Chapter Text
Baekjin can’t remember the last time he drank water.
His mouth is dry, throat raw, head pounding behind his eyes. It would be simple—walk to the kitchen, twist the bottle cap, drink—but every step lights up his body in pain. His wrist is in a cast, his ribs are wrapped but throb with every breath, and there’s still dried blood cracking at the corner of his mouth.
He deserves it. All of it.
That’s what he tells himself. Again and again, like a punishment mantra: I lost. I deserved it.
After Humin and that friend of his left him bleeding on the ground, none of his ex-gang members came to help him. They saw him fall and scattered like rats—no loyalty, no second thought. Just like that, the Union’s untouchable leader became a ghost. A pathetic, broken thing lying in the rain. Then there was Mr. Choi. Baekjin isn’t sure why they didn't kill him. At some point, it seemed they would, but then Mr. Choi's voice told them it was enough. Baekjin was barely conscious, amidst the blood and broken bones. Next thing he knew, he was being thrown on a sidewalk, close to the hospital. He didn’t stay for long. The concerned look of the nurses was too much to bear.
He thinks about Seongje. Where the hell was he during the fight?
If he’d been there… Maybe things would’ve ended differently. But then he remembers how things had been between them, the last time they talked. Cold. Distant. Baekjin saw the limp in Seongje’s step, the pain in his eyes—and didn’t say a word.
Seongje had looked at him like a kicked dog after that. And Baekjin had let him walk away.
Now he’s here, alone, pressing fingers into bruises just to drown out the memory of Seongje’s face.
It doesn’t help.
Eventually, thirst wins. Baekjin drags himself to the kitchen, favoring his good leg. The overhead light buzzes dimly. His fingertips fumble the fridge door. Cold air spills out, and he grabs a bottle of water. Just holding it makes his hand shake. He braces against the counter, staring down the cap like it insulted him.
He exhales through his nose. Tells himself to move. Then—
Footsteps.
Not the ones in his head this time. Real ones.
Baekjin’s head snaps up just as the front door clicks shut. He doesn’t even have the strength to curse.
“Wow,” a voice says casually. “You look like shit.”
Seongje.
Of course it’s Seongje. No one else had the code. No one else wouldn’t bother knocking.
He strolls in like he owns the place, hands in pockets, hoodie loose, eyes sharp and glittering. He glances around like he’s just here to check the feng shui. Then his gaze lands on Baekjin—on the limp, the cast, the bruises—and he grins.
Baekjin doesn’t say anything.
Seongje circles him slowly. Lazy. Loose-limbed. Like a cat sniffing something new.
“You gonna drink that?” he asks, nodding to the bottle in Baekjin’s hand.
Baekjin tightens his grip. That small motion costs him. Pain radiates up his arm. He refuses to let it show.
Seongje raises an eyebrow, then steps in. Closer. Too close.
Baekjin doesn’t flinch. But his body coils, instinct tugging hard. Fight reflex straining against broken ribs and a locked jaw.
Seongje watches him like he’s studying a new toy. Then, without asking, he takes the bottle right out of Baekjin’s hand.
Baekjin’s grip isn’t strong enough to stop him.
Seongje unscrews the cap with a quiet click , tilts his head back, and drinks. Long swallows. His throat bobs, the sound of water obscene in the silence.
Baekjin watches, parched and furious. He should say something. He should punch him. But he can’t move fast enough, and Seongje knows it.
Seongje finishes half the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and smirks.
“Want some?”
He offers the bottle like a dare. Baekjin hates knowing that his hands will shake if he reaches for it. He fights his pride. And his pride win.
Baekjin doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
Seongje steps forward again.
“Let me help you with that,” he says lightly, already lifting the bottle toward Baekjin’s mouth.
Baekjin grabs Seongje’s wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. It’s a warning. Or it should be.
Seongje doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile, either. His gaze sharpens. Serious. Focused.
Then—he tips the bottle, carefully.
Baekjin drinks.
The water hits his tongue and he swallows greedily. He drinks like he’s dying. Because he is. Just a little.
By the time he finishes, Seongje is staring at him like he’s never seen him before. The same maniacal glint in his eyes, he has after a fight. Baekjin shoves him away, weakly, losing his balance for a second.
“What the fuck do you want?” he snaps. “You come to gloat?”
Seongje shrugs. “Something like that.”
His tone is vague, distracted. Like gloating was the idea, but now he’s not so sure.
“Had your fun? Get the fuck out,” Baekjin mutters and limps to the couch. His legs feel like rusted metal. The bed is too far. The floor is too cold.
He sits. Breathes.
Seongje grabs another bottle from the fridge, uncaps it, and places it on the table in front of him. Then he sits on the floor. Lights a cigarette. Blows smoke at the ceiling.
He doesn’t leave.
Baekjin stares at the bottle. At Seongje. At the floor. Then grabs the water and drinks it in silence.
Seongje talks. About the fight with Eunjang’s, about Baekjin no longer being Choi’s golden boy. About Humin. Baekjin just closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Bears it all like he bears the pain. Thinks that he would rather have died than be this weak, and maybe that's it's his ultimate punishment. To live through every humiliating, agonizing second of it.
“You want help with your bandages?” Seongje asks eventually. “Say please, I might even be nice about it.”
“Fuck you.”
It comes out soft. Hoarse. Weak. He knows Seongje will do whatever he wants anyway.
Seongje smirks. But he doesn’t press.
Baekjin closes his eyes. Tries to breathe through the aching in his ribs and the burning in his gut. Tries not to think about everything he’s lost.
Footsteps. Distant, close to the door. Then somewhere else. Back at him.
A moment later, something thumps on the coffee table. Baekjin looks.
The first-aid kit.
Seongje is kneeling, sleeves rolled up.
“Forgot my sexy nurse costume,” he says. “I’ll bring it next time.”
Baekjin doesn’t reply.
He just sits still and lets Seongje start with the cut above his eyebrow. The antiseptic stings. The bandage is tight.
Next time , Baekjin thinks.
---
He took too many painkillers.
It wasn’t the first time. The fever had made it impossible to sleep for days — his head pounding, his ribs flaring sharply every time he inhaled. He told himself three pills weren’t that much. He told himself he just needed a few hours of quiet.
He didn’t make it to the bedroom. The couch was close enough.
For a while, it almost worked. The ache softened, like voices behind a closed door. Then the frustration caught up. The tears stung at the edges of his eyes, useless and embarrassing. It’s just pain, he thought. He should know how to handle pain by now. He’d had worse. A voice whispers: no, you haven’t .
Baekjin shuts his eyes tight. Starts counting. A thousand, he promises himself, and if he couldn’t sleep by then, he’d take another dose.
He reaches a hundred and seventy before slipping under.
Dreams came fast. Jagged.
The orphanage. The bowling alley. Humin’s voice, saying I hate you .
Mr. Choi, smiling that wide, glinting smile, gun loose in his hand. The men closing in around Baekjin’s already-battered body. Stupid boy.
Humin again, this time offering to teach him how to fight, how to protect himself. No one had ever defended him before .
Boots and fists. Cracked ribs. A familiar chorus of pain.
Then Seongje appeared, standing in front of the hospital, watching him bleed. That wasn’t real. Seongje wasn’t there that night. His brain twisted the memory anyway. Seongje’s face too serious, too still. Not right. If it had been real, Seongje would’ve cracked some stupid joke.
And then — he does.
"Damn, still alive? You got cockroach blood or something."
The voice was perfect. Lazy, familiar. Close to real. Baekjin almost smiled. Of course his brain would get it right now.
But then came the smell of smoke.
Baekjin’s mind caught on it like a snag in fabric. He didn’t usually smell things in dreams.
Seongje's voice rambled on — about how Baekjin looked like shit, how only an idiot would refuse the hospital out of pride. A soft, almost distracted observation: "Hair’s getting long."
The scene shifted.
Ocean.
Cold. Drowning.
A sudden jolt of air as his lungs found breath again.
"Oh shit, drink slow."
Seongje was there again, above the waterline with him. His face clear, the expression unreadable.
Baekjin feels cold and sweaty. The dreams restart. Orphanage. Humin. The fight. Choi. Hospital. Seongje.
Seongje sitting on the floor, back resting against the couch, close. Too close.
Baekjin’s chest clenched. He didn’t want to dream about fucking Seongje. He reached out anyway, grabbing at the fabric of Seongje’s hoodie. His fingers were weak, clumsy. Seongje caught him easily, gently uncurled Baekjin’s fingers from the fabric, then held onto his wrist instead.
"Why?" Baekjin rasped. He wasn’t sure what he was asking. Knew it was stupid to look for answers in a dream.
Seongje didn’t let go. His thumb moved slowly across the inside of Baekjin’s wrist — a gesture so careful it didn’t even feel like something real Seongje would ever do. Only dream-Seongje.
The cigarette glowed between Seongje’s fingers, the orange tip pulsing in the low light.
He adjusted Baekjin’s wrist, turning it palm-up. Looked at him, holding his gaze steady.
"I don’t know," Seongje said.
His voice wasn’t lazy this time. Not amused, not mocking. Just… honest. Too honest. Baekjin’s brain got that part wrong.
The cigarette lowered.
Baekjin felt the heat first — not sharp, just warm.
There was a faint hiss, a soft sizzle as the cherry met his skin right over his pulse point. The pain barely registered beneath everything else already burning in him. It didn’t hurt. It simply anchored him.
Seongje’s finger hovered above the fresh mark, not quite touching.
Baekjin thought: this is a very strange dream.
When he wakes, it’s to a heavy head and sticky skin.
The couch creaks beneath him as he forces himself upright. He curses under his breath, flushing hot with shame at his own stupid brain. Of course he’d dream about Seongje. How ridiculous.
Then he sees it.
A bottle of water on the coffee table. He doesn't remember putting it there.
Baekjin reaches for it, and as his sleeve shifts, he catches sight of his wrist.
A small, round scar. Pale pink. Clean-edged.