Chapter 7: Desperate Reunion
The beeps were a metronome. The ventilator hissed. Donghae counted them, his world reduced to mechanical rhythms and the slow, terrible rise and fall of Hyukjae’s chest under the starch-stiff gown. Three days. Seventy-two hours of fluorescent twilight and the smell of despair covered up with lemon disinfectant.
He hadn’t left. He’d bullied, begged, and used the pregnancy like a blunt instrument until the hospital administration, weary and wary, granted him a cot in the corner. It was a scandal waiting to happen, but Donghae was past caring. His parents had been back, a tense, awkward visit where his mother cried and his father stood stiffly by the door. Hyukjae’s parents came and went, their earlier hostility softened into a numb, shared vigilance. The world outside the curtain had become a distant rumor.
Donghae’s vigil was a physical one. He talked. He recited stupid details about their penthouse, the brand of coffee beans, the way the light hit the floor at 3 PM. He read headlines aloud in a flat voice. He played music quietly from his phone, songs Hyukjae hated. Anything to create noise that wasn’t machinery.
And he touched. Constantly. He kept Hyukjae’s uninjured hand in his, tracing the lines of his palm. He rubbed his scent glands against the alpha’s wrist, his neck, any patch of unbruised skin. He’d reapply his own scent like a balm after every nurse’s intervention, marking his territory anew.
But the deepest connection happened under the thin blanket, in the silent, stolen hours when the night shift dozed at their station.
Like now.
The curtain was fully drawn. The only light was the soft, green glow from the monitors, painting Hyukjae’s still face in otherworldly hues. Donghae stood beside the bed, shaking. It wasn’t cold. It was a tremor of pure, unadulterated need. The doctor’s update that afternoon had been bleak. “Stable, but no change. The brain swelling is reducing, but we need to see signs of awareness. Soon.”
Soon was a ticking clock. Donghae understood, in a way that bypassed thought and lived in his marrow, what his alpha needed. Not just scent. Not just sound. Primitive, physical proof. A command to the deepest, most animal part of his brain.
He pulled the blanket back. He’d already removed the lower half of Hyukhae’s hospital gown, baring him from the waist down. The catheter tube lay to the side. Hyukjae was limp, soft. Vulnerable. Donghae leaned over, his lips close to Hyukjae’s ear. His voice was a hot, dark whisper in the humming silence.
“You remember,” he murmured. “Your body remembers what mine feels like. Let’s remind it.”
He spat into his own hand, a crude, wet sound. He reached down, wrapping his fingers around Hyukjae’s cock. He worked him slowly, firmly, his thumb rubbing over the flared head. He used his own spit, the friction rough at first. “Come on, alpha. Get hard for me. Get hard for what’s yours.” He stroked, twisting his wrist, using the same rhythm that always made Hyukjae curse and thrust up into his grip. For long, agonizing minutes, nothing. Then, a faint twitch. A fractional swelling. A response not from the mind, but from the spinal cord, from muscle memory etched into Hyukjae’s very flesh by countless nights with his omega.
“Yeah,” Donghae breathed, speeding his hand. “That’s it. That’s my alpha.” The cock filled out in his grasp, thickening, lengthening, until it stood at half-mast, then fully, impressively erect. It was a morbid, beautiful sight. Life, stubborn and physical, asserting itself.
Donghae didn’t wait. He hiked his own sweats and briefs down to his thighs. He was already slick, his body preparing for this obscene ritual automatically. He climbed onto the bed, straddling Hyukjae’s hips, careful of the wires and the cast. He took Hyukjae’s cock in hand, guiding the blunt head to his entrance. He was loose, ready from his own frantic preparations in the bathroom stall an hour before, but the initial stretch still stole his breath.
He looked down at Hyukjae’s face, the closed eyes, the tape. “You’re going to fill me,” he whispered, and then he sank down.
He impaled himself in one slow, devastating glide, taking the entire length until his ass met Hyukjae’s thighs. A choked gasp ripped from his throat. It was so deep. So familiar. The feeling of being speared, claimed, occupied. He braced his hands on Hyukjae’s chest, feeling the heartbeat through the gown, steady and unaware.
He began to move.
It was a slow, rolling grind at first, then a more determined bounce. His body rose and fell, the wet, filthy sound of their joining obscenely loud in the quiet bay. The slap of his flesh against Hyukjae’s, the squelch of his own slick. He fucked himself on the inert cock beneath him, taking what he needed, giving what he hoped Hyukjae’s body could still feel.
“You feel that?” he panted, leaning forward to mouth at Hyukjae’s bandaged temple. “You’re buried in me. Just like that night against the window. Remember how you pinned me? How you fucked these pups into me?” He rode him harder, faster, his own cock leaking and trapped between their bodies. “You’re gonna do it again. You’re gonna wake up and fuck them deeper. Brand them into my fucking womb where they belong.”
He was babbling, tears of frustration and ecstasy mixing on his cheeks. He reached back, fingering the spot where they were joined, feeling Hyukjae’s thickness sliding in and out of his stretched hole. “This is your cunt, alpha. Say it. In your head, you say it. My cunt. It’s wet and open and waiting for you. Only you.”
The pace became brutal. He was slamming down now, using Hyukjae’s body, his own pleasure a secondary, angry thing. The bed frame creaked. A monitor wire tugged. He didn’t care. His orgasm built, a tight, coiling pressure. He was close, so close, chasing the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this could be a bridge.
Then, beneath him, Hyukjae’s hips gave a feeble, upward jerk.
Donghae froze, mid-descent.
It wasn’t the twitch of a finger. It was a conscious, if weak, thrust. A seeking motion.
Donghae’s heart stopped. He looked down. Hyukjae’s cock pulsed inside him, a hard, throbbing beat.
And then, a sound. Guttural, choked, muffled by the ventilator tube. But a sound. A groan.
HYUKJAE WOKEN UP.
His eyes didn’t fly open. They fluttered, the lids straining, struggling against sedation and injury. A low, pained whine escaped around the tape. His head moved, a tiny, agonized shift on the pillow.
Donghae couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He was still speared on Hyukjae’s cock, their bodies fused. “Hyukjae?” The name was a cracked whisper.
The alpha’s hand—the one with the cast—jerked. The fingers of his other hand, the one Donghae had been holding for days, curled, grasping weakly at the air.
A torrent of emotions—relief, terror, shame, a violent, possessive joy—flooded Donghae. He leaned down, his face inches from Hyukjae’s. “It’s me. It’s Hae. You’re in the hospital. You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.” The words tumbled out. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
He felt it. A faint, trembling pressure.
A sob broke from Donghae’s chest. He didn’t pull off. He stayed where he was, connected, as if his very body could anchor Hyukjae’s soul to the earth. “Don’t you dare leave me again. You hear me? You fucking stay.”
Hyukjae’s eyes opened. Just slits. Glazed, clouded with pain and drugs, but focused. They found Donghae’s face hovering above him. Confusion swam in their depths. Then a slow, dawning recognition. His gaze drifted down, to where their bodies were joined, though the blanket covered them. A frown creased his bruised forehead, more puzzlement than disapproval.
The heart monitor began beeping faster.
Outside the curtain, a nurse’s footsteps approached, alerted by the changing rhythm. “Mr. Lee? Is everything—”
Donghae didn’t let her finish. He called out, his voice raw but clear. “He’s awake. Get the doctor. He’s awake.”
The footsteps hurried away.
Hyukjae’s mouth worked behind the tape. He tried to speak, producing only a raspy, airless vibration. Panic flickered in his eyes.
“Shhh,” Donghae soothed, finally, gently, lifting himself off. He rearranged the blanket with trembling hands, pulling up Hyukjae’s gown. He grabbed a washcloth, quickly cleaning them both, his movements efficient, tender. He never let go of Hyukjae’s hand. “Don’t try to talk. The tube is helping you breathe. You were in an accident. But you’re here. I’m here.”
The doctors and nurses flooded in, a blur of white coats and questions. Donghae was pushed to the periphery, but he didn’t go far. He stood against the wall, clutching his own elbows, watching as they shined lights in Hyukjae’s eyes, asked him to follow fingers, to squeeze hands. Hyukjae’s gaze kept drifting past them, searching the room, until it found Donghae. And stuck.
Later, when the frenzy had died down, when the ventilator settings were adjusted and a new sedation drip started—lighter, much lighter—the head doctor spoke to Donghae in the corridor. “It’s a promising sign. A very promising sign. Cognitive function seems present. The road will be long. There will be pain, confusion, likely some memory issues. Rehabilitation. But he’s back.”
Donghae just nodded, his eyes on the curtain.
Donghae on duty to get him back healthy.
The phrase took root in him, hardening from a hope into a mandate. The frantic, sensual lover of the dark hours receded. A different version of himself stepped forward: focused, relentless, a guardian.
When he was allowed back in, Hyukjae was drifting, his eyes heavy but open. Donghae pulled his chair so close his knees bumped the bed frame. He took Hyukjae’s hand again.
“Listen,” Donghae said, his voice low and firm. No more whispers. “You’re broken. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. But I’m going to put you back together. You’re going to hurt. You’re going to get frustrated. You’re going to hate it. But you’re going to do every single exercise, you’re going to eat every fucking bite of food they bring you, and you’re going to fight. Because I’m not raising these pups alone.” He brought Hyukjae’s hand to his own stomach, pressing it flat. “You feel that? That’s your job now. Getting strong enough to meet them.”
A single tear tracked from the corner of Hyukjae’s eye, disappearing into the bandage. His fingers pressed ever so slightly against Donghae’s belly.
Donghae nodded, a sharp, satisfied gesture. “Good. That’s the only answer I need.”
The long, silent battle was over. The longer, louder, more arduous one had just begun. And Donghae was already rolling up his sleeves.
The room didn't smell like a hospital anymore. It smelled like them. Donghae had smuggled in Hyukjae’s pillow from the penthouse, a real coffee maker for the nurses’ station, and a relentless determination that acted as a third scent. The beeps and hums became background noise to a new, grueling rhythm: the shuffle of slow steps, the grind of Hyukjae’s teeth during physical therapy, the soft, steady murmur of Donghae’s voice.
“Again.”
Hyukjae slumped in the wheelchair, his right arm a dead weight in its cast, his left trembling as he tried to lift a one-pound weight. Sweat sheened his pale forehead. “Can’t.”
“You can.” Donghae didn’t touch him. He just sat on the edge of the bedside cot, hands clasped, watching. His own body was changing; a subtle, firm curve had settled low in his belly, impossible to hide now in just a t-shirt. “Your finger moved inside me when you were in a coma. You can lift a fucking piece of plastic. Again.”
A raw, frustrated sound tore from Hyukjae’s throat. He heaved the weight, his biceps quivering, and managed another pathetic inch. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, were now pools of exhausted fury. The accident had stolen his strength, his coordination, his pride. It had not, Donghae noted with a savage kind of gratitude, stolen his fire.
Later, after the therapists left, the real work began. Donghae ran a bath in the accessible room down the hall, the water dangerously hot. He helped Hyukjae out of the hospital gown, his movements clinical until they weren’t. He saw the map of injuries anew each time: the yellowing bruises, the angry red scars, the way Hyukjae’s right shoulder hunched protectively. He guided him into the water, then stripped and climbed in behind him, settling Hyukjae back against his chest.
Hyukjae’s head lolled back onto Donghae’s shoulder. “I’m a burden,” he muttered, the words slurred from fatigue and residual cranial swelling.
“You’re my alpha,” Donghae corrected, his voice flat. He picked up a soapy washcloth and began scrubbing Hyukjae’s left arm, then his chest, with firm, deliberate strokes. “And you’re dirty. Shut up and let me clean you.”
His hand slid lower, under the water, over Hyukjae’s stomach. The muscles there were soft, unresponsive. He kept washing, down through the coarse hair, until his fingers circled Hyukjae’s cock. It lay flaccid against his thigh. Donghae began to stroke, a slow, persistent rhythm.
“What… are you doing?” Hyukjae rasped, but he didn’t push the hand away.
“Seeing if this works too,” Donghae said, his mouth against Hyukjae’s ear. He bit the lobe gently. “Your body knows me. It remembers. Come on.” He tightened his grip, speeding up, his other hand splaying over Hyukjae’s stomach, pressing down. “Get hard for me. I want to feel you. I need to feel you.”
It took longer than it used to. Frustration coiled in Donghae’s gut, but he didn’t stop. He whispered filth into Hyukjae’s ear, graphic reminders of the penthouse floor, the kitchen counter, the night against the window. He described the ultrasound in vulgar detail, calling it a picture of Hyukjae’s cum taking root. Finally, under the hot water and relentless touch, Hyukjae began to stir. A thick, slow filling. A weak throb.
“There,” Donghae breathed, triumph fierce in his chest. He guided Hyukjae’s own left hand down, forcing the alpha’s trembling fingers to wrap around himself. “You do it. You make yourself hard for your omega.”
Hyukjae’s hand was clumsy, his grip unsure, but he tried. He moved his fist along his own length, his breath hitching, his eyes screwed shut. It was a broken, heartbreaking mimicry of his former confidence. Donghae watched, his own cock pressing against the small of Hyukjae’s back. When Hyukjae was fully erect, Donghae stilled his hand.
“Good.” He shifted in the water, turning Hyukjae’s body slightly. He hooked his arms under Hyukjae’s knees, spreading him open. The water lapped at their skin. “Now don’t move. Just feel.”
Donghae positioned himself and sank down onto Hyukjae’s cock.
He took him in one slow, water-slicked slide, the heat inside him rivaling the bath. Hyukjae cried out, a sharp, broken sound of pleasure-pain-surprise. His back arched, his cast thunked against the tub wall. Donghae seated himself fully, letting them both adjust. The stretch was exquisite, a fullness he’d ached for. This was different. Hyukjae was present, awake, his eyes wide and locked on Donghae’s face.
“See?” Donghae panted, beginning to move, a gentle roll of his hips. The water sloshed around them. “You’re in me. You’re home. This is where you belong.” He set a slow, deep rhythm, using his own body to do the work. He reached between them, rubbing his own swollen cock in time with his bounces. “Your cock is the only thing that fits me right. You hear that? You ruined me for anything else.”
Hyukjae’s left hand came up, grabbing clumsily at Donghae’s hip. His grip was weak, but it was there. He was trying. He was participating. His mouth opened, a silent cry as Donghae ground down hard, taking him impossibly deep.
“That’s it,” Donghae urged, his pace turning rougher. Water splashed onto the floor. “Hold me. Fuck, yes. Use me. Get your strength back right here, inside me.” He was close, the familiar coil tightening. He could feel Hyukjae’s cock pulsing, swelling further. “You gonna come? You gonna fill this cunt up like you own it? Prove it. Come on, alpha. Claim it.”
With a ragged shout that was more air than voice, Hyukjae came. It was a shallow, shuddering release, but it was his. His body locked, his hand spasmed on Donghae’s hip. The sensation tipped Donghae over the edge. He came with a sharp cry, his release streaking the bathwater milky, his inner walls clamping down rhythmically on Hyukjae’s softening cock.
They sat there, submerged in the cooling, clouded water, breathing in ragged unison. Donghae rested his forehead against Hyukjae’s, their noses touching.
“Not a burden,” Donghae stated, his voice hoarse. “My job. My choice.”
Hyukjae didn’t speak. He turned his head just enough to catch Donghae’s mouth in a clumsy, desperate kiss. It was agreement. It was a promise. It was the start.
Weeks bled into a month. The cast came off, revealing a pale, withered arm. The frustration didn’t leave; it simply found new targets. One afternoon, during a walking exercise in the room, Hyukjae’s legs gave out. He crashed to the floor, taking the walker with him in a cacophony of clattering metal. He lay there amidst the wreckage, pounding his good fist on the linoleum, a scream of pure, animal rage trapped behind his gritted teeth.
Donghae, who had been reading a pregnancy book in the corner, marked his page and set it down. He walked over and sat on the floor beside him. He didn’t offer a hand. He didn’t offer platitudes.
“Done?” Donghae asked after the tremors of anger subsided into shuddering breaths.
Hyukjae glared at him, chest heaving.
“Good,” Donghae said. He nudged the walker with his foot. “Now get the fuck up. Dinner’s in twenty, and you need to shave. You look like shit.”
For a long moment, Hyukjae just stared, hatred and something else warring in his gaze. Then, with a grunt that tore from the depths of his chest, he began the agonizing process of pushing himself up. Donghae watched, his own heart hammering, until Hyukjae was back on his feet, gripping the walker with white-knuckled fury.
Progress was measured in terrible, small victories. The day Hyukjae held a spoon steady enough to feed himself. The night he managed to roll onto his side in bed and sling his heavy arm over Donghae’s growing waist without prompting. The first time he formed a clear, un-slurred sentence: “Your stomach is bigger.”
Donghae had looked down at the firm, pronounced swell under his sweatpants. “No shit. There’s two of them in there, kicking the hell out of my bladder.” He’d taken Hyukjae’s hand and placed it on the spot. A hard, sudden flutter bumped against Hyukjae’s palm.
Hyukjae’s breath hitched. His eyes, wide and awed, flew to Donghae’s face. A real, uncomplicated joy broke through the constant grimace of concentration. It was the first time Donghae had seen it since before the accident. It was like seeing the sun after a year of gray.
The day before discharge, Donghae finally brought the ultrasound photo from its protective sleeve and pinned it to the bulletin board across from Hyukjae’s bed. Hyukjae stared at it for a long time from his wheelchair.
“We made those?” he asked, his voice still rough but clearer.
“You did,” Donghae said, leaning against the window ledge. “With spectacular focus and a lot of stamina. Don’t expect a repeat performance until you can pin me to a wall again.”
A ghost of Hyukjae’s old smirk touched his lips. “Goal.”
The next morning, Donghae wheeled him out through the automatic doors. The spring air was a shock, thick with pollen and the smell of wet asphalt. Hyukjae squinted against the diffuse sunlight, overwhelmed. Donghae loaded him into the modified car, folding the wheelchair with practiced efficiency.
He slid into the driver’s seat and looked over. Hyukjae was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, one hand gripping the door handle as if for balance in a world that had become unstable.
“The penthouse or my parents’ place?” Donghae asked, starting the engine.
Hyukjae was silent for a full minute. “Home,” he finally said. “Our home.”
Donghae nodded, put the car in drive, and pulled into the traffic. The road ahead was long, filled with therapy appointments and uncertainty and the terrifying approach of fatherhood. But Hyukjae was in the seat beside him, breathing on his own, looking out the window with a gathering focus. And Donghae’s hands were steady on the wheel. He was already mapping their next move.