prescripted

jung daehyun. twenty-five. medical intern at hongik women's hospital. at your service.

[hdxirene-blog]

       【— Holidays were fun because she got to spend her time at home, far, far away from the noisy and inconsiderate people of Hongdae. Here, she had all the leisure in the world to read her novels in complete and utter silence without getting interrupted— or so she thought. Half-way through her newly-bought book, her mother had peeked her head into her room to let her know that she had a visitor. Now, Irene knew for a fact that she didn’t have many friends or anyone, for that matter, that knew where she lived. So when she stepped into the drawing room as instructed, she was taken aback to see another familiar face, though this was much older than the last time she saw it. Nothing much had changed— well except for how he seemed to tower over her even from this distance — or perhaps that was only the sun rays playing tricks on her eyes by elongating his shadow — and the wiser glint in his eyes. Giving him a bright smile, she bowed her head as a way of greeting, her shyness around him still intact even after all these years.】

[hdxdaehyun]

{ he tries very hard to let her warm up to him, to get her comfortable. it was something that he knew that was indellible in her, her shyness, but it didn't stop him from reaching out to her. she was, after all, one of his closest family. he enjoys the comfortable silence, less words exchanged - it was a good change from the people he always got the chance to meet up with. it was also high time that his cousin see something else other than the pale walls of their house. } Irene. { he says calmly, with a small smile. he doesn't bow. it's too formal, too foreign - they were blood related, but there was no telling this girl that. he extends his hand for hers as he always preferred, with the intention to clasp her fingers and give them a reassuring squeeze in greeting. } You've grown a lot since I last saw you. { beautifully, he doesn't add. } How are you?

[hdxdaehyun]

by default ;

[hdxgongyoo]

                                                                  Hun… Hungry?

|| He repeated softly,his right cheek twitching again. He clenched his jaw, his eyes hovering over to the wooden mallet on the counter just to his side. His phone buzzed, text arrive on the screen. ||

                       ✉From: Best Mother in the World✉

Jichul-ah~<3 Please take care of Daehyun. He works at the hospital like mom does. Bring him food once in a while. Take care of him well! Mom loves you. <3<3<3

                       ✉From: Best Mother in the World✉

…Or else. :)

|| He felt a trickle of cold sweat roll down the side of his face. The final message held his mother’s not so subtle threat. Looking up once more to observe the younger, he sighed and held the back of his neck. ||

                                   I’m going to go crazy if I have feed this idiot. 

                                                         || He muttered to himself ||

I’d grab something for you to eat. Anyway… Where do you work?

[hdxdaehyun]

Yes, I'm sure you've got some weird food you want me to try and eventually poison me with, but I can eat a whole horse right now. { his stomach grumbles in agreement, and he hoped he didn't hear that. }

{ he narrows his eyes. he seems to be agreeable, more than usual and it drove him to be suspicious. surely he didn't think of sabotaging his job, the bastard? } At the hospital. { he pockets his phone because his mother sent a text about gongyoo again that he didn't want to read. } Why? { he asks, with just a hint of accusation. i know what you're thinking, he wants to say. but maybe that was just him being paranoid. } 

[hdxdaehyun]

{ the trip to his cousin's mansion was one that he took often back when he hadn't left for his studies abroad. the familiar pathway to the huge house greeted him, and the same staff he had left had offered to park his car for him. stepping out, he climbed the stairs to the front porch, the door already opened for him and he's asked to wait for her in the drawing room. it was eerily quiet; a normal thing for such a huge house, much like his own, albeit his was humbler than this abode. } 

[hdxseunghwan-blog]

anchor,

[hdxseunghwan-blog]

One truth about the moment: his fingers are against her skin, spinning goose bumps along the contours of her spine.

She despises the layer that separates them—it smells too much like the hospital. Like the synthesis of static abandonment and pungent decay. It smells too much like them, too much like him. Too much of the blames that she’s learned to pluck like rotting petals and throw into the ocean for nobody’s listening. Too much like the dream transfixed into a gospel for him, pinpricking her with the consequence of sainthood. (A sinner didn’t belong with a saint—she’d hoped he’d die a martyr.)

Too much, too much, too much. Nausea stitches itself around the cradle of her system, and she’s imbibing the ink to scribble the stories of the past into the walls of her insides.

She despises the layer that separates them—it sounds like the distance that only grew wider by the hour, like a fissure on the wall. Crack crack cracking. Their connection feels like a dissolving thread, if there’s any. Years have consumed what’s left of him in her, eating away at her sinews to corrode the remnants of his blood in her flesh. There’s more to just a thin cover, and it’s smothering her.

She wants to preserve the outlines of his fingerprints against her; they belong with her.

The clatters of the instruments against each other diminishes the war that rages within her mind, and her eyes snap open, the local anesthesia causing a slight headache to reside. The procedure is over; there’s no bang to end the deafening silence, just the quiet rustling of people moving about in the room. She blinks, watching as the nurse eventually vacates the room. She closes her eyes again for a brief moment.

Him, alone with her. She finds it hard to breathe but she doesn’t mind. She digests the moment as if it was sempiternal. Eyes closed, heart open. (Heart rippling scaling multiplying.)

When he eventually speaks again, her eyes are on him. You have to come back. His voice is an eternal echo in her head. It allures amusement within her, stirring nostalgia that no longer elicits tears. You have to come back. A sentence left unsaid, dying between the columns of her throat. She substitutes the plea with a scoff, mouth spewing the little amount of vitriol, unprompted.

She doesn’t say anything to that apart from the derisiveness that escapes her lips.

At the back of her head, she thinks she misses him. (And the mock scorn that she displays nothing but a mirror to their history. Fucking oppa. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.)

His offer leaves a trail of gasoline and she starts burning. There’s no fire, just smokes. Billowing. Billowing. Billowing. She’s covered in vapor, blindly rising to her feet, stepping onto her the drying crimson of her blood.

(It started with bloodshed, always bloodshed.)

She nods, and looks at him straight in the eye (again).

[hdxdaehyun]

He blinked as he heard the first thing she had done to acknowledge him, and that's to offer him a small scoff. He sighed. He knew it wasn't going to be easy (when was it ever?), and he was always aware that she had a stubbornness in her that sometimes had tested his patience years back.

(He hated it. He didn't have much patience. But love for her, oh he did.)

She looked him in the eye (again) and it was difficult to keep her gaze, but did he try. He felt like it was filled with blame, hatred, but perhaps that was him making it difficult for himself. He didn't know, but he was aware that she wasn't speaking to him and he wasn't sure if she would, and so he kept his lips sealed, the silence hanging over them heavily. 

The bloodied jacket didn't go unnoticed and he shrugged off his white coat, placing it around her shoulders. There wasn't any point in explaining; it was what he used to do, it was what he felt like doing now, it was the right thing to do at this time, in this weather. All he wanted was for her to be safe and happy.

Not a syllable from his lips as he opened the door for both of them, letting her out first. 

(He hated the distance. He hated the (white) space between them. Was it all black and white to her? He's either with her or without her? But what about what he had to do to have a family with his mother, who had left him, too; had she felt the same when he turned his back on her, not knowing when they'd see each other again?)

Guilt. He hated the guilt even more than the space between them, the wall he can't seem to break down now that they were finally with each other again.

He didn't explain. He figured she wouldn't listen.

(He hoped she would.)

He hated hope.

(He might be destined to fail to get her back, but he was going to try.)

She needed to come back.

[hdxdaehyun]

by default ;

[hdxgongyoo]

Yup. I’d take care of him. Yes… No, I wouldn’t poison him. Mom! That was years ago. Yes. Yeap. Yes I’m eating well. I love you too. Wha.. Mom!

(/He paced along the glass windows of his bistro, his hand pressed to his face, his phone to his ear. With the final syllable spoken, he sneaked a look around before drawing a huge circle with his free hand, from all the way above his head to his waist.)

I love you thiissssssss much. Yes, I did it with the action. No.. I’m not going to send you a vid… MOM!

(/He gave an audible sigh with the end of the call, fingers pinching his eyes. Cracking his neck by rolling his head around, he gave another loud sigh.)

Why the bloody mutt gotta… speak of the devil.

(/His right cheek twitched just as he finished his sentence, looking at the younger male entering the bistro with a mix of irritation and helplessness, with just a hint of happiness in his eyes.)

YAH! MUTT! OF ALL THE PLACES… WHY HONGDAE?!

[hdxdaehyun]

{ he scowls immediately when he sees the elder, hearing and wincing at his loud voice. did he have to call him 'mutt'? if they were a little younger, his mother would hear about this, but to him now, it was playing dirty. gongyoo would never hear the end of it from his own mother if he had said something that upset him. he would never admit that he was actually too much of a brat to let an opportunity of his hyung getting scolded to pass it up. he rolled his eyes as he approached, and he might get slapped for that, but in the last three years he was somehow convinced that he fought a lot of bastards enough to develop his dodging reflexes. } You are so loud. { he complains, and his phone beeps, knowing that it was his mother and he answers the text, his fingers breezing through the screen to tell her that yes, mother, i am here with hyung, and silently hoping that she didn't demand for another cheesy photo. }

I live here, old man. { he replies to the earlier query, because why did he have to ask stupid questions? he had to admit that the bistro looked good, but he was wary of the food. he might get food poisoning and he didn't have enough proof to send his hyung to jail. } Business going well? { he asked, looking around. it seemed like a good place to stay at, given the light crowd and the ambient music. } You're starting to grow white hair. { he says casually, texting again, like the brat he was. } I'm hungry.

[hdxseunghwan-blog]

anchor,

[hdxseunghwan-blog]

  In her head there’s this: him splitting her open with a knife, holding her head underwater.

His brand of slaughter embedded such a great casualty in her, even though his hands intended to do nothing but good. Futile endeavors, for the more he tried fixing her, the more she was bruising. But she was and is a masochist, dreaming in the monochromatic hues of wounds and gashes, splintering herself with the destruction that came in a hand of a man’s. She scraped her knees trying to follow his footsteps as he dragged her with him, siren songs cascading from his mouth like fresh bullets spewed from a hungry barrel. She fractured her bones in her attempts to catch up with him—with the wafting smokes that danced from his mouth, with the poetries that he spilled from his teeth.

He spoke like he was a savior but she knew for sure that he was the demise on two feet, leaving her scars ablaze the moment he turned his back on her.

Maybe she wasn’t the only victim. Maybe now he’s sowing grenades into someone’s flesh, waiting for the moment when they will detonate.

What a sick, twisted game. Her stomach churns.

(Committed in her mind is him being beautiful, and so are all these fallen angels. Men made in heaven, complexion smelted into perfection.)

Her train of thoughts is terminated by that short, sharp intake of breath. She keeps her eyes shut, but she locates the source of the sound, fathoming the cold rhythmical inhales and exhales that tail after. She keeps her eyes shut and she thinks she’s bursting. The grenades that he’s planted in her haven’t exploded to their entirety; they have been counting down the days with her and this is how it’s going off today. She’s once again ripped to shreds, frantic hands trying to salvage her vestige, but they slip like granules of sand through the interstices of her fingers and she’s left e m p t y again.

That is, until the way he curls her name on his tongue again undoes the explosion, collecting her pieces and gluing them back together. She’d like to believe that there is a tint of apologies lining it. She’d like to believe that she isn’t the only one breathing in the dust of their memories; of flickering lights witnessed from a rooftop, of joints transferred from dry and hungry mouths, of constellations handpicked into a bouquet of teeth in his mouth.

(Son Seunghwan, Son Seunghwan, Son Seunghwan. He has his own way of breaking the syllables, her name sitting like a blessing at the tip of his tongue. Amen, amen, amen.)

If he were someone else’s to keep, she’d like to think that the way his lips moved around the words is hers and hers alone.

The rest of the questions are mechanical, like a tedious routine that she’s done several times before. She keeps her eyes closed, not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting to etch restlessness into the already simmering tension between them.

She waits for the questions to run out, and wishes for silence to settle again until the procedure is over.

(Their silence was holy; their silence is reluctant. Their silence is scorching, just the way she likes it.)

[hdxdaehyun]

The rest of the questions were automatic, practiced; and she seemed to have a certain boredom to her tone, like it was something she usually did. (It worried him more. Did she have any other incidents?) He was too much of a coward to meet her eyes again, even a glance, not taking his eyes away from his work until the wound was stitched close and he's tied the knot, sealing it.

(Her voice. Her voice.) "It's finished."

Almost mechanically, he told her that it was to be cleaned everyday for the next five days with an antiseptic and redressed with the same gauze that he was about to put over it. With careful, nimble fingers, he covers the gash, wiping the excess blood and he stepped back, noting how she wore shorts in this weather - this would easily explain why she had an incident in the first place.

(Being protective of her was second nature to him. Old habits die hard.)

Silence settled around them and the nurse tidies up the crimson-stained instruments, and he gave out an involuntary shiver. Her blood on his hands. It gave him a sense of dread; was it his fault again? Was she not taking care of herself after he'd left? It would be overconfidence to think that she didn't fare well without him, that she needed him, wanted him still -- but did he deserve her?

Did her do anything wrong?

His hands were still cold. Was she angry?

But didn't he tell her why?

Did she not understand?

The nurse left them and he was to give his recommendations to the patient last, finally breaking the deafening silence. "I'll check on it after one week. You have to come back," he instructed. He prayed she wouldn't let her stubbornness overcome her with this matter. The clock tick-tocked on the land wall of the small room saying that it's almost two in the morning.

He debated on taking her home safely to her residence. One wasn't usually unlucky to have two encounters on the same night, but he wasn't taking any chances. (He noticed her jacket was ripped from the encounter and she's wearing too uncomfortable clothes for mid-autumn and he vaguely remembered himself scolding her about that when they were younger. Fuck, he really needed a cigarette. He needed a drink. He needed everything.) 

But eventually, inevitably, naturally, "You can go home now. Come on, I'll walk you home."

[hdxdaehyun]

.

[hdxdaehyun]

by default ;

{ he shoves his phone inside his pocket with a scowl on his face after his mother had talked his ear off into going to the bistro downtown. lips pursed, he inwardly prayed for more patience that he already had - he was about to see his old 'friend' (friend was a relative word, he added as an afterthought) Gongyoo, his mother's best friend's son, owned the bistro that he had yet to visit since he arrived. upon learning his laziness to go out and socialize (why was his mother even surprised, he didn't know), she had demanded him to go see his hyung, and spend time with him (getting bullied or wasted, didn't matter, he thought, but it was always the former, always). he crossed the street and stepped into the establishment, different sights and scents greeting him. he looks for the unmistakable form of his "brother-by-default", as he'd like to call him in his head, walking the space. }

[hdxseunghwan-blog]

anchor,

[hdxseunghwan-blog]

She’s burning and drowning and burning and drowning.

She doesn’t know which she’s facing at the moment. She’s smoldering in smokes with no flames intact, her cadaver is nothing but memories concocted of soot and detonations, and eventually there’s nothing in the end to bury but her aching bones. She’s sinking underwater, her lungs too full with the onslaught of heaving, the surface of the ocean nothing but a mere imagination for she’s too far into the aphotic zone.

This is him, in his flesh and bones. (He still smells like her parents.)

Burning and drowning and burning and drowning—

He’s the first to shatter the silence, and she’s the last to have her mouth hanging open with nothing but tendrils of unspoken words billowing out of it.

What happened?

A lot. A lot has happened.

She’s nothing but the residue of what he once had; she still cannot decide if his presence was a blessing or a curse. It felt like he saved her from a sandstorm to toss her into another. The ghosts in her bones multiplied and she was sleeping awake, counting the scars that he left her in his wake. Eyes open, heart closed. (Heart bending breaking bruising.)

What actually happened: she’s been sleeping in the cradle of the past.

Silence stitches itself along the seam of her tongue and she peruses him as he navigates himself around the room. She’s drinking in the sight of the peculiar reality that chooses to present itself before her. The slicing end of his jaw is still the same, but maybe a lot sharper, and she wonders how many he has lacerated with it. (Did he use it to plant crisscrossing wounds all across someone else’s body after her, the way she used his leftovers to lodge bullets into people’s skulls?) The skeleton fingers are carbon copies of those in her memory, stroking the shape of her dislocated insides and trying to fix them (to no avail, but she liked the way he messed up with them). The lips are reprised from the cranny of her melancholy; she still feels them against hers alongside the inklings of him that reside within.

His tongue, his teeth. Her nicked tongue, her bloody teeth.

Dr. Jung. He never sounded so foreign, so out of reach. So much of a stranger. She swallows down the seething laughter that builds up at the base of her throat.

There’s a cacophony of everything going on at once within her, the ripples still fresh along her spine. She thinks she’s collapsing, but she holds still. She’s made of battlefields, a daughter of snowstorm and demolition. She doesn’t bow down in front of her very weakness; not here, not now—not even when she’s a corpse of broken and jagged edges.

She shuts her eyes once, for a fleeting moment, her thoughts crooked. When she opens them, she nods and follows the instruction, lying down on the bed to let him do his job.

She thinks he looks beautiful under the fluorescent lights, and she closes her eyes again to preserve the outlines of his form in her memory.

[hdxdaehyun]

The months that went by without her, that first year when he was away, was the hardest. But he had made a decision and it'd be unwise to turn back after everything has fallen apart --

-- but now that everything, he thought, was in its rightful place, with him succeeding in his profession and her here now by his side, would she accept him?

Would she forgive him from all the times when he wasn't there when she needed him the most?

What if she had found comfort in another's arms, could he take that?

Could he?

(No.)

He wanted to scream.

Instead, he remained silent, letting the nurse sanitize her arm and watched her put a cut cloth on top of her arm, only exposing the gashed flesh. In the midst of everything, he wondered if she was alright, if she was feeling tremendous pain - but was she ever alright? Was that crippling sickness, disease, disorder that gnawed everything good inside her system still taking over? Guilt washed over him like a bucket of ice water - it must have. He wasn't surprised that she didn't want to talk to him, or have to do anything with him, and he hated to admit that it stung.

At the same time, he had never felt so weak, yet so alive at the same time.

They've met again.

I missed you. Didn't you miss me? Have you found someone else?

Perhaps she did. The thought was utterly torturous and he had to take a deep breath before proceeding. He needed his focus. Fate had decided to roll the ball and here they were - they were meant to meet again, in this old city, but he swore that everything had already changed. Nothing was the same (except for what he felt for her).

Are you listening? Are you still with me?

The nurse had retrieved her clipboard and he knew that she was about to fill up the patient file for her, and he started to wear his white gloves, pulling the green face mask over his nose and lips as he selected the instruments for the suture. It appeared to have stopped bleeding, and he said quietly, "I'll be applying local anesthesia now." Other patients didn't need it, but he wanted to make sure that she'd have as little pain as possible. Despite the wound not being deep, it'd still take at least two weeks to heal, the stitches would also be painful without anesthesia.

He's worried. She seemed more papery-thin, more strained, more frail than before.

Seunghwan, are you here?

Was that his fault?

Her eyes were closed and he started to perform the procedure hes studied for years; a simple suture for a clean gash, but he was already holding his own breath. Focus.

When the nurse began asking questions, he blurted out the first answer: "Son Seunghwan."

The name felt so natural yet so foreign on his tongue. The nurse blinked up in surprise, but he didn't mind her, focused on the curve needle and the thread, almost artistically closing the gash, tying the flesh together. He knew the questions like the back of his hand, and he waited for her to speak as the nurse asked the next question.

Maybe he'd get to hear her voice this time.

[hdxseunghwan-blog]

anchor,

Her night is submerged underneath the body of nostalgia, and she swims along the current, letting the streams bring her to the fissure of her earth that she always detests. Her chapped lips are hungry for warmth, her fingers for another’s wrist to curl around. She licks the seam of her lips and shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket, soliciting autonomic fulfillments from the gestures; but nothing satiates the longing, burning burning burning her insides to a fragile reminder of him.

Him, him, him. She cut herself open with the sharp of his cheekbones and the jutting of his shoulders, emaciating herself from the touch until she can feel her hunger devouring her insides, gnawing chewing eating away at the marrow of her bones. Him, him, him. She singed her tongue with the smoldering edge of his teeth, gilding her mouth with gashes that never truly closed, rendering her vulnerable with the salt that every smidgen of memory poured inside. Him, him, him. She shriveled.

This is why abhorrence always surfaces along the periphery of her mind, despising herself for the exposure that she allows herself to indulge, always returning to the same abyss that enshrouds her with the same thirst, same hunger. The memories of him are blossoming in her ribcages again; there’s no way to purge the dirt that always resides within the confines of her system, much to her dismay. This is the ugly truth: she cannot move on. (She treads across the sidewalk that still spells her past with him; this is their favorite path.)

Quick footsteps reverberate behind her and before she can turn around, the crook of someone’s elbow has looped itself around her neck, and the cool of metal pressed against her jugular. A sentence that she’s expected hits her eardrums and she stiffens, mind running haywire into the normally untouched crevices.

Her chance locates itself when the knife leaves her skin, and a hand travels across her thigh. Trepidation claws at her sinews but she follows her instinct, elbowing the man in the stomach before sinking her teeth into the flesh of the arm, leaping forward and trying to run but agile fingers already loop around her wrist that she chokes. Fear alarms her; she’s awake. (This isn’t what she wants inscribed on her tombstone.) Within the expanse of a short moment, she yanks her wrist and plants a kick on the male’s stomach.

A quick slash later, she’s freed from the fist of the wavering death.

(There’s too much crimson on the street. Her spillage isn’t pretty.)

She smells of pungent post-danger and her heart thrums against her ribs painfully, her flesh still rippling with the residue of shock. She doesn’t want to go home—she can’t go home. Nightmares open their palms towards her, inviting her in.

There’s an absence of fondness when it comes to the stench of hospital; it reeks too much of demise, bad news streaming in the air and choking her with a precision. There’s an absence of fondness because this is how the process of abandonment dissects itself. (Too busy. Too busy. Too busy.

—I’m leaving,

and I don’t know when if I’ll come back.)

As far as she knows, he doesn’t. They don’t.

(She’s grateful that Sooyeon didn’t exhale her last breath in a hospital, surrounded by everything that deserted them.)

Her stomach is churning but she pretends that she’s all right apart from the life that’s escaping her. Panic rises in the air that surrounds her, and she’s escorted into a room where a nurse is helping her clean the wound.

The second threat of the night comes when the door swishes open.

She thinks she’s suffocating. Her lungs are filled with dust, and she wants to cough but her throat is clogged with the words worth of three years time.

[hdxdaehyun]

The hospital had been a safe haven for him despite the crumbling insides of the people that resided in its white-gray walls. Most people don't see the blooming life, the seed of hope every time a patient's heart beats once again after a trauma - it's a harsh, very real, routine, but it's something that he's gotten used to over the years. His work, despite what people around him say, was not a burden to his life, but he thought, it was his life. Right now, it was all he had; he was barren of a complete family with a void in his chest that numerous drinks, cups of coffee, and packs of cigarettes couldn't fill, and so he worked. He worked to shed light to others, to be an instrument of someone much greater than all of them - to help, to save.

This was his life now, he thought as the machines beeped intermittently as he passed each open door in doing his patient rounds. He was being paged to go to the emergency room for a minor procedure, and he cut his journey to the third floor to go down to the first, the familiar rows of operating rooms greeting him until he arrived at the designated room, opening the door --

-- before he froze.

He could almost swear that he paled, even slightly, and time seemed to slow.

Suddenly he's back on the cold rooftop with a blanket around their shoulders, sharing a stick of nicotine that would stay inside him forever (along with her, the marks she left in his chest). Suddenly her arms were around him and he'd never felt so happy as he did right that moment as he kissed her hair (it was blue, he thought aloud when he first saw it, but what he didn't say was that he's never saw anyone so perfect). Suddenly, he watched everything begin; his umbrella was also hers as they got caught in a thunderstorm, she never cared enough for herself, and that, he knew, and he took care of her (every single inch of her, he loved).

Suddenly, he's back, and she's here -- a bloody gash adorning her smooth, pale skin, and his heart jumped to his throat, his stomach gnawing away on itself with worry.

Seunghwan's hurt.

The nurse got up to make way for him and his body finally moved, footsteps echoing against the silent walls. "What happened?" He managed; there were so many things he wanted said, but none of them came to light, none of them touched his tongue. Without waiting for an answer, he reached out to touch her arm, gently, as gentle as he always was, inspecting the gash.  She needed stitches, and that's what he instructed the nurse who scurried off to retrieve the small metal trolley with the instruments on them, the only noise in the small room.

His mind was running, tripping all over itself.

(I'm back. I went back. I said I didn't know, but I'm here now. I'm back for you - but you're hurt now, and I'll help you. I'll kiss your scars away. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll --)

Protocol. His job. She needed help. "My name is Dr. Jung," but you already knew that, "I'm a surgeon," you were bound to know, "and I'll be your doctor for the today." I've thought of this moment for years, but not like this. Never like this. Thank goodness that you're alright. "Do you want to lie down? I'm going to stitch the wound up quickly." And all other wounds.

If you let me.

[hdxdaehyun]

{ hi everyone, thanks for the welcome messages! add me on aim (hdxdaehyun) if you wanna plot/chat. If you want to brainstorm, please like this post and I'll come to your ask! looking forward to my stay here at Hongdae c:

[aiemii]

[itsbap]

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