Chapter 4: The Neurologist's Verdict
The overhead light in the exam room was a cold, surgical white, leaching the color from everything it touched. It made the faded anatomical posters on the wall look like ghosts of themselves, the illustrated spines a lurid pink against the eggshell paint. The narrow bed was upholstered in a vinyl that sighed whenever Donghae shifted, which wasn’t often. He sat very still, the paper gown crinkling under his palms.
Hyukjae stood beside him, a solid, silent presence leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He’d been staring at the same poster of the lumbar vertebrae for ten minutes.
The door opened, and the neurologist entered with a tablet in hand.Dr. Kang was a woman of efficient movements and a voice that carried no extra warmth. She nodded at them both, swiped the screen, and hooked the tablet onto a wall mount. A new MRI image bloomed into view, a galaxy of greys and whites.
“The inflammation has decreased,” she began, using a stylus to circle a glaring, pearl-like intrusion on the ghostly image of a spine. Donghae’s spine. “That’s the positive. The nerve is less aggravated. But the herniation itself…” She tapped the white bulge. “It’s still significant. It’s still making direct contact with the nerve root here. That’s the source of the referred pain down your leg.”
Donghae’s eyes tracked the highlighted path. It felt surreal, seeing the internal enemy so clearly defined. “So the pain isn’t going to just… stop.”
“Not unless the disc recedes, which it may, with time and correct care. Or unless we intervene.” Dr. Kang turned from the screen. “Given your progress, I am recommending we continue with conservative management for another six weeks. Strictly. Then we re-image.”
“Six more weeks,” Donghae echoed. The words felt like stones dropping into his gut.
“No dancing. No rehearsals. No heavy lifting. Nothing that loads the spine.” Her gaze was unflinching. “That means no sudden twists, no jumping, no bending to pick things up. You think of your spine as a fragile column of glass. You are a statue. A very bored, upright statue.”
Hyukjae’s voice, dry as dust, cut through the quiet. “You have no idea how hard it’s going to be to get him to behave like a statue.”
“I can imagine.” A flicker of something that might have been amusement passed behind Dr. Kang’s glasses. “The physio exercises are your new choreography. Do them. Religiously.”
Donghae’s mind had already leapt past the exercises, past the six weeks, to the colossal calendar pinned to his brain. Promises made. Venues booked. Flights, hotels, crews. The domes. “The tour,” he said, the words tight. “It’s supposed to start in nine.”
Dr. Kang’s silence was more conclusive than any ‘no’ could have been. She simply looked at him, letting the numbers hang in the antiseptic air. Nine weeks. Six weeks of statue-hood. Three weeks to somehow rebuild the stamina, flexibility, and strength for a two-hour performance. It was a fairy tale.
The hope that had been a faint, stubborn ember since the inflammation went down guttered and died. He felt it extinguish, a cold little void opening up behind his sternum.
Hyukjae’s hand found his shoulder, his thumb pressing a firm, rotating circle into the tense muscle. A silent anchor.
Donghae stared at the floor, at the scuff marks near the base of the exam table. He needed to say something. To be the professional, the co-CEO. But the co-CEO felt very far away. The man on the table just felt gutted.
Then, from somewhere, the ghost of his own playful defiance surfaced. He lifted his head, meeting Dr. Kang’s pragmatic gaze. “You mentioned no high-impact activities.”
“I did.”
Donghae felt Hyukjae’s thumb stop circling. He pressed on, a faint, mischievous edge coloring his voice. “Could you… define that? More specifically. For instance, what about… elevated heart rate scenarios that aren’t dance-related?”
A beat of silence.
Hyukjae made a small, choked sound beside him.
Dr. Kang’s eyebrow arched, just a millimeter. She looked from Donghae’s deliberately innocent expression to Hyukjae, who was now studying the ceiling tiles with intense fascination, the tips of his ears turning a vivid pink. She blinked, once, slowly.
“I see,” she said, her tone utterly, impeccably deadpan. “Well. Any activity that risks sudden, jerking movement or compressive force on the lumbar region is contraindicated. Positions that maintain a neutral spinal alignment and minimize load would, theoretically, be lower risk. Use your judgment. And perhaps a firm pillow for support.”
Hyukjae coughed, a fist to his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.
Donghae bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to stop the laugh from bubbling out. The sheer, sublime absurdity of it—discussing his sex life with this severe woman in this bleach-scented room while his career dissolved around him—tipped something inside him. It wasn’t joy, but it was a release. A crack in the overwhelming pressure.
“Thank you,” Donghae said, his voice strangled with the effort of maintaining composure. “That’s… very clear.”
“Good.” Dr. Kang handed him a fresh printout of exercises and a referral for a specialized physiotherapist. “Schedule the follow-up. Listen to your body. It will tell you when you’re being an idiot. And Mr. Lee?” She paused, looking directly at Hyukjae. “Try to ensure he listens.”
The ride home in the black SUV was quiet. The partition was up, granting them a bubble of privacy in the late afternoon traffic. Donghae sat angled, a cushion wedged behind his back, watching the city blur past.
“A firm pillow for support,” Hyukjae murmured suddenly, his face turned toward the window. A laugh escaped him, short and breathless. “I’m never going to recover from that. She didn’t even smile.”
“She knew,” Donghae said, a real smile finally tugging at his lips. “The way you froze. You screamed ‘guilty conscience.’”
“I have no such thing. I am a model of restraint.” Hyukjae turned to look at him, the humor fading from his eyes, replaced by a softer, more weary concern. “Six weeks, Hae.”
“I know.”
“The tour…”
“I know.” Donghae looked down at his hands. The silence stretched, filled with the hum of the engine and the weight of the unspoken. Postponement. Cancellation. Millions in losses. Disappointed fans. The word ‘hate’ from his fears last night whispered back, but it lacked its old power. He remembered the comments Hyukjae had read. We’ll wait forever. “We have to push it back.”
Hyukjae didn’t immediately agree or disagree. He just watched him. “What does your body tell you?”
“Right now? It’s tired. And it feels… broken.” He met Hyukjae’s gaze. “But not hopeless. Six weeks ago, I couldn’t walk to the bathroom. Now I just can’t dance. It’s progress. Slow, stupid, infuriating progress.”
Hyukjae reached across the space between the seats, linking their fingers. “Then we build from slow. We call the producers. We draft the announcement. We take the six weeks. Not as a punishment. As an investment.”
“The company—”
“—is half yours and half mine. And its greatest asset is currently a statue with a herniated disc.” Hyukjae squeezed his hand. “We protect the asset. That’s good business.”
Donghae leaned his head back against the seat. The decision, now spoken, settled over him. It was heavy, but it was a weight he could understand. A practical weight. Better than the free-fall of uncertainty. “They’re going to be so disappointed.”
“They were worried yesterday. They’ll be relieved we’re making a smart choice today.” Hyukjae brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing Donghae’s knuckles. “We’ll do it together. The announcement. We’ll sit side-by-side and look pretty and responsible.”
“You’ll do all the talking.”
“Obviously.”
When they arrived home, the penthouse felt different. The sanctuary of the bedroom, the comfort of the sofa—they were now officially a convalescent ward. The boundaries of Donghae’s world had just been redrawn, smaller and more rigid.
Hyukjae went straight to his study, firing up his laptop to begin the catastrophic cascade of calls. Donghae lowered himself onto the living room sofa, the printout of exercises on the coffee table mocking him. He heard the low, steady murmur of Hyukjae’s voice through the door, calm and CEO-composed. Yes. Regrettably. Doctor’s orders. A significant postponement.
He picked up his own phone. Scrolling past the notifications, he opened his camera roll. There were videos from months ago—clips of choreography sessions, snippets of song arrangements, his own laughing face sweaty and alive under studio lights. He played one without sound. He watched his body, whole and obedient, spin and drop into a powerful, precise movement. A move that would currently send him to the floor, screaming.
He didn’t feel jealous of that past self. He felt disconnected from him. Like watching a stranger.
The study door opened. Hyukjae emerged, his tie loosened, his hair ruffled from running his hands through it. He looked drained, but his eyes were clear. “It’s started. The machinery. It’ll be a long night for the teams.”
“I’m sorry,” Donghae said, the words automatic.
“Don’t.” Hyukjae came over and sank down beside him, his body heat a welcome presence. “This isn’t your fault. It’s biology. It’s a badly timed disc. That’s all.” He pulled the physio handout toward them. “Now. Let’s see what boring things we get to do for the next forty-two days. Pelvic tilts. How thrilling.”
Donghae rested his head on Hyukjae’s shoulder, looking at the diagrams of bland, careful movements. “Will you help me? With these? Every day?”
Hyukjae turned his head, his lips brushing Donghae’s temple. “I’ll be your worst drill sergeant. Nowhere to run, no stage to escape to. You’re all mine.”
For the first time since entering that white-lit exam room, Donghae felt something akin to peace. The path ahead was narrow, monotonous, and paved with pain. But he wasn’t standing at the start of it alone. Hyukjae was there, holding the map, already sighing about the lack of scenery.
“Okay,” Donghae whispered, closing his eyes. “Okay, drill sergeant. Show me how to be a statue.”
Outside, the city lights began to wink on, marking the rhythm of a world moving at its normal, relentless pace. Inside, they sat in the quiet, the first day of the long, careful wait finally beginning.
Inside, they sat in the quiet, the first day of the long, careful wait finally beginning. The silence was broken two days later by the stark, logistical reality of a press conference. Their PR team had moved with a swift, merciless efficiency Donghae usually admired. Now, it felt like a trap being sprung. The conference was set for ten a.m. in the ODE building’s third-floor media room, a space that smelled of lemon polish and recent anxiety.
Hyukjae chose their clothes: matching navy suits, crisp but unadorned. “We look responsible,” he said, straightening Donghae’s collar in the bedroom mirror. His fingers were steady. “We look like co-CEOs who have made a difficult, rational decision. Not like two guys whose world just got small.”
“I feel sick,” Donghae admitted, his stomach a tight knot.
“That’s fine. Just don’t throw up on the mic. Let me do the talking. You just have to look pretty and repentant.” Hyukjae’s joke fell flat, his own reflection looking pale under the bathroom lights. He took a slow breath. “Okay. Let’s go be statues in public.”
The walk from the parked car to the building’s side entrance was a gauntlet of shutters and shouted questions. Donghae kept his eyes forward, leaning slightly on the cane he’d reluctantly accepted. Hyukjae’s hand was a firm pressure on his lower back, a guide and a barrier. The flashes of light felt like physical blows.
The media room was a wall of expectant faces and glowing camera lights. The ODE logo loomed behind the pale wooden table they sat at. The microphone hissed with anticipatory feedback. Donghae’s palms were slick. He laced his fingers together on the cool tabletop to still them.
Hyukjae leaned forward, tapping his mic once. The room hushed. “Thank you for coming on short notice,” he began, his CEO voice deployed—clipped, clear, and devoid of its usual dry humor. “We are here to provide a clear update regarding Donghae’s health and upcoming schedules, to prevent speculation.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. “The diagnosis is a lumbar disc herniation. His recovery requires absolute care. Therefore, all touring and performance schedules for Lee Donghae are officially postponed for a minimum of six to eight weeks, effective immediately.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Pens scratched. Donghae focused on the grain of the wood, a tiny, intricate world he could disappear into.
A reporter near the front spoke up. “Donghae-ssi, can you describe the severity of the pain? Is surgery a possibility?”
Donghae cleared his throat. The microphone amplified the rustle. “The pain is… manageable with care.” His voice sounded thin. He swallowed. “Surgery is a last resort. The doctors believe rest and physiotherapy are the best path. I am… I am so sorry to everyone who was waiting. I know this is a disappointment. I hate it.”
He felt, rather than saw, Hyukjae tense beside him. Hyukjae’s hand came down, not on his back, but on the table, close to his own. A deliberate show of unity.
“Don’t apologize for your health,” Hyukjae interjected, his tone shifting from corporate to something fiercer, more personal. He looked directly at the reporter who’d asked the question. “He is doing this for his health. That matters most. It matters for the long-term future of our company, and it matters to me.” The admission hung in the air, raw and undisguised. “Our focus right now is full recuperation. We ask the media to grant him the space to do that.”
Another reporter called out. “What about your own schedules, Hyukjae-ssi? Will you be promoting alone?”
“I have cancelled all my strenuous schedules as well,” Hyukjae stated. The room buzzed again. “The only commitment we will maintain is our ‘Hey, Come Here’ talk show, as it is seated and conversational. We’ll continue to interview artists there. But for now,” he continued, his voice brooking no argument, “not only is Donghae taking a break from work, I am also taking time away. To make sure Donghae recuperates well.”
Donghae turned his head, staring at Hyukjae’s profile. This was new. This part hadn’t been in their late-night rehearsals.
Hyukjae didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on the press. “We will be working from home. We will not be attending the ODE office for the foreseeable future.” He offered a thin, perfunctory smile. “So, no sightings at the cafe, please. We appreciate your understanding and your support for Donghae’s recovery. That’s all we have to say.”
He stood up, a clear dismissal. Donghae moved to stand, his movements slightly stiff, the cane clicking against the floor. The questions erupted again, a cacophony they simply walked away from, flanked by security. The door to the private hallway shut behind them, muting the noise to a dull roar.
The elevator ride to the underground garage was silent. The car smelled of the lemon candy their driver kept in the cup holder. Only when the partition was up and the engine purred did Donghae speak.
“You’re taking time away?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I’m telling you now.” Hyukjae finally looked at him, his expression unreadable. “I’m not letting you do this alone in that penthouse. You’ll go stir-crazy. I’ll go mad watching you. We need a change of scenery.”
“Where?” Donghae asked, the knot in his stomach tightening into a different kind of anticipation.
“Away from Seoul. Somewhere quiet. With a view that isn’t another apartment building.” Hyukjae looked out the window as the car slid into traffic. “Somewhere you can be a statue in peace. I’ve already made arrangements.”
“You planned a getaway.”
“I planned a strategic relocation for convalescence.” A faint smirk finally touched Hyukjae’s lips. “It has a hot tub. Don’t get excited; it’s for hydrotherapy.”
Donghae leaned back against the headrest, the press conference adrenaline beginning to drain, replaced by a deep, bewildered exhaustion. The world had just been publicly reshaped. Their calendar was blank. Their office was off-limits. And now, their home was about to become unknown territory.
Hyukjae’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then showed Donghae the screen. It was a news portal headline, already live: ‘ODE’s Lee Hyukjae Stands Firm: “His Health Matters Most.”’
“See?” Hyukjae said, his voice softening back into its normal register. He pocketed the phone. “The narrative is set. Now we just have to live in it. Starting with packing your ridiculous collection of sweatpants.”
The car moved steadily away from the media storm, toward the penthouse that was no longer a prison but a temporary waypoint. Donghae watched the city he loved stream past, a place of work and pressure he was being forcibly extracted from. For the first time, the thought of leaving it didn’t feel like a loss. It felt, strangely, like a breath held for too long finally being released.
He reached over and found Hyukjae’s hand, the one that had rested so deliberately on the table. He laced their fingers together, tight. “A hot tub, huh?”
“For hydrotherapy,” Hyukjae repeated, squeezing his hand back. “Don’t get any ideas. Remember the pillow.”
Donghae laughed, a real one, short and surprised. It echoed in the quiet car. Outside, Seoul blurred into a smear of grey and glass, already receding. Ahead was only the vague outline of a road, and Hyukjae’s silent, certain plan.