Archive of Our Own

In-ho would never admit he was frightened.

The thought alone was unthinkable. Admitting fear meant acknowledging the possibility of failure—of loss. And loss was something he refused to entertain, not when Jun-ho’s life hung in the balance.

He turned his head slightly, his gaze settling on the frail figure in the adjacent bed. Jun-ho was watching him, lips curved in that same teasing smirk he’d worn since childhood, but the pallor of his skin betrayed him. The shadows beneath his eyes were deeper than yesterday, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced. The disease was eating him alive, bit by bit, and In-ho could do nothing but offer a piece of himself in return.

“There’s still time to back out,” Jun-ho said, his voice light, as if they were discussing a casual bet rather than a life-altering surgery.

In-ho’s chest tightened. He forced a grin, flexing his fingers against the stiff hospital sheets to keep them from trembling. “Nah,” he replied, shrugging with deliberate nonchalance. “I’ve not got anything else on. Might as well stay here.”

Jun-ho laughed—a soft, breathy sound that dissolved into a cough. He winced, shifting against the pillows before settling back with a sigh. The laughter had always been their shield, their way of pretending the world wasn’t as cruel as it was.

In-ho mirrored his brother’s posture, tilting his head back against the pillow, but the second his eyes fixed on the ceiling, the facade crumbled.

What if…?

The questions came like a flood.

What if the surgery went wrong? What if Jun-ho’s body rejected the kidney, leaving him worse off than before? What if the tests had lied? What if, in trying to save him, In-ho unknowingly gave him something incompatible—something fatal?

His breath hitched. He clenched his jaw, forcing air through his nose, slow and measured. ‘Stop. Overthinking won’t change anything.’

But the silence of the ward was oppressive, the sterile scent of antiseptic thick in his lungs. The rhythmic beep of monitors turned into a countdown that couldn’t be slowed, to an event that could be the end of them.

He barely registered the creak of the door, the quiet shuffle of footsteps.

“I just need to do some checks,” a nurse announced, his voice too cheerful for the weight of the room. He glanced between the clipboards at the foot of their beds, pen tapping lightly against the metal frame. “Who wants to go first?”

“Age before beauty,” Jun-ho teased, gesturing toward In-ho with a weak but mischievous grin.

“Where does that leave you, as I have both?” In-ho retorted.

The nurse chuckled slightly and stepped up to In-ho’s bedside. “It’s a really wonderful thing you’re doing,” he said, as he began to line up equipment.

“Anyone would do the same,” In-ho mumbled.

“I like to think so, too,” he said, as he put a disposable sensor onto a thermometer. “Can you just tilt your head to the side for me?” he asked, and he put the sensor in In-ho’s ear, then made a note on the clipboard.

At that moment, In-ho looked up at him at last. Tall and slender, but with a quiet strength in the way he carried himself. His big, brown eyes were warm, framed by lashes just long enough to be distracting, and his mouth—soft and expressive—quirked slightly as he made a note on the clipboard. A mess of wavy hair tumbled over his forehead in a slightly unruly manner.

In-ho could barely tear his eyes away as the nurse took his blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen levels. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jun-ho watching him, and could already sense his knowing smirk. He willed his brother to keep his stupid mouth shut.

“Almost done,” the nurse said. “I just have to put a cannula in. Do you have a preference which side?”

“I’m left handed, so…”

“We’ll do the right.”

In-ho held his hand out, palm up, and the nurse’s fingers brushed against his wrist—just barely, just enough to send a pleasant tingle up his arm. His touch was warm, his grip firm but gentle as he turned In-ho’s hand slightly, tracing the blue veins beneath his skin with a practiced eye.

"You’ve got good veins," he said. The offhand clinical compliment shouldn’t have made In-ho’s pulse jump, but somehow it did.

He watched as the man swiped the antiseptic wipe over his skin, the coolness of it a sharp contrast to the warmth of his fingers. There was something hypnotic in the way he worked—no hesitation, no unnecessary pressure, just smooth, confident movements.

"You’ll feel just a little pinch," the nurse warned, his voice softening, as if he could sense In-ho’s tension.

The needle slid in, quick and precise. In-ho barely felt it, too distracted by the way the nurse’s thumb pressed lightly against his knuckles, steadying him. It was over before he could even tense up, the cannula secured with a strip of tape.

"There,” he said, smoothing the tape down with a feather-light touch. "You’re all set.”

Then the nurse was moving away, crossing the small space to Jun-ho’s bedside. The moment his back turned, In-ho caught his brother’s eye and shook his head in a silent, desperate plea: Don’t you dare.

Jun-ho’s grin only widened, sharp with mischief.

As he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Jun-ho’s arm, Jun-ho tilted his head, studying the nurse with far too much amusement. "What’s your name?" he asked, voice dripping with faux innocence.

"Gi-hun," he replied, barely pausing in his work.

"Gi-hun," Jun-ho repeated, slow, deliberate. "Are you single?"

"Jun-ho!" In-ho hissed, mortification burning through him. "Let the man work! I’m so sorry," he added to Gi-hun, voice dropping into something between apology and embarrassment.

Gi-hun only chuckled, the sound warm and unbothered. "It’s ok," he said. "Nearly done over here too."

But Jun-ho wasn’t finished. "Will you be here when we wake up?"

"My shift finishes in an hour," he answered. Then, as he prepped Jun-ho’s arm for the cannula, he added, "Ok, hold still. Little pinch coming…"

The needle slipped in, Jun-ho barely flinching.

"So I won’t be here when you wake up," Gi-hun continued, taping the line in place, "but I’ll be back once you’re out of recovery and back on the ward." He finished with a gentle pat to Jun-ho’s wrist. "There. All done. And I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

The moment Gi-hun was out of earshot, In-ho turned to his brother. “If we survive, I am going to kill you.”

***

Consciousness crept back into In-ho’s body in sluggish, viscous waves. He drifted in and out, caught in a limbo where his thoughts felt detached, floating just beyond his grasp.

The first thing he noticed was his mouth—dry, coated with the unpleasant aftertaste of plastic and antiseptic, his tongue feeling foreign and useless against the roof of his mouth. There was something artificial about the air he was breathing, cool and sterile, tinged with the sharp scent of disinfectant. A dull, rhythmic beeping filled the silence around him, steady but intrusive.

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, the skin tacky as though glued shut. He forced them open, blinking sluggishly against the too-bright fluorescent lights overhead. The world around him was a blur of muted whites and pale blues, shadows shifting in and out of focus. His limbs felt distant, leaden, the IV in his hand a dull ache beneath the layers of anesthesia still fogging his mind.

He turned his head, a sluggish, clumsy movement, and felt a distant tug in his arm where a line was taped to his skin. His gaze landed on the empty bed beside him.

Jun-ho’s bed.

It was empty.

Something cold tightened in his chest.

“Where’s my brother?” His voice was rough, the words sluggish and thick like they had to fight their way out of his throat. It wasn’t directed at anyone in particular—just a plea, a demand for answers from the void.

“He’s still in surgery,” came a voice, familiar but distant, as though muffled by the fog still clinging to him. “Try not to worry. He’s in very good hands.”

The words were meant to be reassuring, but they barely registered past the static in his brain. Surgery. Still. How long had he been under? How long had Jun-ho been in there?

“He’s a good kid,” In-ho murmured, the words slipping out on instinct, though they barely felt like his own.

“I can tell,” the voice responded, warm with understanding. “And that you’re very close.”

He wanted to say more, wanted to ask if there had been any updates, but his thoughts were moving like molasses. The room swayed slightly as he tried to focus, his vision swimming between vague outlines and indistinct patches of colour. His heart rate monitor gave a small, insistent beep, as if echoing his struggle to fully wake.

“Get some more rest,” the voice said gently. “When you wake up again, he’ll be here.”

That voice—familiar, patient. He tried to place it through the haze. A flash of memory surfaced: a friendly nurse, brown eyes beneath unruly hair, a small smile.

“And that good-looking nurse, the one who did all the pre-op checks?” In-ho mumbled.

A pause. “I’m sure he’ll be around too.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, his tongue still clumsy in his mouth. “Apologise to him for me. My brother is always trying to set me up.”

A soft chuckle. “Sounds like a way he’s trying to show he cares.”

In-ho inhaled deeply, the breath steadier this time, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt more his own. The fog was still there, but thinning. He forced his eyes open again, blinking away the blur until he could finally make out the figure beside him.

Squatting next to his bed, adjusting one of the many lines snaking into him, was Gi-hun.

His brain caught up in slow, disjointed steps.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, the words still hoarse but clearer now.

Gi-hun glanced up, something like amusement flickering in his expression. “Someone called in sick,” he said easily. “So I pulled a double shift.”

In-ho blinked at him, his thoughts still sluggish, still tangled with worry for Jun-ho. His limbs still felt distant, the post-anesthesia fog refusing to lift completely.

And then something else registered.

Oh god.

Ohshitohshitohshit.

His stomach dropped.

“How much of what I just said,” he asked slowly, voice hoarse with the weight of impending regret, “can be attributed to the drugs I’m on?”

Gi-hun straightened, the corner of his mouth twitching in clear amusement. “I’ve heard worse, don’t worry.”

A polite way of saying ‘none.’

Before In-ho could spiral further, Gi-hun continued in that same even, professional tone; to him this was just another routine interaction. “Okay, so your catheter is collecting urine, which is good—it means your kidney function is looking solid. I just need to take some bloods, if that’s okay?”

In-ho nodded automatically, his sluggish brain accepting the words before they fully clicked.

Catheter?

His thoughts ground to a halt.

Oh. No.

A sinking dread settled in his chest as the awareness hit all at once. The foreign sensation of the tube, the slight, unnatural pressure. His body had been on autopilot, too dazed to notice before, but now that he knew, he couldn’t un-know.

A groan built in his throat, but he barely swallowed it down. If Gi-hun had been the one to insert it—

Oh god.

Maybe he could bribe one of the doctors to euthanize him. A simple overdose of morphine. Hell, he’d take being smothered with a pillow. Zero dignity in hospitalization.

***

In-ho was moved out of recovery and back to the regular ward before Jun-ho joined him.

The murmur of voices and the steady beeping of machines filled the ward, a low and constant backdrop to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft rustling of nurses moving from bed to bed. In-ho lay still, staring up at the ceiling, the pale blue curtain drawn around his bed offering only the illusion of privacy. He wasn’t alone here—not like in recovery—but it didn’t matter. He barely registered the presence of the other patients. His mind was elsewhere.

Jun-ho was out of surgery. That was what one of the nurses had told him. The procedure had gone as planned, with no complications. He was in recovery now, sleeping off the anesthesia, and would be brought to the ward when he was stable enough. It was good news. It was a relief.

But it didn’t stop the tightness in his chest.

He’d spent so long worrying about this—about whether his kidney was a match, about whether the surgery would go well, about whether there would be any complications—that now, in the aftermath, he felt unmoored. The worry had nowhere to go. It was just… there. Lodged in his ribs.

He let his eyes slip shut, and before he could stop himself, his mind drifted back—way back—to a time when Jun-ho had been small enough to carry.

Sixteen years between them. He remembered the first time he’d held him, barely bigger than a loaf of bread, his tiny hands grasping at the air. It had been a difficult birth for Jun-ho’s mother, so while their father had been fussing over her, making sure she was safe and recovering, it had been In-ho who had sat by the crib, watching the rise and fall of Jun-ho’s small chest, making sure he was still breathing.

He remembered Jun-ho as a toddler, all round cheeks and wobbly steps, following him around the apartment with wide, adoring eyes. He’d been a quiet child, observant, always watching, always learning. Even then, he’d wanted to be near In-ho, wanted to be just like him.

And then there had been school—Jun-ho’s first day, clinging to In-ho’s sleeve, his big eyes filled with worry. "You’ll come pick me up, right?" he had asked, voice small.

"Of course," In-ho had said, ruffling his hair. "I’ll be right here."

And he had been. Every day. Every scraped knee, every lost toy, every whispered confession of childhood fears—ghosts in the closet, monsters under the bed, nightmares that left him creeping into In-ho’s room in the dead of night.

Sixteen years apart, but there had never been any distance between them.

And now—

Now, Jun-ho was lying in a hospital bed somewhere down the hall, recovering from a surgery In-ho would have given anything for himto not need in the first place. He was out of danger. The worst was over.

So why did In-ho still feel like he needed to go check? Like he should be sitting beside him, watching over him the way he always had?

The curtain shifted slightly as a nurse passed by, and the low murmur of the ward brought him back to the present.

He sighed, turning his head slightly to stare at the ceiling again.All he could do now was wait, and yet his mind wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t settle.

Instead, it drifted. Slipped from the familiar worry, the ingrained instinct to protect Jun-ho, and caught on something else.

Someone else.

Gi-hun.

The thought made him blink, as if hearing the name in his own head had startled him. It was ridiculous. There was no reason for him to be thinking about him now, no reason at all. But the more he tried to shove it away, the more it stayed.

How had he made such an impression? He was just a man, doing his job, like any of the other doctors and nurses in the hospital.

But there was something about him. His openness. His kindness. His….softness….that In-ho simply wasn’t used to.

His big doe-like come-to-bed eyes, tiny waist, hair demanding to be grabbed and pulled, and unreasonably round ass didn’t help.

Had he answered when Jun-ho had asked if he was single? He’d been too busy alternating between worry and cringe to fully hear if he’d answered or not.

As much as he hated to admit it, he was grateful for Jun-ho’s ham-fisted attempts at being a wingman. They were certainly better than his own ham-fisted attempts at flirting, which usually consisted of being unable to do anything except tell irrationally and increasingly mean jokes to the object of his affection until they never spoke to him again. So far, his technique had yielded very few decent results.

Not that he’d now have to opportunity to even try.

If Gi-hun had stayed on to cover someone else's shift last minute, surely he wouldn't have to work his own original one, doing three shifts in a row?

And if that was the case, would he be rota’d to a different ward when he came back? Which would mean In-ho wouldn’t even have the chance to use his time-honoured technique of pushing him away and hoping for the best.

The pain in his back was increasing steadily, and in a twisted way, In-ho welcomed it. At least it provided a distraction, something else to occupy his mind.

He waited until it was too great to deal with, before pressing his call button to request pain killers. He hoped the morphine would be enough to knock him out, at least until Jun-ho finally joined him.

**

He woke up to the sound of laughing visitors on the ward and rolled to one side. A protective warmth filled his chest. Jun-ho was in the next bed along, watching some cartoon on other on his tablet. He smiled at the sight and tried to sit up.

“Jun-ho,” he breathed.

Jun-ho glanced up from his tablet, his expression groggy but alert enough to break into a small, lopsided grin. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced, and his skin was still a little pale, but he was here. Awake.

Alive.

“Hey,” Jun-ho said, voice rough from sleep. “You’re finally up.”

Relief settled deep in In-ho’s chest, pressing against his ribs. He hadn’t realized just how tightly he’d been holding onto his worry until now.

“How are you feeling?” In-ho asked, watching him carefully.

Jun-ho shrugged, shifting slightly under his blankets. “Like someone cut me open and messed around with my insides.” He grinned. “But, you know. Not too bad, considering.”

In-ho smiled tenderly. “Don’t be a brat,” he said, but there was no malice to his words.

“Too late.” Jun-ho stretched—just barely—before wincing, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Immediately, In-ho sat up straighter, eyes scanning him for any sign of distress. “Are you in pain?” His voice came out sharper than intended, the edge of concern cutting through.

Jun-ho waved him off, though his movements were slower now, more careful. “It’s fine, just—laughed too much earlier. I may have overestimated how funny cartoons are while on pain meds.”

In-ho frowned. “You shouldn’t—”

“Relax, hyung,” Jun-ho cut in before he could start lecturing. “The nurses are keeping an eye on me. Besides…” His grin turned sharp. “You’ve got other things to think about, don’t you?”

In-ho narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Jun-ho’s grin widened. “So… have you seen him again yet?”

In-ho blinked and feigned ignorance. “Who?”

Jun-ho gave him a look. “Don’t play dumb.”

“You’re on strong painkillers,” In-ho said flatly. “That’s the only explanation for why you’re acting like an idiot.”

Jun-ho laughed, clearly regretting it moments later. He inhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut as he clutched at his side.

The teasing, the smugness—it all vanished in an instant. In-ho was already moving, trying to sit up properly, trying to reach for the call button.

“What hurts?” he asked, his voice urgent. “Do you need—”

“I’m fine,” Jun-ho managed through gritted teeth, his breathing a little unsteady. “Just—damn, I hate this part.” He forced his eyes open, the lingering discomfort clear in his face, though he was still trying to downplay it. “Don’t freak out, okay? This is normal.”

He tried to force himself to be rational. Jun-ho was right. They’d had major surgery. Pain following it was normal. But In-ho could feel his heart rate picking up, his worry creeping back in like a shadow that refused to leave. He knew recovery wouldn’t be instant. He knew pain was inevitable. But knowing and seeing were two different things.

Jun-ho exhaled slowly, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. When he looked back up, his teasing smirk was weaker but still there.

“Okay, but seriously,” he said, voice rough but amused. “When’s your next shift with Nurse Gi-hun?”

In-ho let out a long, slow breath and lay back against his pillow. “I’m a patient man, Jun-ho, but that doesn’t mean you can keep testing me.”

The conversation was briefly interrupted by the sound of a cart rolling down the ward, the faint clatter of medication bottles and equipment shifting as the shift nurse made his rounds.

And, because the universe apparently had an evil sense of humour, it was Gi-hun.

In-ho barely had time to process the figure moving between beds before Jun-ho caught sight of him too. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face as he turned back to In-ho, eyebrows raising ever so slightly.

Don’t, In-ho warned with a glare.

Jun-ho didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The expression alone was enough.

In-ho huffed and turned his attention away from his brother’s knowing smirk. He tried to turn it anywhere else but Gi-hun, but that was simply impossible. He was tending to the other patients first, and even going about his everyday routine, In-ho couldn’t tear his eyes away. He stopped at the bed across from them, adjusting an IV, murmuring something to the elderly patient that earned a tired chuckle in response.

The same thing happened at the next bed. A friendly exchange, a quick check of vitals, the smooth motion of drawing blood with steady hands. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should be holding In-ho’s attention.

And yet there was something utterly fascinating about him. About the way he moved. The generosity of his smile. The way he managed to put everyone around him at ease.

Everyone apart from In-ho, it seemed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jun-ho grinning, and he wished for something—anything— to happen that would distract Gi-hun away for a moment. Anything to stop him coming over, and allowing Jun-ho to torture him like this.

No such luck.

Gi-hun finally reached their beds.

“Glad to see you both awake,” he said easily, pulling up next to Jun-ho first. “How are you feeling?”

Jun-ho, traitor that he was, grinned like a child with a secret. “Much better, thanks.”

Gi-hun didn’t seem convinced. His gaze flickered down, assessing. “Pain level?”

“Eh,” Jun-ho waved a hand, “Like a solid six.”

Gi-hun gave him a look. The kind that said, Don’t lie to me, I do this for a living.

Jun-ho hesitated. “...Eight?”

Gi-hun checked the clipboard on the cart. “I can give you some morphine now, and you can have some codeine in a couple of hours. Please don’t hide it if you’re hurting, ok?”

“I was fine,” Jun-ho said, but he took the morphine without any further protest.

Gi-hun performed the rest of his checks on Jun-ho, and finally seemed satisfied, offering him a kindly smile. “I’ll check in again later. Let me know if it gets worse before then.”

Then, finally, he turned his attention to In-ho.

And Jun-ho, because he was a menace, visibly perked up.

In-ho took the opportunity to glare at his little brother, trying to psychically send him a message that if he made any kind of insinuation, no matter how well-meaning, no matter how…accurate…he would take his bloody kidney back.

Gi-hun didn’t notice. Or if he did, he ignored it, already glancing at the notes on his clipboard. “And how about you? Any pain, nausea?”

“No,” In-ho said quickly, possibly too quickly.

Gi-hun lifted an eyebrow.

Damn it.

“I mean,” In-ho cleared his throat, forcing his voice to sound normal, “nothing unexpected. Just the usual soreness.”

Gi-hun hummed in acknowledgment. “That’s good.” He double-checcked the notes on his clipboard. “OK, it’s time to take out your catheter”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

In-ho felt every muscle in his body go stiff.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know this was coming at some point. It was that he knew Jun-ho was enjoying this. Knew he was watching. Knew he’d be insufferable the moment Gi-hun left.

A faint, barely muffled snort came from the next bed.

In-ho resolved then and there: as soon as Jun-ho was well enough, he was pushing him down a flight of stairs.

"Let me just pull the curtain around," Gi-hun said, either completely oblivious to the personal hell unfolding, or once again choosing to ignore it. He drew the partition shut, sealing them off from the rest of the ward. The small enclosed space somehow made it worse.

The snickering from the other side of the curtain definitely made it worse.

Gi-hun didn’t acknowledge it. Maybe he was used to this kind of reaction from patients—or maybe, mercifully, he assumed Jun-ho was reacting to something else entirely.

But In-ho knew. He knew his little brother. Knew exactly what that suppressed laughter meant.

He was never going to live this down.

"Okay," Gi-hun said, snapping on a pair of gloves. "This might feel a little strange, but I’ll be as quick as I can."

In-ho's face burned.

"Relax," Gi-hun said, entirely too close, entirely too casual. "The more tense you are, the worse it'll feel."

From behind the curtain, Jun-ho made a sound—not quite a laugh, but something that sounded suspiciously like dying from the effort not to.

The whole thing was over in less than a minute.

“There,” Gi-hun said, disposing of the used catheter and snapping off his gloves. “All done.”

In-ho nodded stiffly, very pointedly not making eye contact. The curtain swished open, and Jun-ho was lying there with the smuggest expression imaginable.

In-ho sent him a silent, deadly warning. Say one word and I will remove your stitches myself.

Jun-ho, the little shit, just grinned. As Gi-hun busied himself with his notes, In-ho watched as Jun-ho's foot appeared out of the end of his blanket, nudging a book on the bed's attached tray. In-ho shook his head almost imperceptibly, but Jun-ho continued to grin, and with a strain of effort, he kicked the book to the floor.

“Oh,” he said, his voice dripping with fake surprise. “Oops.”

Gi-hun turned at the sound. He blinked down at the book, then bent to pick it up.

And in spite of the heat that he knew was rising up the back of his neck, In-ho couldn't help but admire the view. Gi-hun was bent at the waist, scrubs fitting entirely too well across his lower back, his posture giving In-ho an absolutely perfect view of the peachiest ass he'd seen in living memory.

Thank fuck the catheter was already out.

When Gi-hun straightened, oblivious, and placed the book back on the bed, In-ho willed himself to look normal. To act normal.

Gi-hun didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He just checked something off on his clipboard, then glanced at the both of them.

"Alright," he said. "That’s it for now. I’ll check in again later. Please make sure you’re drinking plenty of water, and if you need the bathroom, give us a call."

As soon as he walked away, Jun-ho lost it.

It started as a quiet snicker, then escalated into full-blown, stitch-pulling laughter.

In-ho glared at him. “Shut up.”

Jun-ho clutched his side, still grinning through the wince of pain. "Oh my god, hyung. That was pathetic."

“I hate you.”

Jun-ho just laughed harder. “No you don’t,” he said.

In-ho glanced over towards his little brother. “No. I don’t,” he said.

“And I can read you like a book,” Jun-ho continued. “It was obvious you like him.”

“Oh, and your answer to that is to be an embarrassing little shit, is it?”

Jun-ho laughed again. “No, hyung. I just know what you’re like. You’ll watch and look and do nothing.”

In-ho sighed, looking for an excuse. “He’s probably taken.”

“I didn’t see a ring.”

“Probably not into men, then.”

Jun-ho rolled his eyes, a sudden look of exhaustion taking over his face. “I’ll keep going until you put a stop to it,” he said as he lay back against his pillow. “And there’s only one way for you to do that.”

***

The ward was dimly lit, the glow from the nurses' station casting long shadows across the floor. Most of the patients were asleep, the steady beeping of monitors and the occasional rustle of sheets the only sounds breaking the silence. But In-ho was awake and restless.

His body still ached, but it wasn’t the pain keeping him up. His mind wouldn’t settle, thoughts circling uselessly in the dark. He supposed that he wouldn’t truly be able to relax until Jun-ho was discharged, until they’d received absolute proof that he wasn’t going to reject the donated kidney. It was going to be a tough few months.

The fullness in his bladder provided a welcome distraction for a moment. With a sigh, he shifted his legs over the side of the bed, hissing slightly as his stitches pulled. He could call for help—press the button and wait for a nurse—but the stubborn part of him refused.

He needed to move, just for a moment. Clear his head.

The first step was unsteady. The second wasn’t much better. He gritted his teeth and kept going, holding onto the edge of the bed for support. He made it a few steps before a voice interrupted him.

“Going somewhere?”

In-ho froze, caught. Slowly, he turned his head.

Gi-hun stood a few feet away, arms crossed, one brow arched in that way that suggested he wasn’t actually mad, just mildly exasperated.

“I was,” In-ho admitted. “Until I got caught.”

Gi-hun shook his head. “You know you’re supposed to call for help.”

“I know.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“I’m a very bad patient.”

Gi-hun sighed, stepping closer. “Come on. Where are we going?”

“Bathroom.”

Gi-hun didn’t comment further, just moved to In-ho’s side and slipped an arm around his back for support. He was warm, solid, and steady. In-ho hesitated for a moment, then let himself lean into it, just slightly.

It was slow going, but they made it. Gi-hun helped him ease into the stall, then stepped back, waiting just outside the door. When In-ho was done, he was already there, hands ready to help him.

“I could’ve managed, you know,” In-ho muttered as they started the slow walk back.

“Sure you could’ve.”

“I mean it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Gi-hun said. “But it’s still ok to ask for help.”

They reached the bed, but just as In-ho was about to lie back, he hesitated. He didn’t want Gi-hun to leave just yet. It was stupid, childish even, but the thought of being alone with his thoughts again…

"Stay a while," In-ho murmured, his voice laced with something close to pleading. "Talk to me."

Gi-hun hesitated for just a moment, then gave a small nod. "Alright." He pulled the chair closer to the bed, settling in. His voice dropped to match the quiet. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Anything," In-ho said. He just needed to hear another voice, to pull himself out of his own thoughts. "Tell me about yourself. Why’d you become a nurse?"

Gi-hun exhaled, fingers combing absently through his hair as he considered the question. "I wanted to save people," he admitted. "My father wanted me to be a doctor, but…" His lips pressed together briefly before he shook his head. "It wasn’t for me. The pressure, the expectations—I tried, but… I wasn’t right for it. Nursing felt… closer. Like I was actually there with people, not just above them."

In-ho studied him, watching the way Gi-hun’s shoulders tensed slightly, the flicker of something in his eyes—not quite regret, but close.

"So, you wanted to be a hero?" he asked.

Gi-hun shook his head. “No, nothing like that” he said with a chuckle. “I just wanted to do my best.”

In-ho let the words settle between them before he sighed. "I get it. That’s why I became a cop."

Gi-hun glanced at him. "To save people?"

"To try." The words were softer than before. "But it’s not always that simple. Sometimes you do everything right, and it still goes wrong."

Gi-hun nodded, and in his gaze, In-ho saw understanding—real, quiet understanding.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then In-ho’s gaze drifted toward the other bed, where Jun-ho lay curled on his side, breathing steady and even.

"He wants to follow in my footsteps, you know."

Gi-hun followed his line of sight. "Your brother?"

"Yeah." In-ho’s lips curved in something too bittersweet to be called a smile. "He’s always looked up to me. Even when I told him not to. I always tried to push him toward something better, but he was determined to be like me. I remember when he got sick and…" His voice faltered, the weight of memory settling heavy in his chest. "Everything changed after that." He swallowed, his grip on the blanket tightening. "The first time he collapsed, I thought..I thought I’d lost him. One second he was fine, the next, he just… wasn’t there. I thought he’d died right in front of me."

Gi-hun didn’t say anything, didn’t rush to fill the silence with reassurances or empty words. He just listened, his quiet presence grounding in a way In-ho hadn’t realized he needed.

"The hospital visits, the waiting, the not knowing—it was hell," In-ho admitted. "He was just a kid. He shouldn’t have had to go through that." He exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching. "But he did. And he’s still here. Still him."

"He’s lucky to have you," Gi-hun said softly.

In-ho scoffed, shaking his head. "He’d say I’m the lucky one." His eyes flickered back to Gi-hun. "What about you? Family?"

Gi-hun hesitated, but only for a moment before shaking his head. "It’s just me."

"No brothers? Sisters? Cousins?"

Another shake of the head, and even in the dim light, In-ho caught it—that flicker of something heavy behind Gi-hun’s gaze. A sadness so deep it had settled into him like an old companion.

"My mum was an only child, like me. My dad had a brother, but he passed when I was little, before he had kids of his own. I don’t really remember him. And they’re both gone now, too."

The words were simple and matter-of-fact. But there was something in the way he said them that made In-ho’s chest tighten. It wasn’t self-pity—not even close. It was just acceptance. A quiet, worn-out kind of loneliness that had settled into his bones over time.

In-ho thought of his brother, of the way Jun-ho had always been there, even when they argued, even when he drove him mad with worry. He tried to imagine a life without that, without anyone at all, and the thought was unbearable.

"Still," Gi-hun continued after a beat, a small, almost-too-casual shrug lifting his shoulders. "I keep busy. It’s not like I’m lonely or anything."

That was a lie. And even if In-ho hadn’t been trained to pick up on those things, he would have known. It made the weight in his chest press heavier.

Eventually, Gi-hun glanced at his watch. "I should head back before they start wondering where I am."

In-ho’s expression flickered—something like reluctance passing over his features before he gave a small nod. "Yeah."

Gi-hun hesitated. Just for a second. Then, almost as if he were doing it before he could second guess himself, he reached out, fingers brushing lightly against In-ho’s own. The touch was fleeting, gone almost as soon as it was there, but In-ho felt it all the same.

"Try and get some sleep," Gi-hun murmured, pushing to his feet. "I’ll see you tomorrow."

In-ho watched him go, the silence settling heavy around him once more.

And when he finally rolled over, eyes slipping shut, he wished—just for a moment—that Gi-hun had stayed.

**

Two days had passed, and while Jun-ho still wasn’t ready to be discharged, In-ho had been told he might be going home later that day. He should have been relieved—should have been eager to leave the cramped ward, the stiff hospital bed, the indignities of medical recovery.

But as he sat there, absently flexing his fingers around the cannula still taped to his hand, he felt…

Something.

He wasn’t sure what, exactly. Just an odd sort of tension winding in his chest, an awareness of something unfinished, compounded by the worry of having to leave Jun-ho alone.

Since their conversation the other night, neither of them had mentioned the moment when Gi-hun had reached for him, and In-ho sure as hell hadn’t mentioned any of it to Jun-ho. Which came with the added downside that Jun-ho still hadn’t stopped his constant needling.

So he didn’t need to look up to know that Gi-hun was heading over when he saw Jun-ho’s smirk begin to widen.

"You’re up, hyung," his brother murmured, barely containing his amusement.

In-ho shot him a don’t you dare look, but it only made Jun-ho grin wider.

Moments later, Gi-hun reached their beds.

"Morning," he greeted, pausing at the foot of In-ho’s bed. "I hear you might be getting out of here today."

"Maybe," In-ho said, careful to keep his voice neutral. "If they decide I won’t keel over the second I step outside."

Gi-hun huffed a quiet laugh. "Always a good sign." He gestured toward the cannula in In-ho’s hand. "Let’s get this out, then. Shouldn’t take long."

And then, just as Gi-hun started removing the tape, Jun-ho struck.

"You know, Nurse Gi-hun," he said, all exaggerated casualness, "you never answered my question the other day."

Gi-hun glanced up. "Which question?"

Jun-ho’s smirk deepened. "Are you single?"

In-ho froze.

For a brief moment, the only sound was the distant beeping of monitors and the low murmur of other patients.

Then, Gi-hun let out a breath that could have been amusement, exasperation, or both. "Persistent, aren’t you?"

"It’s one of my better qualities," Jun-ho said cheerfully.

Gi-hun, thankfully, didn’t seem too fazed. He finished pulling out the cannula, pressing a piece of gauze against the small puncture site. "If you must know," he said, voice light but honest, "I’m divorced."

That caught In-ho off guard.

Jun-ho seemed momentarily surprised too, but recovered fast. "Oh," he said. "Sorry."

Gi-hun shook his head. "Don’t be. She said I cared more about my job than her. She probably wasn’t wrong."

The way he said it in the same matter-of-fact, almost resigned manner sat strangely in In-ho’s chest.

“There, all done,” he said. He hovered for a moment, as if there was more he wanted to say but was unsure where to begin. “If you are discharged, I’m probably not going to see you again, so… I just wanted to say good luck.”

In-ho nodded. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Gi-hun nodded, his lips in a tight smile, before he turned away and moved to another bed.

“What the hell was that?” said Jun-ho. “He was practically handing himself to you!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” In-ho said. “Besides, you heard him talk about his ex-wife. What did I tell you before? He’s not into men.”

Jun-ho looked like he wanted to leap out of bed and shake him. “You’ve dated women, you absolute moron!”

In-ho didn’t answer. He only sat there, staring absently at the spot where Gi-hun had stood, his fingers still resting against the gauze on his hand.

Later, when the discharge papers were signed and he was finally free to leave, he found himself hesitating in the doorway. Just for a second.

Then he exhaled, squared his shoulders, and walked out.

**

The hospital corridor felt colder than before as In-ho stepped back into its antiseptic embrace. It had been a week since he’d left this place, and now he was here again—this time, to finally bring Jun-ho home. A deep relief warmed him at the sight of his brother, who was now ready to leave behind the confines of sterile beds and endless monitors.

But even as he watched Jun-ho pack up his things with a determined efficiency, In-ho’s eyes betrayed a hidden longing. He scanned the ward for a glimpse of Gi-hun and found nothing. His heart sank with each passing moment, each empty corner where Gi-hun should have been. A bitter realisation began to settle in; he had clearly missed his chance.

Noticing the distraction, Jun-ho arched an eyebrow and offered a soft smile. "You looking for someone, hyung?" he asked lightly. "I haven’t seen Nurse Gi-hun around for days."

In-ho managed a tight smile in return, the words barely concealing the disappointment that throbbed inside him.

But there was little point dwelling on the past. Especially as his brother, for the first time in years, now had a future. He focused on the task at hand—double-checking the bay, making sure Jun-ho hadn’t left anything behind. But as they stepped out of the ward, something kept his steps slow, his head turning back one last time, as if expecting—hoping—for something.

Nothing.

With a quiet sigh, he turned and led Jun-ho through the hospital’s main entrance.

Then, as they crossed the threshold, a man brushed past him on his way out too, a holdall slung over one shoulder, the peak of a baseball cap shielding his face.

“Sorry,” the man muttered, barely glancing up before continuing on his way.

But In-ho knew that voice. He’d spent the past couple of weeks thinking about the man it belonged to, after all.

His heart stuttered. “Gi-hun?”

Gi-hun paused mid-step, turning toward them. His eyes—puffy, exhausted—widened slightly in recognition before his lips curled into a familiar smile.

“They’re letting you go, then?” he asked, his tone light, almost teasing.

“Yup,” Jun-ho answered. “Can’t believe you were gonna let me leave without saying goodbye.”

“Ignore him,” In-ho muttered. “He’s an ass.”

Gi-hun’s smile widened just a fraction, but his gaze flickered back to Jun-ho. “I’m sorry. They had me in ICU for days. But I’m glad to see you both up and well. Really.”

A beat of silence followed. Not uncomfortable, but something else. Something charged.

Gi-hun looked like he wanted to say more. In-ho wanted to say something too—but the words tangled somewhere in his throat, caught between hesitation and the strange relief of seeing him again.

Then, Jun-ho—because he had absolutely no patience for either of them—broke the moment entirely.

“Do you want to come over for dinner? In-ho’s an amazing cook.”

In-ho shot him a sharp look. “Let the man be, Jun-ho. He probably just wants some rest.”

Jun-ho ignored him completely. “Do you want rest, Gi-hun? Or do you want galbi jjim? That’s what In-ho promised me he was making.”

That got Gi-hun’s attention. He hummed, considering. “That does sound good… but I don’t want to intrude—”

“You’re not intruding,” Jun-ho interrupted. “It’s an official invitation, because neither of you have the wits to do anything about whatever this is—” he gestured vaguely between them—“without an official intervention.”

In-ho swore under his breath.

Gi-hun smiled. He hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Alright,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’d love to.”

Jun-ho clapped his hands together, looking far too pleased with himself. “Great. I’ll see you both at the car,” he said, and with that, he turned and walked ahead, deliberately leaving them behind.

A comfortable silence settled between them, before In-ho exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “He’s insufferable.”

Gi-hun smiled, although it didn’t hide the exhaustion in his eyes. “He’s got a point, though.”

In-ho took half a step closer, his brow furrowed in concern. “Don’t let my brother bully you. If you’re too tired, go home.”

His self-deprecating smile widened. “It’s ok,” he said. “It gets…pretty quiet at home. I’d really appreciate something that isn’t instant noodles alone in front of the tv.”

Their eyes met—just for a second, but long enough for something unspoken to pass between them. A thread of understanding, of possibility.

In-ho let out another breath, this one softer. “Come on,” he murmured.

And together, they walked away.