smile. He shouldn’t have. He should’ve seen it sooner — the subtle tightening of Su-ho’s brow, the way his gaze flicked past him like he was a stranger. Su-ho's lips barely moved. His voice came out a hoarse whisper, raspy and slow:

“…Who are you?”

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The silence that followed stretched forever.

Si-eun stood frozen in place, words piling up in his throat and falling apart before they reached his mouth.

Su-ho didn’t recognize him.

A nurse entered quietly and began checking Su-ho’s vitals, like this moment wasn’t ripping Si-eun apart. She smiled at him kindly, gently steering him toward the chair beside the bed. “He’s very disoriented,” she said in a low voice. “Retrograde amnesia is common in long comas. He might not recognize familiar people right away.”

Right away.
That meant there was still a chance.

Si-eun sat, his legs folding under him like wet paper. He swallowed hard. Su-ho was staring at the ceiling now, eyes dull, breaths shallow and uneven. Si-eun wanted to reach out, to hold his hand, but he was afraid. Afraid he’d flinch.

Instead, he just whispered, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

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The hours passed like thick molasses — slow, sticky, and silent. Night blurred against the edges of the room, cloaking the sterile walls in darkness broken only by the dim blue of the monitors and the occasional flicker of headlights from the street below. Rain tapped the window in a tired rhythm.

Si-eun stayed the entire night.

He didn’t pace. Didn’t speak. He just sat there, spine curved, shoulders hunched forward in a seat too cold and too hard to offer comfort — but none of that mattered. His eyes never left Su-ho. He watched him drift in and out of a restless sleep, each exhale a question without an answer. Sweat clung to Su-ho’s hairline, dampening the pillow; his hands twitched occasionally, involuntary movements that made Si-eun’s own fingers clench in quiet dread.

When a nurse came in with a cup of water, Si-eun took it from her without a word. He slipped a hand behind Su-ho’s neck, gently, carefully, and held the cup to his lips — tilted it slowly, watched as Su-ho sipped, barely responsive.

When the doctor quietly asked if he wanted to step out, or rest, or go home for a few hours, Si-eun only shook his head.There was nowhere else in the world he could be. Not when Su-ho was here — so close, so far.

Then came the dawn. It didn’t arrive with beauty. Not with soft pink skies or golden light. It came in quietly, washed-out and gray, leaking through the blinds like a breath held too long.

And then Su-ho’s body stiffened. It was subtle at first — the way his fingers curled inward, slow and unnatural, like someone pulling invisible strings. Then his jaw tightened, eyes fluttering open but unfocused, rolling toward the ceiling as though he was being pulled away from himself.

The machines wailed — shattering the silence and ripping through Si-eun like glass. Nurses burst in, urgent but composed, flipping switches, calling out commands.

“He’s seizing,” one of them said sharply over the blare of the alarms. A syringe was readied, the bed adjusted, someone calling for the crash cart just in case.

And Si-eun — He backed away. Into the corner of the room, fists trembling at his sides, his chest tightening so sharply it felt like his ribs might snap inward.

He wanted to reach out. Wanted to scream, to fix, to hold. But there was nothing he could do. So he stood there, watching, breathing too fast, unable to do anything but watch the boy he once knew shake in front of him like the world was trying to rip him out of his skin.

Then — Just as suddenly as it began — It passed.

Su-ho’s body slackened, his limbs loose, his face pale as moonlight. The machines calmed. The nurses stepped back, quietly murmuring instructions to one another, smoothing out wires, adjusting pillows. But the air didn’t calm, a shadow lingered in the room.

Something cold and silent, like grief that hadn't yet decided if it would leave.

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Later, when the room was quiet again and the sun had risen enough to warm the curtain edges, Si-eun returned to his chair.

He didn’t try to speak at first. He just looked at Su-ho — really looked at him. At the way his lips parted with each breath. At the way his eyes fluttered beneath closed lids like he was still fighting something in his dreams.

And then —
Su-ho opened his eyes.

Just for a second.

And their gazes met.

Si-eun stopped breathing.

There was something there — he could feel it. A flicker, barely visible, like a match struck in a windstorm.
Recognition?
Confusion?
Fear?

He didn’t know.
And he didn’t know which would hurt more.

Still, he leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper, as though louder words might shatter the fragile moment.

“You don’t have to remember me right now,” he said softly. “Just… let me stay.”

Su-ho didn’t respond.

His eyes drifted shut again, lashes falling gently across skin still pale with fever. His breathing steadied, slow but unsure, like the rhythm of someone learning how to exist again.

And Si-eun stayed.

Not because he hoped to be remembered. But because there was once a boy who stood between him and a dozen fists without blinking. A boy who taught him how to throw a punch, and how to stand tall.

Now it was his turn.

To sit through the pain. To protect what was left. To stay — even if Su-ho didn’t remember why he should.

Even if all he could do was be there, still and quiet, while the storm passed outside and the one inside Su-ho tried to settle.

Chapter Text

Si-eun visited every day.

He told himself it was just until Su-ho remembered him. That he’d stop hovering when Su-ho looked at him with something other than polite confusion. But days passed. Then a week. Then two. And Su-ho’s eyes remained distant.

The doctors called it post-traumatic retrograde amnesia, wrapped in terms Si-eun couldn’t pretend to understand. The seizures, they said, were neurological—common in severe brain trauma. His speech was intact, though soft, sometimes slurred from fatigue. But what haunted Si-eun more than anything was the way Su-ho looked at him: like he was familiar, but not safe.

The worst kind of stranger.

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Each day began the same: Su-ho lying in bed, eyes half-lidded, barely able to lift his head. Si-eun would knock gently even though he didn’t have to, announce himself like a stranger, and walk in with soft steps, carrying things Su-ho couldn’t yet use — books, earbuds, a crossword puzzle.

Sometimes, Su-ho blinked at him and nodded. Sometimes he stared through him like glass.

Once, he asked, in that thin, broken voice, “Why are you here?”

Si-eun swallowed the truth. The memories. The blood. The guilt.
“I’m your friend,” he said.

Su-ho didn’t answer. His fingers twitched against the blanket like he was trying to reach for something and couldn’t remember what.

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Physically, Su-ho was a ghost of who he’d been.

His arms, once strong and quick, now trembled when he reached for his water cup. He couldn’t sit upright for long without fatigue. His balance was shot, his hands curled slightly when he was tired, and sometimes his legs kicked in startled spasms like his body remembered things his mind didn’t.

But one day — there was a shift.

The physical therapist had come in the morning. She smiled at Su-ho with calm patience and helped guide his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Let’s try, just a few steps,” she said. “You tell me when to stop.”

Su-ho’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, Si-eun thought he wouldn’t try.

But then Su-ho stood.

Wobbling, knees shaking, weight uneven. But standing.

The therapist had her hands on his waist, careful, steady. They took one step. Then two.

On the third, his knee buckled.

Su-ho collapsed against her shoulder. They both stumbled back into the chair.

Si-eun moved instinctively, but the therapist shook her head. “It’s okay. He didn’t fall.”

She looked at Su-ho. “You alright?”

Su-ho nodded once. Then, more firmly, sat upright and motioned to try again.

That moment hit Si-eun harder than anything else had.

Su-ho was still fighting.

Even in this body that betrayed him, even when he couldn’t remember who Si-eun was — that fire hadn’t gone out.

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It felt like one step forward and two steps back. That night, Su-ho had another seizure.

It started with his eyes fluttering too fast, like he couldn’t focus. Then his hands jerked, fingers curling tight until his nails bit into his palms. The monitors screamed. Nurses rushed in. Si-eun stood frozen as they pulled up rails and injected something into the IV line.

He didn’t speak until long after the tremors stopped.

When Su-ho opened his eyes again, his breathing was shallow. His lashes were wet.

Si-eun sat beside him, not touching. Just breathing with him. Matching the rhythm. Quiet and close.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

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It came without warning — quiet, fragile, and unmistakably Su-ho.

Rain was tapping against the hospital windows in a steady rhythm. Si-eun was sitting in the chair beside the bed, reading aloud from a book — something with no plot, just a soft voice to fill the silence.

Su-ho was half-asleep, head tilted, fingers twitching slightly on the blanket.

Then, barely audible:

“…they crossed the line.”

Si-eun froze.

His voice wasn’t strong — more like a rasp that slipped out on accident. But it was unmistakable. The words were low, nearly swallowed by the sound of rain, but Si-eun heard them. He knew them.

He’d heard Su-ho say that more times than he could count, fists clenched, eyes flashing, ready to defend someone — usually him — against whatever cruelty the world dealt.

A line had been crossed, and Su-ho never let that go unanswered.

“Su-ho?” Si-eun leaned forward, voice shaking. “Do you remember?”

But Su-ho didn’t respond. His eyes stayed closed, face unreadable. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he hadn’t realized he said it.

But the words hung in the air like a ghost.

A memory.

Maybe not full. Maybe not clear.

But something.

And for the first time since he woke up, hope flickered.

Chapter Text

The day started quietly.

Su-ho had eaten half his breakfast with shaky hands and sat propped up against his pillows while the nurse adjusted his IV line. His temperature was slightly elevated — a low-grade fever, nothing concerning. The doctors called it routine. A “post-acute response.”

But by afternoon, something was wrong.

Su-ho was sweating. His skin had flushed red, especially across his neck and cheeks, and his breathing had gone shallow — just enough for Si-eun to notice the difference. At first, the nurses didn’t say much. They checked vitals, jotted notes, reassured him.

“Just a little heat. We’ll monitor it,” one said.

But by the time the sun started dipping behind the windows, Su-ho’s fever had climbed to 39.6°C.

Si-eun sat on the edge of the bed, clutching a cool, wet cloth as he gently dabbed Su-ho’s forehead. The boy’s hair clung to his skin, damp and hot to the touch.

“It’s okay,” Si-eun whispered, though he didn’t know who he was trying to comfort — Su-ho or himself. “You’re alright. I’m here.”

Su-ho’s eyes were open, but barely. They were glassy, unfocused, drifting in and out of awareness. His lips moved soundlessly at first, then formed breathless fragments of words — pieces of thoughts trying to push their way to the surface.

Then he said it. Again.

“They… crossed… a line.”

Si-eun froze. His hand stilled on the compress.

He’d heard those words before — in the past, and again, days ago when he was barely conscious. And now, once more, like a mantra carved so deep it outlasted everything else.

It wasn’t just a phrase.

It was the only rule Su-ho ever truly lived by. A quiet code that didn’t glorify fighting, but set limits. Lines you didn’t cross. People you didn’t hurt.

Su-ho never fought to prove anything. He fought when he had no other choice. When someone was being humiliated, cornered, broken.

And even now — stripped of memories, burning with fever — that single line had remained.

Not his name. Not Si-eun.

Just that quiet, unshakable rule.

They crossed a line.

It was all that was left of the boy he’d been. And somehow, it was enough to break Si-eun’s heart.

“I know Su-ho, I know.” Si-eun whispered.

Su-ho's head tilted towards Si-eun's voice, pupils fluttering. His body trembled, not violently, but enough to set off a pulse of fear in Si-eun’s chest.

He called for the nurse — calm but urgent. “Something’s wrong. His fever’s worse.”

They didn’t respond fast enough.

Because then, Su-ho tried to sit up.

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“Hey—hey, no. Don’t—”

Si-eun reached out quickly to steady him. Su-ho was still tangled in the sheets, half-sitting, head lolling to the side. His limbs wobbled like his body had forgotten how to move.

He was burning up, soaked in sweat, eyes glazed and unfocused — but still trying to rise.

“You’re too hot. Lie back. Please.”

But Su-ho didn’t hear him.

Or if he did, he wasn’t listening.

His arms shook as he pushed against the mattress, trying to rise. Sweat rolled down the side of his face, and his chest heaved with the effort. His legs barely shifted beneath the blanket, but his upper body lifted — then collapsed back into the pillows.

His eyes rolled back.

And then his body went rigid.

“Su-ho!” Si-eun shouted, grabbing for him just as his arms locked and his back arched off the mattress.

The seizure came fast — faster than the last time. His fingers curled in, knuckles whitening, and a guttural sound escaped his throat. Monitors shrieked in alarm. Si-eun slammed his hand on the nurse call button.

“Help! He’s seizing—someone come now!”

The door burst open. Nurses flooded in.

“Step back—give us space!”

Si-eun stumbled out of the way but stayed close, heart hammering in his throat. He heard the sharp words, the codes being called, the low urgency in the doctor’s voice.
One nurse restrained Su-ho’s limbs gently while another injected a sedative into his IV.

Then — another alarm.

“Oxygen’s dropping — 84.”

Si-eun’s breath caught.

One of the nurses reached for the mask, unhooking it from the wall. As soon as it touched his face, Su-ho flinched hard, his body twitching further in distress.

His fingers shot up, weak but desperate, trying to claw it off.

"No-" he rasped.

But the nurse gently caught his hands, pressing them softly back toward the bed.

"Shhh, Su-ho," she whispered next to his ear to make sure he heard her. "It's okay. This is just to help you breathe."

His hands twitched beneath hers, but then his limbs sagged, the fight slowly leaving his body.

The mask stayed on.

Su-ho’s body slowly began to slacken, the tightness in his limbs releasing bit by bit. His breathing evened out under the soft hiss of the oxygen mask. The monitors quieted.

But Si-eun couldn’t move.

With the mask on, Su-ho looked just like he did back then.

When he was still hanging between life and death.
When machines did everything for him.
When Si-eun stood on this exact side of the bed, whispering to someone who couldn’t hear him.

The seizure had passed. But the mask, the mask made him look distant again — like someone Si-eun might lose all over again.

That’s when the nurse turned around — her eyes catching the pale, frozen look on Si-eun’s face.

“Hey,” she said gently, voice low. “It’s okay now. He’s stable.”

He didn't seem to hear her, she stepped closer and guided him by the arm. “Come on, sit down.”

Si-eun sat down without a word. His legs moved on instinct, but his eyes stayed locked on the oxygen mask.

It clung to Su-ho’s face like something out of a nightmare — plastic, sterile, distant, hopeless.

He didn’t even notice the nurse crouch beside him until she spoke.

“He’s okay,” she said softly. “He’s breathing on his own. This is just to help him recover faster.”

Si-eun gave the faintest nod, but his jaw was still clenched tight.

The nurse glanced toward the bowl of fresh water and the folded towel on the tray. “You can keep using the cold compress,” she added, gently — not an order, but a way to ground him. “It helps.”

That was what finally made him move.

He reached for the cloth with a shaking hand and wrung it out slowly, carefully, as if every gesture might matter more than it did. Then he leaned forward, pressing it against Su-ho’s burning forehead once more — an anchor, a rhythm, something to do while fear drained slowly from his system.

His voice cracked as he whispered,

“Please, Su-ho… please stay with me.”

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By dawn, the worst had passed.

The fever broke — slow and steady, like a tide rolling back.

Su-ho’s breathing deepened. His hands, once clenched in feverish tension, relaxed against the sheets. When the nurse returned to check on him, she gently removed the oxygen mask and gave a small nod — not to herself, but to Si-eun. A silent gesture that said: See? This was temporary. He’s okay.

And then — as the warm sun started to peek through the curtains — Su-ho opened his eyes.

They were clearer now. No fever. No confusion. Just quiet exhaustion.

He looked directly at Si-eun.

Not with recognition. Not yet.

But with something just as steady — a calm gaze, like he knew this person sitting beside him needed reassurance more than he did.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t even smile.

But in that wordless moment, his eyes said:

I don’t know who you are. But I don’t want you to worry.

And Si-eun — heart aching, chest finally loosening — looked back at him.

A single tear slipped down his cheek.

He leaned forward, voice barely a breath.

“Thank you.”

Because even now — even stripped of everything — Su-ho was still trying to comfort him.

Chapter Text

Healing came slowly. Like light filtering through fog — never sudden, never certain.

Su-ho was still weak, still pale, still forgetful. But the tremors were less frequent now. The fever hadn’t returned. And each morning, when the nurses helped him sit upright, he no longer flinched at the brightness of the window or the beeping of the monitors.

He didn’t speak much. But he responded. His gaze followed movement. His hand reached for the water cup before anyone offered. He blinked slower now, less like someone dazed and more like someone waking from something long and hard.

The doctors called it progress.

Si-eun called it proof.

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Su-ho still didn’t remember him.

Not in any way that mattered. Not in any way that hurt less.

He called him “the guy who’s always here” once, with a faint smirk — the closest thing to a joke he’d made since waking up. Si-eun had smiled at that.

But in those long hours where the room was quiet and still, something had shifted.

Not recognition. Not yet.

But ease.

Su-ho didn’t stiffen when Si-eun walked in anymore. He didn’t look away as often. Sometimes, their eyes would meet and linger there — not in discomfort, but in something like… trust.

Familiarity without memory.

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Lunch was bland again. A scoop of gray mashed potatoes, a few wilted vegetables, something pretending to be soup. Even Si-eun felt bad for Su-ho.

The nurse set the tray down, but didn’t hover. She watched from the corner of the room, letting Si-eun take over.

He was the only one Su-ho didn’t turn away from lately — the only one who could convince him to eat, even if it meant endless coaxing and quiet bribes.

Si-eun sat at the edge of the bed, holding the spoon like it was a peace offering.

“Come on. Just a little more,” he said, voice gentle. “You finished half already.”

Su-ho stared at the spoon. Then at Si-eun. Then back at the food.

His expression twisted into something halfway between boredom and disgust.

“It’s gross,” he muttered, low but clear.

Si-eun blinked — then laughed.

It was the first time Su-ho had shown anything close to stubbornness since waking. And somehow, it made Si-eun’s chest ache with something dangerously close to joy.

“It is,” he agreed. “But you still need to eat.”

Su-ho turned his head slightly, refusing the spoon again. He shifted slightly in bed, licking his lips, eyes still fixed on nothing in particular.

Then, voice soft and uncertain:

“Do…ga…”

Si-eun straightened, immediately alert.

Su-ho paused, frowning. Tried again.

“Doga…ni…guk?”

The word came out wrong — twisted around the syllables, tongue heavy.

Si-eun blinked. Then blinked again.

“Doganitang?” he asked, carefully.

Su-ho nodded, his expression flat. But his eyes?

His eyes lit up.

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Si-eun brought it the next day.

Hot, carefully sealed, the smell rich and familiar the moment the lid came off. He placed the tray on the bedside table and opened the container slowly.

Su-ho looked at it for a long time. Then looked at Si-eun.

“Did you…” he began, then stopped. Shook his head.

“Did I what?” Si-eun asked gently.

Su-ho hesitated, then gave the smallest shrug.

“Did you bring this to me before?”

Something fluttered in Si-eun’s chest — painfully soft.

“I have,” he said quietly.

Su-ho didn’t respond. He picked up the spoon slowly, wrist still a little shaky, and brought it to his lips.

A small nod.

Then another bite.

Then he closed his eyes for just a second longer than needed — like the taste reached something far beyond the tongue.

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That night, when Su-ho drifted to sleep, Si-eun didn’t leave right away. He sat beside the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

He still doesn’t remember me, Si-eun thought.

But some part of him stayed.

The part that ordered soup after a fight.

The part that hated injustice.

The part that wanted to protect people, even when he didn’t know why.

And maybe — just maybe — memory didn’t make a person whole.

Maybe instinct did.

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Author's note: How's it going so far? Too much? Too fast? My hands are itching to have Su-ho remember Si-eun, but I'm wondering if I should stretch this a bit more. Would love to hear your feedback! Keeps me going :)

Chapter Text

Si-eun walked back in with a plastic bag full of snacks from a nearby Seven Eleven. Su-ho had started eating more regularly now, refusing to touch the bland hospital meals, and Si-eun had taken it upon himself to bring him something decent each day. Sometimes it was triangle kimbap, sometimes bread or egg sandwiches. Anything that would make him wrinkle his nose less and eat more.

He’d been spending every day at Su-ho’s bedside for weeks now, and while things had started to improve — Su-ho talking more, eating more, even tolerating physical therapy — the fact that he still couldn’t remember him… it was starting to sting.

Si-eun had told himself it didn’t matter. That presence was enough. That healing was more important than memory. But lately, the silence between them had begun to stretch and tighten. Su-ho would look at him for long moments with the kind of thoughtful gaze that asked questions he couldn’t put into words. And Si-eun… he had started to flinch under it.

Still, it was better than nothing. Better than the beep of machines. Better than that unbearable stillness of a body that didn’t move. Better than that daunting oxygen mask.

He sighed, tilting his head back to stretch the stiffness from his neck. For a second, he considered grabbing a coffee — just to stall the return to that quiet room.

Then he heard them.

Low voices. Laughter. That unmistakable condescension echoing from down the hall.

It cut through his thoughts like a wire pulled tight.
He turned the corner.

And dropped the bag.

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Geum Seong.

That same cruel mouth, those eyes that never smiled right. The other two with him were just shadows. Echoes of the same rot.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Si-eun said, already closing the space between them.
Geum Seong looked up with false innocence. “Relax. We just heard Su-ho woke up. Thought we’d say hi. That’s allowed, right?”

“Bullshit,” Si-eun snapped.

His fists clenched at his sides.

One of the boys beside Geum Seong nudged him, whispering something. Geum Seong laughed — a low, taunting sound.

“What?”

“Just wondering where your little guard dog is,” Geum Seong said, stepping closer. “Or wait — he can’t even lift a spoon, right? What are you gonna do now that you’ve got no one to hide behind?”

Si-eun’s pulse thundered.

He didn’t speak.

He just turned and walked past them — not into the room, but around the corridor, toward the back exit of the hospital.

And sure enough, they followed.

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The back of the hospital smelled like rust and rain. Concrete stretched out into shadows, a forgotten place tucked behind whitewashed walls.

Perfect.

Geum Seong cracked his knuckles, the others flanking him like vultures.

“So,” he said. “So, you brought us out here to—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Si-eun swung.

Geum Seong ducked just in time, the punch grazing his shoulder instead of his jaw.

He laughed, stepping back.

“Wow,” he said, grinning wide. “You’re really itching for this, aren’t you?”

Geum Seong threw a punch back, but Si-eun pivoted just in time, elbowing Geum Seong hard in the ribs. The boy gasped, folding for just a second — enough for Si-eun to shove him back.

One of the others lunged. Si-eun grabbed the closest object — a cracked plastic bucket — and swung it hard. It shattered on impact.

Another brick sat nearby, half-buried under leaves. He picked it up, turned, and drove it into Geum Seong’s arm. The crack wasn’t loud, but the scream was.

Su-ho’s face flashed before him — pale, sweating, struggling to lift a spoon.

Si-eun moved like a storm now.

He grabbed a bent metal pipe, swung it against the ground, the sound ringing like a war cry.

The third boy tried to run. Si-eun kicked his leg out from under him and dragged him back by the shirt.

He slammed the pipe into the concrete beside his head — once. Twice.

The boy shrieked, curling up.

But Si-eun didn’t hear him.

He heard beeping monitors. Screaming nurses. Su-ho’s seizures. His hands clawing at an oxygen mask. His eyes rolling back. His body convulsing.

He wasn’t just angry. He was unraveling.

So much so, he didn’t even see the hit coming.

Geum Seong's fist connected with his face — hard.

Right across the brow. The world lurched sideways, but he righted himself up.

Si-eun grabbed him by the collar, slammed him against the wall.

Geum Seong tried to shove him back, but Si-eun’s next punch slammed straight into his jaw — hard enough to rattle teeth.

Geum Seong stumbled, dazed.

Si-eun shoved him further against the wall with his elbow, his face inches away, breath sharp and shaking — not from fear, but from barely contained fury.

“If you ever step foot in this hospital again,” Si-eun growled, his voice low, trembling with rage, “I swear to God I’ll kill you. No teacher, no cop, no gang in this city will be fast enough to stop me.”

For once, Geum Seong didn’t smile.

His eyes flickered — not with mockery, but something colder. Recognition. Fear.

Si-eun didn’t let go.

He leaned in closer, his jaw tight, eyes burning.

“I will kill you,” he repeated, barely above a whisper.

And this time, he meant every word.

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He watched them limp back like scurried dogs, disappearing into the edge of the alley like they had never mattered.

Si-eun stood there, shaking.

Blood dripped steadily from his brow, stinging his eye. His shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat and dirt. His fists pulsed like open wounds, raw and trembling.

But he didn’t feel it.

He bent down, picked up his jacket with hands that barely responded, and turned toward the hospital entrance.

His feet dragged.

He was limping — though he didn’t notice.

He just needed to be back in that room.

Back to Su-ho.

Room 217 was the only place that quieted the noise in his head. The only space where his rage, his grief, his guilt — didn’t consume him whole.

And so he walked.

But toward Su-ho.

Always, toward Su-ho.

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Author's Note: Please let me know if you're enjoying this! Oh and next chapter will be pretty emotional :)

Chapter Text

He opened the door quietly and took a few steps.

Su-ho was sitting up in bed, eyes on a notebook practicing writing. A pen in his hand.

He looked up.

And stopped.

His eyes locked on the blood dripping from Si-eun’s temple.

Si-eun saw the look on his face and instantly regretted coming like this. Only then did he notice that he was bleeding. He turned to leave — but Su-ho’s hand shot out, catching the fabric of his shirt. His other hand trembled as it reached for his face.

“Your face…” Su-ho whispered, voice raw.

No recognition. But the worry was real. It cracked something inside him.

“What happened?”

Si-eun flinched and pushed his hand down gently. “Nothing. Fell from some steps.”

“I know I have brain damange, but I'm not stupid.”

Si-eun shook his head. “Just rest. Please. I... I shouldn't have come like this.”

And he walked out.

But behind him, something in Su-ho began to break.

________________________________________

The room was quiet.

He sat motionless in bed, eyes fixed on the door that had just closed behind Si-eun. The sound of it clicking shut still echoed faintly in his ears.

He didn’t know why his chest felt tight. Why there was this sudden, urgent pull in his gut, as if something important had just slipped through his fingers.

His eyes dropped to the tray table.

The notebook sat open, a half-finished attempt. The pen he’d been using rested loosely in his fingers.

He hadn’t written anything in minutes.

His hand, sluggish and unsteady now, moved to place the pen back into the pencil case-but it slipped, sending the case clattering down.

It hit the floor and popped open, spilling pencils and pens across the tile with a soft echoing sound.

And that sound — that small, familiar sound — cracked something open.

Flashes.

Si-eun glaring at him in that quiet, cutting way — the first time Su-ho accidently dropped a similar pencil case after a fight. No words. Just eyes that judged.

“Fight outside”.

Su-ho clutched his head, hard. A sharp pulse of pain throbbed through his temples.

Su-ho teaching Si-eun how to fight — not with lectures, but fists and stances. Quiet mornings in back alleys, knuckles bruising side by side.

“You don’t have to be strong,” he’d told him once, tapping two fingers to Si-eun’s chest, “just fast. And precise.”

The memories hit like punches now. His breathing grew shallow. He pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to block them out — but they kept coming.

The two of them on his moterbike, Su-ho pedaling with ease while Si-eun clung to the back like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart around them. And one of the best days Su-ho could remember.

A choked cry escaped him as he curled in on himself, forehead nearly touching the bed sheets. His chest heaved.

Tears welled up — not from the pain, but from knowing. From feeling.

Fists flying. Side by side.

A dozen faces blurred in the background, but they always stood shoulder to shoulder — two against many, unspoken trust welded into each punch thrown.

“Si-eun.” Su-ho whispered through clenched teeth, still shaking. “Si-eun...”

Si-eun bleeding.

On the ground. Arm broken. Because of him.

Because Si-eun wanted to protect him, because that’s all they ever did.

Su-ho sobbed now. Shoulders hunched, rocking himself through the memories.

“I remember,” he cried. “I remember—!”

________________________________________

His body was trembling, lungs shuddering with each breath as he gripped the edge of the bed.

Something inside him had cracked open — too fast, too loud, too much.

He reached for the IV in his arm, fingers fumbling. He yanked it free in one sharp pull.

Blood bloomed at the crook of his elbow, but he barely noticed. He winced, clutching his arm as he tried to swing his legs off the bed.

The floor rushed up to meet him.

His knees gave out, slamming into the cold tile. His palms hit next. A groan escaped his throat.

“Si-eun—” he gasped. “Si-eun…”

His voice broke on the second call — thin and raw, like it was being torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

Silence.

No one answered.

His body wanted to stay there — curled up, heaving. But the fire in his head, the panic crawling up his spine — it pushed him forward. Si-eun was hurt. He had to protect him.

So he grabbed the bedrail and dragged himself upright.

With hands bracing the wall, he stumbled forward — slow, uneven steps that scraped across the tile.

Every muscle screamed. His oversized hoodie stuck to his skin. His vision swam.

But he didn’t stop.

He made it to the door and shoved it open with his shoulder. The hallway light hit his face and made him squint.

Voices rose behind him — nurses shouting, calling his name.

“Su-ho—! What are you—!”

He didn’t turn around.

Didn’t speak.

He kept going.

Driven by something older than memory, deeper than pain.

Because he had to find him.

Because his name was Si-eun.

Because he had to protect him.

________________________________________

Author's Note: This is the kind of drama I was looking for :)

Chapter Text

Su-ho turned the corner, barely aware of his own feet beneath him. His body felt like crashing— one shaky step from giving out entirely. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep walking.

And there he was.

Si-eun.

Frozen mid-step, reaching for gauze from a nurse.

He dropped it.

His bruised face went pale.

“Su-ho?” he breathed, stunned, the gauze forgotten. “What—what are you doing out here?”

Su-ho tried to speak, but no words came. Only tears.

He stumbled forward — legs folding beneath him.

Si-eun caught him just in time, arms wrapping tight around his ribs, anchoring him.

“Su-ho, what’s wrong?” he asked, voice rising as he held the back of his neck to steady him. “Hey—look at me—what’s wrong?”

He glanced around, panic setting in. “Someone help—!”

Nurses rushed toward them. One of them reached for Su-ho, trying to pull him gently away to lie him down, but the moment their hands touched him—

“No!” Su-ho screamed — a guttural, terrified sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest. His grip on Si-eun tightened, knuckles white, nails digging in. He clung like he’d fall into something terrible if he let go. His breath came fast, erratic, and his eyes darted wildly.

Everyone was a threat now. Everyone was an enemy.

Except Si-eun.

The nurses froze.

“Okay—hey, it’s okay,” Si-eun said quickly, his hand steady on Su-ho’s back. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Su-ho shook his head, pressing his face into Si-eun’s shoulder, voice hoarse, breath stuttering.

“I remember,” he whispered.

Si-eun stilled. “What…?”

Slowly, Su-ho pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet.

And in that second — it was like time folded in on itself.

Every hallway. Every bruise. Every joke. Every fight.

And those eyes — those sad eyes that spoke a thousand words.
Eyes that had once glared at him from across a classroom.
Eyes that looked at him with utter trust, that smiled at him before his lips did.

“I remember you, you idiot… I remember.”

And then, as if the weight of it all — the pain, the recognition, the relief — was too much to hold,

Su-ho’s eyes rolled back.

His body sagged in Si-eun’s arms, exhausted and drained from the violent rush of memories crashing back into place.

“Su-ho—Su-ho!” Si-eun cried, gripping him tighter.

But Su-ho was already slipping into unconsciousness.

Only one thing left his lips, soft and certain:

“I remember.”

_____________________________________

The fever came on fast, as if Su-ho’s body was finally reacting to everything at once—his escape from the hospital bed, the flood of returning memories, the weight of emotion too big to contain.

By the time the nurses had him settled again, he was already burning up. Sweat slicked his forehead and soaked through the oversized hoodie clinging to his chest, which they gently peeled off, revealing the hospital gown beneath — and with it, just how fast he was breathing..

Si-eun sat beside him, his chair pulled close, one hand gripped tightly in Su-ho’s — even in sleep, Su-ho wouldn’t let go.

He barely blinked as nurses moved around the room — checking vitals, applying cold compresses, injecting medication into the IV line that Su-ho had ripped out just an hour ago. The doctor murmured something about stress responses, about delayed reactions and neural fatigue, but none of it mattered to Si-eun. He barely registered the words.

All he could say, over and over in a low, stunned voice, was:

“He remembers me… Su-ho remembers me.”

His eyes never left Su-ho’s face. Nothing else mattered. Not the fever, not the scans, not the clinical language.

He remembers me.

He didn’t speak, he moved with quiet precision—soaking compresses in cool water, laying fresh cloth against Su-ho’s neck and forehead, gently brushing back damp strands of hair that clung to his skin.

The fever thankfully didn’t spike dangerously high, but it lingered. It clung.

Si-eun stayed with him through the dark hours, keeping his hand on Su-ho’s and replacing compresses each time they warmed. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t speak unless it was to reassure.

By dawn, the fever had faded. Soft golden light slipped through the window — and just like before, it was the golden light of the sun that brought him back from those fever spells.

Just as Si-eun leaned forward to check the cloth on his forehead, Su-ho stirred. It was subtle at first—a twitch in his fingers, a shift of his head—but then his lashes lifted, slow and fluttering. His eyes opened.

Si-eun stilled.

His breath caught in his throat as worry gripped him, sharp and sudden.

What if the fever had taken it all away?
What if Su-ho didn’t remember anymore?
What if it had only been a temporary flicker — or worse, just a hallucination Si-eun had imagined in the thick of panic?

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited — afraid to hope, afraid to break whatever fragile thread had reconnected them.

But no, this time Su-ho’s eyes were not questioning or lost. They were clear. They found Si-eun instantly and didn’t waver. There was no hesitation, no confusion. Just a quiet, certain recognition.

Then, with a voice hoarse from sleep and illness, Su-ho blinked once and whispered:

“Gwaenchanya?”

The word landed softly, barely more than a breath — but it shattered something in Si-eun’s chest.

Of course.Of all the things Su-ho could’ve said, of all the questions he might’ve asked after remembering him, the first was whether he was okay.

Typical Su-ho.

And somehow, that made the moment more real than anything else.

Si-eun’s breath caught. His throat burned. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

And before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and let his forehead rest on the edge of the bed, shoulders trembling.

For the first time in over a year—since that long, crushing day when he sat by a comatosed Su-ho. Si-eun cried. Not from fear or guilt. Just the kind of exhausted, aching cry that came from holding too much for too long.

Then, slowly, he felt a hand—weak but warm—rest on his shoulder.

It was Su-ho’s.

And his voice, soft and raw, followed.

“I’m sorry. I'm here now.” he said.

_____________________________________

Author's Note: I hope I reflected the emotions right. This is how I envisioned Su-ho remembering, I wanted him to crawl back towards the memory and for Si-eun to desperately wait for it... Just makes it all the more dramatic and real for me. And of course I had to squeeze in a little fever scene, I can't help myself! Are you interested in seeing more of Su-ho's recovery? Let me know and I'll keep going!

Chapter Text

The days following Su-ho’s breakthrough were filled with quiet assessments and careful observation. Doctors came and went, asking him to perform memory tests, identifying photos, arranging flashcards in sequences, answering logic questions, and recalling faces they had introduced the day before. Sometimes he played along. Other times, he just stared at them, annoyed.

He wasn’t angry that they were testing him — he was angry because some answers came too easily while others simply… didn’t come at all.

Especially one.

He still couldn’t remember how he got here.

Si-eun, always in the corner, tried to mask his worry, but Su-ho noticed. After one test, where Su-ho correctly remembered all but the event of his hospitalization, a doctor pulled Si-eun aside.

“It’s a protective mechanism,” she explained. “The brain shields trauma sometimes. It’s not uncommon for the moment of injury to stay blocked. It may come back, or it may not. But we strongly advise not trying to force the memory. Let it return naturally.”

Si-eun nodded, but something in his chest had already begun to twist.

That evening, while they sat by the window, the sun casting long stripes across the linoleum floor, Su-ho said it casually — like it had just popped into his mind.

“So… how did I get here?”

Si-eun tensed. “You mean the hospital?”

“No, I mean… yeah. The whole thing. What happened to me?”

Si-eun looked away, standing to fold a blanket that didn’t need folding. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “What matters is that you’re getting better.”

Then, trying to shift the mood, he asked, “You hungry? I was thinking of grabbing something. Rice bowls? Ramen?”

Su-ho didn’t answer at first. Then he tilted his head, raising a brow. “You’re dodging.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Was it something heroic?” Su-ho grinned weakly, trying to lighten the moment. “Did I jump in front of a moving car? Save an old lady from being mugged? A cat in a tree?”

But Si-eun didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look at him.

“I’ll go get food,” he said quietly and left before Su-ho could press again.

Su-ho sat alone in that silence, frowning, but chose to ignore the subject, for now.

_____________________________________

There was a shift in Su-ho — a stubborn, quiet determination that set into his bones once he truly remembered who Si-eun was. Not just a face, but his friend. His anchor. His reason.

Now, every exercise meant something.

He practiced walking between the parallel bars, his grip tight, his steps uneven, sweat beading at his brow. He cursed under his breath more than once, but he didn’t stop. And when he reached the end, Si-eun was there with a triumphant smirk… and a dumpling.

“I hate you,” Su-ho muttered, grabbing the dumpling anyway.

“No you don't.”

Later, he tried the stairs for the first time. Midway up, he faltered. His foot caught. His balance teetered — but Si-eun was already there, one arm steadying his waist, the other gripping his wrist.

“I’m fine,” Su-ho insisted, chest heaving.

“Let’s rest.”

“No. Again.”

So they did it again.

He spoke more now. His voice had grown steadier, his words more playful. He teased nurses. Stole Si-eun’s sandwich during lunch and grinned with his mouth full when Si-eun protested.

"Reflexes still slow," Su-ho mumbled between bites.

He moved faster, laughed more, even if he was still a little unsteady. But it was like every fiber of him had remembered its purpose and was sprinting toward it.

_____________________________________

One afternoon, they found themselves alone in the hallway outside the physical therapy room, and Su-ho, walking without support now, asked something quietly.

“Help me with my balance.”

“Your gait’s fine,” Si-eun said.

“No, not like that. Like a stance.”

“A stance?”

“A fighting stance.”

Si-eun blinked, then smiled.

They faced each other slowly. Su-ho took a wide stance, knees slightly bent, weight shifting between his feet — but it was shaky. His balance still needed work. Si-eun stepped closer, adjusting Su-ho’s foot with his own, moving his arm gently into place.

“Here,” Si-eun said, “you’re too forward-heavy. Relax your back leg more. Raise your guard.”

Their eyes met — and something shifted in Si-eun’s chest. This was what Su-ho used to do for him.

Eons ago, behind abandoned buildings, empty gyms, cracked pavement — it was Su-ho adjusting his form, gruff but patient, while Si-eun tried not to fall over. Now, their roles reversed, but something whole in the symmetry of it.

The moment was shattered as Su-ho nearly decked him.

“I’ve got brain damage, but I can still beat your ass.” He said with a smirk.

Si-eun blinked, stunned, then laughed.

_____________________________________

A week later, it gnawed on him again. Su-ho stood by the window, hand absentmindedly touching the side of his head where the scar still ached when the weather turned. His reflection stared back at him — pale, leaner than he remembered, eyes still ringed with something he couldn’t name. And he whispered to no one, “What the hell happened to me…”

The question lingered in the air like a thread he couldn’t pull.

Why wouldn’t Si-eun tell him?

Why did he always change the subject, always meet the question with silence or a joke or a retreat?

Did I do something wrong?

Did I hurt someone?

The thoughts festered quietly as he kept staring at his own reflection, searching for answers in eyes that felt both his and not. His hand fell from his temple to the windowsill, fingers curling against the cold metal. He leaned forward and knocked his head gently against the glass. Once. Twice. A third time.

“Remember,” he muttered under his breath, the word breaking around the edges. “Come on… You remembered everything else but this.”

But nothing came. Just the same flickering fog in the back of his mind, the same ache behind his eyes.

He let his forehead rest against the window and closed his eyes.

He didn’t know if he was chasing a memory or running from it.

_____________________________________

That very week, Su-ho was getting restless, so the doctors agreed he needed air, not from a window, but the real kind. No IV, no wheelchair, just his own two feet and the quiet, watchful presence of Si-eun by his side. The destination was simple: a Korean BBQ spot not far from the hospital.

Su-ho lit up the moment they told him. He sat up straighter, eyes gleaming with something close to boyish excitement, and immediately turned to Si-eun.

“Bring my red jacket,” he said. “I need to look good to attract the ladies, coma made me rusty.”

The request caught Si-eun off guard. It was so casual. So distinctly Su-ho. Asking for his red jacket. Moments like these —fragments of Su-ho's character that resurfaced without warning. They brought joy, but also an ache of worry for what else he might remember. He didn’t let it show.

Instead, he tossed the words right back with a scoff. “With your vulgar style of eating, no lady’s going to look at you twice.”

Su-ho only grinned wider.

_____________________________________

There was a new kind of energy in his stride — uneven, sure, but eager. He wanted to try everything on the menu, pointed at meats and side dishes like a kid planning a feast.

Si-eun chuckled but kept a cautious eye on him. “You haven’t eaten this much food in months. Don’t go destroying your stomach now.”

“Shhh ajuma!” Su-ho replied, already flipping through the laminated menu like it was sacred scripture.

The scent of grilled meat drifted between tables. For a while, everything was simple — skewers cooking, sauces sampled, soft laughter between bites. Su-ho cracked jokes, poked fun at the tongs slipping from Si-eun’s fingers, flirted with the waitress and tried to show Si-eun that he still got it.

And then — in a moment so casual it almost didn’t register — he reached across the table.

He folded a lettuce wrap with care: a strip of meat, a dab of ssamjang, a sliver of garlic, a neat roll of rice. Then he stuffed it — not into his mouth, but into Si-eun’s.

“Eat,” Su-ho mumbled, grinning through his own bite. “Your face is too tense.”

Si-eun froze for a second, mid-chew. Once, long ago, he had complained about Su-ho doing this — about his hands being sweaty, about the lettuce being covered with his bacteria.

But this time, he said nothing. Because this time, all he could think about was how steady Su-ho’s fingers had been. How deliberate his movements were. How alive.

And his heart pulled tight in his chest — not from worry, but from the fragile beauty of witnessing something that once seemed impossible.

But peace has a way of arriving with borrowed time.

_____________________________________

It happened so simply — a waiter approached with a tray of fresh marinated beef, smiling, saying something about changing the grill.

He patted Su-ho’s shoulder, light and brief. That was all.

But something about the sudden touch, the angle, the way it came from behind — it unraveled everything.

Su-ho flinched hard.

His whole body tensed, muscles locking as if waiting for a blow. His head snapped around. And then, just as quickly, he laughed — too loud, too fast.

“Didn’t hear you coming,” he said, waving a hand like it was nothing. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Si-eun saw it. All of it. And he saw what followed.

Su-ho sat differently now — stiff, shoulders raised. A sudden clatter from the kitchen made him jump, and he masked it with a sip of water that rattled faintly in the glass. A burst of men laughing from a neighboring table made him twitch again, eyes darting in that direction.

Suddenly, the warmth of grilled meat, the buzz of conversations, the sizzle of oil — it was too much.

It wasn’t a meal anymore. It was noise, too loud, too close.

“Hey,” Si-eun said gently. “Do you want to go?”

Su-ho blinked. “Yeah,” he said. “I… I’m full, and I think I feel a headache coming.”

The waiter returned with a hopeful smile. “But you didn’t have dessert yet—”

“I want to leave,” Su-ho said, rising from his chair before the sentence even finished, slightly unsteady. His hand reached for his jacket, face pale.

Si-eun stood too, voice calm. “Okay. Let’s go.”

_____________________________________

The taxi ride back was quiet.

No jokes. No questions.

Su-ho leaned against the window, head tilted to the side, fingers pressing into his temple. The city passed in streaks of color outside — reds and greens blurring beneath streetlights. Car horns sounded like sirens, and every blare made him flinch slightly, teeth gritting behind a clenched jaw.

He grunted once — low, sharp — and turned his head away from the noise, eyes shut tight against the growing headache.

Si-eun said nothing. But he shifted just enough so Su-ho’s shoulder could rest more fully against him.

_____________________________________

By the time they reached the hospital, the headache turned into a migraine.

It started as a throb behind his eyes. The nurse dimmed the lights. Si-eun brought cool towels. But the pain didn’t let go. It bloomed sharp across his temples, down his neck, into his jaw.

“Make it stop,” Su-ho whispered once, his fingers digging into the sheets.

He hated how helpless he sounded. How fragile. He kicked off the blanket, curled up, hissed through his teeth.

“Don’t worry, this comes with your type of injury, it’ll pass.” the nurse reassured.

But Su-ho didn’t feel reassured.

He felt broken.

“Why am I like this?” he asked, his voice shaking as he pressed his palms into his forehead. “What happened to my brain?”

“You’re healing,” Si-eun said gently. “Don’t think about it now.”

Su-ho narrowed his eyes.

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Avoid the question.”

Silence.

Su-ho didn’t press further — not this time. But something stayed in his expression, restless and growing.

_____________________________________

Migraines became frequent, they arrived without warning, sharp and insistent — a new visitor in his recovery, unwelcome and persistent. What started as an occasional ache became a familiar rhythm of pain. A new thing to track. A new thing to worry about.

Si-eun learned to keep cold compresses close. The nurses adjusted the lighting in his room. And still, there were days when Su-ho would go quiet mid-sentence, fingers pressing to his temple, the storm already building behind his eyes.

One night, the pain crested so high, he jolted upright in bed, gasping.

“I’m gonna be sick—”

Si-eun moved fast, grabbing a bowl just in time. Su-ho leaned over it, body shaking, dry heaving, then vomiting. His arm braced against the rail. His teeth chattered from the aftershock.

When the wave was over, he slumped back, breath ragged, eyes half-shut.

“This sucks,” he muttered hoarsely, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Si-eun sat beside him, the dimmed lights making it hard to see Su-ho clearly — but his voice stayed steady. “I know,” he said quietly. “But it’ll pass. It always does.”

Su-ho just grunted, too drained to say more.

_____________________________________

And then — things got better. Sort of.

The migraines still came, but they learned how to manage them. The stairs weren’t as daunting now. Su-ho can now take sprints without support.

They had their second outing. This time to a café, less noise and less people.

Out of the blue, as Si-eun sat beside him scrolling through something on his phone, Su-ho tilted his head and asked, “Hey… do I have a phone?”

The question was so casual it almost slipped past Si-eun — but when he looked up, Su-ho’s expression was serious, curious.

Si-eun froze for a second, unsure how to answer. He gave a vague shrug, changed the subject. But later that afternoon, the question lingered in his mind — enough that he found himself consulting the doctors.

They agreed: if Su-ho was asking, maybe he was ready.

“Reconnection matters.” they said.

_____________________________________

It was two days after he got his phone when the nurses called Si-eun down to the lobby for “some paperwork.”

He didn’t suspect anything.

But when he stepped back into Su-ho’s room, the lights dimmed and a small chorus of voices shouted:

“Surprise!”

A lopsided cake sat on the table — topped with candles that were clearly borrowed from different boxes. The nurses began to sing — not too loud, just enough to fill the room with soft celebration, careful not to overwhelm Su-ho in case a migraine was lurking.

And there, in the middle of it all, was Su-ho. Grinning like a kid who’d pulled off the perfect prank.

He reached over and placed the birthday cap on Si-eun’s head with both hands, adjusting it with exaggerated precision, beaming with pride.

“You forgot,” he said, smug. “Didn’t you?”

Si-eun blinked, stunned. “I… yeah.”

“Don’t worry,” Su-ho added, sitting back smugly. “I didn’t.”

Later, when the nurses had left and the sugar had settled into their bloodstream, Si-eun asked him how he remembered.

“You told me once,” Su-ho shrugged. “Last year. I wrote it in my phone. Good thing I got it back, huh?”

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back and watched as Si-eun sat in the chair, awkwardly wiping frosting off his finger, the birthday cap still crooked on his head.

And Su-ho smiled — wide, genuine, joyful — not because of the birthday, but because Si-eun was flustered and bashful and finally not worried for once.

He had planned this moment just to see that face.

_____________________________________

Later that night, with Si-eun already gone for the evening and the ward blanketed in silence, Su-ho lay awake.

He couldn’t sleep — not with all that cake in his system, and definitely not with the memory of the nurses off-key singing echoing in his brain. And now, with thunder beginning to roll in the distance, low and steady, he knew sleep wasn’t coming any time soon.

He rolled onto his side and reached for his phone. The glow of the screen was too bright at first, but he blinked through it, pulling up his photo gallery.

There were dozens of new photos — shots the nurses had helped him take during the birthday surprise. Candid ones of him pointing at the cake, blurry selfies, and one picture that made him pause.

It was of Si-eun. Wearing the birthday cap. Looking absolutely miserable as a candle sat lopsided in the slice of cake in front of him. And right behind him — Su-ho’s face, grinning with a level of satisfaction only achieved through chaotic success.

He smirked, heart unexpectedly warm, and uploaded it to Instagram with the caption:
“Woke up from a coma and found out my best friend got uglier. Happy Birthday, Si-eun.”

Only after posting did he realize — this was his first post in over a year.

A strange quiet settled over him for a beat. Then the notifications began.

The notifications were instant.
“YOU’RE BACK??”
“This made my week.”
“Still an asshole, I see.”
“Bro. We missed you.”

Su-ho kept scrolling, reading the flood of comments with a growing grin.

He hadn’t felt this… seen in a long time. He wasn’t just recovering — he was reconnecting. Reentering the world.

And then, tucked between the laughing emojis and reunion messages, was a comment that stood out — one user, again and again, telling him to check his DMs. Not a question. Not a suggestion. It read more like a demand.

And so he did — not innocently, not with curiosity, but with a heaviness in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

He already knew, somewhere deep down, that this wasn’t a joke or a friendly message.

It felt like a door he shouldn’t open — and yet, his thumb hovered.

“Ah, so you’re active? Good to know you’re back to yourself.
Maybe that means you’re ready to watch this.” the DM read.

The message ended with a video link.

His breath caught.

He didn’t move for a long moment.
His finger twitched.
Then—

He tapped it.
Knowing.
Afraid.
But needing to see.

_____________________________________

Author's Note: I'm really giving Su-ho a hard time aren't I? Hope you're not hating me for it! Can you guess what video he's about to watch? Eeeek! Would love to hear your feedback, it really keeps me going!

Chapter Text

Su-ho tapped the video.

At first, he thought it was someone else — just another grainy fight clip, the kind people shared for shock value. A group of boys, fists and feet raining down on someone who was already on the ground, not resisting, not moving.

Su-ho felt his jaw clench. Even now, even like this, something in him stirred — instinctively angry for the stranger, for the helplessness, for the way they just kept hitting.

But then the camera shifted. And the face beneath those blows — bloodied, limp — was his.

He blinked, heart thudding unevenly in his chest. His lips parted, dry and trembling. And when another kick landed in the video, Su-ho’s head flinched instinctively — as if the pain traveled back in time and struck him all over again.

He twisted too hard. His stomach lurched. The next second, he was vomiting the cake he'd eaten hours ago. His hand trembled. His vision swam. But his finger still hovered over the screen.

“Wh… what is this?” he whispered, voice barely audible.

He hit play again.
And again.
Over and over.

He couldn't understand why.

Why did they hit him like that?
Who were they?
What had he done?
Why hadn’t they stopped?

They kicked him even when he wasn’t resisting. They were laughing, they were mocking, they were merciless. It made no sense. He needed answers, he needed context.

He paused the video, rewound it, squinted. A sign in the background. Something painted on a wall — worn but legible.

The name of the boxing ring. The place where it happened.

Su-ho stared at it like it might unlock everything. His breath was shallow. Part of him felt like he was still there, still on the floor. But something else stirred too — something old, something that never left.

Stubborn.
Wired to fight.
Desperate for answers.

He didn’t think, he just moved. He grabbed his jacket, wore his shoes with shakey yet determined hands. The steps between barely registered. He left the phone on the bed, still buzzing with unread messages.

Half of him was the Su-ho of before — reckless and furious.
The other half was the new one — anxious, fragmented, aching.

But both agreed on one thing:
He had to go.

He didn’t know what he would find. The whole thing was reckless — but the need tugged at something deeper than logic. Maybe they’d be there. Maybe someone would explain. Maybe someone would apologize.

Maybe he can fight back this time.

_____________________________________

Across the city, thunder cracked. Not loud, but enough. It woke Si-eun with a start.

He sat up in bed, heart already racing — and one thought hit him first and hard: Su-ho.

Storms sometimes triggered migraines. Noise and light didn’t mix well with a healing brain. He rubbed his face, still groggy, and instinctively reached for his phone. The first thing he saw was Su-ho’s new Instagram post.

The image was unmistakable: the blurry birthday shot, the paper crown tilted on Si-eun’s head, the frosting still smeared on the plate in front of him. And the caption — stupid but funny in that way only Su-ho could manage.

“Woke up from a coma and found out my best friend got uglier. Happy Birthday, Si-eun.”

Si-eun exhaled something between a sigh and a laugh, thumb hovering as if he wanted to respond, then giving up and just tapping Like. The comments were rolling in fast. People missed Su-ho. They loved him. They were glad to see him awake and himself again.

For a brief moment, Si-eun smiled. Su-ho would wake up in the morning and see all this — all the people who remembered him, waited for him, cared about him. That had to mean something. But then his eyes caught the timestamp.

Posted: 56 minutes ago.

He frowned. That was recent — and late. Late enough that if Su-ho was up, it was probably because he was restless or in pain. A migraine?

He tried to shake the thought, but it stuck. The boy was stubborn. He wouldn’t call the nurses. He’d just ride it out alone. With a knot forming in his chest, Si-eun opened his call log and tapped Su-ho’s number.

Voicemail.

Strange. Su-ho wouldn’t be asleep. Not after all that cake. Not with the thunder screaming so loud.

The Su-ho from before could sleep through a tornado. Fights would break out right next to him and he’d still be dead to the world — slumped over his desk in that ridiculous pink beanie, arms crossed, drooling like he had nothing to worry about.

Now, though, he startled at the softest footstep. A creaking door. A flicker of light. Even the hallway monitor’s voice could rattle him awake. There was no way he’d sleep through the sound of thunder outside.

He tried again, still, voicemail. Something was off.

Trying to quiet his thoughts, Si-eun opened Instagram again — the post still fresh on the screen.

He scrolled through the comments, rereading the cheerful ones. It made Si-eun smile again, and for a minute there, his worry started to ebb.

But then something tugged at his attention.

A repeated comment. Simple. Subtle. From an unfamiliar account.

“Check your DMs. Sent you a little gift from the past.”

It had been posted a few times — no emojis, no friendly tone. Just a line that felt less like a comment and more like bait. Someone wanted to make sure Su-ho reads this.

And knowing how curious Su-ho had been lately — how eager he was to piece up his past — Si-eun was sure he would’ve checked it.

He dialed for the third time — still voicemail. He then tried the hospital room’s landline. No answer.

Finally giving up, he called the nurse station.

“Can you check on Su-ho for me?” he asked.

“Is something wrong?” she replied.

“Just… please.”

A few minutes passed before she called him back.

“He’s not here, and we can't find him.”

_____________________________________

Si-eun was dressed and out the door in minutes. The streets were slick with rain, thunder growling low above the buildings as if it too knew something was wrong. When he arrived at the hospital, the air inside felt colder.

Nurses were already gathered outside Room 217. The same ones who, hours earlier, had been singing birthday songs now stood with creased brows and nervous hands.

“Nothing?” he asked. They shook their heads.

He pushed past them, into the room. It was empty — dim and quiet, save for the faint smell of frosting and candle smoke — a strange reminder of how quickly the night had changed.

His eyes scanned the room. The jacket was gone. So were his shoes. Something about it felt deliberate — like Su-ho hadn’t just wandered off, but made a choice. This wasn’t a stroll through the hospital garden. He had gone somewhere. With purpose.

Si-eun stepped toward the window, eyes tracing the rain-soaked city, mind racing through all the impossible possibilities. His fingers threaded through his hair, pulling at the roots in frustration.

Where could he have gone? Was he meeting the person who sent him the text? Was he lost? Was he hurt? He let out a shaky breath, and that’s when he saw it — a reflection in the window.

Su-ho’s phone. Still lying at the edge of the bed. Still buzzing with Instagram notifications.

His heart leapt.

He left his phone. A clue. A thread. He unlocked it without thinking — Su-ho had never changed the code.

The screen opened to a paused video. He tapped it. And froze.

It was the video. A video he never found the courage nor will he ever, to watch.

He held the phone tight it would almost break, jaw clenched. He had spent months, fucking months shielding Su-ho from this. Only to now find out that he had watched it alone, with no one to comfort him, no one to explain.

“Security says he took a taxi,” one of the nurses said behind him.

“To where?” he rasped.

No one knew.

He turned back to the phone. Clicked into random apps, searching for any clue, any trail that can lead him to Su-ho’s whereabouts.

In the Gallery, he found a screenshot from the video. Zoomed in. Cropped tight around a spray-painted name on the wall behind the fight.

The name of the boxing ring. It hit him all at once.

Si-eun grabbed his coat and bolted for the door.

He knew where Su-ho had gone.

_____________________________________

The gate to the boxing ring stood tall and rusted, its paint faded from too many years of sweat and blood soaked into the floors it guarded. And there stood Su-ho — just outside — frozen.

Rain had long since soaked through his jacket and clothes. Water dripped from his hair, streamed down his face, pooled beneath his shoes. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stood like a statue cast in grief, shivering but unaware, his body locked by something colder than the storm.

For minutes, he simply stood there, staring at the gate as if it might open and tell him what to do next. As if it might answer the question that’s been digging at him since he saw that video.

Why?

And then — thunder.

A crack split the sky, not loud, but sharp and close enough to jolt his nerves awake. His body startled, breath catching, and as if pulled by invisible hands, he stepped forward.
The doors creaked open with a reluctant groan. The boxing ring hadn’t changed. Not in the way it smelled, not in the way the stale air clung to the back of his throat. The space was empty, ghostly in its silence, like the building itself was waiting for him to return.

He moved slowly, fingers grazing along the wall for balance. The strength he’d built in weeks of therapy — the exercises, the walks, the parallel bars — it all felt like a distant joke now. His legs were trembling, betraying him every few steps, and he kept veering into the wall to stay upright.

His breath came shallow, too fast, and every heartbeat seemed to echo in his skull. A headache pressed behind his eyes — no, not a headache. Phantom pain. The memory of fists and boots, the ghost of a concussion that never fully healed.

Somehow, he climbed up the boxing ring and found himself in the center. He looked around, and suddenly, he wasn’t alone.

He blinked — and they were there.
His breath caught in his throat.

Beomseok in one corner, arms crossed. Kang U to the right. The gang. The ones who laughed, who watched, who took part, who pulled at his leg, who left him for dead. They were all around him — mocking, goading, circling like wolves.

He turned slowly, his body trembling, fists rising into a stance that barely echoed what Si-eun had taught him. He can fight them back this time.

But this wasn’t a fight.
It was a nightmare.
And it was taking him whole.

They came at him from all sides — fists and kicks and fury. Each blow landed like a thunderclap: in his chest, his ribs, the back of his skull — reverberating through a body that had only just begun to remember.

He dropped to the ground, arms folding in, curling into himself — the same instinct he’d followed back then. A desperate shield. A silent plea. But just like before, it didn’t save him.

They didn’t stop.

They hadn’t stopped then.

They didn’t stop now.

Everything blurred, every edge of the past bleeding into the now. And then — in the chaos — he saw him.

Beomseok.

His friend.

His enemy.

A ghost.

“Why?” Su-ho choked, voice cracking in disbelief.

“Why!” he screamed through the tears, louder this time, pleading.

Beomseok looked at him with disdain, cold and distant, like the whole thing amused him. Like the violence had never mattered. Like Su-ho never mattered.

“You brought this on yourself, Su-ho,” he sneered. “Acting like you’re better than everyone else — like a hero. Look where it got you.”

The words hit harder than any fist. Su-ho’s breath caught. His mouth opened as if to speak — but no words came. Only a choked, strangled sound.

He clutched his chest like something inside had cracked — not bone, not muscle, but whatever piece of him had held the weight of believing he hadn’t deserved it.

And then something inside Su-ho — broke. His mind split open around the moment.

The boots were coming down hard in his head. Hands pulling at his arms, his legs, his ribs. Gripping. Tearing. Dragging him deeper.

He couldn’t breathe.

His chest wouldn’t rise. His ribs wouldn’t move. His throat clamped shut. He clawed at his own skin — at nothing — trying to scream, trying to find the ground.

"Si... Si-eun." He gasped in desperation. But he was not there. There was nothing to hold onto. The taste of metal filled his mouth. He didn’t know if it was memory or blood.

The boxing ring — once the place he stood strong — now held him like a coffin.

And Su-ho, drowning in the past, forgot for a moment that he had ever survived it.

Chapter Text

This is not a full chapter, just a teaser to get me excited to finish it, and you to read it!

Playlist: BIG Naughty (서동현) - Day After Day

_____________________________________

He saw him, “Su-ho!” he called out — ever the giant in Si-eun’s eyes, but now, crumpled in the center of the boxing ring, he looked impossibly small.

He climbed the ring — soaked hands gripping the ropes, knees banging into the mat.

Su-ho was curled. Shaking, clawing at his chest like his ribs were caging him in.

His red jacket had slipped from his shoulders in the struggle, hanging like a shield that had slid off and exposing the vulnerable man beneath.

“Stop! Please! I can’t brea— I can’t—” Su-ho gasped, each word shattered, each syllable a thread unravelling from his throat.

Si-eun dropped beside him, hands trembling, panic roaring in his ears like the thunder overhead.

“Hey, hey, Su-ho, it’s me, it’s me, look at me!”

But Su-ho didn’t look.

Couldn’t.

His eyes were wild, caught in a place far away — a nightmare, a memory that was still happening. His body flinching from punches that weren’t there. His fingers scratched at his own throat, his legs spasmed against the floor of the ring, kicking in a blind panic.

_____________________________________

Author's Note: If you’ve made it this far, thank you! I’m pouring a lot into this story, but I don't think it's getting much traction, I’d love to know if it’s resonating with you. Should I keep going?

Chapter Text

The taxi hadn’t even come to a full stop before Si-eun pushed the door open. “Wait here!” he told the driver — not waiting for a response. He was already out, feet hitting the wet pavement, the door swinging behind him with a hollow thud.

Rain poured in sheets, cold and heavy, but he didn’t notice. The storm didn’t matter.

What did was the gate up ahead — half open.

Proof.
Someone had been here.
And at this hour, it could only be Su-ho.
His heart climbed into his throat. He ran.

“Su-ho!” he shouted, voice cracked from panic, slicing through the rain.

No answer.

“Su-ho!”

Still nothing.

The light inside was dim, flickering like it didn’t want to reveal what it knew. And for a moment, Si-eun thought maybe the place was empty — that maybe he’d been wrong, that maybe, miraculously, Su-ho hadn’t come here after all.

But then he heard it.
Not a voice.
Not words.
Just the ragged, panicked sound of someone struggling to breathe — wet, gasping pulls of air, like lungs forgetting how to work. His stomach turned to stone.

He saw him, “Su-ho!” he called out — ever the giant in Si-eun’s eyes, but now, crumpled in the center of the boxing ring, he looked impossibly small.

He climbed the ring — soaked hands gripping the ropes, knees banging into the mat.

Su-ho was curled. Shaking, clawing at his chest like his ribs were caging him in.

His red jacket had slipped from his shoulders in the struggle, hanging like a shield that had slid off and exposing the vulnerable man beneath.

“Stop! Please! I can’t brea— I can’t—” Su-ho gasped, each word shattered, each syllable a thread unravelling from his throat.

Si-eun dropped beside him, hands trembling, panic roaring in his ears like the thunder overhead.

“Hey, hey, Su-ho, it’s me, it’s me, look at me!”

But Su-ho didn’t look.

Couldn’t.

His eyes were wild, caught in a place far away — a nightmare, a memory that was still happening. His body flinching from punches that weren’t there. His fingers scratched at his own throat, his legs spasmed against the floor of the ring, kicking in a blind panic.

Si-eun moved behind him, fast. He pulled Su-ho’s body up against his chest, wrapping one arm around his torso to keep him steady, the other moving gently — firmly — to tilt his head back.

“Breathe with me, okay? Su-ho— just breathe. Come on, come back.”

But Su-ho was still lost.

“I can’t— They’re—
Beom… Beomseok—”

The name cracked through the air like lightning, and something in Si-eun’s expression shattered. His jaw clenched, his eyes darkened, his entire body tensed with something bitter and rising — but he swallowed it.

“No!” he whispered, holding Su-ho tighter. “Ignore him. Don’t go back there. You’re here — with me. Right now. Breathe, Su-ho. Come on.”

But Su-ho’s struggle to hold on was weakening — his limbs twitching less, his eyes beginning to roll back, and his lips taking on a frightening shade of blue. Inch by inch, his body was surrendering, slipping out of the fight like it no longer remembered how to hold on.

“No! Su-ho!” Si-eun shouted, voice trembling as he cupped his chin, firmly turning his face toward him — away from the ghosts that only Su-ho could still see. “Breathe, dammit! Look at me. In and out. In and out—”

His own chest heaved as he counted each breath aloud, steady and firm. He pulled Su-ho closer, pressing his back against his chest so he could feel and mimic the rise and fall.

“Come on. Follow me, Su-ho. In. And out.”

Su-ho’s legs were scraping weakly against the mat. But then— a twitch. His chest hitched.

“Yes! That’s it—yes, yes—come on—again.”

Si-eun's hands firmly dug into Su-ho's chest, holding him like he was holding back the tide, like if he let go even an inch, he’d lose him forever.

Su-ho let out a sound — not a breath, not a word, something between a grunt and a cry, but it was real.

Another breath came.

Then another.

Longer.

Painful — but alive.

And slowly, the tension drained. Su-ho’s arms fell to his sides. His head slumped back against Si-eun’s shoulder, too heavy to lift.

Drained.
Spent.

And then — barely more than a whisper, cracked and raw:

“Si-eun?”

Just his name — but it carried the weight of everything: fear and exhaustion, the quiet plea to know he wasn’t alone. That someone still tethered him to this world.

Si-eun’s arms only tightened in response.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Can you hear me?”

He tilted Su-ho’s head back gently when Su-ho didn’t respond, his hand cradling his forehead.

Su-ho’s eyes were open — but glassy, unfocused, the color clouded. His lips were quivering from the air he’d only just reclaimed. Then came the tears.

He collapsed forward, weakly wrapping his hands around Si-eun’s arm, clutching him like he was the only real thing left in the world. Then the sobs came hard.

No words, just grief, and the weight of the ghosts that had clawed their way back into his lungs.

Si-eun held him, not trying to quiet him, not trying to fix anything. Just rocking him through the onslaught of remebering that terrible night.

And in the dark corners of the ring, the ghosts— cruel as they were — turned away in silence, as if ashamed to witness what they’d done.

_____________________________________

Si-eun had to half carry him to the taxi.

Su-ho’s arm was slung around his shoulder, limp and heavy, his steps disjointed and unsteady, as though every lesson, every hour of balance therapy had been erased by the ghosts now clinging to his bones. “Come on, Su-ho… just a bit further,” Si-eun whispered, voice tight with strain, his own legs half-carrying them both as the rain continued to fall, soaking them to the skin.

But Su-ho wasn’t there.

Not really. His head lolled against the crook of Si-eun’s neck, breath warm and laboured, each inhale shallow and uneven.

When they reached the taxi, the driver said nothing. He only reached into the backseat, handed Si-eun an old emergency blanket. Si-eun took it without a word and wrapped it around Su-ho’s shivering frame, tucking it in with careful, shaking hands.

Every now and then, Si-eun would ask “You still with me?” or “You hear me, Su-ho?”

The answers never came in words. Sometimes a low grunt. Once, a blink. But mostly, silence — the kind that tore into Si-eun’s heart.

Halfway through the ride, Su-ho’s body began to tilt, his strength giving way. Without hesitation, Si-eun guided him down, carefully cradling his head onto his lap. One hand braced his shoulder; the other adjusted the blanket, pulling it snug across his trembling frame.

By the time they arrived, nurses were already waiting under the hospital’s overhang. Two orderlies carried Su-ho gently from the car unto the awaiting stretcher. Su-ho never resisted, his eyes were closed now.

They moved quickly — removing the soaked jacket and shirt, replacing them with a fresh gown as Si-eun stood in the corner, arms crossed tightly across his chest, trying not to shake.

When they finished, Su-ho looked like he had more than a month ago. Pale, too small for the bed. He wasn’t fully unconscious. His eyes were half-mast, following movement distantly. He didn’t speak, but when they tried to take his blood pressure, he shook his head softly and batted the nurse’s hand away. He folded inward, again and again, shrinking by the minute.

As expected, the fever and migraines came that night. It wrapped around him like a second skin, his breath ragged, his body trembling. Nightmares followed suit, jagged mutterings of names, of punches, of air that wouldn’t come. Si-eun sat by the bed the whole night, wiping his face with cold cloths, whispering through the worst of it:

“It’s in the past, Su-ho. It’s over. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

By morning, the onslaught had passed, but the silence remained.

_____________________________________

Su-ho hadn’t eaten in over a week.

Not the Doganitang Si-eun brought.

Not the rice bowls. Not even the kimbap the nurse made especially for him because she knew he loved it extra spicey.

He didn’t react—maybe didn’t even notice—when they made the hard call to reinsert the IV, feeding him the nutrients his body no longer had the will to accept any other way. A quiet setback that settled heavily on Si-eun’s heart.

He hadn’t spoken a single word since he’d whispered Si-eun’s name like a lifeline back in the ring. He barely drank. His body had grown thinner. Hollow. But Si-eun kept coming.

He tended to his migraines. They came more often now, sudden and merciless. And each one left Su-ho a little more worn, a little more like the shell they all thought he grew out of.

Su-ho skipped his physical therapy sessions, so Si-eun would quietly massage his legs, scared that if he didn’t, his muscles would forget how to walk again.

After what happened that night at the ring, everyone — the nurses, the doctors, even Si-eun — agreed on one thing: Su-ho needed to speak with a mental health professional. Someone trained to reach the corners of his mind that even Si-eun couldn't. Someone who could help him untangle the weight of what he remebered. But Su-ho wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t meet their eyes. Wouldn’t let anyone in.

He would shake his head whenever Si-eun or the nurses suggested a walk around the garden, even when the sun warmed the window beside his bed. Almost like he was afraid the ghosts would be waiting just beyond the door, ready to drag him back under.

But through it all, Si-eun stayed. He sat through every long hour of every longer night — watching Su-ho sleep without rest, breathe without peace.

The silence persisted.

Until one afternoon, almost 2 weeks into this new norm. As Si-eun stood just outside Su-ho’s door, he caught the tail end of a hushed conversation between two nurses in the hallway.

One of them held a tray — a slice of pizza gone cold, untouched.

“If he doesn’t eat anything by mouth by tomorrow…” she murmured, her voice low but heavy, “we’ll have to start talking about a feeding tube.”

The words landed like ice down his spine.
A feeding tube.
That wasn’t just a setback — it was a surrender.

It was admitting that Su-ho was slipping so far backward that even survival was being negotiated now.

And suddenly, all the patience Si-eun had built — the weeks, months of quiet presence, of gentle waiting, of silent aching — cracked.

_____________________________________

He stormed into the room without knocking, breath ragged, heart pounding like a war drum.

Su-ho was lying in bed, turned toward the window, body unmoving.

So he slammed the door behind him, hard.

Su-ho flinched. Good.

“That’s it?” Si-eun shouted, voice cracking. “This is what you’re doing now? Starving yourself until they stick a feeding tube down your throat?!”

Su-ho turned — just slightly.

“You’re telling me I did all this for nothing? That I sat by your side, watched you claw your way back to life, just to see it all unravel because of ghosts we already bled for?” his voice hitched.

He was tired of walking on eggshells. Tired of watching the person he loved disappear inch by inch behind the silence. Tired of pretending this didn’t hurt.

“All this time, I’ve been here,” he said, his voice rising with every word. “I’ve been showing up. Talking to you. Reading to you. Sitting in that damn chair for hours, hoping that maybe today you’d say something, do something, eat something. And every day, I leave wondering if I’m doing more harm than good.”

He swallowed hard, barely able to see through the tears.

And then—he broke.

With a sudden, raw motion, Si-eun slammed a fist into his own chest.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
Hard. Sharp. Loud.

Su-ho now fully turned to the sound, face pale but alarmed.

“Why is it still you paying the price?!” he shouted, each word a blow.

“Haven’t you had enough?!”

Another strike, harder this time. His whole body jerked with it.

Su-ho’s eyes widened.

Si-eun kept going, fists pounding against his chest as though trying to beat sense into a world that refused to give it to them.

“You survived the coma, the memory loss, the pain — and it still won’t let you go?”

Si-eun’s voice cracked, shattered by fury and grief.

He slammed his fist into his chest —again, and again — bruising himself with every word.

Each blow echoed through the room like a scream.

And something in Su-ho stirred. A flicker beneath the weight. A tremor beneath the numb.

Because Si-eun was hurting. Because he was breaking himself open just to reach him.

Somewhere deep in Su-ho’s bones — in the parts of him that still remembered who he was — that old, familiar instinct sparked to life. The part that always stepped between pain and the people he loved.

He couldn’t move. Not really. But he tried. His body starved from days of silence and refusing food. His hand reached weakly for the bedrail, trembling with the effort.

“Stop… stop…” he rasped, too quiet to be heard over the storm of Si-eun’s sobs and fists.

His body strained toward the one person who had never left — the one person now falling apart in front of him.

“Stop it Si-eun…” he rasped as Si-eun continued to pound his chest. But the room was swallowed by Si-eun’s rage..

“I avoided it for you,” he continued, voice trembling. “I danced around it, buried it, pretended it didn’t matter—because I thought I was protecting you. But I was wrong.”

He ran both hands down his face, chest heaving.

“And now I watch it eat you alive every day in silence. I’ve watched it burn away everything we worked for. And I’m done.”

He took a breath — not steady, but filled with fire.

“If we have to face it, then fine. We’ll face it. We’ll talk about it, bleed it out, heal whatever we can. I’ll fucking bring them to you, one by one, and I’ll knock the breath out of their lungs until they choke their apologies in blood.”

He stepped forward, inches from Su-ho now, who was trying to get up, but he didn’t notice.

“But I’m not watching you disappear again. Not while I’m still breathing.”

The room quieted — except for Si-eun’s broken breathing.

Something in Si-eun’s raw, aching desperation — in the way he broke himself open to reach him — cracked through the numbness Su-ho had been buried under for weeks.

Si-eun caught it.

“You don’t get to give up, Su-ho. Not you. Not after everything.”

After a few unsteady breaths, Su-ho spoke, with a voice so broken and hurt.
“But they… they crossed a line.”

The words fell out, soft but weighted — and with them, a single tear slipped down Su-ho’s cheek, carving a quiet streak across Si-eun’s heart.

He hated it — hated that he was the one reminding Su-ho of this pain. But the alternative? Letting him rot in silence, disappear inch by inch? That was unthinkable.

Some wounds couldn’t be spared. They had to be opened — like a seam split wide, so it could finally be stitched right.

“Yes.” His voice softened. “Yes, they did. They did, Su-ho.”

Su-ho’s jaw clenched. His throat worked to form something more, searching Si-eun’s face like it held the answers.

“Wh… why?” he asked, lips cracked from malnutrition, voice soft but quivering with a dying fury, his fingers tightening around the bedrail, the only thing keeping him from sinking back into the tide.

Si-eun sat down beside the bed, lowering himself to eye level with Su-ho, both hands gently covering his. The fury from before fading.

“Because the world is a fucking ugly place, that’s why.” His voice trembled. “Because people are cruel. And selfish. And they hurt noble people like you without ever thinking twice. But…”

He reached out, placed a hand behind Su-ho’s neck.

“But I’m here.”

He swallowed.

“You’re here.”

His voice cracked again.

“And that means we fight back. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s ugly. Even if you hate me for dragging you through it.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, but he didn’t blink them away.

“I stayed because you stayed. Because even when you forgot me, I knew you were still in there. And I'm not going to lose you again. Not like this.”

Silence settled between them like a blanket — heavy, but no longer suffocating.

Then Su-ho reached up. A weak tug.

Si-eun leaned down. And Su-ho wrapped his arms around him. Fragile. Trembling. But real.

Si-eun broke.

He sank into the hug, arms locking around Su-ho’s frame, burying his face into his shoulder. The sob escaped — raw and helpless, torn from a place too deep for words.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I just— I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know how to help.”

It was Su-ho who whispered next.

“You did. You helped.”

His voice was weak. But steady.

“I wanted to come back… I just didn’t know how.”

He held him tighter, like he knew that now it was Si-eun who needed to be held.

“Breathe,” Su-ho murmured. “In and out, right?”

And together, they did.

The sobs slowed. The ghosts faded. The air felt a little less heavy.

Si-eun’s forehead rested gently against Su-ho’s as they sat there, held together by exhaustion and relief — not because the pain was gone, but because it had finally been seen.

And the memory — the one that had haunted Su-ho’s breath and stolen every step — no longer loomed like a threat in the dark.

It remained, yes. Every name. Every face. Every blow. But now, it pulsed like a scar over healing skin — not a wound, but a vow. A reminder that he had survived. That he was still here. That he had every right to fight harder.

The silence stretched, softer now. Easier.

Then, from where his head rested against Si-eun’s shoulder, Su-ho exhaled slowly and muttered:

“Feeding tube my ass. Let ‘em try.”

Si-eun blinked. Then let out a sound — half-laugh, half-sob.

And Su-ho, eyes half-lidded, managed the faintest of grins.

Chapter Text

This is not a full chapter, just a t to teaser get me excited to finish it, and you to read it!

Playlist: BIG Naughty (서동현) - Day After Day

_____________________________________

Si-eun stopped in his tracks. His hand dropping the box.

Beom-seok took a tentative step. His eyes were filled with regret, guilt, fear, his voice was stuttering. “I’m not here to fight Si-eun.” he said. “I came to—”

But Si-eun didn’t hear it. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

In two strides, he was in front of him — one hand gripping the collar of Beomseok’s shirt, the other shoving him hard into the wall with a thud that made a nearby nurse glance up.

“You came to what?” Si-eun snapped, voice low and venomous. “To feel better about yourself? Like the others before you? To see what was left of him? To witness the damage you caused?”

“No Si-eun,” Beomseok said, horrified. “No I swear, I came to ask for Su-ho’s forgiveness.”

A laugh escaped Si-eun — bitter, brittle, and hollow with disbelief, “Forgiveness? You don’t get to ask for that. You don’t even get to say his name!” he growled through clenched teeth.

_____________________________________

Stay tuned! Also, would love to hear your feedback while I have you here :)

Chapter Text

The slow return of appetite wasn’t a miracle. It was a quiet, hesitant process — like coaxing a wilted thing back to life after 2 weeks of surviving on nothing but saline.

It started with soup. Watery, bland, barely touched the first time. Su-ho stared at it like it offended him, the spoon trembling slightly in his grip. Si-eun didn’t say anything. He just sat nearby, watching with a gentle, unreadable expression.

“I’m not dying,” Su-ho muttered once, halfway through a spoonful.

“No,” Si-eun said dryly, “but you’re not winning any arm-wrestling contests either.”

Su-ho didn’t reply to the joke, but the corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but enough to make Si-eun’s heart ease a little.

Things were getting better. Not all at once. Not in the way anyone hoped. But little by little — one spoonful, one physical therapy session, one hour with the mental health counsellor (where Su-ho offered more eye rolls than actual words). It was the kind of progress that didn’t make noise, but left its mark in steadier ways.

But still, in the quiet hours of the day, Su-ho would sometimes go still — his eyes fixed on nothing in particular, like he was halfway between here and somewhere else. And in those silences, Si-eun would wonder if the ghosts were still pulling at him, quiet and patient, waiting for their chance to throw another punch, another kick.

But he wouldn’t give them one.

The moment he saw that distant look in Su-ho’s eyes, he’d speak — anything, a jab, a joke, even nonsense just to break the spell. Sometimes he’d nudge him gently, hand to shoulder, anchoring him with something real. Other times, he’d shove a spoon into his hand or point out a squirrel on the windowsill like it mattered more than anything else. Anything to drag him back.

And though Su-ho rarely reacted, rarely said a word, he noticed. Every small gesture, every soft attempt — he saw it. And even if he couldn’t always show it, he appreciated it more than anything else Si-eun had ever done for him.

So when the doctor suggested a short outing — some sunlight, a bit of walking by the beach — it felt less like a medical recommendation and more like a window cracking open. Si-eun didn’t hesitate. He took the suggestion like a quiet permission to keep pulling — not just back from the ghosts, but forward into something lighter.

And so they went.

Su-ho insisted on the red jacket. It barely hung off his frame, but he held his head high. Si-eun didn’t miss the way the wind ruffled his hair, or how Su-ho squinted into the sun like he was seeing the world for the first time in a long time.

They walked quietly, side by side. Su-ho’s hands in his pockets. The sand gave beneath his sneakers in ways his recovering legs hadn’t trained for, but he didn’t complain. He walked anyway.

At one point, he stopped, gazed at the setting sun.

“Thanks,” he said simply.

“For what?”

Su-ho shrugged. “For staying. For not pushing when I wasn’t ready. And for pushing when I needed it.”

Si-eun looked at him. “You’re not done yet, you know.”

“I know.”

And that was that.

_____________________________________

The ward felt lighter that day.

Sun poured through the windows, and the hallway didn’t echo with the usual sharpness. Instead, there was laughter — hushed, careful, but real — coming from Room 217. It wasn’t often that a milestone like this came around. One full month with no migraines. Not a single seizure. Not even a dizzy spell. It was enough to make the nurses string up a banner and Si-eun bringing cake with a single candle stuffed in it.

Su-ho smirked — crooked, amused — and rolled his eyes before leaning forward and blowing out the candle with a dramatic puff. “Make a wish,” one of the nurses teased.

“I already got it,” Su-ho said, throwing Si-eun a quick wink — one that earned nothing more than an awkward, slightly exasperated smile in return.

It warmed the room.

There was talk of discharge now. Tentative. Probationary. But real.

Su-ho had been thrilled. He Wanted air. Movement. Life. And yet, Si-eun’s heart twisted with every mention of it.

Because Su-ho had died here, in a way. He had broken, rebuilt, unlearned and re-remembered who he was — all within these sterile walls. And while Si-eun wanted nothing more than to see him walk out on his own two feet, whole and laughing… part of him feared what came next.

Maybe the world outside hadn’t changed. Maybe it was still cruel, waiting with sharp edges and old ghosts. Maybe it would try to take Su-ho again. But then Si-eun would catch a glimpse of Su-ho’s face — bright with quiet excitement, eyes fixed on the window, eager for what’s out there, excited to ride his bike again, to meet people again — and the worry in his chest would soften. Because if Su-ho still had hope for the world, maybe it was worth hoping for.

_____________________________________

Si-eun had just returned from the post office, a cardboard box tucked under one arm and Su-ho’s name scribbled on the side in thick black ink. Inside were the shirts Su-ho had picked out for his discharge — new clothes that actually fit his frame now, not the loose, oversized ones that hung from him like ghosts of who he used to be.

He’d been excited, oddly picky about colors and collars, and had even asked Si-eun for an opinion on whether light blue was "too hopeful." Si-eun had laughed at the time, and now, walking down the corridor with the box in hand, he was still smiling at the memory of Su-ho’s excitement.

It was a rare thing: to see him looking forward.

And then he turned the corner.

And the warmth fell from his face like sunlight hitting cold tile.

Because standing there, too still to belong, was Beomseok.

As if he had a right to be here. As if he hadn’t helped destroy everything he was trying to rebuild.

_____________________________________

Si-eun stopped in his tracks. His hand dropping the box.

Beomseok took a tentative step. His eyes were filled with regret, guilt, fear, his voice was stuttering. “I’m not here to fight Si-eun.” he said. “I came to—”

But Si-eun didn’t hear it. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

In two strides, he was in front of him — one hand gripping the collar of Beomseok’s shirt, the other shoving him hard into the wall with a thud that made a nearby nurse glance up.

“You came to what?” Si-eun snapped, voice low and venomous. “To feel better about yourself? Like the others before you? To see what was left of him? To witness the damage you caused?”

“No Si-eun,” Beomseok said, horrified. “No I swear, I came to apologize to Su-ho. To you.”

Si-eun laughed. Cold. Disbelieving. “Apologize? Fuck. You don’t even get to say his name!” he snarled, face inches away from his.

Beomseok winced but didn’t look away. “I know I don’t deserve it. But I’ve been living with this every single day—”

“Good,” Si-eun cut in as he took a few steps back. “You should live with it. You should wake up every morning with his face in your head, with the sound of him choking on his own breath while you beat him with no fucking mercy.” he choked on the last words.

Beomseok flinched.

Si-eun stepped closer, chest heaving now. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like watching him come back inch by inch? Not knowing if he’d ever walk again? Speak again? Do you?”

“I’m sorry.” Beomseok whispered. “Please, that’s why I’m here.”

“No,” Si-eun said, teeth clenched. “You’re here because you think you can start over. That maybe if he smiles back at you, that you can go back to living your quiet little life pretending it wasn’t your kicks that broke him.”

“I didn’t—” Beomseok started, but the words crumbled. He looked down. “I’m sorry.” He said between heaves.

Si-eun’s hands were trembling now. Only now did he realize that this was the first time he’s spoken to Beomseok since that dreaded day in school more than a year ago. “You kicked him senseless, and you left him to die, you left him to fucking die!”

Beomseok closed his eyes. “I hated myself. And I didn’t know where else to throw it. So I threw it at him. And it’s haunted me since.”

A sound cracked out of his Si-eun’s chest, somewhere between a snarl and a cry, and in a flash, he picked up the discarded box and shoved it a few centimeters from Beomseok’s face, sending it skidding across the floor.

Then Beomseok was slammed against the wall once more, harder this time that the hallway window trembled in its frame.

“You’re haunted?” Si-eun spat. “Try being beaten half to death and left behind. That’s what haunted looks like.”

Beomseok flinched at the words. His eyes were wide, hands lifted, voice shaking, almost sensing the rage in Si-eun’s eyes reaching a boiling point.

“I’m sorry, Si-eun. I am. Please—”

But Si-eun wasn’t listening.

Flashes came.
Su-ho in the ICU, doctors telling him he may never wake up again.
Su-ho vomiting from pain.
Su-ho clawing at an oxygen mask, whispering Si-eun’s name like it was the only thing keeping him on this side of the world.

Beomseok.
His so-called friend.
He let it happen.

Si-eun saw red. He didn’t remember drawing his fist back — only the rush of heat as it landed.

Beomseok’s head snapped sideways, a smear of blood blooming on his lip.

Another blow. Another. He didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care what this looked like.

This was justice.
This was for every scream Su-ho never let out.
This was his moment.

He heard someone yelling his name — a familiar but fading voice, like it was underwater. But his hands didn’t stop. His knuckles were burning. His chest was heaving.

He would fucking break him, the way he broke Su-ho.

“Si-eun no!”

The same voice, this time louder — desperate.

A hand grabbed his arm and weakly yanked him back.

And just like that, the rage shattered.

He turned.

It was Su-ho.

Standing barefoot in the hallway, oversized hoodie hanging off his shoulders, eyes wide with something beyond fear. His chest was heaving — each breath sharp and ragged. One hand gripped the doorframe for support; the other stayed on Si-eun’s shoulder, half-anchor, half-warning — Don’t.

“Please… enough.” His voice ragged.

Of course, even now — even now — after all the damage, all the pain this filth had caused, Su-ho couldn’t bear to see someone else being hurt because of him.

And that tore into Si-eun’s heart.

“Su-ho?”

But Su-ho’s grip loosened. He didn’t answer, couldn’t.

One moment ago, Beomseok had been a ghost.
Now he was real.
And Su-ho’s mind couldn’t cope. It was too fast, too sudden.

Both hands gripped his head like he was bracing against an invisible blow. He staggered, knees almost giving out.

Si-eun was at his side in an instant, the fight forgotten, the fury evaporating into panic.

“Su-ho—hey—look at me.” He steadied him. Behind them, Beomseok didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His wounds forgotten.

He just stared — frozen, haunted, horrified — at the pale, thin figure trembling against the wall. At the wreckage of what he'd done. At the quiet ruin of someone he once called strong.

Su-ho barely heard Si-eun’s reassuring words. The hallway was spinning. His ears rang. The weight of Beomseok’s presence made the air feel heavier than ever.

“Leave!” Si-eun roared without turning. “You don’t get to see him like this. Get out!”

Beomseok hesitated. “Please… just let me—”

“Get the fuck out!” Si-eun barked, his voice reverberating through the corridor.

Su-ho leaned his head back against the wall, his breath shallow, his hand still clutched at his temple. The voices blurred. He caught fragments but they were like echoes bouncing off his skin. His body remembered more than his ears could register.

_____________________________________

And in the dark of that night, when silence wrapped itself around them like a shroud, the migraine returned — almost mocking their earlier celebration.

The hours were spent with Su-ho curled inward, wrapped in blankets and sweat and silence, while Si-eun sat beside him, rubbing slow circles into his back. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t need to.

The pain would pass — they had learned that much.

And when it did, when the shivering had stopped and the nausea had dulled, Su-ho whispered, his voice cracked like old paper, “What did he want?”

Si-eun exhaled, the weight of the night still heavy on his chest. His hand absentmindedly rubbing on his newly bruised fist.

“He wanted to apologize.”

Su-ho gave a low, tired grunt — somewhere between disbelief and dismissal — then turned his head away, eyes already fluttering shut again.

The conversation was over. At least for now.

_____________________________________

The next day, everything felt off. Not pain, not illness, but a restlessness that settled just beneath Su-ho’s skin like static.

In physical therapy, he moved like someone who didn’t want to be there. His posture was tight, his responses clipped. When the therapist asked him to repeat the stair climb — something he’d conquered weeks ago — Su-ho sighed heavily, as if the stairs themselves had done something to offend him.

He took the first two steps with force, faster than he needed to. On the third, his foot slipped slightly, not enough to fall, but enough to make him stumble and catch the rail.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Take your time,” the therapist said gently. “You’ve done this before. No rush.”

“I know I’ve done it before,” Su-ho snapped. Regret followed instantly, heavy and bitter. He hated turning his frustration against the people trying to help.

He let out a breath, softer this time. “I’m just… tired.” But he wasn't tired, he was frustrated.

By the time they made it back to his room, he didn’t say another word. Not to the nurse. Not to the therapist. Not to Si-eun, who was waiting by the door with a small box of dumplings.

Su-ho glanced at it, gave a one-word answer — “Later” — and dropped onto the bed like gravity had doubled.

Si-eun didn’t press him. He just sat across the room, watching.

He knew the signs by now. When Su-ho didn’t eat, it wasn’t about the food. It was about everything else — the storm beneath the surface, the questions left unanswered, the knots still untied.

And this time, it was Beomseok’s face still echoing in his memory.

Su-ho wasn’t spiraling. But he was stuck. And sometimes, that was just as hard to watch.

A few days later, Su-ho gave up. He asked quietly, almost hesitantly, “Can you call him?”

Si-eun looked up from his chair. “No.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“He doesn’t deserve a second of your time.”

“Maybe not.” Su-ho’s voice was soft, but firm. “But I’m not doing it for him. I need this. It’s been eating at me. I want it closed.”

Si-eun hesitated. Then nodded — a quiet surrender. Whatever it took to pull Su-ho out of this restlessness.

_____________________________________

Beomseok arrived early the next morning. He didn’t knock right away. Just stood outside the room, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched as if trying to fold himself smaller. His face bore new bruises thanks to Si-eun’s fists — faint, swollen marks across his cheek and jaw. He hadn’t bothered to cover them.

He wore them like confession. Like proof of pain he thought he deserved.

The night before, he’d received a short call from Si-eun. Just a few clipped words.

“Come. Say what you have to say, then leave. And listen carefully — if one word leaves your mouth that isn’t an apology, I’ll break your neck. That’s not a threat. That’s a promise.”

And now, as he opened the door, every syllable of that warning echoed in his spine. The room was quiet. Tense.

He looked at Si-eun. He stood against the far wall like a shadow carved from steel, eyes sharp, arms crossed — the very picture of restraint held together by the thinnest thread. His gaze followed every inch of Beomseok’s movement like he was tracking a threat.

But he couldn't look at Su-ho. Instead, he stepped in, lowered his head, and bowed. Not a polite dip, but a deep, shaking bend until his forehead touched the floor.

He spoke from there.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “I know what I did can’t be undone. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I needed to say it. I needed you to hear it.”

Silence.

When Su-ho finally spoke, his voice was calm. Cold. “Stand up.”

Beomseok hesitated. "I'm so sorry Su—"

“Stand up.” Su-ho cut him off, his voice firmer this time. “I want to look you in the eye when I say this.”

Slowly, Beomseok straightened. He lifted his gaze inch by inch — and Su-ho met it, unflinching. What Beomseok saw in those eyes wasn’t hatred. It was worse.

It was pain — not raw, but sifted through, endured, and worn down to what still remained.

“I saw the video,” Su-ho said, almost casually.

Beomseok winced like the words had struck bone. He hadn’t known Su-ho saw the video — saw everything.

“You know what killed me the most?” Su-ho asked, voice thick with disbelief masquerading as wonder. “It wasn’t the pain. Or the boots. Or the sound of me choking on my own breath.”

He looked up at the wall-mounted TV for a few seconds, as if he could see the video playing back on the blank screen. Then his gaze dropped back to Beomseok.

“It was how easy it was for you.”

His voice dropped, brittle.

“No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just hit after hit after hit.”

A pause.

“I started wondering if you were trying to break me… or escape yourself.”

Beomseok’s breath caught. His knees wobbled slightly. Hands trembling, he pressed them to his sides to keep from falling apart.

“I was angry,” he whispered. “At myself. At everyone. But mostly at me. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I aimed it at you. You didn’t deserve it. None of it. That’s all I have come to say.”

His voice trembled, each word brittle — not spoken to be forgiven, but to be heard. It hovered there, fragile and unresolved.

The silence was broken by Si-eun’s disbelieving laugh.

"So that’s it? You show up, say sorry, and what — expect to be let off the hook?" His words cut like a knife, ready to tear into whatever scraps of guilt Beomseok still wore.

But before he could say more, Su-ho lifted his hand. A small gesture, but firm. It was all it took.

Si-eun fell quiet.

Su-ho didn’t look at him — his eyes remained on Beomseok. Not with rage, not even sorrow anymore, but with something colder. Final.

Not forgiveness.

Closure.

Su-ho didn’t want this moment stretched any further than it already had been. Didn’t want this ache to echo longer than necessary.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet — steady, composed, and far away. The kind of voice that left no room for return.

“Go,” he said. “Find your peace.”

Ever the noble. Ever the protector. But this time, the door wasn’t left open.

“I found mine.” Su-ho said as his gaze dropped to his hands.

Then looked back up, eyes sharper than before. “But don’t ever come near me again.”

His voice become firmer with every word.

“Don’t come near Si-eun. Don’t ask about us. Don’t say our names. You get to carry the guilt, Beomseok — but you don’t get access to our lives anymore.”

A wound exposed, stitched, and sealed.

Beomseok nodded — a single, quiet gesture, barely more than breath. He would carry this weight, if it meant Su-ho could set his down. Forgiveness was never his to ask for, and closure never his to claim.

But if Su-ho had found peace, then Beomseok would shoulder the rest — the guilt, the pain, the echo of everything he broke — and walk away with it carved into him. And without another word, he turned and walked out the door.

As the door clicked softly shut behind Beomseok, Si-eun let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He turned to Su-ho.

He was quiet — not withdrawn, just still. Composed. But then Si-eun noticed his hands.

Both fists clenched tightly in his lap, knuckles pale.

Worry flickered in Si-eun’s eyes. “Su-ho…”

“I’m fine,” Su-ho said, without looking up. His voice was steady. “I needed this.”

And though Su-ho said nothing more, Si-eun could see it in the way his shoulders settled, in the quiet set of his jaw — it had taken something from him to speak those words. But in return, it gave him something he hadn’t held in a long time: a piece of himself. His pride. His dignity.

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The hallway looked longer than usual. Maybe it was the way the morning sun filtered in through the windows, painting everything gold. Or maybe it was just the weight of it — the memories, the moments pressed into the very walls. Every tile, every scuff mark, every faded corner of this hospital knew a piece of him.

One year and 3 months.

That’s how long it took. One year to come back to the world. And three months to learn how to live in it again. Waking up was only the beginning — the true battle came after: finding his footing, reclaiming his voice, and remembering how to belong to a world that had kept spinning without him. Every breath since has been a quiet rebellion. Every step, a small act of becoming. Months of white ceilings and IV beeps. Of nurses who learned to read his pain in the twitch of an eyebrow. Of Si-eun sitting through every storm, every step, every night Su-ho thought he might never wake up whole again.

It all lived in the walls behind him now — the jokes, the tears, the food he refused, the days he slept through recovery and the nights he swore he’d try harder. His body still remembered it all.

And now, he was walking out. Not as fast as he once could. Not as strong. But he was upright. Steady. Firm.

Beside him, of course, was Si-eun. Silent. Watching him like he always did — not with pity, but with unshakable love and loyalty that kept Su-ho anchored through the worst of it.

The nurses lined the corridor. Not in a formal way, not in some grand farewell, but with quiet smiles and glassy eyes. One of them wiped her cheek discreetly. Another waved at him with a little snack bag tucked in her other hand — the same kind she used to sneak to him when he refused dinner.

He bowed his head as he passed. Grateful for their patience and kindness. Because they had seen him at his most broken — trembling, burning, gasping for breath — and treated him not like a patient, but like a person who could still come back.

And somehow, he had.

There were celebrations in these halls — milestones marked by kimbaps and dumplings. There had been pain too. So much of it. Seizures and setbacks that stole energy from him like thieves. But also warmth. Also laughter. Also the sound of Si-eun’s voice when he was too tired to respond but needed the noise to survive.

And now he was leaving it behind. Not to forget it. But to carry it with him.

Because no matter what the world outside threw at him — no matter how much stronger he would grow, or how far he would walk — this place had become a chapter in his story that he could never erase.

One of the hardest. One of the most beautiful.

As they neared the front doors, Si-eun nudged him gently. “You ready?”

Su-ho nodded.

Then, without a word, he slipped on his red jacket. A little bright. A little bold. But it fit him now — in body and in spirit.

The boy who had once collapsed in these halls now stood at their threshold, the morning light washing over his face.

And when he stepped outside, eyes clear — it wasn’t just a step.

It was a return.

To life.

To self.

To everything he still had the strength to become.

Because no matter what happened before — the beatings, the pain, the forgetting — he would always be this:

A fighter. A protector. Si-eun’s friend.

And the red jacket swayed, catching the wind like a flag of victory.

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Author's Note: That was a long one — tough, sad, but a little uplifting in the end eh? I won’t lie, I got emotional writing those last few moments of Su-ho walking down the hospital hallway. I truly hope I stayed true to his character. This is my first fanfic so forgive me if I stretched things out of character a bit.

This story is deeply personal to me by the way. I’ve been through something similar, I’ve been hospitalized for months at some point in my life, had to relearn how to walk, how to be independent again. That kind of recovery changes you. It stays with you. So writing Su-ho’s journey wasn’t just fanfiction, it was a reflection of a past life of mine. Had to share that :)

Anyways, I planned to end the story here. But now that I’m here… I’m not ready to let him go! I may squeeze in a chapter or two of him going back to the real world, would you be interested?

Eager to hear your feedback! You've no idea how much your comments mean to me, they're literal dopamine!

Chapter Text

Teaser for: The Weight of Normal

This is not a full chapter, just a t to teaser get me excited to finish it, and you to read it!

Playlist: BIG Naughty (서동현) - Day After Day

_____________________________________

Si-eun who was sitting nearby working on an assignment, looked up, sensing the weight in the room had shifted. He hadn’t heard Su-ho speak, but something about the way he sat — the way his shoulders curled inward like he was bracing for something — made it clear.

“You should say it,” Si-eun said quietly.

Su-ho turned his head slightly, eyes narrowed. “Say what?”

“Whatever’s been eating at you these past few weeks,” Si-eun replied, voice calm but firm. “You’ve been carrying it, I can see it. And I’ve been waiting.”

Then Su-ho spoke.

“I want to go back to the gym.”

The words landed like a stone in still water — small, soft, but sending ripples everywhere.

Si-eun froze mid-writing. It was not what he was expecting.

“Why?”

Su-ho exhaled, voice low. “Because I have to.”

It wasn’t petulant. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply said — the way someone might say I have to breathe or I need to remember who I am.

“I can’t keep feeling like a ghost in my own skin,” he added, quieter now. “I need to move. I can’t keep waiting for the world to let me heal on its own. I want to go back to who I was. I want to go back to fighting, in the ring.”

_____________________________________

Author's Note: Do you think he's ready?

Chapter Text

The world was louder than he remembered.

Not the kind of loud that came from sirens or shouting, but the quiet, constant hum of life — a kettle whistling from the unit below, birds bickering outside his shabby window, footsteps of a neighbor pacing in slippers overhead.

Su-ho stood at the window of a modest, sun-drenched apartment — a place lent to him by his grandmother with the promise that he’d pay her back someday, though he hadn’t the faintest idea how yet.

He said it with a grin and she waved him off, but the promise still sat heavy on his shoulders, like everything else he owed.

The walls were bare. The furniture was old and mismatched. The floor creaked in two different spots, and one of the bedroom drawers refused to shut all the way. But it was his.

A space to breathe. To be.

He rarely remembered to fill the fridge. It just wasn’t something he thought about. But somehow, it was never empty. Every few days, Si-eun would show up after school with grocery bags in hand — tofu, bananas, a tray of eggs, even a ridiculous bottle of protein water once.

“This is good for your stomach,” he’d mutter while placing neatly labeled containers inside.

“And this is good for your brain,” he added another time, holding up a whole tray of salmon fillets like it was medicine.

Ever the mother hen, still.

He’d stay after that — every time — letting himself in like he owned the place, placing his backpack on the floor carefully just like how he did in Su-ho’s hospital room. Like nothing had changed.

At first, Su-ho pretended to be annoyed. He’d groan about boundaries, about how he could manage on his own. But deep down, it comforted him. More than he could ever admit.

Because even when the world felt foreign and his reflection felt like a stranger, Si-eun was the one thing that made it all feel real again. The smell of hot rice. The sight of school homework. The clatter of dishes in his tiny sink. That voice — scolding, calm, familiar — grounding him more than any medication ever could.

It wasn’t the hospital anymore. There were no nurses on call, no sterile white noise. Just life — as slow and quiet as it was — beginning to settle back in.

And somewhere in that rhythm, Su-ho began to want more.

To walk farther.
To try harder.
To move again.
To live.

_____________________________________

One month in, life had found a rhythm again — imperfect, but steady.

Su-ho had started reconnecting with old friends, slowly piecing back the circle he once thought he’d lost for good. His body was holding up — stronger now, steadier. But it still betrayed him from time to time. The seizures hadn’t vanished completely; they lingered, waiting for the wrong moment to strike. The most recent had crept up on him beneath the flicker of a faulty neon light above the stairwell of a run-down restaurant, just as he arrived for a waiter interview. He needed movement — the repetition of setting tables, carrying trays, wiping counters. He needed proof that he could still do something with his hands. That he could rejoin the world on his own two feet, in his own way.

He had insisted he’d be fine going in alone, brushing off Si-eun’s concern with a half-smile and a weak “I’ve got this.” But Si-eun, stubborn as always, had waited anyway — pacing by the entrance with a bag of chips. And it was a good thing he did. Minutes later, Su-ho barely made it outside before his knees buckled. He collapsed into the pavement, breath gone, vision narrowing into black.

All he remembered was a hand gripping his own and a voice cutting through the static — fierce, familiar, anchoring. The doctors later said it was normal, expected even. “You’re fine,” they told him.

And he believed it —not because they said so, not even because Si-eun was there — but because it didn’t really scare him anymore. After what he’d already endured, after waking from silence and surviving the weight of remembering, he could handle this. He could live with anything now. He had already come back from worse.

And despite it all — the flicker, the fall, the seizure he hadn’t seen coming — he was happy. Because days later, he found out he got the job.

_____________________________________

Su-ho started his first day at the restaurant on a quiet Tuesday morning — not because the place was quiet, but because he was. Calm, steady, and focused in a way that surprised even himself. The apron felt awkward at first. But he adjusted quickly. He always had that in him — the ability to adapt, to blend in, to make it work.

Si-eun had skipped school and hovered that morning more than he wanted to admit. He offered to walk Su-ho there, even sit and wait until his shift was over. But Su-ho just gave him a small smile — the kind that held more weight than words — and said he’d be fine. Si-eun didn’t believe him. Not completely. The restaurant was loud, unpredictable, chaotic — hardly the kind of environment you’d recommend for someone still healing from a brain injury and a string of seizures. But it was what Su-ho chose. And what Su-ho chose, he committed to.

This wasn’t just about work. This was about pride. About paying his grandmother back for the months she spent pulling from her pension just to buy his medication, or paying their rent when he couldn’t get out of bed due to a migraine. It was about giving Si-eun space to breathe, after everything he’d carried in silence. It was about reclaiming something — anything — that felt like stability.

He took on shifts no one wanted, smiled through the fatigue, timed his breaks down to the minute. He wore earplugs when the kitchen noise became unbearable. He memorized the table layout, learned the flow of the lunch rush. The chaos became a rhythm. And Su-ho found himself syncing to it.

People warmed up to him quickly, as expected. They always had. Something about his eyes — sharp but kind — or maybe the way he didn’t talk much unless it mattered. And when it did, his words landed like truths, simple and clear.

He was even saving up for rent. Helping with groceries. Contributing again. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t easy. But it was his.

And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.

_____________________________________

Almost 2 months later...

Su-ho developed an itch, restless and persistent. It started small, almost imperceptible. Just a flicker of discontent in the spaces between sleep and wakefulness. But over the past few weeks, it had grown — louder, sharper — into something he could no longer ignore.

He tried to drown it out. Took on longer shifts at the restaurant, stayed past closing to mop the floors or restock the shelves. But even the clatter of plates and the sizzle of meat on the grill couldn’t muffle the voice in his head anymore. That quiet, unshakable thought that maybe… this wasn’t enough.

Not for the boy who once stood between his best friend and a gang of monsters.
Not for the fighter who survived the price of that choice.
Not for the part of him still waiting for something more.

Su-ho sat at the edge of the bed, a hoodie draped over his now healthier frame, padded with a few pounds gained from Si-eun’s mother-henning and customers at the restaurant who insisted he’d have a bite with them. Sleeves hung past the knuckles of hands still marked with faint scars. His hair was damp from the shower, clinging in loose strands to his forehead, and his eyes were somewhere else.

Si-eun who was sitting nearby working on an assignment, looked up, sensing the weight in the room had shifted. He hadn’t heard Su-ho speak, but something about the way he sat — the way his shoulders curled inward like he was bracing for something — made it clear.

“You should say it,” Si-eun said quietly.

Su-ho’s eyes widened, like a deer caught in headlights. “Say what?”

“Whatever’s been eating at you these past few weeks,” Si-eun replied, voice calm but firm. “You’ve been carrying it, I can see it. And I’ve been waiting.”

Then Su-ho spoke in a low, almost hesitant voice.

“I want to train how to fight again.”

The words landed like a stone in still water — small, soft, but sending ripples everywhere.

Si-eun froze mid-writing. It was not what he was expecting.

“Why?”

Su-ho exhaled, voice low. “Because I have to.”

It wasn’t petulant. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply said — the way someone might say I have to breathe or I need to remember who I am.

“I can’t keep feeling like a ghost in my own skin,” he added, quieter now. “I need this Si-eun. I can’t keep waiting for the world to let me heal on its own. I want to go back to who I was.”

Si-eun turned then, setting the pen aside, eyes narrowing with concern that wasn’t meant to shame — only to steady.

“You’re still recovering. Fighting isn’t—” he paused, trying to find a version of the truth that wouldn’t bruise them both. “That place isn’t safe for you.”

“I’m not asking to go back to that place,” Su-ho said quickly. “Not the ring where it happened. I just… want to start somewhere new. Somewhere that doesn’t remember my blood.”

Si-eun was silent again, but this time the silence was different — not resistance, not fear, just the slow internal turning of someone who understood what it meant to want something desperately and to know it might still hurt.

He stepped forward, crouched in front of Su-ho, resting a hand just over his knee.

“If you go,” he said slowly, “you go on two conditions.”

Su-ho met his eyes.

“You don’t go alone. And you don’t push yourself too hard.”

A small nod. Immediate. Without hesitation.

“Deal.”

And just like that, it became part of their rhythm.

Twice a week, like clockwork, Su-ho went to an MMA gym on the quieter side of town — a place with no reputation, no expectations, no ghosts. Just the smell of chalk, the sound of rope, the steady rhythm of sweat meeting canvas.

At first, his movements were slow. Stiff. Frustrating in their unfamiliarity. But his body, like his spirit, remembered more than it had any right to.

Each time he stepped onto the mat, he became a little more sure of himself. A little less afraid of what his limbs might do, of how his balance might shift, of whether the dizziness would return.

He didn’t train to win. He trained to return.

To something buried. Something bruised.

To the protector he once was — and still wanted to be.

_____________________________________

The month passed in a rhythm Su-ho hadn’t expected to work so well. Mornings at the gym, where each day he felt more at ease in his own body — muscles beginning to build and coordination sharpening. Evenings at the restaurant, where the clatter of plates and the hum of old and new friends gave him something to anchor to. The days blurred together — not in a bad way, but in a way that meant he was not just surviving, but striving.

But today, today something was off.

The kitchen was louder than usual.

Oil hissed on the stove, metal clanged against metal, someone shouted over the noise about table six, and the air was thick with steam, heat, and too many voices talking at once. Su-ho adjusted the apron around his waist, shifted the order pad in his hand, and offered a tight-lipped smile to the customer asking for extra broth, no onions.

He couldn’t tell when the pain had started exactly — sometime between the dinner rush and the moment he’d caught his reflection in the stainless steel of the countertop, sweat slicking his brow despite the cool air. A migraine was building up.

And it was getting worse.

He blinked harder, trying to focus on the next order slip, but the words were blurring slightly, dancing at the edges. As he looked down again, he noticed drops of blood spattered on the paper — a nosebleed. He was bleeding, and he hadn’t even felt it start. A new side effect. And one that only meant one thing: this migraine was going to be bad. He raised his head instinctively, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the flow, to ease the pressure. But a sharp spike bloomed at the base of his skull, bright and sudden, and he inhaled through gritted teeth, willing it away.

It could’ve been the noise, or the heat, or the constant clatter of trays and footsteps — but more likely, it was the pressure he’d been burying all week. He was preparing for an upcoming friendly match at the gym, and he’d been pushing himself harder than usual, sparring longer, lifting heavier. The pressure to prove himself — to his coach, to the world, to himself — built quietly.

He moved faster — clearing a tray, greeting a new table, jotting down orders he could barely read. The floor felt unstable beneath him.

He was just about to call Si-eun to pick him up early—when someone dropped a metal bucket of stacked plates behind him.

The crash was deafening.

White-hot pain detonated behind his eyes like shrapnel. His knees gave slightly, hand flying to the back of his head. The lights overhead flickered — or maybe it was just him. He couldn’t tell anymore. He stumbled backward, knocking into the corner of a table. Someone asked if he was alright.

He nodded without speaking. Walked out without finishing the order in his hand. He pushed through the back door of the restaurant, the cool night air hitting his face like a slap — sharp and sudden. For a moment, he stood there, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the brick wall as the ground tilted beneath him.

He’d had migraines before — dull, throbbing ones that came and went. But this was different. Sharper. Meaner. Like something was drilling into the base of his skull and twisting.

His nose started bleeding again. He took two unsteady steps toward the alley where his bike was usually parked.

And then it hit.

A wave of nausea surged up from his gut, quick and violent. He barely made it to the corner before doubling over, one arm pressed against the wall for support as he retched onto the concrete. His stomach twisted again, emptying whatever he’d eaten that day, the sound lost under the hum of distant traffic.

When it was over, he wiped his mouth with the back of a trembling hand, eyes burning, breath sharp and ragged. His knees buckled. He had to call Si-eun before—

Then it struck. A blinding, sharper pain slammed into his head, like his skull was cracking open from the inside. The pain was so sharp it stole the air from his lungs.

There was no time to react.

The last thing he heard was someone shouting his name —

then everything went black.

_____________________________________

Su-ho? Having a good day? Yeah, you knew that wasn’t going to last long. lol.

While I’ve got you here — have you checked out my other story, In All Timelines, I Loved You? It’s a bit of a wild ride (time travel, emotional damage, the usual), and I have no idea where it’s going yet. But one thing’s for sure: Su-ho still won't catch a break. Sorry! I can't help it!