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Mornings are simple.
The same cannot always be said for the rest of Yoon-ho’s day. Sometimes it’s a mess of bureaucratic paperwork and meetings and a gate that decides to spontaneously crop up in the middle of a crowded shopping district. But mornings are simple. He gets up, gets dressed; he brushes his teeth sleepily; he goes into the kitchen and buries his nose into Jong-in’s hair and listens to the soft puff of his laughter.
Jong-in, naturally, has long perfected the art of making a cup of coffee, so Yoon-ho helps himself. It wakes him up little by little; he drinks it slowly while watching the first rays of sunlight creep through the window. Jong-in yawns into his hand and Yoon-ho reaches out to adjust his collar, twitching it up to better hide a small blossom of red on his skin.
“I’m finishing up late today,” Jong-in tells him. “We’re raiding a gate. You can eat without me and I’ll drive myself home.” Catching Yoon-ho’s look, he adds, “If I get hurt I’ll call you.”
“You’d better,” Yoon-ho teases. “It’s fine. I’ll wait for you.”
“What a gentleman,” says Jong-in, leaning against him. Yoon-ho snorts and throws an arm around his shoulders, feeling the warm press of his partner’s body against his.
The simplicity of it all ends the moment he steps foot into his office half an hour later; his secretary comes up to him, waving some files for him to look over. But it’s nothing he’s not used to, and he has no raids today. It should be fairly relaxed. He takes the files and goes to get started. Maybe he’ll pick up some takeout for dinner tonight— something from Jong-in’s favorite place.
---
He gets a call from Woo Jin-chul at around seven that night, just as he’s getting ready to go home. He answers the call and puts it on speaker so he can listen as he swings his jacket over his shoulders. “Baek Yoon-ho; what can I do for you?”
“The Hunters Guild is requesting backup on a gate,” Jin-chul says. His voice is laced with urgency. “Their porter ran out screaming; whatever it is, it’s bad. The secondary strike squad is on a raid right now and can’t help. How soon can you assemble a team and get here?”
Every single muscle in Yoon-ho’s body goes tense. He grabs the phone and runs out of his office. “Why wasn’t the primary strike squad contacted?” he demands, but he’s terribly certain that he already knows the answer.
“The primary strike squad are the ones currently inside the gate.”
Damn it.
Yoon-ho runs faster. “Send me the address. I’m heading there now. I’ll contact my team as well.”
Jin-chul hangs up promptly. Yoon-ho hits his shoulder against a corner as he swings around it; he hisses at the pain and runs even faster. There shouldn’t be anything that could possibly faze Jong-in and his entire strike squad to the point of requesting backup, and this is what scares him. What could possibly be inside that gate?
Yoon-ho slams the button of the elevator with his finger, but there is no ding. It must be on its way. Not fast enough. He abandons the elevators, heading for the stairs instead. He throws himself down entire flights at once, vaulting over the railing on the last one. Manager Ahn startles when he races past; Yoon-ho yells over his shoulder, “Contact our main strike squad! Tell them to meet me at the address. I’ll text you.”
In the car he quickly texts the address that Jin-chul had sent him. Then he hits the gas, swerving out of the parking lot. He tries to be a careful driver but right now there’s no room in his mind for things like traffic lights and road laws. Every time he breathes, ragged from all the running he’d done, his mind flashes with images of Jong-in— on the ground, bleeding, dazed and hurt and— and—
No. He doesn’t know that it’s bad, necessarily. Jong-in has always been smart and careful; if he had sensed something was amiss, he might have called for backup just in case, especially now that their two guilds have been cooperating more. But then why would the porter have run out screaming? Porters usually aren’t high ranked hunters; the person could’ve been scared. It could be fine.
He doesn’t want to think about it not being fine. So he focuses on the road, tries to clear his head. It doesn’t really work, but it keeps him together, just enough to get to the gate in one piece. He screeches to a haphazard stop and jumps out of the car, just as the gate whirls and hisses and spits out—
“Do we have a healer on standby?” screams a man in silver and gold armor. He’s holding someone in his arms. Blood drips onto the pavement, trailing after him in a macabre steak of red. Behind him is a jumble of other people, the rest of the strike squad, one of them passed out in another’s arms.
Yoon-ho opens his mouth, a name already on his tongue, and it takes him a second to realize that he doesn’t see Jong-in in the crowd because Jong-in is the bleeding body in the first man’s arms.
His breath snares in his throat, caught there like a rabbit in a trap. The floor falls beneath his feet and somehow he still runs. He blinks and he’s across the parking lot, and the armored man is setting Jong-in down, and there’s already blood pooling beneath him. It stains his cape, his hand. Yoon-ho doesn’t even know where it’s all coming from. Jong-in’s whole outfit is tinted ruby red and he’s—
He’s not breathing. Yoon-ho slips two fingers over his pulse point and feels nothing.
Someone is screaming for a healer, but there is no healer. Only Yoon-ho, Yoon-ho and his shaking hands and the panic that claws at his chest. Somehow, miraculously, his body remembers what to do. He slams his palms against Jong-in’s chest and begins compressions. One, two, three, four. Jong-in does not twitch. His blood is seeping into Yoon-ho’s skin. Ten, eleven, twelve. Why won’t he open his eyes? Please, please, look at me. Please don’t leave. He feels something crack beneath his palms. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.
In between compressions and mouth-to-mouth, he yells, “Healer?”
“Incapacitated,” says the man with gold armor, panicked. “I’ve called an ambulance.”
Jong-in is still not breathing.
Please, Yoon-ho thinks deliriously, even as he continues to compress his partner’s heart beneath his palms. Please. Not like this.
“Grab my phone from my car,” he shouts to someone— anyone. A last resort, but Jong-in is not breathing and he doesn’t know how much longer this can keep up. He needs a healer. “Dial the second emergency contact.”
One, two, three. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. He breathes into Jong-in’s mouth and feels something give way beneath his palms. How long has it been? Two minutes, maybe. He can keep going— he will keep going— but for how much longer can this last? They taught him this years ago, he’s sure, but his memories are a jumble. He cannot think of anything but Jong-in’s chest beneath his hands, cracked ribs and still heart.
“Sir.” Yoon-ho does not look up. Someone is talking to him, someone from the strike squad. “It’s been two minutes. I’m trained in CPR; please let me take over now.”
He doesn’t want to— doesn’t want to let Jong-in go— but it’s the smart choice. He lets go and the other person immediately begins compressions. Yoon-ho stares at their hands. Two inches, going fast enough. They’re clearly well trained, and still Yoon-ho watches, his stomach twisting with a terror he hasn’t felt in years. If this person falters— if the healers don’t arrive in time—
Two minutes. Yoon-ho switches back to doing compressions. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Breathe. He still isn’t breathing. One, two, three. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine—
Byung-gu’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Yoon-ho,” he murmurs, firm. “I need you to step aside.”
Yoon-ho shudders with relief. Byung-gu takes his place, sliding a palm over Jong-in’s chest. A green glow wraps around Jong-in, pulsing steadily. Jong-in starts coughing, wretched and haggard. Blood splatters against his chin. He rolls over on his side, curls up, and the small sound he lets out is gut-wrenching. He’s in pain. Yoon-ho could never bear the sight, but he cannot tear his gaze away. He desperately reaches out to brush Jong-in’s hair away, trying to comfort him in any way possible, but Jong-in doesn’t seem to even notice his touch.
But he’s breathing. It’s a jagged sort of breathing, the kind that scrapes at the air and escapes him in ragged gasps. But it’s breathing nonetheless. Yoon-ho stares at his chest, at the shaky rise-and-fall. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Again and again and—
Byung-gu lets out a small noise of confusion. “It’s fighting me,” he says.
Yoon-ho’s breath stutters all over again. “What?”
“I can keep him stable,” Byung-gu says quickly, “but there’s— it’s like poison. Except I’ve never seen this type of poison before. I can’t clear it away.” He turns over his shoulder to yell at the panicked hunters standing nearby. “Call an ambulance, now!”
“Already done, sir!”
Yoon-ho presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if that could hold back the tears that threaten to spill over. His hands are covered in blood— Jong-in’s blood. His chest feels tight; every breath comes out trembling, a thin strand of glass about to snap. “Thank you,” he manages to choke out. He doesn’t know how the hell Byung-gu got here so fast, just that he’s so fucking glad that he did. “I’m sorry— I know you’re retired but I—”
“Shh, Yoon-ho, it’s alright,” Byung-gu says, quiet and firm. “I’ve got him. He’s going to be fine.”
Is he?
He’s covered in his own blood and every single breath that shudders through him is as fragile as silk, and his blood is on Yoon-ho’s hands. Yoon-ho had broken his ribs from the force of the compressions. He keeps coughing, something deep in his chest that rattles his whole frame and brings more blood with it. Yoon-ho cradles his cheek, as if that will somehow take the pain away— as if it will dry the tears that have begun leaking from the corners of his eyes. As if Yoon-ho can be anything other than useless right now.
“He’s got a burn,” Byung-gu murmurs, his eyebrows furrowing. He slides one hand over the inflamed, broken skin on Jong-in’s arm. Yoon-ho hadn’t even noticed it, but it creeps up his arm and sprawls across his neck. It’s the kind of burn that only comes from the hottest of fires. He must have fallen in, at some point. Maybe they were his own flames. Jeju, all over again, except this time Yoon-ho wasn’t there to drag him out.
Somehow, that feels worse than everything else— that one burn.
Byung-gu gently knits the skin together with practiced motions, his fingers glowing green. Then he glances at Yoon-ho, his gaze sympathetic and sad. “You saved his life, Yoon-ho. He’s going to be okay. I won’t let him die.”
Yoon-ho nods, dazed.
He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to get the blood out of his clothes.
---
In the hospital waiting room, an anxious Son Ki-hoon fills Yoon-ho and Woo Jin-chul in on the situation.
“I was asked to substitute for one of the tanks on the primary strike squad,” Son says, miserably. He seems uninjured, but there is blood on his armor and cape. Jong-in’s blood. “I agreed because— well— I’ve always wanted the chance to fight alongside the guildmaster. It was an S-Rank gate, but everything was going fine until the boss.”
Son scrubs his hands over his eyes. “I’m not even sure what it was. A scorpion, maybe? But it was different. I don’t know. Either way, it was fast. It took out two of our healers and most of our rangers. Our third healer exhausted herself trying to keep all the injured alive. We sent the porter to call for backup because the guildmaster, he wasn’t sure that we would be able to take out the boss without casualties. He told us to begin retreating while he bought us time, but I stayed behind with a few others to help him.”
“And he got hit,” Jin-chul says grimly.
“Well… yeah.” Son ducks his head. “It got him from behind. He was, was in the middle of trying to trap it with fire, so we could escape. It hit him hard and he fell in. I managed to get him out, but if I’d only been faster then maybe—” He swallows. “When he wakes up, tell him I’m sorry, will you? Please.”
“Don’t,” Yoon-ho says, his voice rough. He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”
There’s no one at fault, really. They all tried, Yoon-ho knows they did. He knows Jong-in would’ve fought to the very end to keep himself and his strike squad alive. But even now, years after the first appearances of gates, there are beasts they have yet to discover. This just happened to be one of them, and Jong-in’s squad were the unlucky people to be the first ones facing it. It’s a miracle that no one was killed.
“He’s going to be fine,” says Byung-gu gently. He’d been leaning against the wall, a silent listener. “The doctors have stabilized him, and I healed the wound and burns. It’s just whatever is inside him— that poison. I’ve never seen anything like it. But he’ll be okay.”
He’d almost slipped during the ambulance ride. They had him hooked up to various monitors, and when the jagged lines dropped, Yoon-ho felt his stomach drop with them. But Byung-gu was there with his never-faltering glow, his hands steady against Jong-in’s chest, keeping him stable while the paramedics worked. Yoon-ho could do nothing but sit and stare at the shaky rise-and-fall of his partner’s chest and feel utterly useless.
“You should go home and rest,” Yoon-ho tells Byung-gu now. “Thank you for— everything. I’m sorry I called you.”
“Don’t be. I was in the area anyway. I’m just glad I could help.” Byung-gu smiles at him, a little sadly. He knocks their shoulders together on the way out the door and Yoon-ho closes his eyes. He feels guilty about it still, calling on his friend when Byung-gu hasn’t touched his abilities since Jeju. But the ambulance wouldn’t’ve arrived in time and he’d known that Byung-gu lived close by. At least his friend doesn’t seem to resent him for it.
The doctors arrive shortly after that, bringing with them a long list of medical terms and diagnoses and things that make Yoon-ho’s throat dry and his head spin. Poison. Internal damage. Stable, but it appears the poison is still in his system. Wait for it to clear.
“How long until he wakes up?” is all Yoon-ho can ask.
The doctors look at each other hesitantly. “We’re… not sure.”
Yoon-ho nods jerkily. “Can I see him?”
They part to let him through and he walks through the white halls, his vision blurring. Patients and nurses flow past him, their voices muffled like he’s hearing them from underwater. His feet take him to the right room, somehow, and when he closes the door, the silence strikes him like a mallet.
It’s so quiet in the room. Dark, too. The only light comes from the sliver of moonlight that slices through the gap in the curtains and the colorful, flickering spots on the various machines. Yoon-ho hates these machines— hates the way the lights blink and blink. It makes him afraid that suddenly they will all go out, and then… and then…
He pulls a chair up to the bed and sits down. A glint of gold catches his eye; with trembling fingers, he leans over and scoops up a handful of rings. The doctors must’ve removed them. They’re stained with blood, so Yoon-ho pockets them. He’ll get them cleaned— he knows how Jong-in is with his jewelry.
He can’t avoid it any longer. Yoon-ho forces himself to look.
His partner looks better, at least. Some of the color has returned to his cheeks and he’s no longer covered in blood. His breathing seems more stable, but Yoon-ho doesn’t like the way it still snags occasionally, like it’s struggling to flow. He looks flushed, his forehead a little damp with sweat. Yoon-ho touches his fingers to Jong-in’s temple and frowns at the heat. Fever. The poison, probably.
And no one knows how long it’s going to take to heal— because it’s unfamiliar, because it’s new, because this is the first time anyone has been poisoned like this and it’s Jong-in.
Yoon-ho gently slides his palm down Jong-in’s cheek, tucks a curl of hair behind his ear. He looks painfully small beneath the white blankets. Yoon-ho doesn’t think he’s seen him this hurt since Jeju. At least then he’d healed quickly thanks to Byung-gu; all his physical wounds were things that could be knit together by healing magic. But this is different. This is poison, the kind that’s wormed its way into his system and is trying to eat him from the inside, and apparently not even S-Rank healing magic can carve that away.
He just hopes that Jong-in isn’t in pain— that, if nothing else, his sleep can be peaceful. By the looks of things, he doubts that it’s true. Still. Still.
He gently takes Jong-in’s hand into his own, rubbing a thumb over the knuckles. “I wish you’d open your eyes,” he mumbles into the silence of the room. “Even if it’s just to complain about your fancy rings getting dirty.” He exhales, sliding down in his chair, his eyes stinging. “I wish you’d wake up.”
Jong-in doesn’t reply. Yoon-ho misses his voice already.
---
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but next thing he knows he’s jolting awake to his phone buzzing in his pocket. There’s a nurse standing in the doorway, looking awkward. Probably not used to finding an S-Rank hunter passed out at the bedside of another. Yoon-ho rubs his eyes with one hand; he’s still cradling Jong-in’s hand in the other. “Sorry,” he mutters, his voice scratchy with exhaustion. “I’ll let you… do whatever you need to do.”
He forces himself to get up, to let go of Jong-in’s hand and face reality. In the hallway outside, he pulls out his phone. Some texts and missed calls from Manager Ahn and Jin-chul; a text from Cha Hae-in. He opens that one first.
Thank you for your assistance last night. Please let me know when the guildmaster wakes up, and please tell him that I will be taking over all his work while he is resting, so there’s no reason for him to worry.
Yoon-ho texts a quick reply back, a half smile twitching at his lips. They both know that getting Jong-in to rest for even a day after he wakes up will be a nightmare. He’s always been stubborn like that. When— if— he wakes up—
No. He will wake up, because Yoon-ho doesn’t know what he will do if he doesn’t. Jong-in is stubborn; he will wake up. He has to. Please.
Manager Ahn’s texts are a series of brief updates. Yoon-ho’s schedule has been cleared for the day. Apparently someone— probably Jin-chul— had filled the people of his guild in on the situation. Yoon-ho rubs a hand over his face. His guild is one thing, but if this has leaked to the press then that’s a whole different mess to deal with.
There is one last text, from Jin-chul. It reads, simply, Remember to rest and eat.
Right. He hasn’t eaten since— lunch yesterday? Was it yesterday? It felt like he’d sat there playing tug-of-war with death for years. He should really eat, but the thought of leaving— of walking away when Jong-in is still lying in those white sheets, terrifyingly still—
He should go. He needs to go. He has to eat, and check in on his guild, and get the rings cleaned. It’s not like staying here will let him magically manifest Jong-in’s recovery. But if Jong-in wakes up while he’s gone, then— shouldn’t he be here?
It dawns on him, a little morbidly, that he’s so used to people dying that he doesn’t know what to do when someone isn’t dead— just incapacitated. In a coma. Maybe it’s worse, in a way, because at least death is certain. Here, he doesn’t know when Jong-in will wake up, or what will happen when he does. He doesn’t even know what the hell kind of a poison it is. Nothing is certain except for the uncertainty of it all, and he hates it.
Yoon-ho rubs his eyes. He— should really just go. Clear his head. Eat something.
He walks away, and it feels like the hardest thing he’s done in years.
---
The food he grabs on the way home tastes like cardboard, but he eats nonetheless. He makes his way into the apartment, kicks off his shoes, tosses his jacket into the washing machine even though he doesn’t know if the blood will ever wash off. It’s had a whole night to dry, to cling to the fabric and stain it deep. It smells like blood. If it doesn’t wash out then he’ll have to toss it, because the thought of wearing something stained with Jong-in’s blood— something that clung to his shoulders as he broke Jong-in’s ribs trying to keep him alive— it makes him nauseous.
He spends a long, long time scrubbing the red from his hands and a longer time taking a shower. The water clears the blood off his skin, but in his mind he still sees it all— the blood on the pavement, the trembling rise and fall of Jong-in’s chest. Yoon-ho doesn’t think he’s been so badly hurt since Jeju, and even then he was still conscious enough to talk. He’d almost forgotten this feeling: this lurch of dread deep in his stomach, pressing against his chest. A reminder with each step that his partner could be dying in that hospital bed right now and he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t—
Yoon-ho presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. Water trickles down his arms and for a brief second it feels like blood. Stupid. He knows— has always known— that time is not forever. He could die tomorrow. Jong-in could die tomorrow. He knows this, they both do. So how had he forgotten? How had he let himself believe that he could come home today, and the day after, and no matter what Jong-in would be there— curled on the couch with Yoon-ho’s jacket draped over his shoulders, fast asleep or with a book in hand. How had he forgotten how easily these damn gates strip away lives?
Bitterly, he wonders if any of this would have happened if his guild had joined in on the raid. They are stronger together, him and Jong-in— they can watch each other’s backs. But that’s a foolish thought. They can’t always protect each other. This time, Jong-in and his guild went in alone, and they lucked out. It happens all the time. New beasts are discovered and take down even the most prepared of hunters. It happens and still— still—
Hindsight is a bitch, he thinks, and feels his throat ache. He presses harder against his eyes, willing away the tears. It doesn’t work. Not really. His breathing hitches, and then he’s crying into his hands as water trickles down his back, carving across his skin like blood.
They live in a world of unknowns. He’s always known this.
But it’s different, isn’t it, when the unknown isn’t merely when the next gate will show up, or what gives mana crystals their power. It’s different when the unknown is Jong-in, lying feverish and broken in a hospital bed; when the unknown is whether or not he’ll ever open his eyes again.
---
Byung-gu comes by. He has a box of Yoon-ho’s favorite cookies and a small frown. Yoon-ho doesn’t touch the cookies; Byung-gu doesn’t seem to mind. He sticks around until nightfall, his eyes creased with concern whenever he glances at Yoon-ho. Yoon-ho can tell he’s trying his best to be supportive and comforting. He’s tough, he’ll wake up. Stop worrying so much or you’ll get wrinkles again. You wouldn’t want to undo all his hard work, would you?
Yoon-ho smiles a little. Jong-in would tease him for it sometimes— his tendency to furrow his brows. It’s one of the things he and Byung-gu always had in common.
“He’ll be okay,” says Byung-gu again, firmly. “You know he’s a fighter. He’ll be awake in no time.”
“Yeah,” says Yoon-ho quietly. “Yeah.”
---
The next morning he goes to the Hunters Association, partially because he needs to, and partially because he has to do something. Anything to stop thinking about it, to dull the ache in his chest. He meets Cha Hae-in at the doors and she walks with him inside, as if in silent solidarity.
“Guildmaster Lim and I cleared the gate yesterday,” she informs him. “We got the corpse of the new beast and sent some samples out. Hopefully that will give us some clues as to how its toxins work. I will let you know immediately if we get a response.”
“Thank you,” Yoon-ho tells her, bowing his head. “If you need any help with the guild— I know I’m not a part of it, but I have experience.”
She shakes her head and offers half a smile. “It’s alright. I’ll be able to handle it for however long necessary.” Hae-in’s eyes flick up to the ceiling, pondering. “It is awfully busy, though. I’m not sure how he manages it so well.”
“Because he’s had years of experience overworking himself,” Yoon-ho snorts, and feels something achingly fond slice through his chest. Jong-in’s face flashes through his mind, that tired glaze in his eyes and the half-pout he always wore trying to argue with Yoon-ho that it was fine, he didn’t need to sleep. As if it wouldn’t always be two in the morning and he hadn’t eaten in twenty hours. He could never fight back when Yoon-ho would carry him out of the office, because even if he would rather die than acknowledge it, they both know how much he likes being held. Yoon-ho did it every single time, and he would complain— but he would never fight. It was their tradition. Always the same.
It hits Yoon-ho suddenly, like a truck— the sheer longing that sweeps through him. He fucking misses Jong-in. It’s not that he isn’t here right now— it’s that Yoon-ho knows exactly where he is, and it’s not where he should be. It’s that Yoon-ho can be certain he’s going home alone again tonight, home to an empty apartment and an emptier bed.
“Guildmaster?” asks Hae-in, concerned. “Are you feeling alright?”
Yoon-ho swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
They meet Woo Jin-chul at the elevator and head upstairs to the meeting room. Tae-gyu is there already, along with Chairman Go. Yoon-ho takes his place at the table and tries not to look at the empty seat next to him, the space where someone else should be.
“This will be quick,” says Chairman Go, giving Yoon-ho a glance. “I just think that it would be best if we confirm some things now. Hunter Cha, your primary strike squad will now no longer be able to take on some of the hardest gates, yes?”
Hae-in dips her head. “Yes. I am still on the strike squad, but I’m afraid it will be harder for me to go on raids if I have to take care of management things back at the guild as well. Also… he was a big part of our firepower.”
“Mister Ultimate Weapon,” Tae-gyu murmurs, his mouth flat. For once he doesn’t look in the mood to joke. “I imagine he was.”
“Then Guildmaster Baek, Guildmaster Lim— your guilds will need to be in touch with the Hunters Guild more often, to ensure that the S-Rank gates in their areas are covered.”
“Will do,” says Tae-gyu. Yoon-ho nods, his throat tight. He doesn’t trust his voice right now.
Chairman Go nods. “And Hunter Cha— if you require any assistance at all with running the guild in his stead—”
“I’ll be fine,” Hae-in says. “I can keep this up for a while longer.”
Jin-chul says, quietly, “And if it’s more than that?”
The room falls silent. Hae-in chews her lip, shoots Yoon-ho a glance. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The grief presses heavy against his chest, silencing any words. He can’t— if Jong-in—
“That’s not going to happen,” he chokes out. The words scratch at his throat. He tries to ignore the sad look Tae-gyu gives him, tries to sound confident and not desperate. “It’s not going to happen.”
“I agree,” murmurs Chairman Go. “Have faith.”
“My apologies,” says Jin-chul, dipping his head. “That was insensitive of me.”
“You’re fine,” Yoon-ho mutters. It isn’t like it’s Jin-chul’s fault for wanting to do his job and cover all the bases. It’s just that— Yoon-ho doesn’t want to think about that last base being there. Jong-in always called him brave and noble but right now he just feels like a damn coward— a coward who can’t admit that there is that chance, that horrible chance.
The meeting ends quietly, with little fanfare. No one seems in the mood to talk much. Yoon-ho walks alone to his car, pushing past crowds of hunters, ignoring the looks sent his way. It seems everyone has caught onto what’s happened. That’ll be a bitch to handle, but he can’t think about that right now. He wants to go home and pass out and forget anything ever happened; he wants to sit at Jong-in’s bedside in case he wakes up. He wants to go back in time and insist he come on that raid too, and maybe this will never have happened.
“Dumbass,” he tells himself as he sits in his car. Even that word reminds him of Jong-in, of the lilt in his voice. Yoon-ho scrubs at his eyes and exhales, shakily. He knows better than to fantasize like that. There’s no changing what happened. There’s nothing he can do except wait.
Sometimes, he fucking hates waiting.
---
The hospital room is silent when he pushes the door open. He closes it gently behind him and crosses to the bed. Jong-in hasn’t moved. Of course he hasn’t. They would’ve called Yoon-ho if anything changed, but—
Still the same. Yoon-ho sits down. He places his bouquet of flowers on the table next to the bed. He slides his palm beneath Jong-in’s, feeling every familiar press and curve. He squeezes and waits, a little hopelessly, for a response. Nothing.
Somehow— even though he’d been expecting no response— that still makes him want to cry.
“Why won’t you wake up,” he whispers, and Jong-in says nothing. His breathing still doesn’t look quite right, but when Yoon-ho presses a hand to his forehead he feels less hot. That’s— that’s good, at least. No more fever.
He scoots his chair closer so he can rest his head on the pillow, right next to Jong-in’s shoulder. It’s an awkward position that twists his back painfully, but he can’t bring himself to care. He closes his eyes, breathes in. He can’t smell Jong-in’s shampoo anymore. The scent must have worn off, or been covered up by the blood and sweat and tears of that night. Jong-in always smells like his fancy shampoo; it feels achingly wrong for that scent to be missing. Everything about this feels wrong.
And what can he do? Absolutely nothing.
He stays there until the staff knock on the door, quietly telling him that visiting hours are over. Yoon-ho gets up but leaves the flowers. They’re the ones he always gets for Jong-in, the ones he likes to keep on his desk. When he wakes up— if he wakes up— fuck.
He doesn’t get much sleep that night.
---
The next day Yoon-ho goes back to his guild; he forces a smile at one concerned Manager Ahn and sits in his office and tries to concentrate on the various things that have piled up while he was gone.
What else is there to do?
---
It goes like this for what feels like an eternity.
He heads to the hospital after work every day. Sometimes he takes a detour to pick up some flowers; sometimes he cannot bring himself to do so, because flowers are what he always brings to Eun-seok’s grave. He finds petals scattered near the bed sometimes, half-wilted and shriveled. He always kicks them out of sight.
He checks with Hae-in as often as he can. She’s doing fine, she tells him, it’s manageable. He tries to help her anyways, as much as he is able to. It’s clear that as capable as she is, she’s still not quite used to this side of things. That was always what Jong-in was good at— organization, training, making every new recruit feel at ease with one gentle smile. Even Yoon-ho, at least in the beginning, could never quite figure out how the hell he did it so easily. He’d raid three, four times a week and still find the time and energy to train new hunters, go to meetings, keep things organized in his guild and not fall behind on paperwork. It took Yoon-ho a while to learn that it was because Jong-in would do it on purpose— would overfill his own plate as an excuse to not sleep.
He’d be pretty pissed right now, Yoon-ho thinks. Jong-in has never liked taking days off, even after all this time. It makes Yoon-ho smile a little. If he was awake—
Yoon-ho’s smile crumples. He slowly rubs his thumb over Jong-in’s knuckles, staring down at him. Still no change. The doctors haven’t found anything new. It’s been days and still, still.
He thinks that maybe he shouldn’t be feeling like this— like there’s ice in his stomach and his heart is trying to claw its way free from his rib cage. This isn’t— Jong-in isn’t gone. He’s right here. He’s breathing. Yoon-ho presses two fingers gently to his wrist and feels his pulse, steady through his skin.
And yet he’s reminded— just a little— of that day he lost Eun-seok, of the pain that sunk deep into his chest and refused to let go. The dread that curled around his throat, a reminder with every step that he’d left something behind.
Yoon-ho leans forward in his chair, just enough to press his ear to Jong-in’s chest, right above his heart. He’s been getting paranoid lately, gripped by an irrational fear that he’ll open the door and Jong-in will be lying there, motionless again. That he’ll curl a hand around his partner’s wrist and feel nothing, and this time it will be too late. It won’t happen, is what he tells himself every time, but—
He closes his eyes, listens to the steady rhythm of Jong-in’s heartbeat. God, he needs to get a grip.
Easier said than done, as most things are.
---
By some miracle— or maybe some curse— Yoon-ho is there when Jong-in wakes up. He’s there when Jong-in’s whole body seizes and he curls up, coughing violently. For a second Yoon-ho sits there, stupidly, caught so off guard by the fact that Jong-in is awake and— and moving that his limbs feel frozen in place. Then his brain catches up and he’s jerking forward, his hands hovering a little uselessly over his partner. “Jong-in? Fuck— are you—”
“Yoon-ho?” Jong-in coughs. He tries to sit up but immediately collapses against the sheets again. His face twists with pain. It makes Yoon-ho’s stomach lurch and he puts his hand on Jong-in’s shoulder, squeezing a little uselessly.
“Don’t try to sit up. Hold on, I’ll go get the doctors.”
“I’m fine,” Jong-in gasps, like he isn’t on the verge of coughing his lungs out. It’s such a him thing to say that Yoon-ho doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He just leaps out of his chair and runs to find the doctors.
The doctors come, and after they’ve taken vitals and made sure Jong-in isn’t about to cough himself to death, they stand by the bed and look perplexed. Jong-in is, by all technicalities, fine, they explain. No abnormalities in his vitals. No traces of poison left in his system. He should be completely normal again. There’s no reason for the coughing or the pain, and yet—
Must be an aftereffect of the poison, is all they can conclude. With no prior cases to go off of, there is no knowing how long it will last. Jong-in thanks them anyways, a smile on his face. Yoon-ho knows he’s the only one who can see the falseness of it, the way his shoulders tense the way they always do when he’s trying to hide that he’s in pain. The way his breathing snags, like he’s trying to suppress more coughing.
Only after the doctors leave do Jong-in’s shoulders slump. He looks impossibly exhausted and it makes Yoon-ho’s throat feel tight. “Jong-in,” he says. His voice cracks a little.
Jong-in gives him half a smile, more of a barely-suppressed grimace. “Yoon-ho. I’m fine.”
“Bullshit,” Yoon-ho rasps, and then he’s wrapping his arms around Jong-in’s waist, and Jong-in’s forehead is falling against his shoulder, and he’s crying. He fucking missed his voice, god, he missed Jong-in. Missed the way he feels in Yoon-ho’s arms, the way his hair tickles his cheek. He’s thinner than before but Yoon-ho would know this anywhere— would know him anywhere.
“Yoon-ho,” Jong-in murmurs, and Yoon-ho tries not to cry harder. He squeezes tight, holding Jong-in closer like he could slip away at any moment. Jong-in’s arms slide around him and he can hear the shaky rhythm of his partner’s breathing. He’s alive. He’s awake. His hand rubs circles on Yoon-ho’s back and Yoon-ho chokes back the relieved sob that bubbles in his chest.
Jong-in’s next breath hitches around a cough, and that is what makes Yoon-ho pull away. “Am I hurting you?” he demands, a little frantically.
“No,” says Jong-in, shaking his head. “No, I’m—” He breaks off in another hacking cough.
“If you say you’re fine I’m going to punch you,” Yoon-ho breathes, and Jong-in laughs. Yoon-ho missed his laugh too, god.
He helps his partner get more comfortably situated against the pillows, and only then does Jong-in ask, “The gate— did it get cleared?”
Yoon-ho nods. “Everything is fine. The gate was cleared, no one died.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
Too long. “A little more than a week.”
Jong-in’s eyebrows furrow. “And the guild—“
“Miss Cha is handling it. She says she’s doing fine and she can keep doing it until you’re recovered enough to return, so stop worrying and focus on yourself, dumbass.”
Jong-in frowns. “It wouldn’t be fair for me to place that burden on her for any longer than necessary. I have—“
“To get some damn rest,” Yoon-ho snaps, frowning. “You almost died, for fuck’s sake. You stopped breathing, I had to—” His voice hitches and he pauses. His hands are shaking a little; the same hands he’d used to crack Jong-in’s ribs while trying to bring him back to life.
A part of him wants to yell. Wants to demand why, why would you do that to me? Why would you make me hurt you trying to keep you alive? Why would you make me sit at your bedside and wonder if you would ever open your eyes again?
But it isn’t his fault. And Jong-in looks at him so sadly that Yoon-ho can’t bear to even pretend to be angry. He swallows, rubs furiously at his eyes. “Sorry. You— really scared me, is all.”
His voice splinters a little. Days of waiting, wondering, dragging himself through his normal routine while part of him just wanted to sit in the hospital and cry. Fear is not a friend of his and he hasn’t been so afraid for so long since— since ever, maybe. But Jong-in is awake now and he’s alive. He’s here.
“Don’t be sorry,” says Jong-in, soft. He threads their fingers together and squeezes. “Thank you. I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“It was Byung-gu, really,” Yoon-ho mumbles.
“That’s the second time he’s healed me.” Jong-in smiles a little, though the tilt of his head tells Yoon-ho that he doesn’t quite believe him. “I probably owe him an apartment now.”
Yoon-ho laughs. It feels good. “I think he’d settle for some barbecue, honestly.”
“Then barbecue it is.”
“After you’re healed,” Yoon-ho says, crossing his arms.
For a second he thinks Jong-in is going to argue. But after a long pause, all he does is sigh and nod. “I suppose I will have to ask Miss Cha to cover for me a little longer.”
“Look at you, learning self-preservation,” Yoon-ho teases him. The jab comes naturally as breathing. Jong-in swats half-heartedly at his shoulder and for the first time in a long time, everything feels a little more normal.
---
When they get home, Jong-in manages to make it through a shower and a change of clothes before collapsing on their bed. No matter how hard he tries to hide it, Yoon-ho can still tell that he’s still in pain. Jong-in may be able to convince the press and the public and even some of their friends, but Yoon-ho knows him too well to be fooled.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks. Under his breath he mutters, “Maybe we should’ve stayed at the hospital.”
Jong-in shakes his head. “Why? I’m fine.”
“Didn’t I say I would punch you if you said that,” says Yoon-ho, exasperated, as he sits down next to his partner.
“You wouldn’t punch me, you big softie,” Jong-in says, but the joke falls flat with his wince of pain. He coughs a little, and still has the audacity to insist, “It’s not so bad.”
Utterly hopeless, even after all this time. It’s one of the things about him that Yoon-ho finds both frustrating and charming. He takes Jong-in’s hand, pressing it gently between his own palms, rubbing a thumb over the backs of his knuckles. “Please,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to lie. Not to me.”
Jong-in is silent. He tries to sit up, and Yoon-ho wordlessly helps him, propping him up against the pillows. The hoodie he’s wearing— Yoon-ho’s hoodie, which he had immediately pillaged from the closet, because apparently even getting stabbed to death by a fucked up scorpion hadn’t changed him one bit— looks too loose on him, even by their standards. Yoon-ho should probably make them both something to eat, but he doesn’t want to leave. He’s spent enough time away from his partner this past week.
“My chest,” says Jong-in, quietly, after a long moment. “I don’t know. It just hurts.”
Yoon-ho had broken his ribs. It can’t be that, logically— Byung-gu had healed them instantly and there’s almost no chance the pain is still lingering. But what if—
The guilt gnaws at him until he can’t help but blurt out, “I’m sorry.”
Jong-in gives him a puzzled look. “For what?”
“I broke your ribs,” says Yoon-ho, haltingly. “While doing CPR. I’m sorry.”
Jong-in stares at him, then exhales a laugh. “You’re such a fool sometimes, you know? Why are you apologizing for saving my life?”
Yoon-ho frowns at him. “If your chest is hurting because I broke your ribs, then—”
“Then I imagine it’s still better than being dead,” says Jong-in wryly, like it’s a joke. At least his humor is intact. He squeezes Yoon-ho’s hand and murmurs, “Don’t be sorry. The painkillers will probably kick in soon anyways. Now come here.”
I’m still sorry, is what Yoon-ho wants to say. Don’t joke about that, is what he wants to say. Instead he croaks, “What, so you can use me as a heater again?”
“Mm,” says Jong-in, giving him half a smile. “Why do you think I’m dating you?”
“You suck,” Yoon-ho says, his chest aching at the familiarity of Jong-in’s voice, the teasing in his tone. He’s missed this, more than he could ever verbalize. He settles down next to Jong-in and tucks an arm around his waist. “Aren’t you hungry? I was going to make us something.”
“I’m okay,” Jong-in says. Yoon-ho elects not to point out that this is a low bar. “Unless you’re hungry.”
“Not really.”
“Then you should sleep.” Jong-in reaches up, presses a thumb gently beneath Yoon-ho’s eye. “I can see your eyebags. Who has the unhealthy sleep schedule now, hm?”
“Hypocrite,” Yoon-ho grumbles. “I’m not tired.”
He is. But his stomach twists itself to knots and he thinks that if he goes to sleep now, then maybe when he wakes up, Jong-in won’t be breathing again. He needs to be awake so that— so that—
“Really,” says Jong-in, flatly, and he has the audacity to look unimpressed. What a hypocrite. Yoon-ho can’t even be mad about it.
He slumps against the pillows until he’s lying mostly flat. Jong-in carefully eases himself down and plops his head on Yoon-ho chest with a wince. “Be careful,” Yoon-ho mutters, running a hand up his back. “You’re still recovering.”
“You should rest,” Jong-in insists again. “Really.”
“Alright,” Yoon-ho agrees. “I will.”
---
Jong-in falls asleep eventually, one arm thrown over Yoon-ho’s stomach. His glasses have been carefully removed and put on the drawer. He sleeps and Yoon-ho does not sleep. Yoon-ho lies there, staring at the ceiling and stretching his senses enough to listen to the faint beat of Jong-in’s heart.
The exhaustion of the past week has already started to catch up to him, but if he sleeps— if he sleeps, he has no way of making sure Jong-in is still breathing. He could pass out and maybe Jong-in’s heart would stop and Yoon-ho wouldn’t be able to help him. He has to stay awake, just a little longer. Just until he can be sure that nothing will happen. He’s seen Jong-in pull all-nighters enough to know how to do it— some coffee, and some more coffee, and he will pry his own eyes open if he must. Just a little longer.
---
He jolts awake to the sound of labored breathing. Every muscle in his body tenses, on high alert, but there is no danger. Only Jong-in, curled up on his side, not breathing so much as gasping, his whole body trembling slightly, like he’s afraid.
Yoon-ho whispers, “Jong-in?”
Jong-in makes a funny sound, small and panicked. Yoon-ho watches his shoulders tense, then slump again as he recognizes Yoon-ho’s voice. He visibly tries to stop trembling, to lock his body still, but still a shudder runs through him. His voice cracks as he chokes out, “I’m— I’m fine, I—”
“You’re not,” Yoon-ho says, and he wants to cry. He presses himself against Jong-in’s back, wrapping an arm around him. There is nothing here that Yoon-ho could possibly protect him from and still, still. “Hey. Breathe with me.”
Jong-in shudders again, takes a gasping breath. Another one. Slowly his breathing begins to even out and all at once he goes limp in Yoon-ho’s arms, the tension bleeding out of him. He’s crying. He’s always cried silently, and even now the only sign of it is the hitch of his chest, the way he turns his face into the pillow to try and hide it.
“I’m fine,” he whispers. “Just— had a nightmare.”
He doesn’t elaborate, but really, he doesn’t need to. Yoon-ho has his suspicions. He says nothing, just tightens his grip, careful not to squeeze around Jong-in’s chest. His fingers creep up to rest on his inner wrist, feeling his pulse, quickened from his panic.
After a long pause, Jong-in’s fingers nudge at his. He pries Yoon-ho’s hand away from his wrist and twines their fingers together. “I’m okay,” he whispers again, more air than words. It sounds a little more convincing, but— still.
Yoon-ho exhales, shakily. His eyes sting. “Did I hurt your chest?”
Jong-in shakes his head. He presses closer, his hair tickling Yoon-ho’s chin. “Sorry for waking you.” As if that’s what Yoon-ho is worried about right now. “I know you’re exhausted.”
“Don’t apologize,” Yoon-ho rasps. He presses his nose into Jong-in’s hair and realizes, for the first time, that the scent of his shampoo is back, citrus-y and sweet and familiar. Yoon-ho closes his eyes and breathes it in; he squeezes Jong-in’s hand and feels him squeeze back.
This time, Yoon-ho falls asleep first.
---
“Should you be walking around right now?”
“According to him, no,” says Jong-in mildly, as he jerks his head at Yoon-ho. “But I feel fine.”
“You’d say that even if you were dead on the floor,” Tae-gyu says, then grimaces. “Sorry. Too soon.”
Jong-in clicks his tongue. “So little faith in me.”
“On the contrary, I think you’re so incredibly handsome and strong and I’d love to work with you sometime.” Tae-gyu waggles his eyebrows and Jong-in exhales, a quiet laugh.
“If you flirt with him one more time I’m going to burn your hat,” Yoon-ho tells Tae-gyu, crossing his arms.
“Come on,” complains Tae-gyu, “give a man a chance.” He pouts, then flutters his eyelashes at Jong-in. “Well, Mr. Choi? How about it?”
Jong-in quirks an eyebrow, looking amused. “You’ve worked with me plenty of times.”
“Tae-gyu,” says Jin-chul, exasperated, “stop flirting with the man before Yoon-ho kills you.”
“He wouldn’t kill me. He’s too much of a softie.”
“Why does everyone say I’m a softie,” Yoon-ho grumbles.
Jong-in’s fingers land on Yoon-ho’s elbow, giving a small squeeze. Yoon-ho feels his scowl soften against his will. One of these days he needs to find a way to not fall for those little touches Jong-in is so fond of.
Of course, any comforting intent his partner has is immediately stomped into the ground when he says, saccharine sweet and smug as can be, “Because you are a softie. And very fluffy.”
“I,” Yoon-ho says, doing his best to sound cool, calm, and collected, “am going to strangle you.”
“You wouldn’t strangle me. I’m injured.”
“Oh, so now you’re injured?” Yoon-ho grins at him. “Then I suppose I’m going to have to drag you back to the apartment to rest and—”
“Would you look at the time,” says Jong-in, “we should really get this meeting started.”
“Nice one,” snickers Tae-gyu. “Real convincing.”
They do start the meeting, and it goes without a hitch. At the end of it Jong-in slides his hand into the crook of Yoon-ho’s elbow. “I may,” he says quietly, “need some help.”
Yoon-ho helps him stand up and tries not to frown as Jong-in rubs at the spot beneath his ribs, his eyebrows furrowing. It’s only been a few days since he was discharged. Yoon-ho tried to get him to rest for longer, but Jong-in is impossibly stubborn. For someone so smart, Yoon-ho would think he’d have a better sense of self-preservation. But Jong-in’s always been like that. The guild needs me, he’d said. I can stay out of combat for a little longer, but I can handle other things. It's not like his condition hadn't improved a decent amount since the first day, anyways, so Yoon-ho had just crossed his arms and made him swear to not ignore it if things got worse.
“How are you feeling?” Yoon-ho asks now. Jokingly, he adds, “Want me to carry you?”
Jong-in’s nose wrinkles slightly. “There are people around. Besides, what makes you think I would want that?”
“You’re a shit liar,” Yoon-ho tells him. “You and I both know that you do like it.”
“Lies and slander,” Jong-in says primly.
Yoon-ho snorts. “Yeah, okay. Answer my question, though. How are you feeling?”
“Just a flare-up,” says Jong-in. “It has mostly passed.”
“We should head home anyways.” Yoon-ho begins steering him towards the exit. “You don’t have anything else scheduled for today, do you?”
“No,” says Jong-in. “You see? I have an excellent work-life balance.”
“What are you, delusional?”
“What are you, looking forward to sleeping on the couch?”
Yoon-ho laughs. “I’m surprised you’d even threaten that. Aren’t I supposed to be your personal heater? You’d freeze to death.”
“I don’t like you,” Jong-in mutters, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. He takes Yoon-ho’s arm again.
“Uh huh,” Yoon-ho says with a grin. “Keep going.”
“Keep going? I didn’t realize you liked my voice so much. I’m flattered, really.”
“I take it back. Shut up.”
Jong-in laughs, then winces. “Ow,” he breathes. His mouth is caught in half a smile, half a grimace.
“Stop laughing,” Yoon-ho says, frowning. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I can’t help that you’re so funny,” says Jong-in, low and coy. He squeezes Yoon-ho’s arm teasingly.
Yoon-ho snorts. “Really? You’re flirting with me now?”
“I suppose I just can’t restrain myself around you.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Yoon-ho tells him, far too fondly to be a critique.
Jong-in just smiles again, this one absent of any pain. Even as they step into the lobby, packed with hunters, he keeps his fingers curled loosely around Yoon-ho’s arm. Just to annoy him, Yoon-ho says, “Sure you don’t wanna be carried?”
“I’m going to burn off your ridiculous sideburns,” Jong-in replies, calm, like the liar he is. Yoon-ho wouldn’t have him any other way.
“Sure,” he says with a grin. “I believe you.”
Jong-in pauses. “Maybe at home,” he says. His placid expression is betrayed by the faint flush of red creeping up his neck. “Too many people here.”
Yoon-ho feels his grin soften. “Couldn’t lie for that much longer, huh?”
“I can’t say I know what you mean, Yoon-ho. I would never lie to someone as handsome as you.”
“You,” Yoon-ho tells him, “are full of shit.”
Jong-in laughs— then muffles a sharp cough into his elbow. Yoon-ho waits for him to lift his head, looking almost comically put-out. “I think,” he says slowly, “that going home is a good idea after all.”
“No shit,” Yoon-ho replies flatly. But Jong-in squeezes his arm and he sighs, mollified. “Once we get home you’re gonna rest.”
“I suppose that would be the smart choice.”
“Look at you. I guess some of those self preservation skills stuck around after all.”
Jong-in steps on his foot. Yoon-ho laughs.