Chapter Text
They’re in rehearsal before their last two concerts in Kobe when it happens. It’s just one bad landing, his foot slipping where the stage is dented slightly in one place. No one else notices at first, but Seonghwa feels more than hears the sickening pop in his knee.
The pain that erupts through his body makes dark spots appear, dancing, in his field of vision. He looks around, but no one is there to catch him, so he stays upright, tears springing to his eyes.
It hurts. It hurts so much.
“Hongjoong-ah,” he calls, his voice trembling, and watches a head of orange hair whip around. “Hongjoong-ah, I think something broke…”
Hongjoong is at his side in a flash, rushing across the stage to get to him. Yunho hurries backstage, calling the paramedic. Mingi and San are running to support Seonghwa, one on each side.
Hongjoong’s hands are on him then, as he kneels before Seonghwa to inspect the damage. “What, where does it hurt?” he asks frantically. “Seonghwa-ya, where does it hurt? What happened?”
“It’s my knee,” he says. He can already feel it swelling under his clothes. “I—I landed badly. The stage—there’s a dent in it and my foot slipped, and my knee twisted. I think something ruptured inside. I just heard a pop and a snap, and— Hongjoong-ah, it hurts so bad…”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re fine,” Hongjoong says, but Seonghwa can hear the panic in his voice. “The paramedic is coming. He’ll take care of you. Don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine.”
Seonghwa doesn’t quite know who Hongjoong is supposed to be reassuring—Seonghwa or himself.
His heart is pounding in his chest, the gravity of the situation slowly sinking in. He can’t put any weight on the injured leg. His knee is still swelling, the uncomfortable pressure bordering on unbearable now, and the pain increases with every single second. Seonghwa clenches his teeth, doing his best not to let it show. The others already look scared enough; he doesn’t want to worry them more than necessary.
They lead him backstage, where the paramedic sits him down on a table pushed against the wall to examine him. The others have been told to keep back and not crowd them, but Seonghwa can see all of them huddled just around the corner. It’s chaos backstage, but, even through all the noise, Seonghwa can pick out Hongjoong’s voice saying, “—doesn’t matter. I don’t care. It’s your job to check.”
He sounds angry.
There have been only a couple of times Seonghwa can recall when Hongjoong lost his temper at a staff member. He’s usually the first to intervene and smooth over any frictions between the members and the people they work with. The first time Seonghwa saw the other side of him, it was a PD at a music show berating Mingi backstage until he was close to tears, shortly before he went on hiatus. The second time, it was a new staff member who was let go soon after, for leaving Yeosang without lunch during a long day of promotions because of a mix-up and getting offended when questioned about it. This is the third time in Seonghwa’s living memory that he’s heard Hongjoong get this short with staff.
The paramedic who examines him has a serious face. Seonghwa knows. He knows already what the man is going to say before he even opens his mouth.
“I’m afraid there’s only so much I can do here,” he says. “You should see an orthopedic surgeon. Keep the weight off your leg and elevate it to help with the swelling, but I would recommend that you return home for treatment immediately. I can give you a shot for the pain, but otherwise I’d ask that you see a specialist as soon as possible.” He turns around and hails one of the venue staff. “Can we get a wheelchair in here?”
Seonghwa swallows. His throat is tight, and there’s an unbearable pressure right behind his eyes, like he’s about to cry. He looks back to the members and gives them a reassuring smile and a thumbs up.
“Go back to rehearsal, I’ll be fine,” he says.
None of them move.
“Hyung,” Jongho says, his voice a little choked up, “are you really gonna be okay?”
Seonghwa waves him off. “Jongho-ya,” he says, “didn’t doctor Moon put you back together real quick, too? Don’t worry about hyung, I’m serious. It’s just a little scratch on the Ferrari. Now go.”
None of them look particularly convinced, but they eventually trot back out to the stage. Hongjoong still hasn’t come to see him. It stings a little, but Seonghwa understands. Hongjoong is their leader, and he has to make sure that no one else gets injured.
It’s right there, waiting for the staff to fetch the wheelchair, that it finally hits him. He won’t be able to perform tomorrow or the day after. They’ll have to skip his solo altogether, which will be additional work for the light technicians and pyrotechnics experts. They will have to adjust everything else to fit the flow of the show. They have festivals, award shows and end of year shows to prepare for. They’re having a comeback in February.
He's going to miss it. He’s going to miss all of it, and it will only bring the whole group down. They will have to work harder and accommodate him just because he couldn’t watch where he was stepping.
What if he doesn’t get well enough in time for the Asia tour? What if he has to stay behind and miss all of it? What if something even worse happens? What if—
“Seonghwa-ssi?”
The voice comes as if from behind a pane of glass. Female—one of the younger staff members. Bora? Was that her name?
“Seonghwa-ssi, is everything okay?”
The desperate, heaving breaths he’s taking nearly bend him in half. He’s gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white, and he can’t get enough air. No matter how deeply he inhales, there’s nothing left for him to breathe.
“Seonghwa-ssi, it’s okay, please, calm down,” she keeps saying, her voice growing increasingly alarmed with each passing moment. “You’re being taken care of, it’s all going to be okay, trust me.”
And Seonghwa is trying—he’s trying so hard to get his breathing under control, to get his body to listen, but he can’t. Instead he inhales heaving, gasping gulps of air, and none of it reaches his lungs for long enough to let him breathe.
“Hey, hey,” another voice comes, familiar and comforting. Hongjoong takes Seonghwa’s hands into his own and holds them, grounding him in the moment. “Hey, Seonghwa-ya, it’s okay. Hey, look, nothing’s happening. It’s okay. You’re okay. Breathe slowly, yeah? I’ll count for you.”
Hongjoong does just as he says, the eight-count sounding out for a different reason altogether now, but it helps. Seonghwa keeps the air in his lungs, then releases it slowly to the rhythm of five-six-seven-eight. Breath, pause, release.
When his vision stops fogging up like a mirror in a humid bathroom and he sees Hongjoong crouching in front of him, looking up with a worried expression, the shame hits Seonghwa like a punch to the chest. He’s the eldest. He should know better than to make a spectacle of himself when there are bigger issues to solve.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, embarrassment creeping up his throat like a vine. “Sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what came over me. You don’t have to worry, Hongjoong-ah. I’m fine. You can go back to rehearsal.”
Hongjoong opens his mouth to say something, but in that moment the paramedic reappears with the wheelchair and soon Seonghwa is being wheeled out of the venue. His phone chimes with a message in his pocket once they get him into the car, on the way back to the hotel.
Hongjoong
i’ll see you in a few days
don’t worry about us, just
get better
Seonghwa stares out the window at the streets of Kobe passing him by, his mouth pressed into a thin, trembling line.
The private clinic in Sinsa-dong has changed a lot since the last time Seonghwa was here. The lobby has a new décor, and they must have repainted recently, because the smell of fresh paint still lingers in the air under the familiar hospital scent of disinfectant. The imaging room is in a different part of the clinic now, too, and the equipment has been updated. Doctor Moon’s office is right where it’s always been, though, and when Seonghwa is wheeled inside, his familiar face greets him with a smile.
“Seonghwa-ssi,” he says. “You don’t have to worry, we’ll take very good care of you. I have your x-rays here, and unfortunately, as I suspected, you’ll need surgery to repair your torn meniscus, but the prognosis is very good. You’re young and healthy, Seonghwa-ssi, and while this type of injury is extremely common among athletes and dancers, the vast majority of them make a full recovery, and I don’t see why it would be any different with you. Now, we’ll need to wait until your swelling goes down before we schedule the procedure, which can be done outpatient, so we won’t have to keep you overnight. Then, a few days after the surgery, you’ll be able to start physical therapy. You’ll have to keep your weight off your leg for six to eight weeks, and you’ll be in a brace during that time, but you should be able to return to regular activity within the next three months.”
“Three months?” Seonghwa repeats, the words echoing inside his head like insidious whispers.
Three months before he can so much as think about going back to practice means he’ll miss preparing for all their award shows and end of year galas. He might miss comeback prep, and he won’t be able to dance in the music video. He will have to sit out most of their concerts during the Asia tour. He was going to film a music video for his solo song later in the year.
“If all goes well,” doctor Moon says, and the knot in Seonghwa’s stomach tightens. “These things take time, Seonghwa-ssi. I wish I could tell you there is a way to make you better instantly, but the truth is, there isn’t. You’ve come to the best possible place, though, and we will all make sure that you recover as soon as possible. We have many people in your profession coming through those doors, and we understand how much is at stake for you. But some things cannot be helped, and this is one of them. Your body needs time to heal. Even with the best possible medical care available, it will need time to recover.”
Seonghwa nods, but he’s barely listening by the end of it, numbness covering him like a shroud.
“We’ll schedule the procedure for the first week of November,” doctor Moon continues. “By then, your swelling should be down, and we’ll be able to operate. Do you have any other questions, Seonghwa-ssi? Anything I can do to ease your mind?”
Seonghwa shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I understood everything. Thank you, doctor.”
The dorm is silent when he comes back. They have him on crutches, and so Seonghwa hobbles around the space, feeling useless and sorry for himself. He can’t even unpack properly, too afraid of what might happen if he were to trip and hurt himself even more.
His mother calls him the moment he lies down, exhaustion finally catching up to him. He picks up and puts her on loudspeaker.
“Seonghwa-ya, baby, I’m coming to see you,” she says. “I’ll be in Seoul this evening. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
Seonghwa stares into the ceiling, his eyes stinging. “Mom, you don’t have to come,” he says. “I know you’re busy with grandma, and I have people taking care of me here. I won’t be getting the surgery until early November, anyway.”
“Nonsense,” his mother says. “I’m never too busy to see my baby when he needs me. And I already talked to your brother and Hana, and they’ll be taking care of grandma for a few days. So you went to see your doctor? What did he say?”
Seonghwa licks his lips. A strange detachment has taken over him, a kind of apathy that will eventually give way to a breakdown. But he’s not there yet. For now, he just gets to feel numb.
“It’s a meniscus rupture,” he says. “Three months if everything goes well.”
It’s quiet on the other side of the line for a moment. Then his mother says, her tone carefully neutral, “That’s not too long.”
“I’m going to miss so much, though,” Seonghwa says. “Award stages and end of year stages, and comeback, and I don’t even know if I’ll be able to dance during the tour. That’s so bad, and I’m letting everyone down—the members, the fans, the company, everyone. Just because I couldn’t watch where I was stepping, and now I’m—”
“Seonghwa-ya,” she interrupts. “Listen to me. You’re not letting anyone down. You’re injured. These things happen when you do what you do. You’re not letting anyone down by taking care of yourself and your health. The fans love you and they will understand. I’ve already seen so many of them wishing you quick recovery on social media. And the members…baby, these boys love you more than they love themselves. Of course they want only the best for you.”
Seonghwa swallows. His throat is tight. “I just feel so…useless,” he admits. “There’s nothing for me to do other than wait. They can’t even do the surgery right away, because they need to wait for the swelling to go down. So I’m just going to be stuck here for the next two weeks, doing nothing.”
“I’ll be here to keep you company at least for a few days,” his mother says. There’s hesitation in her voice, though, and Seonghwa knows her well enough to realize she’s not telling him everything.
“Mom,” he says, keeping his voice gentle, “what is it?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, then sighs. “It’s nothing,” she says, “just—your grandma hasn’t been feeling her best lately, and I don’t want to leave her alone for too long. Your brother and Hana will be looking after her, but they both work and won’t be able to be there for her as much as she needs. She’ll have a nurse coming over, too, but I’m just worried. But it’s okay. I’ll make it work.”
There’s a part of Seonghwa that—like the little boy he hasn’t been in a long, long time—just wants his mother. Maybe it’s true that children never outgrow the need for their parents, that no matter how much they mature, there will always be moments when they’re seven again, crying their eyes out over scraped knees and reaching out for comfort.
But there’s another, more mature part of him that understands priorities. He has people around him who can give him the support he needs. His grandma, old and frail, and starting to forget people and places, needs his mother more than Seonghwa himself does.
“Mom, just stay home,” he says. “I’m being taken care of, I promise. Just stay with grandma and give her a big hug from me.”
His mother takes a deep breath. “Seonghwa-ya…” She sighs. “At least let me come and stay in Seoul overnight. The boys won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon, am I right? So I can keep you company until they come back.”
It’s pointless arguing with her, and it’s such a small concession. Above all, though, Seonghwa does want to see her.
“Okay,” he says. “But you really don’t have to worry about me.”
A quiet laugh comes from the other side of the line. “Baby, I’m your mother. I’ll always worry about you. That’s my job. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
It’s all too easy to fall into his mother’s arms once she lets herself into the dorm. Seonghwa had given her the code ages ago, but she’s never used it until now, which is how he finds himself being shaken out of a shallow nap in the late afternoon, surprised and pleased in equal measure.
“Mom, you’re here,” he says, sitting up to bury his face into the crook of her shoulder. He allows himself to be a child again for a few precious moments, hidden away from the world and surrounded by her familiar, comforting scent.
“I’m here, my baby,” she whispers and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “Let me make you something to eat, how about that?”
She accompanies him while he hobbles slowly over to the living room and lowers himself onto the couch, his injured leg propped up on the armrest. There’s not much in the fridge, since their grocery delivery won’t be coming until tomorrow morning, but there’s enough to make spam kimchi jjigae. It’s a taste Seonghwa associates strongly with his childhood, the kind of comfort food that speaks to love and care and affection.
His mother talks while she cooks, catching him up on the family news and telling Seonghwa about their friends and neighbors. This is familiar, too, and Seonghwa allows himself to lean into the comfort of feeling almost like he’s home for the holidays, disconnected for a moment from the life he leads.
They eat together at the dining table Seonghwa bought and put together one afternoon, fed up with not having an adult space to sit during meals. In fact, a lot of the living room décor owes to Seonghwa’s adventures in interior decorating, which seems to be a constant in his life. Back when he lived with Hongjoong, it was Seonghwa who made sure their room wasn’t just white walls and the most utilitarian furniture one could buy. Now he’s doing it again—making sure, little by little, that their dorm is more than just a place where they come to sleep.
“Eat more, Seonghwa-ya,” his mother says, ladling more of the stew into his bowl. “You need to keep your strength up.”
Once he’s feeling so full he could burst, he returns to the couch and turns on the TV while his mother makes them tea. That, too, is a familiar source of comfort.
Meanwhile, his phone keeps chiming with new incoming messages. Hongjoong and the kids must be done with their schedules, then, and free for the evening. The group chat bursts back into life, and then another message from Hongjoong appears in their private chat, and then another, and another.
Hongjoong
how are you doing? what did the
doctor say?
sorry i couldn’t message earlier, we had
a busy day
but!!! we’re coming back tomorrow
and get ready, seonghwa-ssi, because i’m
bringing gifts/entertainment
Attached is a photo of the big Millennium Falcon set from the Star Wars collection Seonghwa has been eyeing for a long, long time but always put off buying because of the price. Seonghwa didn’t even know they were still selling these in-store. The box looks huge. He knows it’s huge, because he kept going back to the display to look at it the last time they were in Japan.
“Who got you smiling like that?” his mother asks, pulling Seonghwa’s attention away from the phone.
He startles, schooling his face into a more neutral expression. “It’s just Hongjoongie, asking about how I’m doing,” he says. He doesn’t mention the gift.
“That boy is so sweet,” she coos, and Seonghwa’s stomach flips. “He really cares about you so much.”
Seonghwa taps his fingertips against the back of his phone, keeping the screen down where his mother can’t see. “He would’ve done the same for any other member,” he says.
Maybe, a little voice at the back of his mind whispers, but he wouldn’t be bringing them expensive gifts.
“I’m sure,” his mother says. “But his heart is big, and there’s a whole corner reserved just for you. And don’t even try to deny that. I know Hongjoongie like I know my own sons.”
Another message chimes.
Hongjoong
i bet you weren’t expecting that, right?
you’re thinking, when would he even have
found the time to go to the lego store?
well, seonghwa-ssi, i have my ways
Seonghwa tries to smother the smile this time. His mother notices anyway.
They say goodbye the following day after lunch. His mother’s train departs just past two in the afternoon, and she should be in Jinju before it begins to get dark.
“If you need me,” she says, her chin tucked into Seonghwa’s shoulder, “just call me and I will come. We’ll figure something out and I’ll come as soon as you call, I promise.”
Seonghwa swallows. “I’ll be fine, mom. You don’t have to worry about me.”
She says goodbye with a kiss to his forehead that leaves a faint mark of her lip stain and a promise that Seonghwa will call her frequently and let her know if he needs her to come up again. Once she’s gone, Seonghwa returns to his room and digs up his long-forgotten Switch, then powers it up. There are several games he hasn’t gotten around to playing yet, but instead he opens his Animal Crossing save, untouched for the last six months.
It’s easier to tidy up his island than it is to tidy up his life right now, so Seonghwa does just that. He picks up the sticks that litter the ground and harvests fruit from the abundant trees; he collects the myriad seashells by the ocean’s shore and goes around to find all the dig spots. It’s easy, mindless work, and it keeps his mind off the throbbing pain in his knee. They have him on a regimen of painkillers, but Seonghwa doesn’t like how woozy they make him, so he only takes them when the pain becomes too much. He’s no stranger to residual discomfort, after all.
Before he knows it, the afternoon passes in a haze, and then there’s the sound of the lock echoing through the quiet space, followed by several pairs of footsteps.
“Hyung, we’re back!” San bellows from the entryway.
Seonghwa sits up in his bed, careful to keep his knee elevated, and waits. The first person to appear in the ajar door of his bedroom is not San, though. It’s not Mingi, either, and it’s none of the managers. Instead, Hongjoong’s orange hair peeks through the crack. He’s barefaced, wearing horn-rimmed glasses on a delicate chain and a shirt he’s designed himself.
“Hey, can I come in?” he asks.
Seonghwa smiles, one corner of his mouth pulling up higher than the other. “Depends,” he says. “Do you have the Legos with you?”
Hongjoong laughs, delighted, and pulls the yellow bag out from behind himself, dangling it on two fingers. “Who do you take me for, Seonghwa-ssi?” he teases. “Of course I have the Legos.”
“You know that you didn’t have to, though, right?” Seonghwa says. “You don’t always have to buy me stuff to cheer me up. But I appreciate it a lot. I just—I don’t expect it from you, you know? I just want you to know that.”
“I know,” Hongjoong says, stepping further into the room, “but I wanted to do it.”
Seonghwa pats the empty spot on the bed right next to him, and Hongjoong sits down awkwardly at the very edge of the mattress, clutching the Lego store bag.
“Anyway,” he says, passing it to Seonghwa. “Here. It’s for you.”
Seonghwa pulls out the giant box and looks at the picture of the ship. “You’re crazy, by the way. I know how much these cost.”
Hongjoong shrugs. “It’s for you, so. Yeah.”
They’re quiet for a moment while Seonghwa inspects the gift. But he knows this silence won’t last forever, and eventually Hongjoong is going to ask.
Sure enough, after a minute or so, Hongjoong opens his mouth to speak. “Manager-hyung told us what the doctor said,” he begins. “But what I meant to ask is—how are you feeling?”
The weight in Seonghwa’s chest drops to the very bottom of his stomach. “It’s not too bad,” he says. “But the knee is still really swollen, and they can’t do the surgery until the swelling goes down, so—”
“You know that’s not what I mean, Seonghwa-ya,” Hongjoong interrupts. “I’m asking more like—how are you holding up?”
It’s Seonghwa’s turn to shrug now. He doesn’t know how to begin to untangle the knot of conflicting emotions inside his head. He can’t think about it too much, either, or the familiar stinging right behind his eyes and the tightness in his throat return, and he can’t afford to cry.
“I don’t like it,” is what he settles on, “but I’m fine.”
Hongjoong looks at him like he doesn’t quite believe him. The gaze lingers, and Seonghwa begins to squirm under the scrutiny.
“You don’t have to be fine,” Hongjoong says then. “It’s okay if you’re not. You got injured. You don’t have to be fine with that.”
The tears do come at that, hot and mortifying. Seonghwa shakes his head, his lips pressed into a tight line. “I can’t,” he says quietly. “The kids—they worry enough as it is. So I have to be fine, because all of you have to keep going, and I’m here to make sure of that.”
It’s different now than back when Jongho’s injury got worse during the Break the Wall tour. Back then, it was all of them worried about their youngest, the kind of worry that’s always buried deep down in the minds of older siblings. But you’re not supposed to see the people who take care of you like this—injured and weak, vulnerable. Those people are supposed to always be there, ready to shelter you from the world. You’re supposed to believe, on some level, that they’re invincible. That no matter what happens, they will be there. That’s where the comfort and reassurance come from.
That’s Seonghwa’s job. He’s supposed to be that for all of them. The eldest hyung. The caretaker of their little family. That’s why the younger members can’t know what kinds of thoughts are roiling in Seonghwa’s head all the time now, how close he is to falling apart. He has to be strong for them, if all of this is supposed to mean anything.
“You don’t have to be fine,” Hongjoong says stubbornly. “I can take it. I can shoulder it. I can be fine for both of us so you don’t have to.”
Seonghwa laces his fingers together tightly in his lap. There’s a dry cuticle at the base of his thumb that he traces obsessively, just so he doesn’t have to look up at Hongjoong.
“Hongjoong-ah… I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” he chides.
“No,” Hongjoong says. “We’re supposed to be taking care of each other. And the others. It’s always been like that.”
Seonghwa’s heart squeezes in his chest. Hongjoong sounds so earnest, his face so open and soft without any makeup. Seonghwa nods, then meets his eyes at last. He’s not wrong—they’ve been leaning on each other for as long as Seonghwa can remember, but it’s always been mutual. The idea of one-sided care leaves a strange taste on his tongue.
The last time Seonghwa got seriously injured, badly enough that he had to sit out performances, they were much younger, not fully settled yet. Now, the sting of it is so much worse than Seonghwa remembers.
“Okay,” he says, because that’s what Hongjoong wants and needs to hear. “Thank you. And thank you for the Legos. You shouldn’t have, but I love them.”
Hongjoong smiles and reaches out, snatching his hand back at the last moment after it hovers in the air for a few awkward seconds.
“Anyway,” Hongjoong says, scratching at the back of his neck, “if you need anything, just tell me, okay? I’m not saying that just to say it, Seonghwa-ya. I mean it.”
Seonghwa nods, mustering a smile just for him. “Thank you, Hongjoong-ah. I will.”
Everyone being so nice about it just makes Seonghwa feel worse. It’s irrational, but each time San or Mingi rush over to hand Seonghwa whatever he was reaching for, each time Wooyoung comes over to annoy him like nothing happened, each time Yeosang, who rarely texts, keeps messaging him throughout the day, and each time Yunho or Jongho come over with food, Seonghwa can’t help feeling like he’s letting everyone down.
Worst of all is Hongjoong, who has seen the inside of Seonghwa’s room more in the past two weeks than he has since they moved dorms over two years ago. He visits nearly every day unless they’re travelling for schedules, always under some kind of pretext and never staying very long, but his presence lingers nonetheless.
You don’t have to do this, Seonghwa wants to say, but there’s a selfish, self-centered part of him that perversely enjoys it. In the past, Seonghwa had to beg for Hongjoong to come home from the studio. Now he’s seeing him almost every day.
The attention makes him happy and guilty in equal measure. Hongjoong is a busy man with many responsibilities, and Seonghwa can’t help but feel like he’s pulling him away from his work just by existing. But at the same time, it’s so nice to see Hongjoong being so attentive and thoughtful as he gives Seonghwa so much of his precious time.
It’s not good for Seonghwa, in all honesty. It makes him imagine things that aren’t there. It makes him want certain things too much. But even knowing all that, he can’t bring himself to say no to Hongjoong—to tell him to go back to the more important things.
Seonghwa is fine. He’s being taken care of, and everyone makes sure of that every single day. Even if he’s alone, he’s not alone for long. As soon as the schedules are over, there is someone knocking on Seonghwa’s door to keep him company.
Still, he misses things. He has to sit out the Asahi TV Dream Festival, and he writes an apologetic message to Jay Songzio to tell him he won’t be able to attend the Songzio x Heliot Emil collection launch because his surgery is scheduled for the same day. There will be even more things he’ll have to miss: their Waterbomb performance in Macau, the tvN boxing gala, the festivals in Abu Dhabi and Jeddah, and who knows how many more after that.
It's the powerlessness that eats him alive the most. There’s nothing he can do about his situation, no way to make his body mend faster. In the days leading up to the surgery, Seonghwa starts to feel like he’s going insane in the confines of their dorm. It’s like a strange kind of cabin fever, the stir-crazy sensation that makes his teeth itch.
The day before the surgery, Hongjoong appears in his bedroom door late in the evening, looking a little sheepish.
“Hey,” he says, coming in further into the room to perch in Seonghwa’s desk chair. “Sorry, I got held up at the studio a little bit.”
Seonghwa rolls over to the side and looks at him, blinking softly. “It’s okay,” he says. “I know you’re busy. I don’t want to pull you away from your work.”
Hongjoong shakes his head. “No, no, it’s okay. I could’ve used a break anyway, and I just wanted to see you before tomorrow.”
He looks strangely nervous, sitting in Seonghwa’s chair, wringing his hands in his lap, feet dangling a little over the floor where his legs don’t reach. It’s cute.
Seonghwa pulls himself up into a sitting position and waits. He doesn’t push, doesn’t prompt Hongjoong to spill whatever is making him so jittery. His experience has taught him that Hongjoong will speak whenever he’s ready.
In the end, it doesn’t take long. Hongjoong licks his lips, takes a deep breath and says, “Actually, there’s something… I brought you something. It’s silly, and you don’t have to take it, but I thought—here.” With that, he reaches into his bag and pulls out what Seonghwa immediately recognizes as his point and shoot camera. He places it in Seonghwa’s hands and looks up at him. His mouth is a little open, accentuating the pouty fullness of his upper lip.
“What’s going on?” Seonghwa asks. “Why are you giving this to me? Hongjoong-ah, isn’t that your favorite camera?”
Hongjoong nods. “Yeah, I mean, you can consider it a loan,” he says with a laugh. “But I just thought, with all of us having to travel so much and stuff, maybe you could…I don’t know, make better use of it than I can at the moment? I know it must be so annoying to have to spend so much time stuck inside, and I’ve been thinking about how, back when I was learning photography, I would just go around taking photos of everything at the dorm first.”
“I remember,” Seonghwa says. “You used to steal my stuff to take photos of.”
“Hey.” Hongjoong leans over to flick Seonghwa on the arm. “I was borrowing your stuff. I always put it back afterwards. Anyway, this is just an idea, so… But maybe this could be something to pass the time, you know? If you want.”
Seonghwa’s heart clenches in his chest. He presses his lips together and swallows, a little overwhelmed with emotions. It’s the nicest thing anyone has done for him in a long time. The camera is one of Hongjoong’s prized possessions, something he has a lot of emotional attachment to, and he’s loaning it to Seonghwa like it’s nothing.
“Thank you,” he says. “I’m not that good at it, but I’ll do my best.”
Hongjoong waves his hand. “Just take it easy,” he says. “There’s a roll that I started a while ago already in the camera, but there are several spare rolls in the camera bag, so you shouldn’t run out. Do you know how to change the roll?”
Seonghwa shakes his head. He vaguely remembers his parents having an analog camera when he was a child, but it was a long time ago, and by the time he was old enough to take photos himself, digital cameras were the most popular. Hongjoong’s Contax is a vintage 35mm film camera, and Seonghwa has never learned how to operate one of those beyond just pointing and shooting.
“I’ll show you when you finish this one, then, okay?” Hongjoong suggests, then takes the camera from Seonghwa’s hands again and fiddles with the setup. “Okay, I’ll just give you a quick rundown of the settings and then you’re good to go.”
He spends the next several minutes explaining everything, and Seonghwa tries to follow to the best of his ability. He’ll probably have to search for the instructions later on the internet anyway, but that’s okay. Hongjoong looks so animated next to him, so full of life, and something deep inside Seonghwa’s chest blooms a little.
The demonstration drags his thoughts away from the surgery. It’s just a standard procedure, and he’ll be home in time for dinner tomorrow, but fear licks at Seonghwa’s heels. What if something goes wrong? What if his knee doesn’t heal well? What if he has to prolong his hiatus and misses out on even more than he’s anticipating?
But now, with Hongjoong sitting close enough that his knee is touching Seonghwa’s uninjured one, it’s easier to let go of those thoughts. How funny that being so close to Hongjoong makes it at the same time easier and harder to breathe.
Seonghwa spends the first two days after the surgery mostly sleeping. He doesn’t really remember the drive back from the hospital or how they maneuvered him into the elevator and all the way up to his dorm in a wheelchair.
He misses Hongjoong’s birthday. The gift he got him is lying in the drawer of his desk, gift-wrapped and undelivered.
He only remembers the next day in snapshots of memories, waking up just long enough to do the PT exercises they showed him at the clinic. The painkillers are making him nauseous and woozy but he still takes them, because it’s better than the haze of pain.
His knee is locked firmly in a brace, which makes it awkward to move around and sleep, and he can’t shower until he sees his surgeon for his follow-up appointment. His hair is a greasy mess, and he can feel himself starting to break out on his cheeks and forehead. He washes up as much as he can in the morning and in the evening, but by the time his first post-op appointment comes around, Seonghwa is ready to scrub himself under the hottest water spray he can stand until his whole body is pink and raw.
Hongjoong comes by in those first few hazy days, just to sit with Seonghwa even though he’s mostly out of it.
“Hongjoong-ah…” Seonghwa mumbles when he wakes up from another shallow nap to find Hongjoong still there.
Hongjoong perks up and puts his phone away the moment the words are out of Seonghwa’s mouth.
“Yeah?” he says. “What do you need?”
Seonghwa shakes his head. “No, I mean…I’m just sleeping. You don’t have to sit with me. It’s fine, really.”
Hongjoong shrugs. “I don’t mind. Now, do you need anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
Seonghwa swallows, his throat parched. “Maybe…maybe something to drink?”
He blinks a few times, watching Hongjoong head out of the room to fetch him a glass of water. His eyelids are heavy and his head feels weighed down. Seonghwa fights the fatigue for a little longer, but he succumbs to it eventually.
When he opens his eyes again, Hongjoong is no longer there, but there’s a glass of water on Seonghwa’s bedside table and a note that reads, Had to go, but remember to drink your water when you wake up! Ordered you food, too—Hyunmin-hung will pick it up for you and bring it over. Eat well!
Seonghwa shakes his head. When he checks his phone, he notices a missed call from his mother, and he dials back before he can think about it.
“Mom, sorry, I was sleeping and didn’t hear the call,” he says once she picks up. “The pain meds are making me really drowsy.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” his mother says, and he can almost see the way she waves her hand. “I just wanted to check up on you. How are you feeling, baby?”
Seonghwa looks down to where his leg lies uselessly on top of the covers, the brace bulky and ugly over the bandage. There are faint stains on the bandage itself where the lymph has soaked through it overnight. No bleeding, at least, just the visceral unpleasantness of it all reminding Seonghwa of itself.
“I’m okay, just sleepy all the time, and kinda nauseous from the meds,” he says. “They say the surgery went well, and I should make a full recovery. It’s just going to take time. They did it arthroscopically, so at least it shouldn’t leave a big scar. I was a little worried about that, with the stage outfits and such.”
His mother hums thoughtfully on the other end of the line. “At least I can sleep a little more soundly, knowing that my baby is in good hands,” she says. “But I meant what I said, Seonghwa-ya. If you need me, for any reason at all, just tell me and I’ll make my way over.”
Seonghwa shakes his head, as if to convince himself, too. The truth is, he wants his mother here. He wants the comfort and the familiarity, but he can’t be selfish with her. There are other people who need her, far more than Seonghwa does in this moment.
“I know, mom,” he says. “But it’s okay. Everyone is taking really good care of me. Hongjoongie even brought me his favorite camera so I could have something to do while they’re not around. I’m just—I’m going to miss so much. The concerts and the awards and the end of year shows, and most likely even the ambassadorship of Jinju, because I’ll still be on crutches by then, and it’s just—” He swallows, his throat tight. “It’s so unfair. It was just a stupid accident. And now I’m going to miss a whole comeback and the tour, and I hate it. I’m supposed to be helping them, but now I just feel like a burden. Yujin-hyung and the other choreographer-hyungs have already started working on the choreography for end of year stages and award ceremonies, and now they’ll have to redo everything just because I won’t be there. I don’t even know how I’m going to record for the new album without being able to stand properly.”
“Seonghwa-ya, baby, it’s okay,” his mother says. “You’re not a burden. These things happen. You’ve dealt with them before, and it was always fine. It will be the same this time. The boys will miss you on stage, but there’s eight of you for a reason. You’re all there to support each other. So let them shoulder the responsibility this time instead of you, okay? I promise, they’re covering for you with no resentment in their hearts.”
Seonghwa licks his lips. “No, I know, I just—”
“Let yourself be taken care of for once, okay?” his mother interrupts. “It’s not a weakness. You’re not letting anyone down.”
A strong sense of déjà vu comes over Seonghwa. He’s had this conversation before.
Right now, he seems to be spinning around in circles even when he thinks he’s moving forward, stuck in a loop, unable to get out. He wonders how long it will take him to fully recognize the truth of his situation—how long it will take him to admit that the world will not end just because he’s not there for them. For now, he seems to be going round and round, drawn like a moth to the flame of self-pity.
“I’ll try,” Seonghwa says. That, at least, is honest. “But it’s hard, because I’m so used to being this person to everyone else.”
His mother makes a sympathetic noise. “I know, Seonghwa-ya. But I promise, all of this will pass.”
It has to, Seonghwa thinks. Eventually, something has got to give.
Seonghwa feels better after his first post-op appointment. The two small incisions from the arthroscope are healing well, the steri-strips remaining firmly in place. There was a bit of dried, crusted lymph and blood stuck to the dressing when Seonghwa first changed it, but there hasn’t been any more discharge, and the surgical site looks clean.
“We’ll have you back on your feet in no time, Seonghwa-ssi,” doctor Moon says. “There are additional non-invasive treatments that we can perform that will speed up the healing process, but keeping up with your physical therapy is the most important part. Have you been doing you exercises?”
“Three times a day, yes,” Seonghwa says. “It’s been okay, not much pain. Just frustrating.”
The doctor nods. “That’s understandable,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “But the most important thing is to be consistent, and the results will come. I will see you next week to check how you’re progressing and make sure that everything is healing okay. You can now shower regularly, but remember not to get your knee too wet, and you’ll be wearing the brace for a while still. I would also recommend working with a licensed physical therapist once you graduate to more complex exercises. We have a team here at the clinic, and I’m sure doctor Shin will take you on. Jongho-ssi had rather excellent outcomes thanks to her.”
Seonghwa nods. “I’ll ask my manager to set it up,” he says. “Is there anything else? Anything I can do to get back to my regular schedules more quickly? It’s just—I’ll be missing so much. The others rely on me to be there and do my part, and I feel like I can’t do anything for them when I’m like this.”
The doctor gives him a long, considering look. “We’ll be doing everything we can to get you back on your feet and dancing as soon as possible, Seonghwa-ssi,” he says. “There’s always a temptation to push yourself. I see this a lot with my athlete clients, or the other performers I’ve treated. But pushing too hard when you’re not ready for it will only set you back more. Patience will get you places more quickly and efficiently than doing too much too soon.”
Seonghwa nods again. “I understand,” he says.
“I would recommend a sports psychologist,” the doctor says next, and Seonghwa looks up, surprised. “I know you’re not an athlete, Seonghwa-ssi, but you’re close enough, and I think you might benefit from a few counseling sessions while you recover. Working through a big change like this can be hard when you’re on your own. Just something to think about.”
Seonghwa worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment. “I’ll think about it,” he says.
He’s quiet on the way back to the dorm, looking out the window at the streets of Seoul turning to blurs of color as they pass them by. It’s raining, the droplets that run down the car window refracting the neon lights, forcing everything out of focus.
“Something wrong?” Areum-noona asks, craning her neck over her shoulder as they idle in traffic, waiting for the light to change. “You’re very quiet, Seonghwa-ssi.”
Seonghwa shakes his head. “I’m okay,” he says. “Just…thinking.”
She gives him a brief smile, then turns around when the cars in front of them begin to slowly move. “I know what will make you feel better,” she says. “We’re going to make a small detour.”
She drives them through the city, making her way towards the one of the shopping districts in Yongsan-gu, where she makes a few rounds while looking for a parking spot, then unbuckles her seatbelt and says, “Wait for me here, Seonghwa-ssi. I’ll be right back.”
Seonghwa spends the time until she’s back scrolling through social media. There are a few challenges that he marks for later as a force of habit, before he realizes that he won’t be able to film them anyway. He then tosses the phone to the side and tilts his head back until it bounces off the headrest.
It’s stupid how such silly things can completely bring his mood down. He doesn’t like the sulky teenager that rears his head up inside Seonghwa each time this happens. It’s not the kind of person he wants to be.
Areum-noona reappears a little while later, shaking off her umbrella before she gets into the car. The cold air she lets inside sends a shiver across Seonghwa’s entire body.
“Oof, it’s getting cold,” she says cheerfully. “I just wish it was snowing instead. At least it would be prettier. But I guess it’s still quite early for snow.”
Seonghwa wants to ask what errand she had to run here, but he stays quiet. There’s a paper bag now on the front seat of the Carnival. From his vantage point, Seonghwa can’t see the logo.
“Okay, let’s get you home,” Areum-noona says.
The dorm is quiet when Seonghwa hobbles out of the elevator and his manager opens the door for him. The others are in Macau for Waterbomb, and it’s been far too lonely here without them. They still check in on Seonghwa regularly, but it’s not the same.
Ever since Seonghwa has been placed on hiatus, San would wander into his room at the strangest times, just to not so sneakily maneuver his way into Seonghwa’s bed and cuddle up next to him like a big cat, one that’s grown out of kittenhood but hasn’t yet noticed that it takes up a lot more space now. Mingi has been more clingy than usual, too, and so gentle with Seonghwa at every step. The others have been dropping by regularly as well, and now Seonghwa misses all the commotion.
Most of all, he misses Hongjoong’s sturdy presence, unobtrusive but steady, working in the background to make Seonghwa’s life as easy as possible. It makes Seonghwa want things he’s tried to bury deep inside for years, with no great degree of success. The feelings always simmer right beneath his skin, ready to bubble up and spill over at any moment.
It’s a little bittersweet, like Seonghwa has been waiting for a song that he loves to start, but the only thing he can hear is the soft crackling of a vinyl record right before it begins to play. The truth is, things with Hongjoong have always been like this, suspended in a strange kind of limbo. And yet Seonghwa can’t find it in himself to stop hoping that maybe one day something will knock them out of this fragile equilibrium.
How silly, he thinks, to miss someone he sees almost every day. Still, Seonghwa reaches for his phone to message Hongjoong as soon as he’s seated in the living room while the manager does her rounds to check if he has everything he needs.
“Seonghwa-ssi,” she says, peering from behind the wall that separates the kitchen’s dining nook from the living room, “I ordered dinner on the way here, so it should be arriving in a few minutes. There’s also strawberry cream cake in the fridge for dessert.”
“Was that what we stopped for on our way back?” he asks and watches her nod. “Thank you, noona.”
“I told you it would make you feel better,” Areum-noona says with a smile. “I’ll just wait until the delivery gets here and then get out of your hair. Unless you need anything else from me, Seonghwa-ssi?”
Seonghwa thinks about what the doctor said. He shakes his head. “No, I’m good,” he says.
He expects Hongjoong to do what he always does whenever they come back from overseas schedules in the middle of the day—go from the airport straight to the studio. Seonghwa used to hate it back when they still shared a room; Hongjoong would always try to catch a ride in the second van, and Seonghwa would go back to the empty dorm.
To his surprise, Hongjoong knocks on his door about fifteen minutes after Mingi and San tumble through the front entrance in a cacophony of laughter and the clatter of suitcases being wheeled over hardwood. Hongjoong’s initial knock is quiet enough that Seonghwa almost misses it, followed by another rap of knuckles against the wood.
“Come in,” Seonghwa says, and Hongjoong’s head appears in the crack. His hair is a soft brown now, and he looks cozy in his cream Alo sweatsuit, hiding his hands in the ribbing, only the tips of his fingers peeking out.
“Hey,” Hongjoong says with a cheeky little smile, “did you miss me, Seonghwa-ssi?”
Yes, Seonghwa wants to answer earnestly, but he knows Hongjoong is just teasing. That would be too honest, too revealing.
“I missed you so terribly that I even got you a gift,” Seonghwa parries, and watches Hongjoong’s brow furrow. “Don’t worry, I actually forgot to give you your birthday gift before you left for Macau. I guess I was pretty out of it on the actual day, huh? Anyway, sorry. I should’ve realized sooner.”
Seonghwa moves to stand, but Hongjoong stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Just tell me where it is,” he says, “and I’ll get it myself. Unless that’s too private.”
“No, it’s okay,” Seonghwa says. “It’s in the second drawer of my desk, right on top of the notebooks. You can’t miss it.”
Hongjoong turns away from him and crouches to pull the box out of the drawer, then pulls himself back up to full height. His eyes flicker from the box to Seonghwa, and back to the box.
“Happy birthday, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa says. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
Hongjoong’s gaze settles on him, intent and soft all at once. “Should I open it now? Or do you want me to wait until later?”
Seonghwa shakes his head and shifts on the bed awkwardly, his brace bumping lightly against the wall. It jostles him a little, and a quiet, surprised gasp tumbles from his lips. Hongjoong’s eyes widen, alarmed.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Seonghwa reassures him. “Just clumsy. And you should open your gift, I think. It’s already late.”
He watches Hongjoong untie the ribbon and tear through the wrapping paper. Inside, there’s a small jewelry box that Hongjoong opens under Seonghwa’s watchful gaze.
“Oh,” Hongjoong says, his eyes growing wider. He pulls out the earrings, the marigold flowers unfurling. They’re white gold, the petals made of intricately cut topaz that refracts the light in a shower of sparkling haze. “Oh, wow, they’re so pretty! Hold on, let me just…”
Seonghwa watches as Hongjoong hastily pulls out two of his lobe earrings and replaces them with the marigolds, then opens his front camera to check how he looks. The earrings suit him. They’re smaller than his old birthday merch, and they feel more grown up with the precious stones in place of the enamel. Wearing them, Hongjoong looks at the same time like an older, more self-assured version of himself, and the same boy Seonghwa has known since that day in December which forever changed everything.
“Do you like them?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“Yah,” Hongjoong teases, “don’t fish for compliments, Seonghwa-ssi. You already know I love them.”
Seonghwa laughs quietly. “Good. They look good on you.”
Hongjoong yawns, giggling into it as he covers his mouth with his hand. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Were you up working?” Seonghwa asks.
Hongjoong nods. “Something like that. Some stuff was keeping me up, so I decided to do a little work to distract myself, and then it got late by the time I went to bed.”
“What was keeping you up?” Seonghwa asks, but Hongjoong only shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it,” Hongjoong says. “You need to focus on getting better and nothing else. I’ll handle the rest.”
It doesn’t sound like something Seonghwa shouldn’t worry about. Quite the opposite, it sounds like something Hongjoong would’ve normally confided in him, only to shoulder the entire burden by himself now that Seonghwa is recovering. It’s exactly the kind of thing he’s been afraid of the entire time. He’s used to being Hongjoong’s confidante in matters that involve all of them, only for Hongjoong to now decide that Seonghwa is better off not knowing. It stings a little, but he understands that Hongjoong means well. After all, he has no way of knowing that it’s one of Seonghwa’s biggest fears, the kind that sits, sour, at the bottom of his stomach.
“That’s not how this works, Hongjoong-ah,” he says. “You know that’s not how it works. I’m still here if you need me.”
Hongjoong looks up, his eyes widening a little. “No, I know, I know that, Seonghwa-ya,” he says. “I’m not—I really need to figure this one out on my own, okay? It’s nothing bad, though, I promise. Just…something to think about.”
Seonghwa nods, not entirely convinced. “Okay,” he says. “Just let me know how I can help.”
Seonghwa expects that Hongjoong will eventually return to his usual habits, and his own life will go back to its usual rhythms, measured more by Hongjoong’s absence than by his presence. Over time, Seonghwa has become used to it, and once they stopped sharing a room, it no longer carried the same kind of bitter sting to it. Now, though, Hongjoong seems to be everywhere.
He appears in the crack of Seonghwa’s bedroom door with the same kind of sheepish smile most days, even if for a moment. He brings by food—all of Seonghwa’s favorites, arranged neatly so that the only thing Seonghwa needs to do is eat. Hongjoong rarely joins him for a meal of his own, but instead he just watches him inhale the food, perfectly happy to do nothing else. Sometimes he brings his laptop with him and works while Seonghwa plays a game or reads a book.
He's been reading a lot these days—poetry, non-fiction, novels. He reads hungrily, voraciously, as if longing to live other people’s lives while his own has been put on pause. He reads Park Sunwoo’s We, In the Same Place and Hwang Inchan’s Let’s Suppose That This Is My Heart, and Cho Sihyeon’s Idle Time. He underlines and highlights and makes little notes on the margins. He writes little bits of his own poetry, too, but it comes out clumsy and awkward in comparison. That’s okay, though. He won’t be showing these poems to anyone, not even Atiny. There’s too much of himself in them, too much of what he can’t say.
Sometimes, he’ll read a passage or two of whatever book he’s currently making his way through to Hongjoong while he’s there. Hongjoong is not as much of a poetry person as Seonghwa or San, but he still stops whatever he’s doing every single time and listens intently to every single word that comes out of Seonghwa’s mouth.
There’s a small, quiet part of Seonghwa that wonders how long this will last. Hongjoong can’t put his life on hold forever just because Seonghwa is recovering from an injury. He has responsibilities and his own life to live, apart from Seonghwa. And yet, on the morning of Seonghwa’s first PT appointment, it’s Hongjoong who shows up on his doorstep.
“Hey, are you ready?” he asks, and Seonghwa frowns, confused, but he nods all the same. “Great. Let’s get going, then, to beat the traffic.”
The frown on Seonghwa’s forehead deepens. “What? What do you mean, Hongjoong-ah? Where’s Areum-noona? She was supposed to be taking me.”
Hongjoong runs his hand through the hair at the back of his head and shifts his weight from foot to foot. He’s wearing a black turtleneck under a shearling leather jacket and horn rimmed glasses, his hair pushed away from his forehead.
Handsome, Seonghwa thinks, distracted momentarily from the more pressing matter.
“Change of plans,” Hongjoong says when Seonghwa opens his mouth to speak again. “I’ll be taking you today. Is that okay?”
The truth is, it’s not. It’s strange. They have managers and other staff members. People who are supposed to be taking care of them. It’s their job, their responsibility. Hongjoong shouldn’t be doing this. And yet here he is, passing Seonghwa his crutches like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be doing.
The Volvo is waiting for them downstairs in the underground parking lot. Hongjoong must have moved it before coming up, because it’s not parked in its usual place, left instead right next to the elevator exit.
“Careful now,” Hongjoong says as Seonghwa hobbles over to the passenger side.
He opens the door for him, then waits until Seonghwa maneuvers himself inside the car and passes the crutches over to Hongjoong. The passenger seat has been moved all the way to the back, leaving Seonghwa plenty of leg room, just enough to accommodate the bulk of his brace.
“Everything okay?” Hongjoong asks. “Do you have enough room here?”
“It’s okay,” Seonghwa says. “I just still don’t understand why you are taking me to a PT appointment. If Areum-noona couldn’t make it, there are other managers, so I just…I don’t understand.”
Hongjoong gives him a long, considering look. “Does it bother you?” he asks.
“No,” Seonghwa says, “it’s just—you must have better things to do. It’s not your responsibility to drive me to my PT appointments.”
“I needed to get out of the studio anyway,” Hongjoong says. “Or…do you want me to call one of the managers to take you instead?”
Seonghwa shakes his head. He’s already sitting in the car. It would be silly of him to throw a tantrum about this.
“No,” he says. “It’s okay. Let’s just—let’s just go.”
He expects Hongjoong to drop him off at the clinic for his PT session and go back, but when Seonghwa emerges into the hallway an hour later, he finds Hongjoong sitting against the opposite wall, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when the door opens and Seonghwa’s crutches announce his arrival, his eyes lighting up like Seonghwa’s sweaty, disheveled form is the best thing he’s ever seen.
The PT session was brutal—doctor Shin, true to her reputation, pushed Seonghwa to his limit and only backed off when he was about to break. There’s sweat running down his spine, clinging to his nape. His hair is wet at the temples and the back of his neck. He’s hiding it under the hood of his sweatshirt, the wide, baggy pants concealing his brace.
“Ready to go?” Hongjoong asks brightly. He springs out of his seat and guides Seonghwa to the exit.
There are a few people watching them, and Seonghwa feels the scrutiny dripping down his back, cold and unpleasant. He imagines the phones in their hands, cameras on and recording, and retreats further into himself. He doesn’t want fans to see him like this, doesn’t want the videos circulating on social media. The hood obscures his face, but Hongjoong is only wearing a face mask. Someone might have recognized them, and even though the clinic feels pretty private, all it takes is one person with a phone and a Naver account.
Just as they’re nearing the exit, Seonghwa realizes that the way Hongjoong is positioned behind him is effectively shielding him from any undue attention. Whoever is looking at them from behind will see mostly Hongjoong, who appears even broader than usual in his shearling jacket, a big bag in his hand further obscuring the view of Seonghwa struggling with the crutches.
Something warm and fluttery unfurls in his stomach at the thought.
“Wait here,” Hongjoong says when they spill out into the cold late November day. “I’ll bring the car around.”
“It’s okay,” Seonghwa says. “I can walk. It’s not far.”
Hongjoong looks for a moment like he wants to argue, but then nods and gestures for Seonghwa to go first, matching pace with him as they make their way over to where Hongjoong’s car is parked. He opens the door for Seonghwa and takes the crutches from him to toss them onto the backseat, then comes over to the driver’s side and gets in.
Seonghwa licks his lips. “Hongjoong-ah…thank you,” he says. “For earlier.”
“You looked uncomfortable,” Hongjoong says simply in response. “I think one person was filming, but they probably didn’t get too much.”
“Oh,” Seonghwa says. “That’s—”
“I’ll talk to the staff next time,” Hongjoong says, and Seonghwa barely has the presence of mind to process the fact that there will be a next time.
“What?” He whips his head around to look at Hongjoong.
“I’ll drop you off on Friday, too,” Hongjoong says easily.
“But you have producer meetings on Fridays,” Seonghwa parries.
Hongjoong doesn’t respond for a moment, careful as he reverses out of the parking spot. Then, once they’ve merged with the traffic, he glances at Seonghwa and says, “Dox-hyung can’t make it, so it got rescheduled to Saturday.”
Seonghwa sucks his lower lip between his teeth and looks away, watching the midday traffic. “That’s fine,” he says. “But I don’t want this to get in the way.”
Hongjoong gives him a look. “You’re not getting in the way, Seonghwa-ya. I promise.”
The beginning of December brings with itself severe weather and even more severe thoughts churning darkly in Seonghwa’s mind. Physical therapy has been a struggle lately, and earlier this week his knee started throbbing, then swelling, and the doctors found a new source of inflammation, which means more meds, more bed rest and more time spent in recovery.
Embarrassingly, Seonghwa cried about it the day he came home from his emergency doctor’s appointment—hot, desperate tears soaking into his pillow, chest heaving. He doesn’t even know how it happened. He’s been so diligent in following his post-op care instructions. Like a small child throwing a tantrum, he wants to yell, It’s not fair! It’s not fair! But he’s not a child anymore, and he understands that just wishing things were different doesn’t make it so.
He understands that truth so, so well. Still, the bitterness eats at him, like a worm burrowing into an apple, making it rot from the inside.
On a particularly long and sleepless night, Seonghwa spends over half an hour on his phone, considering his options. He’s never done this before, but maybe that’s what he needs, after all. Doctor Moon wouldn’t have mentioned it if he hadn’t thought it would be helpful. Once he decides, around half past four in the morning, he sends the link to his manager and writes:
Seonghwa
Noona, could you, please, book me a visit
here?
I think I need a little help
Once that’s done, Seonghwa reaches into his bedside table and pulls out the camera that Hongjoong loaned him a few weeks back. It has stayed, untouched and unused, inside the drawer. But Seonghwa has been thinking about it a lot. He’s never been much of a photographer—not to the extent that Hongjoong or Yunho or Wooyoung are. They know a lot more about photography than Seonghwa does. But maybe that’s okay, too—for Seonghwa to learn something new. Maybe he’s been relying on muscle memory for too long, and now that it has betrayed him, making easy things difficult again in ways he couldn’t have predicted, he’s in a place to stretch his muscles a little differently, to bend them into a bit of a different shape.
It's not that Seonghwa doesn’t know how to take photos—he’s perfected the art of a good selfie over the years, and he understands angles and lighting. It’s so much harder to figure out what he wants to say with his photos, how to give them a point of view and imbue them with meaning. But maybe this is what this fallow period is supposed to be—a time for Seonghwa to find out. Maybe the long and arduous process of learning how to walk again will be easier and less humbling when he has something else to focus on aside from that. It could be like a little journal of his recovery, told in snapshots over time.
And then, when this is over and done, Seonghwa will be able to look back at the photos and know that he survived this—not intact, but whole enough.