Work Text:
Imagine this:
It's 15 minutes to 11pm, and you're still sitting in a small, dark room, waiting for test results you were supposed to receive two hours ago. You're recovering from the mother of all migraines; the nausea factory in your body is working overtime to help you break the world record for how many times a singular person can throw up in one day. The IV line connected to you keeps you hydrated enough to keep trying.
And so, you remain there, in a plastic seat that has surely moulded to fit your ass by now, with the metallic top seam of a KN95 mask digging into the bridge of your nose. When you leave the hospital, if you ever leave, you know that an imprint of this mask will remain on your face for at least a day. That's how your luck has been, nowadays.
That luck was the reason why Park Joowoo found you unconscious in front of the dorm that morning.
"I’m tired," you'd reasoned, "I just need to take a nap."
"Get in the fucking car," Choi Jeho had said, pointing at the company van idling by the curb. The keypad on the screen of his phone, which he used to gesture with, was an unspoken threat. Park Joowoo's rounded eyes were another.
True to your luck, once again, it just so happened that the mass victims of a traffic accident had arrived just moments before you did; A patient with a migraine and a fresh history of fainting was hardly a patient at all in those conditions, but they'd still rushed you through a few medical assessments and had granted you an empty, dark room when the nausea grew to be too bad. If this was one of the major hospitals, maybe the chaos wouldn't have been as distracting. But whatever, your managers took what they could, which was still quite a lot—they just couldn't spare you a bed. You went along with it, too out of it to care.
Now, a hand rubs at your back with the force of a grown man with no prior experience of caring for someone else. That is to say, the hand treats you like a stubborn stain on a carpet and is trying to rub your spine out of existence. Oddly enough, you believe this act of violence may actually have a positive effect on your digestive system.
"Chanyoung hyung," you try to say, but a sudden burning sensation in your oesophagus leaves you breathless in discomfort. Acid reflux is a new symptom for you–it's just another thing to get used to in this cursed life of yours. Regardless, you somehow croak an approximation of your manager's name, which catches his attention for long enough that he notices the expression on your face–possibly unfiltered distress–and his hand abruptly retracts from your back.
"Yes, Iwol-ssi? Is there something I can get you? Do you want water? Should I get a blanket?" You paw at his thigh as he hits you with another barrage of questions, "Ice? Are you hungry again–?"
"I'm," you begin, trying hard to enunciate through the mask and the stagnant saliva in your mouth, "going..."
"Yes?"
"..."
"Iwol-ssi?"
"...vomit."
Pulling your mask down has never felt like such a gargantuan task until this very moment. It's harder now that you're scrambling to do it, recognising the weird, rising feeling in your chest and throat for what it is.
Luckily, you've had half a day to practice your aim, so even though the bin finds its position under your face a second too late, you've successfully diverted a fashion disaster.
"Oh, Iwol-ssi... I'll see if I can get you some anti-nausea tablets..." He's already halfway across the room, but you hear him continue, "and get those investigation results..."
You’d like to tell him that it would be cheaper to just wait and then buy those pills from a pharmacy outside of the hospital, but he’s long gone. You’ve missed your chance.
You stew in the uncomfortable silence.
…
Even while basked in blissful darkness, you feel unexpectedly exposed.
If you had your phone, you would check the news to make sure anything untoward hadn't been posted in the few hours since you arrived here.
The system doesn't tell you anything new. Definitely not like it did during IDC. In fact, it's been weirdly quiet these past few days. You roll your shoulders to ease the tension there.
If you knew where you were at all, or where Kang Kiyeon was, you'd find your way to him or cajole him to join you in this stinking, stale-aired break room until your test results arrived.
But you'd stumbled here on two legs that could barely hold your weight, with eyes so useless and blurry that you willingly closed them and trusted your manager to guide you in the right direction. Just trying to wipe the sweat from your brow sends your entire arm–and all of the relevant muscles–shaking uncontrollably. You’d left Kang Kiyeon and your other manager in the waiting room and you’d likely not reunite until after this was done. You wish the thought didn't make you as sad as it did.
The sensation of being watched does not abate. You glance around, anxiety warring with logic as you consider where the feeling could have originated from.
…The members would forgive you if you just got up and left, especially if you told them something about feeling lonely, even if they may not entirely believe it.
For a bleak moment, you imagine hauling yourself up, stumbling through the door and navigating through the bustling hallways, then collapsing when your mind and body inevitably fail to synchronise. Not to toot your own horn, but there’s enough people out there that at least one of them could possibly recognise you. You shudder and decide to save UA from the trouble of defending themselves against your fans after they realise that you were left alone in a public place. You don’t even want to begin thinking about the apology you’d inevitably oversee the creation of–
"Hey, ahjussi?"
Your heart must’ve stopped again. You jolt, clutching at your chest, air trapped in your throat from a halted gasp as you search for the source of the call and–
There’s your watcher. A young girl peers at you through the dimness of the room and her messy fringe. It seems that, despite your paranoid sweep around the place, you somehow completely overlooked the small child standing right by the doorway. Your heart pounds uncomfortably hard.
You don’t think you can bring yourself to expend energy on fixing trivial things, but you do try to straighten up and give her a respectful amount of attention. Your gut clenches when you pull your shoulders back, so you make a concession and relax a little. You’d try to smile if you weren’t certain it would look more like a glare, because it’s not often that people approach you. Especially not children, considering the fact that your resting face is apparently intimidating. You absolutely cannot scare this child. You've caused spArk enough trouble at this point.
The IV stand screeches as you shift yourself into a more comfortable position.
"Yes?" You acknowledge belatedly. Sweat makes your shirt collar stick to your neck uncomfortably, but you’re too wary of making any sudden movements to do anything about it.
The girl continues to goggle at you. You feel her eyes flicker around your face before settling on yours. Her head seems to naturally tilt to the side, an expression of confusion you’ve seen Lee Cheonghyeon replicate while trying to act cute.
Though you try not to show it, you feel the same befuddlement. Despite your less-than-optimal condition while being dragged here, you know this kid hadn't been in the room when you got here. Nor had she made much noise before appearing at this moment.
Could she have... spawned here? As a system-induced hallucination...?
…Didn't acknowledging hallucinations make them more dangerous? You were sure Lee Cheonghyeon had talked your ear off about something similar recently, but memory was a cruel mistress and you found repression to be cathartic–something your therapist had alluded to, albeit in much kinder terms. Although, you toss aside this theory when she asks:
"Are you an idol?"
It’s gotten to the point where questions like that don’t disturb you anymore. Still, you can’t help but be offended for the actual idols; Being considered in the same visual league as them feels like a direct insult to the idol industry as a whole. You shrug off the child’s question and justify it to yourself: She probably hasn’t seen many idols, let alone the other members of spArk. Let her gaze upon Lee Cheonghyeon’s 24 carat eyelash follicles and then see if she has the audacity to wonder if someone like you could be an idol again.
…Regardless, confirming could be troublesome. Kids are notoriously bad at keeping secrets, right? If you say yes, she could tell someone a K-Pop idol was at the hospital, and then if the wrong ears caught wind of it, people would be swarming the place trying to figure out who it is. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? You’ve been babied enough by the public as it is.
So, you begin to shake your head, restless heat building in your chest, but she speaks again, interrupting you.
“This is you, right?” She digs a hand into the giant front pocket of her overalls and pulls out a phone. You compare the size of it to her face and determine her to be much younger than originally thought. Maybe seven years old at most, if the roundness of her face and her clumsy expressions are an indicator.
She fiddles with it and then turns it around, showing something off. The bright light is jarring, bringing tears and spikes of pain to your eyes. Even after you push past it, you can’t quite make out the image on the screen, so you carefully gesture her closer. She sticks the phone in your face.
Nausea rears its head again. You swallow thickly and ignore it to focus on the picture.
Framed in one of those Google Images boxes is… your face?
“Huh,” you mumble. You squint at the screen to make sure you aren’t seeing things. It makes your eyes sting. “No.”
The kid frowns, pulling the phone back to stare at it. You watch as she alternates between narrowing her eyes at the screen and scrutinising you. “But he looks just like you.”
So she definitely recognises you. You admonish yourself for questioning her, and then immediately realise that you’ve lied to someone who absolutely knows who you are. What else can you do, but double down?
“Does he?”
She stomps her foot, sending pink and blue and yellow light scattering from her shoes. The darkness in the room makes them shine brighter. Unexpectedly, the sight abates your earlier dread. It also creates a whole new kind of concern: Where are her parents…?
“Yes!”
Even with the continued migraine, you manage to smile as you say, “That’s cool…”
You observe the shadows of her expression.
“...Are you sure you aren’t him?” She inches closer. “Because you look like him.”
“Which one is it? Do I look like him or does he look like me?”
“Wuh-what? Um.” She goes quiet for a peaceful moment, mouth twisting into a contemplative pout. “You look like each other.”
“Isn't that rude to that guy?” you ask, pointing at spArk’s Kim Iwol where he remains visible on the screen, a luminous grin on his face. You feel your own mouth twist into a grimace, as if you’re attempting to accentuate the differences between you and the guy in the picture, but you were really trying to smile that time!
She blinks at you. “Why?”
You move your finger to the bin, resting on the floor.
Her eyebrows pull together.
“Everyone vomits, ahjussi. Don't you know that?” She shakes her head, eyeing you with a frown. It’s an all too familiar expression, since Kang Kiyeon had levelled the very same one at you in the car earlier. You also often see it from everyone in your life.
You suddenly feel incredibly exhausted.
“Oh, really?” You sigh, rubbing your eyes with a knuckle. Isn’t it about time for Manager Chanyoung to return?
“Yeah–!”
A tune blares out from the phone. It only takes you a second to recognise it as the chorus of Parthe’s ‘Desire’, which spArk had covered back in the early days of your career.
The girl almost drops the device, then she takes a deep breath and presses it to her ear. Before she can eke out a greeting, you hear a tirade so loud it distorts the speaker. The girl barely flinches as she pulls the phone a few inches away from her head.
When the person on the other end eventually goes silent, you realise you’ve been tensing your entire body and holding your breath the entire time. You let it go and relax as best you can, though the returning nausea makes you wince.
The kid kicks at the ground, sending light skittering across the floor once again.
“I tried to, but a bunch of people came in and it was loud and a lady said I couldn’t sit there anymore,” she begins, taking another breath before barreling on, “and you were busy, so I couldn't tell you and I got hungry, so I tried looking around for the cafeteria, but I couldn't see any signs, and then a bunch of people were running around and I got scared and found a room–”
She pauses as the other caller speaks at a much lower volume than before. If you focused, you could probably make out a few words, but you’re too busy reaching for the bin to do much more than throw up.
By the time you’re done, the girl is kicking the floor again. She stuffs the phone back into her pocket without much care.
“Are you okay?” Your voice cracks halfway through. You don’t bother trying to clear your throat.
“Mm,” she nods, and then shakes her head. “Do you know where the cafeteria is?”
You begin to nod but pause. You did consider leaving earlier, but was that really the smartest choice right now…?
And then you gaze at her and see how her lips tremble even as she presses them together, remember the look in her eyes before she answered that call and–
“Do you need help getting there?” You don’t wait for an answer, already using your IV pole as a crutch and getting to your feet with less effort than expected. Still, the room swims around you. You need a few seconds to blink yourself back to stability.
You see the way she hesitates to nod, though she continues to peer up at you with trembling eyes.
“...Are you sure you aren’t that idol?”
You don’t understand her train of thought, but if you hesitate for too long, she may leave and get even more lost.
Shaking your head feels like the wrong move, but you do it anyway. She sighs, then nods.
You tie the bin bag and gesture for her to hold the door open for you, overencumbered as you are with both hands occupied.
You regret leaving instantly. The white walls and pale linoleum floor reflect the bright fluorescent lights directly into your aching eyes. It’s like you’ve walked into your own personal hell. The sound of your IV stand’s wheels rolling unevenly adds to your pounding headache.
Squinting, you observe your surroundings, but you’ve visited this place enough times that you think you know where to go from here. With some luck, Kang Kihyeon will also be at the cafeteria and the two of you can workshop a way to deal with your new child-shaped problem.
Asking her to wait for a moment, you disappear into the bathroom to dispose of the bag and wash your hands thoroughly, scrubbing until blood is finally reaching your fingers again. You rinse your mouth for the hell of it, though you know you’ll be throwing up again soon. A metallic taste lingers on your tongue.
You pull yourself together in the two minutes you told her it would take. Externally, of course, because inside, you know you’re one unbalanced step away from crashing. You’d rather not faint suddenly (again) and traumatise the kid, so you try to hold yourself together as you lead the way. Keeping your head down and weaving through the throngs of people in the corridors, however, has never felt like so much of a chore than it does in that moment. Thankfully, the girl doesn’t seem to mind when you stop and rest for a few moments, looking equally tired herself.
Everything gets worse, though.
You must’ve lost your head somewhere in the maze of screaming toddlers, because it takes you way too long to realise that you have no idea where you are. The heaviness in your head had migrated to your shoulders earlier that night, but it's pressing down on your chest now.
“Ahjussi…”
Both of you face a dead end. You don’t look at her directly, but you see her watching you in your peripheral vision.
You hardly remember the walk to this place.
Instead of your lapse in memory convincing you to sit down or search for help, like a reasonable person would immediately think to do, you turn back around and march until you find a signboard.
‘Ground Floor - Main Entrance
First Floor - Cafeteria
Second Floor - …’
…
How did you end up on the third floor?
You gawk, disbelieving, until the kid shakes your IV pole and points off to the side. Hanging from the ceiling is another sign, but this one depicts two people in a box. You share a glance and immediately hightail it in that direction.
When you round the corner and see the metallic sheen of the elevator doors, the girl cheers. The doors close before you can get there, packed to the brim with people. You feel the same relief… until you see the line in front of them. You approach and read the sign standing in front of the other one.
‘Under maintenance.’
Great.
All of this running around has exhausted you so thoroughly that trying to keep your head up is hurting your neck. Your skull feels unreasonably heavy. You really wish you'd stayed in the room.
Thankfully, although you also don’t remember using the stairwell, you know exactly where it is.
You usher her down the hall, turning a few corners until you find it. You enter, holding the door open for the kid.
And then, it happens.
It could have just been a lapse of concentration–you hadn't watched your step because you could barely see a scant few inches in front of you anyway, or the kid had gotten too excited at the prospect of finally being on the right track, or–
For whatever reason, one of you missteps. You bump into each other, or maybe you bump into the IV pole, and then the girl takes a miscalculated step forward and just–drops. She has nothing to hold onto as she hurtles downward.
And even though your mind is a mile away and your body is actively betraying you, has been for years, you've been pushing yourself past your limit for so long, your body is giving up on you and every day you grow closer to the end and you can't come to terms with it because you're not done yet, you can't be, you have so much left to do, you have to see your sister again, you have to–
are you even human–?
you're going to die you're going to die you're going to–
you manage to reach out and–
“...up…”
“...Get up! Please, get…”
Kiyeon’s day has gone approximately as he expected it to.
Getting home from school and finding Iwol hyung worse for wear and in the process of being herded to the hospital just felt like an average addition to his routine. Of course, being the only member without an event planned for that evening, Kiyeon had easily volunteered to come along and keep an eye on spArk’s least cooperative member. It was a happy coincidence that a check-up for his ankle had been scheduled for that day too, albeit in a few more hours. But surely Iwol would be back on his feet by–
11:13 PM
Kiyeon glares at the clock in the waiting room, unblinking.
When Iwol hyung had thrown up the second time, Kiyeon promised Manager Chanyoung he would stay put with Manager Daeyeon while he found Iwol a dark, quiet place to rest while they waited for his medical results.
Unfortunately, it seemed that the gluttonous, never-ending hallways of the hospital had swallowed the two of them whole. Kiyeon’s appointment, which had seemed so far away when it was still 1pm, had come and gone with little fanfare.
He feels bad for Manager Daeyeon, who offered to drive him back to the dorms. Under the assumption that Iwol would be discharged immediately, Kiyeon had rejected it, and now it was far too late to suggest going back.
He sinks back into his seat, huffing. There's nothing worse than sitting around without having anything to do–Lee Cheonghyeon's memes can only keep him occupied for so long. Frustration consumes him.
The other members are still stuck at their own shoots too. Kiyeon would be alone at the dorms anyway, and it was better that they had two staff members here with them in case something went wrong with Iwol…
His thoughts trail off when Manager Chanyoung stumbles into the waiting room like he’s just been shoved through the doors. Kiyeon nudges Manager Daeyeon awake, amused when he snorts himself to consciousness. Any humour in him dies the moment he sees the look on Manager Chanyoung’s face.
Mindful of their surroundings, Manager Chanyoung leans down to speak into their ears, “Have you seen Iwol-ssi anywhere?”
His voice is harried. When he pulls away, Kiyeon notices the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Manager Daeyeon frowns up at him.
“Did you leave him alone?”
An undercurrent of tension cuts through his words, despite the deliberate way he says them. Kiyeon feels himself tense up in response. Iwol hyung had only just fainted that afternoon. If he'd walked off alone without proper support, then…
Manager Chanyoung’s eyebrows furrow as he grimaces.
“I left to find a doctor and get him some medicine, but Min Jukyung-ssi called about security issues at Jeho-ssi’s shoot.” He winces, brushing his hair off his forehead. “I was gone for 10 minutes at most.”
“Where–?”
“The second floor. There was a room…”
The managers gesture for Kiyeon to come along as they bustle off toward the elevators.
“Alright, I'll check there–”
A commotion in the foyer stops them in their tracks. A group of people have gathered in front of one of the open elevators, pouring into it. Even after it's been filled up, at least a dozen more people remain outside, waiting.
A quick scan of the other lift reveals a couple of people in dark jumpsuits–repair technicians, possibly. One man in a neon vest waves a clipboard around. They cluster around the doorway, occasionally exchanging words, but Kiyeon doubts they'll be done anytime soon.
Kiyeon sighs, then pivots, stomping ahead toward the stairwell without a word. He hears the managers hurry to follow him.
His earlier restlessness bubbles into irritation. His fingers find the shoulder strap of his bag and twist. He's absolutely going to snitch on Iwol the moment they return home. You'd think that someone with so many medical issues would try to be a little cautious with their health, but Iwol hyung was providing to be an unfortunate outlier.
Kiyeon stifles another sigh as they round a corner.
To be fair, Iwol hyung had always been like this. It was just that spArk had grown close enough for the others to notice, right? Still, Kiyeon will draft a formal complaint against him. He'll get all of the members to co-sign it. Then, they'll get Seongbin hyung to officially present it to Iwol, and then maybe he'll–
They’re almost at the stairwell when they hear the scream.
“Help!”
The managers freeze, but Kiyeon shoots past them, already on-edge.
In the back of his mind, he can hear Iwol hyung chiding him for rushing into unknown territory headfirst. He pushes the nagging voice aside and barges into the stairwell.
In here, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sound is pointless. Kiyeon takes two steps at a time, shooting up the stairs to where he thinks it could be coming from, passing landing after landing until–
“Please, help him!”
Iwol lays there, crumpled against the point where the stairs meet the wall and floor. He twitches rapidly.
Kiyeon stares, uncomprehending.
Blood stains the side of Iwol hyung’s face, dripping down and collecting in the hollow of his throat, staining his collar red. Even with his seemingly endless knowledge of laundry, Kiyeon knows Joowoo hyung would never be able to get the blood out of that shirt.
Feeling returns to his body when he sees Iwol’s head slam against the wall. It leaves behind a stark, red mark. It glistens when Kiyeon stumbles closer, his knees abruptly threatening to give way.
Kiyeon rushes forward and tugs at Iwol hyung’s legs until he lays flat. A metallic clang resonates when he does so–he doesn’t understand how he missed the IV pole stuck under Iwol’s body. He pulls it free, tossing it off to the side without looking, and shucks off his bag to stick it under Iwol’s head, cushioning him as he continues to convulse.
Kiyeon leans over him, gently brushing hair away from Iwol’s wound.
Finally, the first aid information Seongbin hyung had drilled into the members’ heads comes back to him:
Time it, he’d said when Iwol was still recovering from his near-heart attack. Anything longer than 5 minutes is dangerous.
He’d also said a bunch of other things, but seeing Iwol hyung’s head smack against the wall was enough for Kiyeon to forget most of it.
He repeats what he remembers, though, as he glances between Iwol’s eyelids–fluttering erratically–and Manager Daeyeon’s phone.
It’s then that he notices the girl. Small, maybe barely in elementary school, her hair in disarray and her face wet with fresh tears. Kiyeon briefly wonders about who would allow such a young kid to run around so late at night, before Iwol’s body goes slack.
When he looks down, Iwol hyung peers back up at him, eyes unfocused and glassy. He reaches for Kiyeon’s hand; His fingers are colder than Kiyeon has ever felt them. He swallows against the newly-formed lump in his throat.
As if on cue, the doors to the stairwell burst open and a small crowd of medical personnel quickly fill up the empty space on the landing. A barrage of questions follows, directed toward whoever will answer–Kiyeon’s mouth refuses to cooperate, so he squeezes Iwol hyung’s hand until he can’t feel his fingers anymore.
Unexpectedly, the nurses allow him to stay there as they prod at Iwol’s head, fixing Kiyeon’s attempt at straightening him up and securing a neck brace on him when they see the wet blood on the IV pole, the floor, everywhere.
Of course, when it comes time to load him onto the stretcher and bring him down to the Emergency Department, Kiyeon finds himself bristling when they attempt to pull Iwol away from him. It’s only Seongbin hyung’s voice in his head that stops him from dogging their footsteps.
The words 'neurological assessment' and 'stabilisation' send his pulse racing, but he presses his shaking lips together and clears his throat, then tries to pull his hand free of Iwol’s tight grip. He resists.
“Hyung,” he croaks, “you have to let go. They’re gonna take care of you–”
“But I just found you.”
Iwol's voice is feeble, almost lost to the hubbub in the crowded stairwell.
“You’re going already?”
Kiyeon watches as Iwol hyung blinks up at him, bleary-eyed. His words are slurred, barely leaving his slack mouth, but his eyes stay locked on Kiyeon’s.
Kiyeon can't bring himself to look away.
“...I’ll find you next time, okay?” He forces himself to say.
“Okay.”
Iwol hyung squeezes his hand gently before releasing him.
Kiyeon watches him go with Manager Chanyoung–watches as he's wheeled through the blinding white corridor until Kiyeon can’t see him anymore.
He feels a hand rub his back.
Then, a light tug on his shirt.
“Um…”
Kiyeon follows the motion and glances to the right. The girl from earlier stares at him. She holds out a tissue, using another to wipe her tears.
“I don’t–”
But then he registers an odd sensation on his face. When he swipes at it, his fingers come away wet.
“Ah.”