Chapter Text
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
— W. S. Mewrin, Separation
The first thing Doyoung notices is the red patient ID band around his right wrist before the ache in his head catches up with him, sharp and splitting, like someone’s driving a pulse straight through his skull. He groans and instinctively lifts his left hand to his temple, only to feel the tug of an IV line against his skin.
“Thankfully it’s just a mild concussion, it’ll be gone in a week’s time,” the nurse beside the bed says gently when she catches him wincing. “Nothing too serious, Doyoung-ssi. Just rest, okay?”
He tries to nod, though the motion makes the room sway. The walls feels too white, too clean, too bright for how heavy his body feels. But it’s what she says next that makes the air leave his lungs.
“We’ve called your husband,” she says. “Don’t worry Doyoung-ssi. Your husband’s been informed. I’m sure he’ll be here soon, and then you’re—“
Doyoung chokes on air. “My—” The word barely makes it out of his mouth. “My husband?”
How did they figure out who his husband is? He definitely sorted this out before—
Shit.
No, he didn’t. He never changed his emergency contact.
He remembered to do everything, to pay the bills, to renew the insurance, to cancel their joint grocery subscription, even to water the cactus on his husband’s bedside table. Everything except this.
But why would he?
Back then it was supposed to be temporary, just a break. Like a pause before Johnny comes home again, before they figured out how to live without tripping over the red string that still tied them together.
Doyoung had tiptoed around it, careful not to pull, not to make the knots tighter, not to tug or test how strong it was. He thought that if he stayed still, the string would loosen on its own. Sitting on the hospital bed now, he realized that all that time apart only made the knots harder to undo.
Besides, he didn’t think he’d get hit by a car on a random Thursday, had he?
The doctor pokes his head in the room, cheerful and oblivious. “Your husband is Johnny Suh, right? The Johnny Suh who won Sixth Man of the Year just last year?” He checks the clipboard. “Has there been a mistake?”
Doyoung forces a thin smile. “Nope, the one and only. No mistake at all.”
The hospital staff getting involved in their marital mess is the last thing he wants. Even here, with a pounding head and aching chest, his first instinct is to protect Johnny’s image. Star athlete Johnny Suh, the golden boy with a perfect life and a perfect husband, whose career doesn’t have room for words like separation.
So he tells himself it doesn’t matter, because Johnny won’t come anyway.
He has learned that the hard way. That Johnny doesn’t miss games, doesn’t skip practice, doesn’t show up late for qualifiers. That he doesn’t put Doyoung above his career. Not back then. Not even now. Not after everything.
There’s just no way.
He imagines Johnny’s phone lighting up mid-practice, sees him frowning at the screen before locking it again and sliding it back into his locker. He’ll probably tell Haechan to check on him later. Send a text, maybe. That’s the best Doyoung can hope for. And honestly, he’d rather deal with Haechan’s fussing than face the ghost of what Johnny used to be, the other end of a string he’s been afraid to tug, in case it snaps for good.
“Can I use my phone?” Doyoung asks weakly.
“I’m sorry Doyoung-ssi, but you shouldn’t strain your eyes after a concussion,” the nurse replies gently, but when she sees the look on his face, she surrenders. “I’ll help you make a quick call.”
She dials Haechan’s number for him before putting it on speaker to hold it out in front of him. It rings once. Twice. Twelve times. Always straight to voicemail. “Haechan-ah,” Doyoung says when the tone beeps, his voice cracking embarrassingly on the last syllable. “Please call me back when you get this. It’s nothing serious, I’m okay, but I just really need you to—” his throat closes up. “To call me back.”
He motions for the nurse to hang up and stares at the phone screen in the nurse’s grip until it fades to black.
He tells himself it’s fine. That it’s okay if Haechan doesn’t call him back in the next ten minutes. That it’s okay that he’s sitting here, aching and small in a hospital bed, pretending he doesn’t care who walks through that door.
But the ache in his head blurs with the one in his chest. His eyes burn, and he feels stupid for it. Stupid for still wanting the one person who left first. Because even now, what he wants isn’t help. He wants his Johnny.
He wants the weight of him sitting by the bed, the warmth of those calloused hands intertwined with his, the slow and steady rhythm of Johnny’s breathing syncing with his. He wants Johnny to whisper the things he used to. You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you. We’ll be okay, like we’ve always been. He wants the kind of comfort that only ever came from him.
“Do you need anything, Doyoung-ssi?” the nurse asks softly, snapping him back to reality.
He clears his throat, but the movement only makes his head throb harder. “I’m okay,” he says. His voice sounds too thin. “Thank you.”
She gives him a sympathetic smile and half-pulls the curtains around his bed. “Just press the red button if you change your mind, okay?”
Doyoung nods, staring at his trembling fingers, at the sterile white sheets. The sound of the curtains sliding shut feels too familiar. It feels too much like a door closing.