The entire time Aeon was talking and keeping a steady pace at his heels, Near had been scoping out the entry points of the building. Each mental note recorded to memory because the only ones who would manage to leave this area would be him and his partner. “Yeah, let’s just gas the whole place up and let them scatter out of the building. Yup, that makes sense and then let’s get our scopes out and shoot them all in the head without ever figuring out if they even have anything we can bring back with us that’s valuable. Yeah, great plan. I love it. Especially the part where we would have to wait for the gas to dissipate so we could go in and check things out for stuff that maybe could be in there because we didn’t bring gas masks with us. I love it. You really know how to make plans.” As distracted as Near appeared, his sarcasm didn’t skip a beat along with a ‘we’re not fucking doing that’ kind of look shown in Aeon’s direction.
“There are a total of 2 entrances and a fire escape. If we’re smart about this, we can still use the gas without gassing the whole place out. Look–” Near removes an IPAD out of his backpack and begins to draw the details of his thoughts onto the electronic device. “This is what we’re going to do. First, we block both entrances at the bottom of the building to make sure no one comes in or out of there and we gas the whole first floor. Additionally, all the rooms in which they can escape through the fire escape also has to be gassed, forcing them to maintain locked down in the rooms in the front of the building. This closes them off from all areas they can escape.” He identifies these cutoffs with x’s in different places on the screen. “Once they’ve been gassed in, that’s when we get in through one of the windows. We’ll have a timer on our backs for how long we can interrogate them and ransack the place. I’ve got an extra pair of goggles in my backpack and some standard surgical masks. That’s the most protection I can supply us but it’s more than nothing at all. Think you can manage without killing all of us?”
“I could do without the sarcasm, Near.” He acts as if he’s dismissing his partner when in reality, he doesn’t know how to admit that he just wants to lock the whole place down and use his gas to paralyze, not kill. Okay, maybe kill along the way, too. Regardless, Near’s giving him an earful and Aeon’s getting a migraine, and he can faintly hear carefree conversation inside—he can’t wait to put an end to it. Unfortunately, Aeon has to stare at the iPad screen as his partner explains the plan, otherwise, he’d be halfway completed with the first floor before the man finishes his monologue. He hums, patting Near on the back and subsequently freeing the aforementioned goggles and masks from his backpack. “I’m gonna do so well you’ll question why you ever doubted me.” There’s a grin on his face, accompanied by his smug demeanor, as he readies his tools—including his small hand grenade, no bigger than a baseball, and hands it to his partner. “Have fun!” He playfully salutes Near as he runs off to the marked entrance on the opposite side of the building in effortless fashion.
With all the scrap metal around, it’s more effort to make little to no sound than to find the strongest pipe to cover the handle. Aeon makes a mess of the chained locks for good measure, because chances are, there are stronger folk than him around since the point is to keep them in, not delay their inevitable suffering.
Ki snorts to himself at the stranger’s words. “Take your pick,” he replies, tone wry and a little bitter.
Just like everything else about tonight, it seems luck is decidedly not on Ki’s side, because he’s clearly been noticed by the other patron after all. It was a futile hope to wish otherwise, especially given Ki’s spot in the too-small bathroom. If it were more than the two of them in here, it’d feel just as claustrophobic as the packed dance floor outside that door.
Reluctantly, he lifts his head and tilts it back until it rests on the wall behind him, baring the sharp line of his long neck. He scrutinizes the stranger with lazy eyes narrowed to slits. His gaze tracks the man from head to toe before his brow furrows into a thoughtful frown.
“Have anything that might make it better?”
The question is off-handed, easily mistaken as a throwaway comment to anyone who wouldn’t catch Ki’s underlying meaning– but he’s desperate enough to take the edge off that he doesn’t think twice about asking. After all, at clubs like this it’s harder to find someone that isn’t pocketing a little something to enhance their night out on the town. If he can ever get his shit together and get back out on the floor he can probably find a dealer or two lurking about, but the thought of returning to the crowds outside still makes Ki’s stomach turn.
tw / depressing mention of mortality
The small man’s answer renders him speechless. After being isolated in his own thoughts for so long, and not expecting a response to his off-handed remark, he's found himself looking at his hands for assistance. They twitch as words circle their being—ranging from jest to downright cynical—however, hitting pause on his playback doesn't put his surefooted demeanor in better light. “Let's be optimistic, shall we, and say it's the latter—that way, it's just like any other day.” Bewilderment etches into his being as familiarity strengthens in every word he utters. Who is this referring to?
Now, Hyungwon certainly doesn't revel in the prospect of being studied; it reminds him too much of being a victim—of being the one laying on the uncomfortable emergency bed, and most especially of letting the coroner examine your rigor mortis. It's inevitable, he prompts himself of the memory, and it's nothing to be afraid of; except that he is. The stranger’s dark eyes make him breathe a little stiffer, but the opposite effect soon produces in the form of a hearty laugh. “Is that all you wanted?” The inquiry almost sounds too perfect; too practiced even. Drier hands reach into his jacket only to pull out his pride and joy manifested into beautiful white and blue capsules; small enough to hardly notice the swallow, and potent enough to captivate you for a healthy—or rather, unhealthy—few hours. “Perhaps, you could even take two.” He merrily offers the other five in his right palm; just in case. Besides, he's never given anyone more than one before. After all, it appears to be a mutually beneficial exchange.
Rather than gas the whole building outright, he finds himself following the lead of a certain feisty, and undoubtedly fit, individual with the burdens of tragedy that was sure to follow in their wake. It seems the ground shifts beneath him when it’s clear nothing about this young partnership is in his hands, although he begs to differ otherwise, and feigns the struggle of authority the smaller man has administered in Aeon’s complete nescience. “I’m not saying this is a good idea, but I’m not saying it’s bad either,” he takes a nonchalant look over the forest rather than the building beyond them—incidentally noticing the sun disappearing over the horizon.
“Surely my methods are much more discreet, if managed well.” Aeon clears his throat at the prospect of getting chided, but he doesn’t participate in hierarchy in this world, regardless of where he stands; especially when he barely knows Near—his history, his family, his friends—he wants to observe and disregard the man all at once. He catches himself mouthing the words over and promptly stops talking while paying little heed to the directions of this mission. In other words, Aeon doesn’t know what’s going on, what he’s supposed to do, and where to put his hands, because he’s indiscreetly signing what he speaks all the while—a consolatory habit he can’t find himself to bar quite yet.
“fuck.” youngjae blurts out. his face seems to burn immediately after, his cheeks turn red and he mildly panics in silence, because he didn’t thought about that. of course, you stupid human being, of course he’s going to ask you about it when you mention that the place you work at doesn’t have any mirrors; he tells himself. “sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.” a nervous laugh leaves his lips and he tries to calm down a little bit. he probably needs to expose sungjae and himself now, there’s now way that he can make up another lie - technically, he didn’t lie about everything. he just didn’t mention what kind of dancing sungjae was doing - and what kind of dancing he had to do after his performances.
“uh-” he stutters, unable to form the right words. “I don’t really want to..” he stops, coughs slightly and looks straight to the ground. it’s always hard to tell people where he works, because they assume that he’s doing it voluntarily.
“moonflower.” he blurts out, maybe a little bit too loud. his teeth sink in his bottom lip and he doesn’t dare to look at him, hopes that he doesn’t know what it is. “I’m- I-I’m not his boss!” he says, a little bit hastily, to make sure that the other male knows the truth.
It takes him a moment. Moonflower. The name encapsulates his thoughts with fervor as he stops right before the restaurant doors in contemplation — he doesn’t like not knowing. He’s aware of a nightclub called “Moonwalkers” since he’s frequented it in the past; it’s been a few weeks since, and he might go again in the coming month or so, but what’s this new place? Hyungwon puts the thought on hold for a minute as he reaches forward to finally open the doors; not wanting to leave the entrance preoccupied for other patrons to walk through and causing a scene. “Let’s head inside first,” he motions for the other to join him. “You can tell me all about it.” His voice is as soft and amiable as he can make it as he perches on top of the steps and waiting for a response. He doesn’t try to pretend like he knows the place, nor does he act like he can just brush off whatever being someone’s boss entails, but they weren’t going to get through this ordeal being embarrassed to talk about someone’s occupation.
The off-duty doctor finds his way into the establishment with posture and speech that exudes confidence and reassurance, because how else was he going to compensate for being a naturally bashful and socially inept excuse of a human? Especially when the person who accompanies him probably wants to run away at any moment. They’re led to an available two-person seating arrangement off to the edges of the main dining section, which isn’t his choice-location, but he can’t be bothered to ask for another.
youngjae always had been a bad liar. when he was 16 and got his first hickey, he said that a cat bit him. the girl he got the hickey from had been indeed a little bit cat-like, but no cat could give you a blotch of that size. when he was 21 and made up a story of him studying something with biology - because that was at least something he was interested in - his parents didn’t even believe him slightly. he got nervous whenever he lied, tried to avoid the other person’s gaze - but the doctor didn’t seem to get that the things he was telling him weren’t exactly the truth.
“he is.” that’s the truth, youngjae has never felt that guilty in his life before, because he could’ve trained sungjae better. the poor boy’s hurt and its all youngjae’s fault, of course. his first striptease comes to his mind and he shudders, but is able to cover it up with adding a short “pretty cold for a summer night, isn’t it?” as they leave the building. he’s glad that the doctor didn’t choose an expensive restaurant, because that would mean meeting a lot of his clients. that’s the perk of being worth one million won per night, you don’t get to meet the people who rent you very often.
“please excuse my appearance, the last time I’ve seen a mirror was this morning. the place where I work at usually doesn’t have mirrors.” his apology is honest, he’s sure that the other male usually eats with people of higher standards. “also sorry if Aesop’s table wouldn’t be your usual place to eat at, but I really can’t afford more at the moment.” he sighs deeply and eyes him up for a few seconds, before he faces the streets again.
How curt. He continues to wrestle with the importance of the patient, but that may just be the fault of his habitual refusal for emotional connections. Lessening the tension between his shoulders, he ambles along the sidewalk; taking the side nearest to the busy road, because he could somehow see Youngjae absentmindedly walking into traffic — at least, in his currently tired state, and he’s not ready to return to the hospital without some fuel first. “Yeah, Summer’s weird like that,” he lets himself say out loud with a nod to emphasize instead of keeping all his thoughts to himself — if someone was going to quote him, it might as well be something as mundane as the weather. “Thunderstorms, chilly nights, and the hottest days.” Hyungwon comments sourly while leading them passed a traffic light, a pitiful excuse of a hotel, and a couple of dirty strays.
Hyungwon’s raising a brow at the barrage of apologies and poor sense of awareness coming from the other man, because does he really look like he would be sitting at some fancy diner instead? He personally has a hard time seeing it. “Where do you work, Mr. Yoo?” He’s got some time to spare with the antsy man, so he might as well learn more about him; perhaps find out just how dangerous these dance performances can be along the way.
tw / drugging. seizure. mention of familial death.
Aeon’s admittedly not having the best day, which is evident from the disarray of his immediate environment, but at least Luck was here to distract him and keep him company for a while — maybe one day he’ll even call it a blessing in disguise; what with the slew of complaints filling the otherwise silent room. In fact, he happily takes it over being in his own head. “I never took you for the type to question those sorts of things,” he meets the other’s eyes as he speaks, even if it’s only so that he could see just how fooled the man was at the consumption of his beverage — laced with a lethal poison Aeon was eager to try out on someone and properly observe. For science. “On the one hand, you might lose a customer. On the other,” he pauses to focus on packing his powder before continuing. “Sounds like he wronged you first,” Aeon shrugs his shoulders; feeling that he’s being agreeable without meaning to. “So I’d call it just-” He stops trying to talk mid-way through and turns his head again when he hears the other repeat themselves.
Vaguely aware of the onslaught of instinctive confusion, maybe fear, and grappling for information the tormented man is not going to get, Aeon promptly dismisses his tasks and crouches in Luck’s direct line of vision — head tilted to the left with a curious but pleased expression, and gently brushes the loose strands of hair away from his eyes; as if it’s the only thing he’s capable of doing for the anguished man. He briefly hums to the tune of an ice cream truck, and idly wonders if that’s too cruel. Luck did compliment him on the narcotics he’s spent well-enough time producing in the dark expanse of his laboratory; or perhaps it was laboratories, considering the fact that he uses any available testing ground. Off topic.
Regardless of the drool and the mess of the barely-digested coffee, he nears the unfortunate man’s face and paints a lopsided smile over his own features; Aeon just wants to watch the agony a moment longer, as if it were the personification of death he fell in love with at sixteen and has been trying to meet over and over again ever since. He didn’t quite know it then, no, it was much different to his sister’s death — that was spotted from miles away and he had distanced himself so far in advance that he felt numb to the inevitable departure. I guess I still miss her, he allows himself to think in his split-second of musing, because she’s not looking down on him from God’s heaven.
Spiking drinks at run-down nightclubs and aiding in the population of hell can only do so much for him; those are events he could only witness from a distance. But this? This feels so up close and personal, so intimate, because for the first time in his hapless life, he found a friend in Luck — it’s bizarre yet serendipitous as he reflects on it. No one told him that drugging your friend was any kinds of normal or acceptable; he figured that out himself. This isn’t Toy Story, and it isn’t Wreck-It-Ralph, where obstacles within friendships are either forgiven or endured; they’re childish stories with happy beginnings and even happier endings. Aeon, however, is in a choose-your-own-adventure game, and he’s made some questionable decisions thus far. “You wouldn’t hate me, would you, Luck?” He asks with a thoughtful smile, and although he loves this scene splayed in front of him, he knows Luck won’t survive the next six hours without an antidote, and he’s selfish enough to want this friend to stick around a bit longer. “I don’t have a cure for you,” he admits regretfully, but he isn’t exactly sorry about it, “but if you can agree to being in a vegetable state for a bit, I can conjure one up.” Perhaps he’s a bit too delighted at the prospect of causing someone such trauma, but what can I do? Aeon was happy to play God.
It’s been months since Ki’s had a night like this.
Crowds don’t usually bother him. If they did, he’d have a shit time getting by since he spends most nights working packed clubs and casinos– and Lynx isn’t in the business of beingunderstanding. If anything, he’d just find himself back on the streets working corners if he gave them too much trouble working the floors.
But there are some nights that just the thought of being touched makes Ki’s skin crawl.
Tonight is one of those nights.
He’s been on edge since long before he left his apartment to head into work. To make matters worse, he’s out of anything to take the edge off, and so he’s horribly sober. All it takes is the wrong patron brushing past him on their way to the bar and Ki’s suddenly finding it hard to breathe in the middle of the crowded club floor, feeling as if the people around him are pressing ever closer and the air in the room is beginning to thin.
Escaping to the bathroom offers only the smallest reprieve. The tiny bathroom may be filthy, the doors hanging off half the stalls and the mirrors broken and cracked, but at least it’s empty. There’s enough room for Ki to press his back to the wall and sink to the floor, to drop his forehead on his bent knees and focus on steadying his breaths.
Of course, the solitude doesn’t last long.
He doesn’t lift his head at the sound of the bathroom door swinging open or even the sink faucet groaning to life across from him. Maybe if he’s still, if he’s quiet, the other club goer will leave without ever taking notice of him.
The thought of going home right away doesn’t excite him; there’s nothing or no one waiting for him there, but neither is staying for longer and giving some more unsuspecting civilians a good time — that is, if being so high on pills you don’t even feel your own toes anymore, so far off the point that you can’t be bothered about it, can even be considered a good thing. But the people here don’t appear or act like they care. They look like this is their last night on Earth and want to make the most of it. If only it were true. He would happily give them that much more desirable outcome if it were under different circumstances. It’s an annoying thought, how careless he had been this entire night, that he replays in his head as a form of self-punishment while he motions towards the cut of wall he would normally find a washroom hand dryer, but is instead met with an empty paper towel dispenser and a disheveled young man in fetal position.
Raising a brow in question and uselessly dropping his wet hands to his sides, he stares at the ash grey locks he’s sure is purely chemicals, and wonders idly how anyone in their right mind would sit on the disgusting floor this place called a restroom — a place someone would come to clean themselves of their muck, not be intimate with it. “This another case of a bad night, or a bad life?” He asks the air itself as he regretfully dabs his hands against his trousers, because he’s not sure if the young man was even awake with the state of this so-called establishment, and he might as well ask the same to himself.
working at a restaurant/bar ain’t the most glamourous of jobs – the crow’s nest is professional, yeah, and classified as a ‘family restaurant’, but come a certain time it ain’t really that family friendly. the bar becomes more popular, as does the dining section, but it’s a different kind of crowd and it’s a whole ‘nother set of orders. it ain’t parents with kids; it’s people who have backgrounds that have both been in the fucking sewers and prob through other shit that he’d take all night to list – he wouldn’t put it past some of them if they’ve also eaten shit too, and in the very literal sense. he ain’t gonna ever ask if it was on purpose or not, though – he ain’t want those images in his fucking head next he sees ‘em come in and as he’s serving ‘em their weekly choice of liquid poison. really, he’s seen his fair number of shitshows and ain’t want to willingly have another shoved into his memories.
with all of that as background then, it ain’t unusual for some weird things to go down at least once a night, when he’s working. yeah, people drink way too much and don’t fucking know their limits, and then puke everywhere and it’s a fucking gross-as pain to clean up. people also fall asleep, knock out, cause fights and shit – all sorts. the fights are less tolerated; the big ol’ boss (he ain’t really big, height-wise or weight-wise, but he’s the manager) doesn’t really stand for that kind of rubble, and even less when it endangers the staff.
he’s seen jihoon step in more than once in his time, and whew does he act without mercy. the smile he can have in his face ain’t really fooling him; jun knows there’s some sort of evil inside there that takes no shit.
but lately, the weird of kind shit that’s been happening ain’t seem right, and for some reason it’s only been to the customers at the bar. yeah, sure, people can choke every now and again because they don’t fucking know how to swallow like any other decent human being, but the girl he saw have a seizure wasn’t all that old. don’t only old people have that shit happen to them, ‘cause their brains stop working or something? he doesn’t know the specifics, but it just seemed a bit weird. still, it didn’t stop him from still doing his job. he’s one of the two bartenders on tonight, and is over on the other side finishing up a refill of ice cubes for the bucket, when he hears a patron calling him over. making sure to fix a small smile onto his face, he straightens and heads over, unassuming of anything about the man he’s about to serve.
“yes, sir? what can i fix up for ya tonight?”
One, two, three, four, he counts with fervor at his handiwork. Two have already gone into the stages of typical alcohol poisoning — paling, vomiting, irregular breathing — and one is expected to have a seizure at any moment now, if he can find where they’ve gone off to that is, because he would definitely love to watch their bodies arc and their struggle for help and understanding of their dire situations. One would think an emergency room doctor would be able to keep track of moving bodies, but it’s normally much brighter in those situations, and he really doesn’t want to save anybody tonight; much less if he were the cause of it, because of course he knows how to stop the pain and sixty-percent chance of death. At that, he thinks he should make it more lethal at some point, but he’s having too much fun witnessing the suffrage. Shame.
Hyungwon’s taken out of his reverie when a bartender comes to take his order, and he has to smile sheepishly since he was too busy not thinking of something to actually consume. “Would you happen to have anything that’s extremely bitter?” He berates himself for asking, especially since a bitter drink would do nicely to conceal one of his drugs, so he backtracks. “Actually, what about something with rum?” He genuinely doesn’t remember, considering the fact that he tends to buy whatever his victims do to then replace if they’re a bit of a challenge to spike; though, they’re typically mixed drinks anyway and he admits that they sometimes taste good. “I forgot what sort of cocktails you got here.” Hyungwon props his chin on his right palm in mild consideration; foregoing the bartender for the wall of glass and alcohol behind the man to see if there’s anything that stands out. He vaguely hears a red-haired woman choking to his far left with her girlfriends trying to ask whether it was an olive instead of doing anything to help, and he just can’t help but chuckle at the situation.
sometimes, jaehyun wasn’t sure why he was send to deal with nut jobs. he was more than aware that there were mad scientist’s on this island, but something really made him wish he didn’t have to always get information from the bookworms. he was never book smart, don’t get him wrong, but he was always above average when it came to school. even if he only ever managed to graduate middle school, because life had other plans for him.
however, a job was a job and even if he felt slightly uneasy, he pushed those thoughts away and finally unlocked the door of the apartment. he hated using hair pins to get through, but you gotta do what you gotta do. jaehyun makes his way through the flat, quickly examining the place and finally, he reaches the room where he expects the other would be. he’s heard things about his target, that people called him aeon, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. and like always, he just opens the door, as if he lived there, slow and steady, his free hand already pulling the gun out from his best and he inhales.
“don’t move and i don’t shoot.“ crown says simply once the door is fully opened and the gun is pointing at his target. once he is sure that everything was going to go smoothly, he closed teh door behind him and took a few steps towards aeon “turn slowly, come on, don’t got all day with you.“ he explains, pulling out the cuffs from the pocket of his hoodie, letting them freely make noise in the quiet room. he just wanted to get this over with, as soon as possible. afterall, jaehyun had always been a simple person.
It’s a little unnerving now that he’s seeing the liquid simmer; freely and without deadline, which isn’t atypical of his other substances when he’s messing around with his otherwise harmless chemicals untouched, but the slight change in color does concern him. Hyungwon looks for something that can cap the tube for the same reasons one covers a blender — the skin of a tree bark of some sorts. Is it called a cork? He’s shifting through his cabinets for it, quickly finding and placing the small cork into his equally as such transparent tool, which he assumes will keep it from going anywhere for awhile. It looks safe to him now, all covered, clean, and organized, if you disregard the messily placed notes and writing, and he’s ready for a late meal; maybe a quiche since he’s not touching the stove after his burn, but he doesn’t seem to get too far from his desk when the door widens and an unrecognizable voice sounds through the otherwise silent room; or what he would normally call his sanctuary of a home-laboratory. The gun’s pointing right at him, but he doesn’t even bother to raise his hands in surrender or call for peace, being in a similar situation a couple times before, but they were usually to demand for his stash and leave; unless they were trigger happy, of course. But this one seems to have other plans, so his otherwise slumped shoulders tenses instead.
Right in the middle of a breakthrough, though? Hyungwon glances towards his desk while the intruder instructs him to turn around, so he does with some reluctance. “Is it important? Couldn’t we just do whatever it is here?” In a failed attempt at keeping lost time with the rising boil, he vaguely thinks that he should be turning the bunsen burner off — only that the intruder already has his hands cuffed. Then just as he expected, the cork files off the tube, hitting the immediate ceiling, and the broken glass spreads haphazardly with a fiery-colored gas consuming the closed space. Hyungwon feels no other pain than the abrupt contact of the floor, but it’s nothing more than that. I hope.
Though the air was tight and constricting; muddy with humidity and the stench of fire and blood, Minhyuk had felt icy cold right down to his weeping, bloodied knuckles. In here it reeks of antiseptic and death, always. It was a place with blinding florescence and thick yellow tubs consistently filled with bleach and citrus wood polish for the floors. It made him sick, all of it. He’d rather that this not be the last thing he saw in the last moments of his life, young or decrepit. He listens though, - waits in the room with others who were terrorized from the riot after showing his ID and paying the fee like the rest of them, tasting only sweat on his tongue, and failing to find the energy to speak too much–, or empathize with people whining and tossing in their hard plastic seats. Minhyuk hadn’t felt it, the weight of concern to add to his injuries,– he felt instead, jealousy, he was beside himself with it, drowning in it to his eyeballs. He always wanted to be loved as much as this.
‘Lee Minhyuk,’ when she calls him, he doesn’t hear them the first time, it’s loud and the nurse’s voice is too gentle to compete. He hears her the second time though when she raises her voice, and he stumbles to meet her at the automatic double doors. She crosses off his name on her clipboard, hides her expression behind it as she leads him to the room he’d meet the doctor in. He wonders, what kind of scenario she makes up in her mind when she looks at him. He’s not wearing his mask, his hood or his gloves, he’s just Minhyuk and Minhyuk holds kindness, warmth and sweet honey in his eyes, but Luck, his gaze was too much like rum, dark rivets of color with a sweltering auburn tint that only meant to suffocate their captor. But she’s gone too quickly, and he’s left with a box of a room and a young dejected doctor already surveying him, head to toe.
He settles down on the tissue paper laden bed, having refused any help–he’s got pride, feeling in his legs, he could sit on his own dammit. The first question, to him, felt redundant. His veins were rapid and angry, pulsing with the need to heal too many wounds at once,–and there was too much demand to quench the thirst of agony that shredded through his muscle and bone. Maybe some of the ache he had felt was buried in fear. Fear of hospitals, emergency rooms, or of gurneys, fear of eyes like his so used to witnessing death, that what was left was only some faint recognition of how to delay the inevitable, not heal the damage done. Maybe it was in paranoia–yeah, a boiling paranoia that crawled acid hot under his skin and left purpled lacerations around his throat, and jagged, crescents down his forearms. Maybe it was just simply ache, marginalized, neat and recognizable, could be defined as easily as pen or paper. If he had to pick, compartmentalize his suffering, Minhyuk was only sure that the most pain he felt right now, wasn’t in his head, heart, or the half his right side but in his left shoulder, and the way despite his attempt at relocating it, didn’t allow him the use of his hand and only throbbed, continuously and ran that pain up his neck, across his earlobes and back again. “My arm,” he tries, offers a laugh when his voice comes out hoarse, cracked and rough around the edges.
“When i was attacked, i-i threw out my arm, i guesss,” he shifts on the paper, feeling himself slip but it doesn’t help him any and he tumbles down from it,–hits the floor like the gravity was stolen right from underneath him. In protecting his hurt arm, he lands on his right one, but he doesn’t make a sound–blackness eating at the edge of his vision. He can only see those long legs, and stupid ugly shoes in front of him. “‘m okay,” he mutters under his breath, swallowing what feels like water in his throat, but tastes too much like nickel, of copper pennies and heartbreak. He coughs, finally, gasps like he’s starved of air- it hurts, it really fucking hurts.
Individually, everything is doable — the throbbing bruises on his neck that Hyungwon desperately wants to ask about, the blood on his hands that looks and feels dried yet he keeps finding more in other places of his defeated state, and the absence of space awareness as he falls over the bed. Idiot. “Did you hurt your right arm, too?” He asks with a raised brow; clearly unimpressed with the turn of events. Straightening the patient is harder on him due to his lack of physical prowess, but the nurses have it covered. Looking around after he’s offered an inconspicuous tablet of relief to the bedded man, he comes to the realization that one of the nurses has completely left the curtained space without his knowledge, having already cleaned the patient’s arms in his wake, and the other two are teetering on the edge; deciding whether to finish the job or go help the onslaught of wrecked bodies. Just go. He thinks with miffed features, borderline glaring, yet his thoughts seem to have voiced out as their backs become mere memories.
Hyungwon can take care of a sorry-looking patient just fine on his own; all dead weight adrenaline and slurred words. But with the sound picking up around the emergency room — demands for help, groaning, tables-on-wheels passing, needle inserts, and the yelling of nurses over it all in an attempt to communicate effectively — he feels like he should be somewhere else, with someone else, and not absentmindedly trying to relax his current patient by massaging his shoulder and left arm, but that's what Hyungwon’s hands automatically played into, as soon as he heard arm and attack in the same cursed sentence, since civilians prefer not to hurt, and he equally prefers not to hear more screams ringing in his ear drums at the moment; especially not when they’re mere inches away. He has other methods for dealing with a popped off arm, the limb that hangs uselessly at the side that he's seen and taken care of far too many times in his albeit short career — hippocratic or eskimo techniques would work just fine, but he needs another person here, there’s spaso, but this man isn't going to stay still as far as he can tell, then there’s always kocher’s method, the oldest trick in the book with the highest success rate and just as painful.
Despite his wonderful options for administering pain in the guise of healing, he instructs the patient to breathe with him in calm, soothing motions, and away from the distractions of his shoulder with talks of what Hyungwon’s going to do about his wounds; heal them, of course, but he takes him through the tedious process and soon enough resets his joint back in place in one, painless motion before fishing out a sterile bandage from his lab coat to start properly treating the man’s wretched arm. “Mind telling me what you did to get that purple around your neck?” He enthused, because knowing how these things occur is more of a joy for him than trying to patch it. “Be a doll and don't spare the details,” he smiles for the first time that day; no matter how strange it might be in the circumstances.
does he have a preference? well, he usually ends up ordering food for dinner. he’s not that good at cooking ( even though his mother made him visit a cooking class when he was 13 ) and the only thing he’s able to do are pancakes and kimchi, something he doesn’t want to eat every day. “I’m fine with everything, to be honest, I don’t eat at restaurants very often.. I suggest that you choose a place. but something a normal mortal is able to pay for.” he smiles softly, he knows that the hospital food is horrible and he hopes for the doctor that he doesn’t have to eat here very often.
“Uh, no? I mean, Aesop’s Tables perfectly fine, but I don’t want you to pay for it.” he nods softly and clutches the fabric of his pullover between his fingers for a split second. he always feels bad when other’s pay for his food, he wants other people to spend as less money on him as possible, because he wants to get rid of the feeling of getting payed for being alive, for his body.
he feels unpretentious next to the well dressed doctor, a little bit as if he’s at the wrong place. his clothes look so perfect on him and then there’s youngjae, the wallflower. one person who just completed their shift as doctor and the other person who just came from the red-light district, two worlds meeting each other.
“I’m perfectly fine, as I said, just a little tired from working, even though it was the early shift.” it’s true, he wouldn’t have been home until five in the morning if he did the late shift, too - as usual. “Why? do I look like I’m not?”
Dismissal.
There’s nothing wrong with that; it’s commonplace for him regardless of the situation. Aesop’s Tables seems to be the type of place where locals would go for affordable yet good food, he wants to say, but refrains. He’s never actually been there before after all; never had a proper reason to without any company. Reflecting, he thinks that his intentions were innocent enough — simply trying to make the situation better, somehow, by treating the other to some decent food — but maybe he just made it worse. Don’t overcompensate. Noted. He’s not exactly the type to make counterarguments anyway, so he hums in response as he steps into the elevator and presses the G button for the lobby and returns to an impassive expression since his friendly act clearly wasn’t working.
“You look worn out,” he says without filter; glancing from the buttons to the other. “The patient must be worth the sleep you’re missing out on.” Hyungwon’s already forgotten the kid’s name without his clipboard to aid him. Nonetheless, he doesn’t see the merit in waiting for someone to wake up, especially since the patient was going to recover and go back to whatever dancing he was going to do in a few weeks. Take care of yourself first. He checks his watch, finding that they have a couple hours before the restaurant closes, as the doors slide open and reveals an emptier-looking spanse compared to sometime this morning.
The physician forgoes any greetings to his co-workers, who are either leaving or arriving, while they pass by to get to the main entrance. Either way, they were all exhausted, and so he wasn’t going to draw unnecessary energy for something like common courtesy right now.
randomly generated starter meme;✧·ﾟ─ .20 Have your muse help them recover from an injury.
A certified, competent, phd-holding doctor having a civilian help him with his incredulous arm injury must be a joke. But here they were, in this dainty little cafe on the wrong side of town, and much too far away from the nearest hospital or clinic, attempting to patch up his careless mistake. “Could you please hold this?” He asks gently with pain etched into his features as he holds out his black duffle coat. He couldn’t see the swelling of his left arm until this moment, and he grimaces visibly at the sight, because it shouldn’t be this bad. It was just a little trip… then he hit the traffic light pole in his panic, but the universe wasn’t done with him yet and he hit the pavement, so maybe this is all justified in the end. Hyungwon makes the split-decision that he’s going to lay off his homemade drugs for a while; no matter how wonderfully practical they are. This is the second injury he’s conjured in result of the stuff.
There’s a bit of a struggle as he lifts his dislocated joint, and even more mental struggle by the fact that he can’t feel his fingers too well. Desperately, he asks the same brunette for some aid in this foolish ordeal, which he only has himself to blame for — he admits that much. “How strong are you?” He questions; thinking it’s already a silly question from the start. In theory, it shouldn’t hurt. At least, he knows how to make it as painless as possible, but he doesn’t really have the patience to teach a stranger how to do it at the moment. “I may need some assistance in.. relocating my shoulder.” One way ticket to pain it is.
randomly generated starter meme;✧·ﾟ─ .07 Pull a muscle.
There’s something inherently serene about this moment; where he’s quietly working away at his latest disaster of a pill while Pan is telling him about his day. It’s most definitely a welcomed change of pace after all he’s put up with throughout the week with his distressed, howbeit aggravating patients — particularly the ones who are convalescent. The fatigue must be getting to him, though, because it’s getting harder and harder to keep his hand position still, or keep his arms from falling unceremoniously on the desk. Nevertheless, the corners of his mouth rise ever so slightly at every good moment Pan tells him, and lets out a subtle sigh at every bad one. Sometimes he wishes he could get rid of all of those negative situations for him, but what can I do? He glances at the box of the successful white tablets of heightened stamina and ecstasy he recreated due to their unlikely first encounter. I’m probably causing just as much of that bad.
Regardless, he listens intently as he works and shows visible signs of paying attention through his responses and partial eye contact. Aeon’s struggling to get his default bunsen burner to work; the sparks just stop coming after four turns, and he looks up at the cabinets they’ve rarely resorted to. But he reaches up to it anyway, because he knows there’s a handheld bunsen burner up there somewhere. “Excuse me,” he motions gently to the corner of the cabinet right behind Pan; only to feel a sharp sting run down his right arm that leads him to absentmindedly knock over the aforementioned burner onto his notes and flammable opioids. What’s more important here? Aeon holds onto his arm for dear life, as if he hasn’t ever seen a strained muscle before. But Pan doesn’t know I’m a doctor. He cries out at the ridiculous situation as he slides down the cabinet.
snowghoul
dededos
areudirty
pixelskylines
