Work Text:
His head hurts.
The blinding glare of his desk lamp, pulsing right in the corner of his vision, does little to alleviate this, but night has long since fallen and he can’t be bothered to get up and turn on the ceiling lights. Mostly because he’s fairly certain that if he does get up, he’ll immediately collapse.
2 AM. He hates those early morning raids. They only ever happen during emergencies and they rarely go well. The sky hadn’t even turned pink yet when he stepped out of that gate with that healer’s body is in his arms. She was a newer member of the guild. The ogre lashed out with its flail faster than most people could react and he hadn’t gotten his shield up in time. It struck her down instantly and she lay there on the ground, still bleeding, as he sprained his ankle trying to take the ogre down.
It died eventually; nearly took out three more of his hunters before it did. He stood there staring at its body and there was something cold and numb in his chest, a chill that seeped into his bones. His ankle throbbed. He said nothing about it to the healers, who were exhausted and had just lost one of their own.
Jong-in scratches out his signature for the umpteeth time and moves the paper aside. Another one. The lamp glares at him and his head throbs in response. He slowly looks over the sheet, rereading the first line again and again. What is it saying? Mana crystals… something…
Maybe if he just— rests his eyes for a few minutes. Enough to clear the blurriness from the edges of his vision and fix his headache. He’ll go back to work after that.
He takes off his glasses, tucks his head into the crook of his elbow, and closes his eyes.
---
When consciousness returns to him, it returns slowly, bleeding in like water through a crack. Lights swim into view, blurry through his half-closed eyes. Something warm is wrapped around his shoulders and he hears the faint echo of footsteps.
He’s not in his office anymore, is he? What happened to his paperwork?
Instead of that question, what leaves his throat is a dazed hum. There’s a puff from above him, like someone exhaling. A voice, deep and familiar, speaks. “Shh, jagi-ya, go back to sleep.”
… Yoon-ho?
Jong-in tries to pry his eyes open further, but he’s so very warm, and so very tired. He could sleep? But if he sleeps—
“Yoon-ho,” he croaks. With what feels like a tremendous amount of effort, he opens his eyes. His head is cushioned against Yoon-ho’s shoulder and most of what he can see is the wild curls of hair at Yoon-ho’s neck.
“Yeah?” says Yoon-ho softly.
He considers trying to wriggle free, but Yoon-ho is far stronger than he is. His ankle, too— he’s not entirely sure he can walk right now. But his papers…
“I need to— the papers—”
Yoon-ho snorts. “Nope. We’re going home. You’ve been up since midnight because of that gate.”
“Did you… did you break into my office?”
“You gave me a key. What else was I supposed to do when you weren’t answering my calls?”
Did his phone ring? He must have not noticed. Or maybe he was asleep. He fell asleep, didn’t he? He wasn’t— wasn’t supposed to do that.
The sky above shifts to concrete. They’re in the parking garage? A car beeps and moments later Yoon-ho is clicking a door open. Jong-in finally finds the energy to nudge at him. “Let me down. I can… get in.”
Yoon-ho makes a skeptical noise, but he carefully sets Jong-in down. Jong-in wobbles trying to get into the car and Yoon-ho’s eyes narrow. Not much can escape his senses. But Yoon-ho says nothing until he gets into the driver’s seat and turns on the car, allowing hot air to blast from the vents. He glances at Jong-in, then, and the gentleness of his voice strikes Jong-in like a blow. “You hurt your ankle, didn’t you?”
The dashboard lights blink at him, suddenly blurry. Or maybe that’s the water in his eyes. When did he— when did he start crying? There’s not anything to cry about. He’s not in pain. It’s fine, it’s…
“Did you get my glasses?” Jong-in whispers, instead of answering.
“Yeah. Don’t worry.” Yoon-ho’s hand lands on his thigh, rubbing gently. Jong-in sucks in a breath. He’s not going to start sobbing, he’s not— “Are you going to fight me if I take you to the hospital?”
“I don’t— it’s just a sprain. I’m fine.”
Yoon-ho sighs. “Okay. I’ll wrap it at home.”
Home. All of a sudden, the papers don’t seem nearly so significant. He just wants to go home.
Yoon-ho insists on carrying him to the elevator. Jong-in doesn’t fight him. He rests his head against Yoon-ho’s shoulder and closes his eyes, trying to fight off his persistent headache. His ankle is starting to throb, too. Or has it always been hurting? He doesn’t remember. Actually, he doesn’t remember much of anything from today, except for the blood that seeped from that healer’s skull as she lay there dead. She was so cold in his arms. Her sister cried when he gave the news and he could do nothing but stand there, folded in a bow, the sound of the killing blow still ringing in his ears.
The apartment is warm. Yoon-ho sets him down gently on the couch and helps him remove his shoes, despite his weak protests. He vanishes down the hallway and returns holding their first aid supplies.
Yoon-ho sits down next to him and brushes his knuckles across Jong-in’s cheek. If he notices the hitch in Jong-in’s breathing, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead he murmurs, “Do you want to shower first?”
A shower would probably be good. He nods, and Yoon-ho exhales. “Let me help you, then.” When Jong-in opens his mouth, Yoon-ho cuts him off. “If you say you’re fine I’m going to take all my hoodies back.”
Jong-in almost laughs. “You don’t need to be so cruel.”
The look Yoon-ho gives him is half amused, half… something. Something that softens his features, that settles warm and gentle over Jong-in’s shoulders. For some stupid reason, his eyes begin to water again.
“You’re an idiot,” Yoon-ho says, and it’s fond. “Your ankle is injured. I’m not letting you walk on it. Let me help you.”
Please goes unsaid. Jong-in breathes shakily and nods.
Yoon-ho helps him to the bathroom and is still waiting outside when he leaves. He must have meant it, what he said about not letting Jong-in walk, because he immediately picks him up and carries him back to the couch. He sets him down gently and sits next to him. “Do you want to lie down or stay sitting?”
Jong-in shakes his head slowly. “I don’t care. Whatever works for you.”
“Okay. Lie down for me, then, jagi-ya.”
The ceiling swims into view as he tips backwards. The cushions of the couch are soft against his back and he sinks into them. Yoon-ho’s warm fingers close gently around his calf and lift his leg, propping it up. The pressure of a bandage comes next, wrapping tightly around his ankle. He winces despite himself, but stays quiet.
Yoon-ho’s thumb starts to rub soothing circles into the spot just above his ankle. “Does it hurt here?”
“No,” Jong-in sighs. “I told you, I’m fine. It’ll heal in a day or two anyways.”
“Inie-ya, a sprained ankle is not fine. Not to mention that you haven’t slept a damn wink since yesterday.” Yoon-ho’s voice is far too gentle, and for some stupid reason, it’s that nickname, spoken all soft and concerned, that makes the dam break. Jong-in’s breath hitches and then he’s turning his head to try and bury his tears into the cushions.
He’s always tried to cry quietly. It’s not worth other people finding out— he’s meant to be the perfect hunter, the role model. And he— it’s not like he’s never lost anyone before. But still he can see it, the blood on the floor, the flail, and he just can’t stop crying. His hiccups turn into gasps; he tries, instinctively, to curl up, as if making himself smaller could somehow restrict all the tears.
“Oh, jagi-ya— come here,” says Yoon-ho, his voice soft. Jong-in blindly reaches out and grasps at his hand. Yoon-ho tangles their fingers together; his other hand slides beneath Jong-in to easily shift him upright. Jong-in’s core strength seems to leave him entirely, and he slumps against Yoon-ho, burying his face into his shoulder.
“Here— I’m going to lie down.” Yoon-ho falls back against the cushions and Jong-in goes with him. He’s lying on top of him now— still crying, still gasping like he hasn’t breathed since yesterday— and Yoon-ho just starts to rub his back in slow, gentle circles. His hand is warm and almost spans the entirety of Jong-in’s lower back, a comforting and familiar weight against his skin.
Jong-in’s first delirious thought is that he must be getting Yoon-ho’s shirt wet, and he can’t remember if it’s one of his work shirts or not. He can’t bring himself to move regardless. Yoon-ho is warm and the way he wraps an arm around Jong-in’s shoulders feels achingly tender— just tight enough to be secure, and almost gentle enough to burn. Jong-in doesn’t mean to, but he cries harder, buries his face deeper into the crook of Yoon-ho’s neck and cries.
“Fine, my ass,” he hears Yoon-ho whisper, and he chokes out a laugh. Maybe he isn’t, if he’s crying into Yoon-ho’s shoulder at god knows what time. He’s so tired and his chest hurts— he can’t tell if it’s because of the crying or because of that chill, the creeping cold that burrowed into his ribs when he saw the body.
“I—” The words catch in his throat and he swallows, hiccups, tries again. “I might— have a t-tendency to embellish a little.”
“Is that what you call lying?” Yoon-ho says, teasing. His fingers rub up and down Jong-in’s spine, the way Jong-in’s always liked. “I knew you were shady.”
“M-mean to me.”
He feels Yoon-ho press a kiss to the top of his head. “Yeah, I know. I’m horrible.”
No you’re not, Jong-in wants to say. Instead he closes his eyes and hiccups softly into Yoon-ho’s neck.
“Better?” murmurs Yoon-ho. The low rumble of his voice settles over Jong-in like a blanket and he almost starts to sob again.
He doesn’t. He nods and whispers, “Sorry. Your shirt is wet now.”
“Don’t apologize, firefly.” And maybe it’s those damn nicknames, the way Yoon-ho says them so lovingly, but Jong-in has to fight to keep it together. What is wrong with him today? Why is he wanting to cry over— but maybe it’s because he’s so exhausted. He hasn’t slept properly since yesterday and his head still hurts a little. At least— at least he doesn’t feel like crying his eyes out anymore. Probably.
Yoon-ho kisses his head again, then his ear. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” says Jong-in quietly.
“Are you hungry? I made soup earlier and there’s some left over. I can heat it up for you.”
He is hungry, now that he’s aware of it. He hasn’t eaten since— was it this morning? Did he eat breakfast? He doesn’t remember. But getting up to eat sounds like a great deal of energy, energy he doesn’t have.
“I’d rather sleep,” he admits.
Yoon-ho makes a skeptical sound. “You’re letting me make you breakfast tomorrow, then. And you’re eating lunch.”
Trying to sound light, Jong-in replies, “What a gentleman. If you wanted to ask me out you could have just said so.”
“Fine. Do you want to go out for lunch with me tomorrow, jagi-ya?”
Lunch with Yoon-ho. They haven’t done that in a while. It sounds— nice.
“If you insist,” he says, trying for haughty, but it comes out sounding all soft. Yoon-ho makes an amused chuffing sound, not unlike a cat. His hand climbs up Jong-in’s spine to rub between his shoulder blades.
“It’s a date, then,” he teases.
Jong-in sniffs. “Consider yourself lucky.”
“Asshole,” says Yoon-ho, all gentle and fond. His grip is warm as he shifts Jong-in into his arms and stands up. Effortlessly, he then moves Jong-in’s weight to one arm as he uses his other hand to lift his injured ankle, keeping it from dangling.
“You don’t have a raid scheduled for tomorrow, right?” Yoon-ho asks as he carries him down the hallway. “You’ll probably be able to walk on this tomorrow, but you shouldn’t be raiding. Unless you get someone to heal it.”
“No raids,” Jong-in confirms. He isn’t going to bother the healers over something as trivial as a sprained ankle. It will go away quickly, given his S-Rank healing capabilities.
The way Yoon-ho sets him down on the bed makes him feel like he’s a delicate figurine, a treasure, something to be carefully placed lest it breaks. He almost wants to protest— he’s not fragile, or anything. He’s just exhausted and his ankle isn’t even broken. Yoon-ho doesn’t need to handle him like he’s made of glass.
But it’s— nice. To be held gently like that. It makes him feel warm in a way that cuts through the ache in his chest and settles deep into his muscles.
Yoon-ho props his ankle up on a pillow before settling down next to him, tucking an arm around his waist. “You better not wiggle around and dislodge that pillow.”
“You’re the one who wiggles,” Jong-in huffs. “You and your midnight snacks. You never put the blankets back right when you leave.”
Yoon-ho pokes his side in lighthearted retaliation and Jong-in is helpless to the small laugh that escapes him. By the grin on Yoon-ho’s face, he suspects that was his plan all along.
“Not my fault you’re a lizard,” Yoon-ho says. His thumb begins to rub circles on Jong-in’s hip. He’s so warm and Jong-in moves closer, trying to soak it in. He tries to shift around so his head is lying on Yoon-ho’s chest, and Yoon-ho is kind enough to help him. He ends up tucked into Yoon-ho’s side, his head resting just above his heart, both of Yoon-ho’s arms wrapped firmly around him.
“Comfortable?” asks Yoon-ho. He moves one arm away to turn off their bedside light, then brings it back.
Jong-in makes a low humming sound. He closes his eyes.
Yoon-ho’s hand slips gently beneath his shirt, settling warm on his back. “Go to sleep, jagi-ya.”
He does. This time, it’s easy.