he laughs as he leans into his saviour a little more, god, he can’t feel his fucking legs, how’s he going to make the trip home? ❝ studio 57, 4th floor, 2nd unit. ❞ he shares, the common memory coming to him hazy. he has to blink some times to clear the spots in his vision. ❝ 70 years sounds fucking long, you sure you want this burden on you. ❞ jeongguk doesn’t ask what his saviour means by he’ll manage. perhaps he’d thought wrong and his saviour was some kind of genius young doctor that jeongguk has exhausted his life’s luck to meet.
[ trigger warnings ! blood ]
"You’re welcome”, he responds with just as much sass as the guy he’s been trying to hold up straight. It doesn’t help that the other is taller and bigger and broader; there’s nothing but body mass and muscle, which makes it hard for a scrawny kid like Ilhoon to be able to easily maneuver him. If that was a movie, he would lift him up and throw him on his shoulder easily and then they could solve that little predicament. But since real life is hardly that easy, Ilhoon works with what he has; he squeezes the man’s side (he’s probably hurting him too, but at least there’s pressure on his wound) and then maybe he can think about his next problem which translates in the stranger’s wobbly knees. If that guy passes out for real it’s over for the both of them, really.
“Let’s see if you’re actually as hot when you’re not bleeding, shall we? that’s the next goal.” he grunts as he moves them, pulling the stranger with him and feeling his weight on him increasing with every step “Trust me, you’re missing out big, it’s a heavenly sight, if you have nothing else to live for, live to check it out later. There, I gave you a new purpose -- oh my fuck, why are you so damn heavy--” he lets out as he tries to keep the other steady (or as steady as he can make a dying man stand. And then the man mumbles his address -- Ilhoon wants to die, really. “The fuck you live that far for?” he nearly whines and his brain supplies a ‘drop him, fuck it’, but he can’t exactly obey because his selfishness only works for things that are petty-er than that. “I’m not taking you that far, sorry buddy.” he adjusts his grip on the male, makes sure to drag him along and shakes his own hair back as the wind does a wonderful job dishevelling it. “My apartment is down the street, which is as far as I can drag you to, I wasn’t made to drag guys twice my size, sorry, but the only thing I lift is food to my mouth. Don’t die on me before then.” he proceeds to pull him again -- gosh, that is one fucking LONG street, he thinks.
“Depends on whether you make that regret memorable or not. I’ll probably find a way for you to repay this tiny favor of mine, don’t worry. I mean, this big heart of mine has limits and getting your blood all over this supreme hoodie is pretty much that limit. You would be dead if this was Gucci though.” ilhoon looks both ways before crossing the street (he doesn’t want to become roadkill for some stupid reason like not looking where he’s going. The apartment complex is 150 meters away, but it feels like so much more. He manages somehow, wondering for a moment how many people saw the two of them and gasped at the sight. They are not a discreet sight; Ilhoon’s hoodie is -- regrettably -- white, and the other’s blood is very much red and pouring both onto their clothes and their hands. Plus, he is sweating profusely, looking paler and paler by the minute and with Ilhoon’s luck, he’ll manage to unlock the door and the guy is going to pick that moment to die.
Not knowing very well how, Ilhoon manages to pull his keys out of his jeans and maybe his grip on the other fails a bit (or a lot) because he is fumbling with holding the building’s door and tugging the other in; and maybe he lets him slide down a bit when he manages to get them in the elevator (ilhoon honestly nearly dropped him like a bag of potatoes, really). He punches the button for the right floor, breathes for as long as he is permitted and considers all of his choices when he is fumbling with the keys to open his apartment, hands sweaty and bloody and a stranger slipping out of his grasp. Once he gets them in, he dumps the man on the floor (yes, the floor, god forbids him to drag him to the couch -- he’s NOT going to get blood on that) and then, comes the world’s most hyperactive dog, when he is dead tired and has a half dead guy on the floor of his apartment. “Not now, Jack!” he tries to usher the dog away, with little to no success, but hey, if you can’t beat them, join them, right? “He’ll keep you alert, trust me.”
Ilhoon leaves the room for a moment, only to come back moments later with a kitchen knife in one hand, scissors in the other. “Now, let me lay this out for you real quick: you’re dying; you’ll die if we don’t do something and you can’t be taken anywhere at this point,” he informs, kneeling down beside the other. the kitchen knife is placed down next to the man, but ilhoon’s hand lifts his shirt and cuts it open all the way through, pulling the folds of the cut fabric aside so he can see the wounds more clearly. “This looks disgusting, just letting you know,” he says it as if it’s only natural, but doesn’t display the disgust on his face. “Cleaning this and simply stitching is not going to cut it, I need to do something else first, but I need you to not freak out and trust me. You need to accept any method I’m willing to use on you. Nod if you agree.”