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By the time Moondae’s strong enough to leave the hospital and they’re all on the road home, he’s so worn out he lets his head rest on Lee Sejin’s shoulder, eyes already slipping shut before the engine has started. One of his hands lands on Ahyeon’s lap without ceremony. It’s an unthinkable gesture from him—so unlike the Moondae Ahyeon knows, who’s never been one for touch. For him to seek warmth like that, he must be…
Ahyeon simply cradles his fingers in his palm. The tips of his fingers are bloodless, a cold, almost translucent blue. He cups them gently, warming them, turning them over with care, trying not to wake him.
When he looks up again, Sejin’s eyes have lifted from his phone screen, his eyes summered pale gold in the dimming sunlight, steady and fond. If Ahyeon squints, he thinks he can still make out the faint pink cut across the back of Sejin’s right arm, the small bruises scattered across his knuckles. They form some kind of strange, patchwork constellation: remnants of the accident, from when Sejin had been tossed forward into the seat ahead of him. He’d been lucky—he’d crawled out of the wreck with only minor scratches, though at the time it had seemed far worse. Eugene had nearly gone through the windshield; Raebin’s arm and Bae Sejin’s legs had trapped him just in time.
The back of the car had taken the worst of it. The impact had driven the rear seat into the front, metal crumpling in on itself until it formed a near-impenetrable barrier around the back seat, which had made it nearly impossible to pull anyone free. Chungwoo’s body had folded into itself, his head tucked into the crook of the window as though sleeping, one leg twisted at an angle Ahyeon could not look at for long. Moondae had been pinned to his seat by the rebar, his chest bleeding an impossible, impossible red.
Lee Sejin had moved first. He’d barely hesitated before climbing back into the wreck, shouting for Ahyeon to help him.
Ahyeon paused, hesitating then, though that had barely lasted a heartbeat; not even long enough to register the thought that he might be doing the wrong thing, though he knew not doing anything would be worse. He needed to do something! Anything!
Until Bae Sejin’s voice pulled them both back in time, sharp with urgency: Don’t touch them now, you’ll only make things worse!
Useless. He’d been utterly useless. He had been there, and still he hadn’t done anything. Hadn't known what to do. Back then, during, and after. Even now.
Even now, he’s only been thinking of himself this whole car ride home.
Isn’t that too selfish?
What should he say to Sejin? What could he possibly do now, after everything, to make any of this better?
Before Ahyeon can even try, Sejin presses his index to his lips and mouths: Let’s talk when we’re back home, alright?
Home. They’re going home. Together, with Moondae. Moondae, who is alive, and well, and strong enough to sleep through the drive. The relief is sharp enough to cut him. He has to bite his lip to keep quiet, to stop the sound that rises in his chest, the sob that might shake Moondae back to wakefulness. He’s suffered so much, and all Ahyeon can do now is feel it belatedly, uselessly.
He must be the most useless person in the world, he thinks. The world’s biggest fool. If only he’d been sitting in the back seat; if only he’d been faster, moved faster, said something, done something, anything at all—then maybe Moondae wouldn’t have been so hurt. Wouldn’t have suffered so much in the hospital, for all the suffering he’s already endured.
It’s pointless to think that after everything, he knows, but the thought won’t let go. It’s the only thing he knows how to do.
Beside him, Moondae makes a soft sound, a little like a cough. The movement jostles his head, slipping from the hollow of Sejin’s shoulder; Sejin’s barely quick enough to steady him, his phone tucked into his lap. Moondae’s lips draw tight, grim with pain, his brow folding in. Ahyeon rubs slow circles over his wristbone, trying to pull the hurt from between those furrowed lines. Like this, Moondae looks smaller somehow—so small, and so tired.
If only it had been him instead. If only.
Ahyeon can’t do anything right.
He knows that things happen whether or not he wishes for them, and that sometimes, even when he does wish for them, the universe still twists itself to hand him the opposite of what he begs for. Not what he wants, nor what he needs, nor what he even deserves, but what it thinks should happen. The world is cruel like that, or kind like that; sometimes maybe both, though he can never quite tell which one it is.
In the books his mother used to read to him, there were always neat little symmetries: princesses who found their princes, shepherd boys who married the miller’s daughter, wicked stepmothers and stepsisters who met their rightful ends, or so those stories went. As a child, the world in those stories made sense: if you were kind, you’d be rewarded; if you were cruel, you’d fall; if you were sad, you’d be made happy by the final chapter, because everything in life was meant to balance out in the end.
He doesn’t know what he expects from the world now. There isn’t much he can change—that much he understands, or tells himself he does, even though knowing it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. What little he knows, instead, is limited and unromantic: that he is not a child, that the world is under no obligation to resemble the stories that once prepared him for it, and there are no wand-waving fairies, or fairytale endings, only what happens, then what happens after that, and the rest of it, which never, ever arrives the way he wants it to.
Not even half a day has passed before the media finds them. News of the crash spreads too quickly—quickly enough that his parents’ call comes sometime in the late morning, his phone vibrating insistently in his side pocket.
Ahyeon pulls it out, leaves it face-up on his lap, and doesn’t answer. He knows he ought to have sent them a message earlier to let them know that he is okay—genuinely, completely fine—that nothing has happened to him, specifically, the way everything has happened to everyone else. That all he’s doing is just sitting there in the waiting room, waiting for the rest to be done. He hadn’t been injured in the accident; the check up had confirmed that. Both his hands and legs still work perfectly fine. He hasn’t broken anything. He can still continue dancing.
A part of him feels acute relief at that, then bone-cutting shame and guilt. The combination of all those feelings leaves him at a loss.
The name on the screen continues to flash, flicker, disappear; before flashing again—blindingly bright against his dark denim trousers—but all he can do is continue staring at it. None of it feels real.
His eyes drift to the signage above the door across from him.
Beyond the doors and the glass and the stretch of corridor he is not allowed to cross, is his best friend. Moondae. Still unconscious.
The room smells sterile and cold, almost corpse-like. Like something that’s been scrubbed clean of personhood. It’d been years since the last time he’d been to the hospital: he’d torn his labral, which sounded more complicated and painful than it actually had been. Recovery had been a fairly straightforward, easy process, as was his return to dance afterwards; even then he finds he can’t remember much of it. Far easier to recall the therapist’s office: a more recent, familiar memory, with wooden flooring and upholstered furniture, some soft scent to unwind the mind, an attempt at comfort, which the hospital offers nothing of; only an impersonal white laid over sterile concrete. He can’t reconcile this with the dissipating heat of Moondae’s body, limp and bloodless, that flashes through his mind like a stereographic image.
There had been so much blood.
Ahyeon wraps his arms around himself, trying to stop the shivering, but he can’t stop feeling cold. Nothing helps. He can’t seem to get warm.
Only the sound of Raebin’s voice snaps him out of it.
“Hyung?” he says, too loudly. His eyes fall onto Ahyeon’s lap. “Your phone’s—”
“Oh, s-sorry!”
The fact that the first to notice is Raebin—their youngest, who is just as shaken, blood still staining his sleeves—embarrasses him a little.
Eugene lifts his head from where he has been staring at the door, his expression dulled by exhaustion. He glances between them, his gaze sharpening when it settles on Ahyeon. His brow furrows in something like displeasure, which is enough to kick Ahyeon into motion.
He darts out of the waiting area to answer the call before he can think himself out of it. Sitting still hasn’t accomplished anything so far. Worrying alone hasn’t helped him either. When he finally picks up the phone and presses it to his ear, nearly ten minutes have passed since the first ring; even then he isn’t sure what is said on the other end, only that his mouth is moving, while the rest of him feels headless, unmoored. All he can think about is Moondae, lying there, utterly alone.
Moondae, unconscious on the other side of the wall. Moondae, who does not have parents nor a guardian waiting for news, or a place already filled beside his bed. That there’s no one whose job it is to be called, no one whose presence is assumed—
Isn’t it too awful?
The thought presses down on him further, a gaping maw.
Moondae is still off-colour and unconscious several days after his surgery. The doctors all say It’s a miracle his situation has stabilised this far, which is a good thing; then, We’ve done all we can for now, which is far less so. It’s worrying, because what if there’s nothing more they can do? What if Moondae never wakes up after trying everything?
What if this is the end?
Ahyeon... doesn’t want it to be the end.
From his physical therapy sessions, he’s learned that the body is a system of systems—an organic machine, if simplified enough times—with inputs and outputs that must be carefully balanced by a series of mechanical functions. If he doesn’t eat enough, drink enough water, or give his body enough time to rest between training sessions, his body will eventually accumulate fatigue, slow, then break down. It’s a negative cycle that only perpetuates itself.
That’s the same premise they apply in counselling; that cyclical idea of overexertion: if he keeps feeding himself nothing but dread and grief and worst-case endings, eventually it’ll eat him back.
So he turns the premise over in his hands like a worry stone. If this is all inputs and outputs, cause and effect—
What’s wrong? What’s missing?
What do we need to fix, Moondae-ya, for you to finally wake up?
The bedroom he shares with Moondae has an uninterrupted view of the street opposite. Though it’s several stories up, the street lamps are bright enough that their light tends to flood into the room, bleeding through the curtains even after they’re drawn shut.
Ahyeon had loved it immediately. It felt like proof that he wasn't sealed off—that he could still coexist peacefully alongside the world, even if only from a distance. From that room, he could still look out of the window, listen to the sound of traffic, and simply breathe in the night air, even in the moments when his skin was drawn too tight against his throat.
The room itself remains sparse, though it’s been months since they moved in. When they'd first settled into their dorms, Ahyeon had spent too much time and attention on decorating, excitedly bringing in sets of his own bedding and other personal artefacts, buoyed by the idea of companionship—before he realised that the person he was rooming with mattered more than what filled the space.
Moondae must be the most ideal roommate in the world, all things considered. He’s considerate to the point of invisibility, always cleaning up after himself without fanfare. He’s quiet, dedicated, caring. He’s never complained, not once—not even when Ahyeon leaves the curtains drawn open to the street, or the nightlight burning past curfew to knit, or read, or journal until his fingers ache. Moondae simply turns the other way and pulls the blanket over his head to shut out the light; a gentle sidestep.
When they first drew lots, Ahyeon had been quietly, stupidly thrilled at the chance to room together. He hadn’t masked it well, he knew; and when he cut a shy glance at Moondae, he couldn’t be certain what Moondae thought of it.
It’s always hard to tell what Moondae is thinking from his expressions alone, though his actions always give him away.
Privately, Ahyeon likes that. Likes that Moondae’s actions are easy to read, even if his eyes aren’t. He isn’t good at reading the room, so he prefers it when others are more upfront, even if it strays toward bluntness. That, at least, is easier to handle than breaking some unspoken social contract he’s never been handed.
He knows he’s an inconvenience; he’s already relied on Moondae so much, and he doesn’t want to burden him further.
Another, even more inconvenient truth: that burden is something that can only compound, now that they’re roommates.
Even so, he can’t stop himself from blurting, “M-Moondae-ya, let’s have fun and take care of each other…!”
Moondae’s eyes lift from his bag, his hand pausing over the zip as he pulls out his belongings. Then they soften, like a shutter easing open, when they finally meet Ahyeon’s. He steps closer and holds out his hand.
It’s firm and warm when Ahyeon takes it.
“Yeah,” Moondae says, shaking his hand once, gently. “That’ll be nice.”
Though it’s late, Ahyeon still can’t bring himself to sleep. He’s left the curtains open just a notch—just enough for a finger of light to drag across the sheets in a broken smear. Closer to the door, Moondae’s bed sits collecting dust, its covers folded and untouched from the time they’d remade it on laundry day, a week after the accident.
There’s a knock at their door. Before Ahyeon can open his mouth to respond, the door slides open.
Lee Sejin steps in, an easy smile on his face, though his eyes are anything but. He hasn’t had an easy set of days—the deep shadows below his eyes are proof enough. They’re shared amongst the rest of the team, save Raebin, who’s had his prior to the accident; and Eugene, though his appetite has waned in recent days, a telltale sign that he isn’t coping well. None of them are.
“Ahyeon-ahyeon,” Sejin says gently, “how are you feeling today?”
Ahyeon sits up, waving his hands wildly in the universal sign of fluster. “I’m—I’m okay! What’s wrong, Sejin-ah?”
They don’t usually talk this late at night—much less alone, without Moondae. It’s hard to find the right time or the right words to say—Sejin is too entangled with the company’s affairs, Ahyeon far too removed—and without Moondae to smooth things over, there’s too little common ground between them; the space between them too wide to cross without slipping.
Still, Sejin is kind, and speaks to him kindly. He moves past Moondae’s bed, hand grazing the frame briefly when he side-steps it, then strides closer to Ahyeon’s. He settles down a careful distance away, smoothing the bedspread out when he sits. When he turns, he grins, though there’s a visible tremble on the corners of his lips.
“The company’s—” He pauses, clenching and unclenching his fists. His knuckles go bone white; crescent marks bloom across his palms when he finally releases them. “I’ll be accompanying Chungwoo-hyung to all the company meetings from now on.”
“Then—”
“I’ll be counting on you to take care of the younger ones, okay?”
“Wh-what?” The word slips out before Ahyeon can stop it. There’s only one answer he can give, really, but he doesn’t know what Sejin means from the question, or what expectations he has behind that. He doesn’t know if he can take care of anyone at all, honestly. He's barely managing himself—moving through each day after the next, selfishly, numbly. Still, if that is all he can do, then—
“I—I will,” he says. “Yes. I will.”
It’s the least he can do.
He has seen Sejin cry before, though nothing compares to the way he holds himself over Moondae’s hospital bed, when he thinks he’s alone.
Ahyeon visits early and often, staying until the nurses chase him out and tell him to come back another day. Because of that, his visits often overlap with the others’. He’s content to sit beside them, and knit or read while Moondae rests quietly—anything to keep his hands and mind busy, anything to distract himself from crying whenever his eyes drift to the erratic rise and fall of Moondae’s chest, the bandages crawling up his throat.
He’s just come back from the toilet, when he catches a shuffling sound from within the room. It's not yet time for the nurse to drop by to change the drip, and the others typically leave a message in the group chat before dropping by. There’s been nothing since earlier—he’s sure of it.
He slows as he rounds the corner, steps soundless, and peers inside.
Lee Sejin is hunched over, his palms pressed to his face, his ears painted a blotchy red. The plate of tangerines Ahyeon had left on the table earlier has been pushed aside, replaced by a neat stack of papers: media release forms from their company, he's almost certain. Chungwoo and Bae Sejin had returned the night before carrying a sleeve of papers in a nondescript yellow folio, their faces dark with anger. He hadn’t dared to ask what happened, or why. He knows the answer wouldn’t be a good one.
Still, he wants to help however he can. Sejin had entrusted him with the younger members, but they don’t really need taking care of. Ahyeon can’t cook for them, though he cleans—and cleans obsessively—because there’s nothing else to do. Raebin is more mature than most people five years his age. Eugene occupies himself in his own way; if Ahyeon interferes, it only takes longer for him to recover.
Still, he knows they appreciate the sentiment; he sits in on their visits to Moondae, on occasion. Eugene often mixes up words when he’s excited, but Ahyeon has never seen him so frightened before—clutching the lapels of his sleeves, nails scratching the cotton threadbare, babbling incoherently whenever he lays eyes on Moondae. There’s the occasional English phrase Ahyeon recognises, but the rest is nonsense. Prayer, maybe, or reassurance. It’s hard to tell.
Raebin, on the other hand, mostly locks himself in his room. His responses to Ahyeon’s questions are often clipped, though Ahyeon knows he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just busy, determined to do something to occupy himself, which is an instinct Ahyeon understands too well; he doesn’t feel like he has the right to interrupt—except to remind him to eat at scheduled mealtimes. Every time Raebin’s gaze lifts from his lap to Moondae’s bed, his eyes wobble and glisten. He holds it all in, refuses to lean on any of them.
Privately, he wishes they would rely on him instead.
That goes for Sejin, too.
Ahyeon bites his lip. For a moment, he considers knocking, opening the door.
Then he doesn’t.
Sejin probably doesn’t expect company. He certainly doesn’t want it—not now, not like this. Interrupting would be pointless. All Ahyeon can do is wait for the moment to pass, the way they do for Eugene and Raebin; then find another way to be there for him, for when it eventually does.
Sleep happens between blinks, and as he jolts awake, the room feels suddenly dark and unfamiliar, closing around his throat. For a second he doesn’t know where he is, then:
Ah.
He must've fallen asleep sitting up on the armchair in the hospital, socked feet now half-slipping off the seat from where he’d folded himself into it, knees pressed to his chest like a child. There’s a thin, blue blanket draped over his shoulders, and another over Eugene’s. He's snoring so softly it barely counts as sound, and Ahyeon can’t bring himself to wake him.
Once he’s done wiping the sleep from his eyes and mouth, he collects the drooping skeins of yarn caught between the legs of the table and the floor, and sets them back neatly beside his needles, beside his half-finished knitting. He’d wanted to make a plush for Moondae—something to grant him some small form of comfort; something for after curfew when the nurses chased them out, for when they weren’t allowed or couldn't stay.
It’s still light out, which feels wrong. When he takes his phone out to check the time, he realises that too much time has passed while he was asleep.
At least Moondae’s face is still smooth in sleep. Unmarred, untroubled. Still untouched by pain, though Ahyeon knows it must be immeasurable. He knows that, at least, for all the things he doesn’t.
Ahyeon’s tongue finds the roof of his own mouth, considering. Then reaches for both his hands, and cradles them gently.
The same way Moondae reached out to him all those years.
Eugene had said something impossible once: that the souls of people could still hear around them, even when asleep. He’d talk constantly during his visits to Moondae, recounting his day minute-by-minute with grave, painstaking detail, waiting for a reaction. Nothing ever happened, but he still kept trying.
He knows that when he looks back on this time—or any other time, pick a period—in his life, most of it will be marked by worry and inaction instead. That all he can hear is his own voice, quietly lamenting: You wasted so much time worrying. You wasted so much time. There isn't much more time to waste now.
He doesn’t know if any of this will work, or if Moondae will hear him, or if he even believes it himself. But trying feels better than nothing. At the very least, he doesn’t want to stop believing, or move on, or do any of the things the doctors try to prepare them for—though he knows that eventually, it's what you’re supposed to do.
“Moondae-ya,” Ahyeon whispers. It's been a while since he's called him by name. That realisation strikes a strange feeling in his chest, hammering his heart with stone. The pain blurs his vision. When he tries to control his breathing, it whistles through him instead, shallow and rapid river-like. All of him trembles. But he won't cry when there's no reason to. “I—I miss you. We all do.”
His thumb moves to Moondae’s wrist, and turns it over. Feels his pulse flutter slowly, steadily. Still here.
“You’ll come back to us s-soon, won’t you…?”