Chapter 3: The Aftermath of the Apology
The silence in the bedroom was a living thing, thick and velvety, broken only by the faint, rhythmic whisper of Hyukjae’s breath against Donghae’s collarbone. The lantern on the nightstand burned low, painting the room in strokes of deep amber and long, dancing shadows. Donghae lay perfectly still, his spine aligned on the firm mattress, one hand resting on the silk-covered plane of his own stomach, the other buried in the soft strands of Hyukjae’s hair.
His phone, screen dark, felt like a lead weight on the nightstand.
The letter was out there. Posted two hours ago on his personal channel. A simple, handwritten note photographed against their kitchen counter, speaking of a herniated disc, of deep regret, of a necessary postponement. His words. His handwriting. It felt like he’d surgically opened a vein and let the truth spill out for millions to examine.
Hyukjae’s phone, tucked under his own pillow, buzzed again. A persistent, insectile hum. Hyukjae didn’t stir. His head remained a comforting weight on Donghae’s shoulder, his arm draped carefully across Donghae’s waist, his thumb making slow, absent circles on the thin cotton of his shirt.
“You should get that,” Donghae murmured, his voice rough from disuse. “Might be the board. Ready to fire us both.”
“Let them try.” Hyukjae’s words were muffled against his skin. “It’s just PR. They’re sending updates. I don’t need updates. I need you to not be tense.”
“I’m not tense.”
“You’re lying so still you could be a museum exhibit. ‘Man Contemplating His Own Perceived Failure.’” Hyukjae lifted his head then, just enough to meet Donghae’s eyes. The lantern light caught the sharp line of his cheekbone, the soft concern in his gaze. “What’s in your head right now? Tell me.”
Donghae stared past him at the ceiling. The texture seemed to swim. “What if they hate me now?”
The question hung in the scented air, small and brittle.
Hyukjae shifted, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on an elbow. He looked down at Donghae, his free hand coming up to cradle the side of his face. His thumb stroked the arch of Donghae’s cheekbone. “Read the comments, Hae.”
“I can’t.”
“You don’t have to. I will.” Hyukjae reached behind him, fingers fumbling for his phone without looking away from Donghae’s face. He unlocked it, the screen’s blue-white light a stark intruder in the warm room. He navigated with quick taps, his eyes scanning.
Donghae watched his face, searching for a flinch, a frown, anything.
Hyukjae’s expression didn’t harden. It softened further, a gentle incredulity lifting the corners of his mouth. He cleared his throat quietly and began to read, his voice a low, steady stream in the dark.
“‘Donghae-oppa, take all the time you need. We’ll wait forever.’ That’s from someone named StarryEunHae0824.” He scrolled. “‘Twenty-two years of you giving us everything. Let us give you this one thing: peace.’” Another scroll. His voice hitched, just barely. “‘Please listen to Hyukjae-oppa. He looks like he knows how to take care of people.’”
A wet, choked sound escaped Donghae. He hadn’t realized he was crying until he felt the hot track of a tear escape the corner of his eye and slide into his hairline.
Hyukjae set the phone aside, screen-down. He used both hands to cup Donghae’s face, wiping the moisture away with his thumbs. “They love you,” he said, the words absolute. “They’re worried about you. That’s all. That’s the only thing in there. Thousands of versions of ‘get well.’ No anger. No hate. Just love.”
“It’s too much,” Donghae whispered, his composure cracking. “It feels too big. I don’t know what to do with it.”
“You don’t have to do anything with it. You just have to believe it.” Hyukjae leaned down, closing the small space between them. He kissed Donghae’s forehead, then the tip of his nose, then finally, his lips. It was a soft press, a reassurance without demand. “You’re not alone in this. You never have been. Not with me. Not with them.”
Donghae’s hand came up, fingers tangling in the back of Hyukjae’s sleep shirt. He held on, anchoring himself in the solid, real presence above him. The fear, the colossal weight of disappointing everyone, began to fracture. It didn’t vanish, but it receded, making room for something else—a shaky, profound relief.
“I posted the letter,” Donghae said, as if realizing it for the first time. “I really did it.”
“You did. And the world didn’t end. The dome is still standing. My phone is just buzzing with love reports.” Hyukjae settled back beside him, shifting carefully to slot himself against Donghae’s side again, his head returning to its spot on his shoulder. He pulled the duvet up over them both. “Now, can you please relax your muscles? I’m trying to sleep on what feels like a plank of anxious wood.”
A genuine laugh bubbled out of Donghae, wet and surprised. It jostled his back, sending a spark of pain along his nerve, but he didn’t care. The sound was worth it. “Your bedside manner is terrible.”
“You married me for my sparkling personality, not my medical expertise.” Hyukjae’s hand found Donghae’s on the sheets. He laced their fingers together, his grip firm and sure. “Besides, my expertise is currently focused on one patient. Very high-maintenance. Constantly wants cuddles.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” Hyukjae’s admission was quiet, a simple truth breathed into the hollow of Donghae’s throat. “So let me do my job. Believe them. Believe me. Sleep.”
Donghae closed his eyes. The buzz of Hyukjae’s phone came once more, a final, distant protest from the outside world. He felt Hyukjae’s chest expand with a sigh, but his grip on Donghae’s hand didn’t loosen. He didn’t reach for it.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, Donghae didn’t see stages or schedules or MRI scans. He saw the shaky, hopeful words on a screen. We’ll wait forever. He felt the steady pressure of Hyukjae’s head on his shoulder, the rhythm of his breath, the covenant of their intertwined fingers.
The weight was still there. But it was no longer his alone to carry. It was being shared, passed hand to hand, across cities and screens and years of built trust, until it became something manageable. Something they could hold together.
He took a deep, deliberate breath, finally allowing his body to melt into the support of the mattress, into the warm line of Hyukjae beside him. For the first time since the sharp, defining pain had torn through him in rehearsal weeks ago, Lee Donghae didn’t feel broken.
He felt held.
The morning light through the sheer curtains was a gentle, insistent thing. It found Donghae still on his back, Hyukjae a warm line spooned carefully against his good side, one protective arm draped over his waist. The peace was shattered not by a phone, but by the resonant chime of the penthouse’s doorbell, followed immediately by the distinct beep of a keypad override.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Hyukjae mumbled into the pillow, his voice thick with sleep.
The front door opened. Familiar, overlapping voices filled the quiet hallway, accompanied by the rustle of shopping bags and the soft scuff of comfortable shoes. “Boys? We’re coming in! We brought congee!”
Donghae’s eyes went wide. “My mom. Your mom.”
“The cavalry,” Hyukjae sighed, already moving. He extracted himself with practiced care, rolling out of bed and grabbing a hoodie. He shot Donghae a look that was both fond and resigned. “Do not move. I will bring the generals to you.”
The bedroom door eased open. Donghae’s mother entered first, her eyes immediately scanning him from head to toe, her expression softening into profound worry. Hyukjae’s mother followed, sharper-eyed, carrying a small thermal bag. They descended upon the bed in a wave of gentle perfume and maternal intensity.
“Aigoo, look at you,” Donghae’s mom whispered, her cool hand immediately on his forehead as if checking for fever. Her touch was infinitely tender. “My baby. In so much pain.”
“We saw the letter online,” Hyukjae’s mother stated, sitting on the edge of the mattress and unpacking the thermal container. A rich, savory smell filled the air—seaweed and soft rice. “Well done for writing it. Now, eat this. Hyukjae, did you make him take the anti-inflammatory with food?”
Hyukjae, leaning in the doorway, raised his hands in surrender. “He just woke up. I was getting to it.”
“Hmm.” Hyukjae’s mom fixed him with a look. “You have to be more attentive. No more letting him wander around. He looks pale.”
“He’s always pale,” Hyukjae countered, but he was smiling.
The next few hours were a soft, determined siege of care. The mothers commandeered the gleaming kitchen, filling it with the sounds of bubbling pots and quiet, comforting chatter. Donghae was installed on the living room sofa with a fortress of pillows, a soft blanket tucked around his legs. He watched them move around each other with seamless efficiency, a lifetime of friendship in every gesture.
Lunch was a spread of nourishing, easy-to-eat dishes. Dinner preparations began almost immediately after, the fridge stocked with enough side dishes to last a week. The simple, normalcy of it—the smell of his mother’s kimchi jjigae simmering, the sight of Hyukjae’s mother meticulously peeling pears for them—pressed against something fragile inside his chest.
It was too much kindness. It piled onto the love from the fans, from Hyukjae, until the weight of it was beautiful and crushing.
His mother sat beside him on the sofa, smoothing his hair. “You have to get better properly,” she murmured. “No shortcuts. Promise me.”
The words, so simple and full of raw concern, were the final touch. Donghae’s breath hitched. A sob broke loose from somewhere deep, a ragged, ungraceful sound. Then the tears came, hot and relentless, streaming down his face as he cried in the way he hadn’t allowed himself to—openly, helplessly, like a child.
“Oh, honey.” His mother gathered him in, careful of his back, letting him cry into her shoulder. Hyukjae’s mother was there too, a hand rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
“Let it out,” she soothed. “You’ve been holding it in for everyone else. Hold it in for us? Never.”
From the kitchen doorway, Hyukjae watched, his own throat tight. He met his mother’s gaze over Donghae’s trembling shoulders. She gave him a pointed, meaningful look—a look that translated to a lifetime of unspoken communication.
Later, as the mothers were putting on their coats to leave, Hyukjae’s mom pulled him aside near the entryway. Her voice was low, practical. “You have to be patient. In every way. His body needs rest to heal. No… exertions. You understand me?”
Hyukjae’s eyebrows shot up. A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face. He glanced over at the sofa, where Donghae, spent and pink-eyed, was listening to his own mother’s final instructions.
“Eomma,” Hyukjae stage-whispered back, loud enough to carry. “He’s the one who asks for it! Constantly!”
Donghae’s head whipped around. A blush ignited from his neck to his hairline. “Yah! Lee Hyukjae!”
Hyukjae’s mother swatted her son’s arm, fighting a smile. “You’re impossible.” She then bent to kiss Donghae’s cheek. “Rest. And ignore this rude boy.”
The door finally closed behind them, leaving a sudden, profound quiet in the apartment. It was filled with the lingering scent of homemade food and familial love. Hyukjae walked back to the sofa and looked down at Donghae, who was hiding his face in a cushion.
“See?” Hyukjae said, his voice full of warm amusement. “My mum loves you more than me. I just got scolded for your alleged lack of self-control.”
Donghae peered over the cushion. His eyes were puffy, but a real, bright laugh escaped him. It was a cleansing sound. “She didn’t allege anything. She knows you.”
“She knows us,” Hyukjae corrected, sinking down beside him. He carefully tugged the cushion away and kissed Donghae’s flushed cheek. “And she’s right. No exertions. Doctor’s orders. And mum’s orders.”
“What if I ask nicely?” Donghae mumbled, leaning into him.
“Then I’ll remind you that you’re a crybaby who just broke down because two old ladies made you soup.” Hyukjae wrapped an arm around him, pulling him into a safe, sideways hug. “And that I love you. And that we have enough kimchi in the fridge to survive a siege.”
Donghae settled against him, his body finally, completely soft. The apartment was quiet. The city lights began to sparkle outside. For now, the only stage that mattered was this living room, and the only audience was the man whose steady heartbeat against his ear promised forever was still theirs to dance in, just as soon as he could stand.
For now, the only stage that mattered was this living room, and the only audience was the man whose steady heartbeat against his ear promised forever was still theirs to dance in, just as soon as he could stand. That heartbeat slowed, deepened, as Hyukjae’s breathing evened out into sleep. Donghae stayed very still, not wanting to break the spell, but a familiar, dull throbbing had begun to radiate from his lower back. It was a deep, insistent pressure that no amount of careful positioning on the sofa could alleviate.
“Hyukkie.” He whispered the name into the quiet room.
Hyukjae was awake instantly. He never seemed to fully switch off. “The good drugs or the bad couch?”
“Both. The couch is losing.”
With a soft groan, Hyukjae unfolded himself. He stood, stretched until his spine gave a faint pop, then bent to slide one arm under Donghae’s knees and the other behind his shoulders. “Up we go. No arguments.”
“I wasn’t arguing.” Donghae looped his arms around Hyukjae’s neck, burying his face in the warm cotton of his shirt. He smelled like green tea and home. “I was informing.”
“Your informative moaning is my command.” Hyukjae carried him the short distance to the bedroom, his steps sure and steady. He laid him on the cool silk of the sheets with a precision that spoke of recent, relentless practice. “Wait.”
He returned from the ensuite bathroom with the small, circular pill container and a glass of water. Donghae swallowed the pill obediently, his face scrunching at the bitter aftertaste. Hyukjae handed him a sliver of pear from the plate his mother had left. “Here. To kill the taste.”
“Your mum really did think of everything.”
“She’s been worrying about you since 2001. It’s a finely honed skill.” Hyukjae tidied the nightstand, turning the lantern low. He moved around the bed, his shadow large and fluid on the wall. When he finally slid in beside Donghae, he did so with a careful space between them, lying on his side to face him. The golden light caught the flecks in his dark, attentive eyes.
Donghae looked at him. He looked at the man who had carried him, fought for him, read him love letters from strangers, and been scolded by his own mother for him. The gratitude was a physical lump, hot and expanding in his throat. It demanded release.
Without a word, he shifted. A sharp twinge shot down his leg, but he ignored it. He closed the careful distance Hyukjae had left, rolling partially onto his own side to slide his arm around Hyukjae’s waist. He pulled himself in, a clumsy, determined glomp, his face pressing into Hyukjae’s chest.
“Hey, careful—” Hyukjae’s hands came up to stabilize him.
“Thank you.” The words were muffled against his skin. Donghae tilted his head back, his hand coming up to cradle Hyukjae’s jaw. His thumb traced the line of his cheekbone, the faint stubble rough under his touch. “For today. For the calls. For reading the comments. For knowing I needed to cry. For knowing I needed my mum. For knowing everything before I do.”
Hyukjae stayed very still under his touch, his eyes searching Donghae’s face. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I love you.” Donghae said it like it was the first and most vital truth. “I love you so much it feels stupid sometimes.”
A slow, real smile broke over Hyukjae’s face. It was the one he never showed on stage, unguarded and slightly crooked. “It is stupid. We’re both stupid.”
Donghae answered by leaning in and kissing him. It started soft, a mere brush of lips, a confirmation. Then it deepened. Donghae’s mouth opened, seeking, and Hyukjae met him with a quiet, yielding urgency. It was a deep, slow french kiss that tasted of pear and shared pain and two decades of this specific language. Donghae’s fingers tangled in Hyukjae’s hair, pulling him closer, as if he could fuse them together and mend every broken thing through contact alone.
Hyukjae’s hands, which had been gently holding his shoulders, slid down to his hips. He started to pull Donghae more fully atop him, a familiar, welcome weight.
Then he froze.
He broke the kiss with a soft, ragged sound, resting his forehead against Donghae’s. His breath was warm and quick. “No.”
“Hyukjae—”
“My mother,” Hyukjae murmured, his voice strained with amusement and real regret. “Her very specific, very pointed warning about ‘exertions’ is currently echoing in my head like a public service announcement.”
Donghae groaned, letting his forehead thump gently against Hyukjae’s shoulder. “She didn’t mean this.”
“She absolutely meant this. She knows your back is a hair trigger and she knows I have a spectacular inability to tell you no when you look at me like that.” He smoothed Donghae’s tousled hair, his touch tender. “The ‘no exertions’ rule is in full, crushing effect. For at least six more weeks. She’d somehow know. She’d smell it on me.”
“This is cruel and unusual punishment.” Donghae nipped gently at his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt, but he settled back onto his own pillow, conceding. The pain was a dull, ever-present referee.
“It’s preventative care.” Hyukjae shifted, turning onto his side again and molding himself against Donghae’s back, his chest to Donghae’s spine. He slid an arm around his waist, his hand splayed protectively over Donghae’s stomach. “This is what you get. All-night cuddling. The full, chaste, medically-sanctioned package.”
Donghae laced his fingers with Hyukjae’s where they rested on his abdomen. He could feel the steady, strong beat of Hyukjae’s heart against his back. The medication was beginning to blur the sharp edges of the pain into something distant and manageable.
“It’s enough,” Donghae whispered into the darkness, and he found he meant it.
“It’s everything,” Hyukjae corrected, his lips brushing the nape of Donghae’s neck. “Now sleep. The sooner you heal, the sooner my mum’s ban expires.”
A slow, drowsy smile spread across Donghae’s face. He closed his eyes, anchored by the warm, unbreakable hold around him. The dome could wait. The world could wait. Here in the dark, with the promise of a future kiss hanging between them, he had everything he needed to begin mending.
Here in the dark, with the promise of a future kiss hanging between them, he had everything he needed to begin mending. Sleep, when it finally came, was a black and dreamless harbor. He woke to the peculiar, flat silence of a weekday morning in the penthouse, the usual urgency of schedules completely absent. Hyukjae was already awake, perched on the edge of the bed with his phone, dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He was scrolling through what looked like a therapist’s availability calendar.
“Morning,” Hyukjae said without looking up. “Pain level?”
Donghae took internal inventory. The deep, fiery ache had banked to a persistent smolder. Something else, however, had surfaced alongside it—a restless, gathering pressure that had nothing to do with his spine. It was a familiar morning heaviness, amplified by weeks of enforced chastity and last night’s desperate, interrupted kissing. He shifted slightly, the silk sheets whispering, and the dull throb between his legs became more definite.
“The back’s a five,” Donghae mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Something else is… approaching a crisis.”
Hyukjae set his phone down and finally looked at him, one eyebrow arched. “Define crisis. Is it a ‘I need another pear’ crisis or a ‘the world is ending’ crisis?”
“It’s a ‘my body is functioning in a very specific, inconvenient way and it won’t be ignored’ crisis.” Donghae gestured vaguely toward his own lap under the duvet, his cheeks warming. “I need to… you know. Before we go. I can’t sit in a doctor’s office like this. It’s distracting.”
A slow, understanding smile spread across Hyukjae’s face. He leaned back on his hands. “Ah. That kind of crisis.” His gaze was unbearably fond and a little wicked. “Well. That’s one area the doctors didn’t put specific restrictions on. And your mother’s ban was on exertions.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” Hyukjae said, crawling back across the bed with a predator’s quiet grace, “this is a problem I can help you with.” He settled beside Donghae, his hand smoothing the duvet over his chest. “If you want. Just lie still. Be my pillow prince.”
Donghae’s breath hitched. “You don’t have to—”
“Hae,” Hyukjae cut him off, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that vibrated straight through Donghae’s core. “Shut up. Let me take care of you.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He slid down the bed, the duvet tenting over him as he disappeared beneath it. Donghae stared at the ceiling, his hands fisting in the sheets. He felt the careful shift of weight, the warm, humid space created under the covers. Then he felt Hyukjae’s lips, soft and knowing, press against the inside of his thigh.
A sharp gasp tore from Donghae’s throat. Every nerve felt oversensitized, starved for this. Hyukjae’s mouth was a slow, deliberate revelation. He took him in deep, with a practiced, hungry ease that made Donghae’s spine want to arch. He fought the instinct, biting down on his own knuckle to stay flat, to obey the one rule that mattered right now.
Hyukjae worked him with a devoted, slick thoroughness. One hand braced on Donghae’s hip, holding him gently in place, while the other rubbed soothing circles on his stomach. The contrast was devastating—the intense, focused pleasure and the anchoring, tender touch. Donghae panted, a litany of broken syllables falling from his lips. He tangled one hand in Hyukjae’s hair, not to guide, just to feel the connection, the reality of him in this moment.
It built faster than he expected, a tight, urgent coil in his gut. The visuals his brain supplied—Hyukjae under there, eyes probably closed in concentration—sent him spiraling. “Hyukkie, I’m gonna—” he managed, a ragged warning.
The sound Hyukjae made was a low hum of encouragement that vibrated through every cell. That was all it took. Donghae came apart with a choked-off cry, his body shuddering while staying mostly, miraculously, flat against the mattress. Waves of pure, dizzying release crashed through him, leaving him boneless and buzzing.
Hyukjae emerged a moment later, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were slick and slightly swollen, his eyes dark and satisfied. He looked like a man who’d enjoyed a good meal. “Crisis averted?”
Donghae could only nod, trying to catch his breath. The guilt arrived swiftly, pricking at the edges of his blissful haze. Hyukjae was sitting up, adjusting his own sweatpants where the fabric was strained tight. He was visibly, achingly hard.
“That’s not fair,” Donghae whispered, his voice wrecked.
“What’s not fair?”
“Only me.” Donghae reached for him, his hand clumsy. “Come here.”
“Hae, no, it’s fine. You need to rest.”
“If you say ‘no exertions’ right now I will divorce you.” Donghae’s hand found the warm, hard length of him through the soft cotton. He squeezed, gently. Hyukjae’s eyes fluttered shut, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth. “See? You need it too. Let me. Just lie back.”
He applied a little more pressure, his thumb rubbing a slow, promising circle over the tip. Hyukjae, after a moment of visible internal debate, capitulated with a groan. He lay back beside Donghae, head propped on the pillow, watching him with heavy-lidded intensity. “Your hands better be magical.”
“They are,” Donghae promised. He pushed the waistband of Hyukjae’s sweats down just enough, then took him in a firm, sure grip. He knew this rhythm by heart—the quick, rough strokes Hyukjae liked when he was keyed up, the twist of the wrist at the top that made his thighs tense. He used his free hand to cradle and roll his balls, applying just the right amount of pressure.
“Fuck,” Hyukjae breathed out, his head tipping back. His hips gave a small, involuntary jerk up into the tight circle of Donghae’s fist. “Yeah. Just like that.”
Donghae watched him unravel. He watched the control that Hyukjae wore like a second skin finally melt away under his touch. He saw the flush spread down his neck, the way his abs clenched, the desperate, open expression on his face that belonged only to this bedroom, only to him. It was a powerful, heady thing to see. He leaned in, kissing the strained column of Hyukjae’s throat, licking the salt from his skin.
“Come for me,” Donghae murmured against his pulse point, speeding his hand. “Let go.”
Hyukjae did. His body bowed off the bed, a raw, guttural sound tearing from his chest as he spilled over Donghae’s fingers and his own stomach. He trembled through it, one hand clawing at the sheet before finally going lax.
For a long minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing mingling in the quiet room. Sunlight now streamed through the curtains, painting bright stripes across the tangled duvet and their spent bodies.
Donghae reached for a tissue from the nightstand, cleaning his hand and then Hyukjae’s stomach with practical tenderness. Hyukjae lay there, arm thrown over his eyes, a blissed-out, satiated smile on his face. “Okay. Your hands are magical. Official medical opinion.”
“Noted.” Donghae settled back, the persistent ache in his back now a distant murmur compared to the warm, liquid satisfaction humming through his veins. The guilt was gone, replaced by a deep, quiet completeness.
Hyukjae finally moved, heaving himself up. He kissed Donghae, slow and deep and tasting of them both. “We’re gonna be late for the check-up.”
“Worth it.”
“Always.” Hyukjae stood, offering a hand to pull Donghae up with great care. “Now. Let’s go get the official verdict on when you can start dancing again. And maybe ask about acceptable heart rates for certain… activities.”
The check-up was a bland, beige affair in a quiet clinic across the river. The neurologist, a brisk woman in her fifties, reviewed the new MRI images with a neutral expression. She pointed to the precise, glowing intrusion of the herniated disc, a stark white bullet against the grey slide of his spine. “The inflammation has decreased