#the way we've plotted sm since this starter ..... my bad 4 bein so late

[13elmst]

taeho:

( … ) "i'm the ra, not a nurse." he feels like he needs to clarify, but then would a ra be opening the door and letting in someone who should be in trouble? or even— "sit on the bed, i'll see what i have." he says with a heavy sigh before turning his attention to one of his closet, he's almost sure he still has some bandages, painkillers and something to clean the blood off on the first aid kit that he keeps there for cases that blue hall parties — or anything really — gets too wild. probably not.

the wheel of time is always turning. it is cyclic in nature, events and things repeating itself with every revolution. and what jaehyun means is this anger, setting ablaze. anger, getting in the way of things. it is a futile attempt to change fate. he knows this because he’s tried, has made himself sit uncomfortably in his rage, to hold things in him like there isn’t a deep incision cut horizontally across his torso.

still, here, with the bloody lip. still, here, a nursing palm held tenderly to his rib.

taeho shoots him the question as he’s getting up off the floor, a light wince flashing across his features. he groans out a banal, “you should see the other guy.” see, how the wheel of time is always turning. park jaehyun is thirteen, fifteen, twenty-six when he ends up at moon taeho’s door. sometimes, it’s bruised knuckles. others, a raw gash from having to tank a fist across his cheek. taeho is there in every aftermath, a steadying hand as he beckons jaehyun to lean on his shoulder. there’s some distance between them now, a regrettable consequence of being locked up in prison for more than half a decade— but times like these, jaehyun’s reminded: some things never change.

jaehyun follows the latter into his room, clicks out a pointed, “calculative,” as he hobbles over to the bed just shy of taeho’s invitation. he props a steadying palm on the mattress and pivots almost laboriously to sit by the edge, lips curling down at the shooting pain in his rib. “how ‘bout a ‘how are you feeling, jaehyun?’” he mumbles, tone lacking the necessary bite. because the truth is no matter their bickering, jaehyun doesn’t think there’s a universe where he could harbour ill feelings for the man. the latter is a bleeding heart in all the ways that matter, moulds his softness into all of jaehyun’s hard places. in this way, taeho softens him, too.

jaehyun kicks his shoes off and slides his feet onto the bed, back against the headboard. clears his throat and answers the question he let sit in the air, “like fucking shit, thanks for asking.” he pulls his shirt gently off, careful not to strain the trauma on his left rib, and he nearly pulls the necklace taeho had gifted him off with it. “fucker thought it was a good idea to scream in my face.” he adjusts the necklace around his neck, and he’s mindful not to mention the trigger— how the asshole on the opposing football team had thought it smart to suggest deficiencies in his upbringing, only because he doesn’t think it necessary to rile taeho up, too. jaehyun peels the patch from his neck, tosses it bitterly onto the bedside table, “he’s lucky i had this fucking thing on.”

“you’ve got your work cut out for you, brother,” even in pain, he jests. takes a measured breath to gauge the level of strain he can take without inviting the wince. jaehyun cocks his head at taeho, shoots his friend a wry smile as he confesses the worst, “grandma’s expecting me for dinner.”