Chapter Text

present.

This time, Minhyung isn’t just fighting to win. He’s fighting to hurt, to injure, to maim. Some part of him is fighting to kill.

He feels bruises forming on his knuckles and even underneath his sparring gloves. He trades blow after blow with Hyunjoon, throwing the full force of his body weight into every hit and staggering to regain his balance.

He can tell that Hyunjoon has been caught off guard by the intensity of their sparring match. It wasn’t as though they had never sparred before; at first, it had started as a way to blow off steam when they’d presented as alphas on T1 Academy, one after another, and it has stayed a part of their routine even after they’d both joined the main roster. But usually, they never spar quite like this.

Hyunjoon knocks him down a dozen times, and he gets up a dozen and one. For every punch that Minhyung lands, Hyunjoon lands two. Their gloves make contact on every unguarded inch of the other’s body—chest, arms, legs, torso—leaving angry red marks that are sure to become bruises by tomorrow.

Minhyung fights through his exhaustion with gritted teeth. He tastes iron rising from his scratchy throat. Wiping his face with his forearm does nothing to stop the sweat stinging his eyes.

He knows that they both want this to be over, but today, this isn’t just a workout for him. He’s not looking to burn calories or to blow off steam. He’s looking for pain; he’s looking for rage.

Minhyung lunges again with his head tucked low, aiming for Hyunjoon’s lower torso, but his movements are sluggish and predictable. The jungler easily side-steps and replies with a swift, bruising blow to the shoulder.

A single sweep of Hyunjoon’s leg collides with the backs of Minhyung’s knees, hard and fast. Minhyung’s legs crumple beneath him instantly, but before he even hits floor, another punch from Hyunjoon makes contact with his sternum, knocking his body backwards. In an instant, Minhyung is downed, the wind knocked out of his lungs and his vision spinning.

“Yuumi split-push,” Hyunjoon mutters, stepping back with finality. Their safeword hangs in the air, awkward and impatient; neither of them seem to know how to proceed when the one safewording is the obvious victor.

Minhyung staggers to his feet, still struggling to catch his breath. He tastes blood in his mouth but doesn’t bother to look for its origin point; he must have bitten into his lip at some point, and he can’t bring himself to care.

Hyunjoon watches him carefully, waiting for an acknowledgement that they’re done for the day. Minhyung rolls his head in a circle, regaining as much steadiness on his feet as he can.

“No, Hyunjoon," he says. "Keep going." He tries to flash a grin that reads as confident. It comes off more wolfish than anything, blood staining the corners of his mouth as it begins to pool around his tongue. He spits it on the floor, letting it join the droplets of sweat already dotting the mat beneath their feet.

“I used the safeword, idiot,” Hyunjoon barks in response. His brow furrows indecipherably, landing somewhere between consternation and concern.

“And I’m telling you to keep going,” Minhyung snarls. All the feigned humor in his expression is gone. “Stop being a pussy and fucking fight me.”

“No.” Hyunjoon presses his lips into a tight line as his movements take on the subtle stiffness of an animal ready to bolt.

“I said—” Minhyung shouts, “fight me!” Each of his two words is drenched in alpha voice, echoing off the walls of the empty gym and rebounding with tenfold fervor. Hyunjoon freezes, every muscle in his body tensing. Minhyung can see him trying to hold back, but the sound of a challenge for dominance, made in alpha voice from one alpha to another, is hard to resist.

“Fight me, you fucking pussy,” Minhyung repeats, forcing his alpha voice with the deliberate tone of a man on a warpath, a man on death’s row, a man who’s long been ready to accept whatever fate lies ahead. His scent is already flaring, but he pushes it out even further, filling every inch of the room with it.

It’s a taunt and they both know it, but Hyunjoon takes the bait anyway. Minhyung watches the jungler’s resolve fall away as his basal alpha instincts take over. Minhyung can’t resist pulling a blood-tinged grin as he watches everything about his best friend morph in a single moment: Hyunjoon’s eyes narrow, suddenly predatory, hungry; his stance shifts into something unrecognizable yet distinctly feral.

Minhyung doesn’t have time to relish in the feeling of getting what he wants; Hyunjoon’s on him in an instant, every wiry pound of muscle honed in on the singular goal of combat.

Hyunjoon’s blows land with the full force of his strength, gloved fists seemingly everywhere on Minhyung at once. A swift uppercut follows a jab to the ribs, knocking Minhyung’s teeth together and sending his head flying backward. Before Minhyung can recover his balance, Hyunjoon lands a kick against his side, shin making blistering contact with his hipbone and knocking him off his feet.

Hyunjoon had always been the better fighter by a country mile. He's the one with the black belt in taekwondo, after all, but he had always taken care to exhibit restraint, to push Minhyung to the limit of what he could take but never past it.

Over their many years of sparring, they’ve come to know each other’s limits, learnt how to dance around each other’s strengths and weaknesses. They’ve thrown one another to the ground, countless times, with just enough force to knock the wind out of the other, but never so hard that they couldn’t stand right back up. Punches were the same: torso, arms, legs, but never the face—they had contractually obligated photo shoots to do, after all.

Yet, now, there’s no holds barred, no body part spared and no sportsmanship in the way as Hyunjoon relentlessly beats down on Minhyung one fist after another.

It’s exactly what Minhyung had expected when he chose to cross the line, goading Hyunjoon into the type of blind, mind-numbing rage that only a dominance challenge in alpha voice could bring about. Some part of him had known that he would never beat Hyunjoon when all bets were off. It’s the same part of him that knows he’s the one who’s gotten what he wanted in the end, even as his body crumples and his vision fades to black.

Minhyung is out cold by the time his back hits the floor.

past.

Minhyung's back hit his dorm bed with a gentle thump. Minseok’s body soon followed, landing squarely on top of him.

His memories of him and Minseok, together, were always imperfect, pieced together in flashbulb moments as if his ability to be mentally present had faded in and out. Minseok was overwhelming like that—to Minhyung the man, to Minhyung the alpha, and to whatever was in between. Being near Minseok made it impossible for him to think; his body just moved on its own, following hard-wired commands he’d never even been aware of before.

When Minseok kissed him, Minhyung kissed back. When Minseok’s fingertips cautiously grazed underneath the hem of his shirt, Minhyung took it off without hesitation. And when Minseok trailed his lips across Minhyung’s jaw, then down his throat and toward his waist, Minhyung entirely lost the ability to string together a single coherent thought.

Minseok was good—far too good. He was goodness personified, in and of itself, and also far too good at far too many things. Good at being kind, and good at reading the bot-lane meta, and good, really good, at giving head.

Rut suppressants had blissfully dulled the edge of Minhyung’s inner alpha. They weakened his scent and shrank his knot to a manageable size, but the one thing they hadn’t done was quiet the roar of lust that sparked in his veins every time he saw, or smelled, the goodness that was Ryu Minseok.

It was a goddamn miracle that Minhyung hadn’t claimed him already—he had the suppressants to thank for that—but the desire was always there, lurking like a shark beneath a still-water surface.

Minseok’s lips were now wrapped around him, pink and wet, pressing against his knot. Minhyung lost himself in the messy noises that Minseok made as he bobbed his head up and down with hollowed cheeks and a slack jaw. He brought both of his hands behind Minseok's neck, propping his head up to allow himself a better view.

Minseok was a force to be reckoned with and a sight to behold, be it in bed or in game. Sparkling eyes, soft hair, flushed cheeks. Perfect pathing, perfect skillshots, perfect ward placement. He always seemed to know exactly what Minhyung needed. He was always exactly what Minhyung needed.

Minhyung felt his tip sliding down Minseok’s throat as the omega pushed his mouth down all the way to Minhyung’s base, stretching his lips around his knot with ease. Minseok held himself there, the exhales from his nostrils tickling Minhyung's skin as their eyes met.

“Fuck, Minseokie," Minhyung heard himself saying. "You take me so well." Minseok moaned in response, still deep-throating him, and the vibration from his throat nearly sent Minhyung over the edge.

Somehow, Minseok sensed that Minhyung was nearing completion and slowly pulled his mouth away, leaving a thin trail of spit connecting them. Minseok wrapped his hand around Minhyung’s dick as he caught his breath, his grip infuriatingly loose as he stroked up and down slowly. 

“Give me your hand,” Minseok murmured. His moist lips curved into a wry smile. Minhyung held out one of his arms and Minseok grabbed it by the wrist with his free hand, guiding it to the back of his head.

Minhyung fought the urge to grab a fistful of Minseok’s hair. Instead, he merely rested his palm loosely against the back of Minseok’s head as the omega dipped his head down again. Minseok pressed his tongue against the underside of Minhyung’s knot and dragged it slowly from base to tip, eliciting a breathy groan from the alpha.

“You can push me down, you know,” Minseok said. He didn’t wait for a response before taking Minhyung into his mouth again, sinking down inch by inch with another low, drawn-out moan. The words barely even registered in Minhyung’s mind before he came.

The sensation of Minseok’s throat eagerly swallowing his cum was nearly too much for Minhyung to handle. The omega’s mouth was still filled with his expanded knot, his eyes watering. Minhyung could tell that he was struggling to breathe, but for some reason, Minseok was being too stubborn to lift his head.

It took a second for Minhyung to find the words among his post-climax haze. “You can let go now, pretty boy,” he murmured, bringing both his hands down to cup Minseok’s cheeks gently.

Finally, Minseok obliged. He released the knot from his lips with a wet sound and sat up between the alpha’s legs, lifting his gaze to meet Minhyung’s.

Minhyung wiped away a single stray tear with his thumb. “Beautiful,” he whispered. He examined Minseok’s face, wanting to memorize every inch of it—at that moment, and forever.

Minseok stared back with wide, still-teary eyes. “Did I do good?” he asked. His voice came out surprisingly small.

“You did perfect, Minseokie. You were such a good boy for me."

With that, Minseok finally broke into a grin, his posture releasing all its tension. While drawing reassuring circles with his thumb on Minseok's cheek, Minhyung leaned down for a chaste peck before pulling back. Minhyung stuck out his bottom lip in a pout, clearly wanting to continue, and Minseok giggled in response.

“Let’s go to bed,” Minseok said. Minhyung didn’t protest. He lifted his hips to assist as Minseok tugged the waistband of his sweatpants back up.

Minhyung watched as he rolled out of bed, striding to the bathroom with a bounce in his step, and Minhyung immediately missed the warmth of his body. Maybe it was just the chilly winter air, or maybe it was something else, but every time they parted, all Minhyung wanted was for them to be together again. It didn’t matter that Minseok was just a couple meters away, just brushing his teeth, or just about to get back into bed. All the justs were unbearable. Minhyung understood it was completely irrational, but still, he wanted Minseok here and now.

He knew these thoughts were his inner alpha talking. Rut suppressants could only do so much, after all. They didn’t make his instincts go away completely; rather, they simply made him better at fighting them. They could stop him from grabbing Minseok by the hair and shoving his head down until he gagged. They could stop him from insisting on knotting Minseok every time they were in bed. Above all, they could stop him from forcing a claiming bite onto Minseok’s scent gland.

But they didn’t stop him from wanting to. And worst of all, they didn’t stop Minseok from asking him to.

Whenever they fucked, Minseok always begged for Minhyung to be rougher, to pull his hair and hold him down and grab his throat. Mark me, claim me, treat me like a slut, Minseok would say. As an alpha, Minhyung wanted nothing more than to comply, but as a man, Minhyung wanted to do the complete opposite.

Sometimes, on nights like these, Minseok would give up on asking. He’d just give permission instead, in some hopeful, roundabout attempt to get Minhyung to give in. You can push me down, you know. Just hearing those words had brought Minhyung over the edge. I know, he had wanted to respond, but I’d rather not.

Perhaps it was some twisted, reverse-psychology power-trip that Minhyung's brain was using to feed his own ego. Perhaps he liked the control of being able to give Minseok exactly what he wanted, but withholding it anyway. Or perhaps it was less about Minseok than it was about himself.

There was something about holding back that felt natural to Minhyung, almost righteous. After all, he was a pastor’s son: all he’d ever known was self-deprivation. He couldn't eat too much, or else he'd be gluttonous; he couldn't sleep too much, or else he's be slothful. Most importantly, he couldn't want too much, or else he was lustful, or envious, or greedy, or prideful. If growing up religious had taught him anything, it was that his worst trait was how badly he wanted things. And so, when Minhyung couldn’t stop himself from wanting, at least he could stop himself from having—even when it came to Minseok.

It was no secret how badly he wanted Minseok. Everyone knew it. Even before they’d met, Minhyung had been obsessed with him. He’d practically begged for Minseok to join T1, and when Minseok finally did, he wasn’t shy about his affections from the start. Of course, before he went on suppressants, he couldn’t even have hid it if he’d tried; his entire body begged for just a moment of Minseok’s attention. Every time Minseok stepped into a room, it was like Rell casting Magnet Storm. He was physically incapable of leaving Minseok’s orbit, and he was mentally incapable of wanting to.

He didn’t know what it was about Minseok that set him apart from every other omega he’d met. Hell, even Sanghyeok was an omega, and Minhyung had never so much as had a wayward thought about his hyung. Minseok was different—indescribably so. He wasn’t just an omega, he was Minseok.

Sometimes, Minhyung couldn’t help but believe that God had made Minseok just for him. And who was he to turn down a miracle?

It was a miracle that someone like Minseok existed at all. It was a hundred miracles that Minseok had ended up in Minhyung’s life. And it was a million miracles that Minseok was crawling into Minhyung's bed and smiling up at him with enough adoration to outshine the sun.

“What are you thinking about?” Minseok whispered as he nestled his head beneath the crook of Minhyung’s arm.

“You,” Minhyung responded.

Minseok rolled his eyes playfully, his grin betraying his sentimentality. "Per usual," he said, settling into Minhyung’s embrace with a sigh. "You think too much,” he added.

“Only about you,” Minhyung said, leaning happily into the corny line while pressing the ghost of a kiss to Minseok’s forehead.

Minseok let out an amused snort.

“Minhyungie, go to sleep.”

present.

“Minhyungie, wake up.”

The voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater, but Minhyung would recognize it anywhere: Ryu Minseok.

He tries to command his eyes to open, but they don’t want to obey.

“I swear to God, Hyunjoon," Minseok shrieks, "if we have to call a fucking ambulance for him, no one’s going to find your body!"

Minhyung can’t tell how far away he is, but the sound of his voice feels like a needle in his eardrums. He remains unsure of Minseok's proximity until he feels the warmth of the omega's soft palm against his cheek, and his scent quickly follows, offering a lifeline with which Minhyung can cling to consciousness.

Minseok wipes at Minhyung's face gently, the pads of his fingers occasionally catching against the friction of his sticky blood. His small hands travel across Minhyung's features, equal parts examining and comforting. As he does, it seems that both he and Minhyung discover Minhyung's injuries at once. When his fingers graze over Minhyung's split lip, then the cut in his eyebrow, the pain only registers in Minhyung's mind once Minseok draws a sharp breath in, as if Minhyung only knows how to hurt when Minseok is there to make it real, to prove it exists, to allow him a moment of weakness.

The pain ebbs and flows with Minhyung's consciousness, and each time he feels himself fading, he begs himself to cling to the feeling of being present in his body, to the shaky rise and fall of his chest, to the ache of his torn skin and broken veins—but he's a weak man, just like he's always been. It's like there's an endless chasm between what he wants to do and what he wants to want to do, some fundamental misalignment between his immediate desires and his faraway goals. Some might call him spineless or undisciplined, and Minhyung might be inclined to agree. How could anyone expect him to be the best ADC in the world when he can't even keep himself awake after taking a few well-earned hits? Hell, he can't even bring himself to open his damn eyes.

Through the haze of his mind, Minhyung vaguely registers that his gloves are no longer on. Perhaps Minseok took them off at some point. He's not sure he can remember having them on. He's not sure he can remember anything at all. The only thing he's sure of is Minseok's scent, enveloping him like a blanket of familiarity. It's warm and soft in a way that oddly reminds him of a soup his mother used to make on cold, rainy days, a fail-safe defense against catching a chill, except Minseok's scent warms him up from the outside in, and not the other way around.

Eyes still closed and mind still distant, Minhyung reaches out with his now-freed hands in Minseok's direction, hoping to find purchase against the omega's skin. Instead, they only land on the fabric of Minseok's pants, though Minhyung can feel the firmness of Minseok's knee underneath, his shins pressed against the floor as he kneels next to Minhyung's torso.

“You went way too far, Hyunjoon,” Minseok says, all too controlled. His voice is seething with the type of quiet rage that's far more terrifying than anything at full volume. “You could have killed him, for fuck’s sake. You nearly did.”

Hyunjoon doesn’t answer right away. Minhyung can barely smell anything except blood—his own, he presumes—but he can still faintly make out the grating, combative alpha pheromones emanating off of the jungler. The smell is dizzying, or maybe Minhyung was already dizzy, but the scent is only making it worse.

“Maybe he should stop doing shit that’ll get him killed,” Hyunjoon finally responds. The words come out barely above a whisper, but the threat in his tone is loud and clear. Through unfocused, half-lidded eyes, Minhyung sees Hyunjoon forcefully unclench his fists, splaying out his fingers against his side like it’s taking no small amount of willpower to keep them there.

Before Minseok can respond, Hyunjoon turns on a heel and strides out of the gym, slamming the door behind him. Minhyung instinctively crinkles his nose at the aggravating scent trail left behind, and in doing so, reignites the dull ache at the center of his face. He grimaces and closes his eyes, trying to disconnect his mind from the pain in his body.

“Hey, Minhyungie,” Minseok whispers, moving closer. He presses a soft palm to Minhyung’s cheek, ignoring the sticky trail of half-dried blood between his nostril and his jawline. All the fury in Minseok’s voice has dissipated—or at least, he’s successfully masking it underneath his gentleness. Minhyung doesn’t have the energy to do anything but grunt in response.

“Minhyungie, can you open your eyes for me?” Minseok murmurs. Minhyung feels small, nimble fingers gingerly pushing his hair to the sides of his forehead.

“No,” Minhyung jokes half-heartedly. He clenches his eyelids shut for dramatic effect, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain from his brow. Minseok lets out an exasperated huff, and Minhyung doesn’t have to see his face to know that he’s rolling his eyes.

Minseok refuses to humor Minhyung’s frail attempt at lightening the mood. “Not funny,” he grunts, pulling his hands away.

Minhyung cracks open one eye, then the other, and resists the urge to wiggle his eyebrows. “You’re cute when you’re worried about me,” he teases. “I should make you worry about me more.”

Through the glare of the overhead lights, he sees Minseok’s expression teetering between concern and frustration. Minhyung shuts his eyes again with a smug grin, feeling his split lip stretching with the movement.

“Absolutely do not do that,” Minseok chides, wiping away a droplet of blood that’s formed on the freshly reopened cut on Minhyung’s bottom lip. “And be serious for a second. You’re literally concussed.”

“Am not,” Minhyung bickers with a pout.

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“So open your eyes then, dumbass,” Minseok huffs, somehow still indignant despite their circumstances. Minhyung momentarily obliges, only to find the overhead light painfully blinding, like daggers shot straight through his retinas into his skull. He quickly closes his eyes again, conceding defeat. What even is a concussion, anyway? It can’t possibly be that bad, right? He’ll be fine in the morning—probably. Hopefully.

“See? Definitely concussed,” Minseok insists. Their bickering hasn’t lightened the undercurrent of anxiety in his voice.

Minhyung chooses not to roll his eyes. “Yeah, fine, whatever,” he retorts. “I’ll sleep it off.” Eyes still closed, he sit up with a grunt.

“That’s literally not how concussions work.” The argumentative tone in Minseok’s voice is betrayed by the gentle palm he places between Minhyung’s sweat-slicked shoulder blades for balance.

Minhyung takes a shaky breath, silently grateful for the skin-to-skin touch as a wave of nausea shudders through his body. “Since when were you a doctor?” he grumbles.

“Shut up,” Minseok mutters in reply. Minhyung swears that the omega moves at superhuman speed—before he processes what’s happening, Minseok has already slid his body underneath his arm, draping the crook of his elbow across his neck.

“I don’t know if I can stand up right now,” Minhyung confesses, relinquishing some of his body weight onto Minseok’s shoulders. The room spins around him, bringing another wave of nausea, and the sudden proximity to Minseok’s scent gland is the only thing keeping him grounded enough to hold back from retching.

“We have to get you back to your room,” Minseok says gently. “I really don’t want to call Sanghyeok-hyung.”

Minhyung knows that it’s not meant as a threat, but somehow, the downright-mortifying possibility of Sanghyeok seeing him in this state is enough to spur his sore muscles into action. With all the strength he can conjure, he feebly raises himself to his feet, leaning on Minseok’s slim frame for support.

“There you go,” Minseok says encoragingly. Minhyung can hear a trace of a smirk in his voice; mentioning Sanghyeok clearly had the effect Minseok intended it to.

The two of them shuffle toward the edge of the ring, with Minhyung only ocasionally cracking his eyes open enough to know what direction he’s going in. He briefly tries to take his weight off Minseok, still too proud as an alpha to be reliant on an omega, but he soon stumbles when he does, barely catching himself on the rope.

“Christ, would it kill you to accept my help?” Minseok sighs. He grabs the ring ropes, next to where Minhyung is holding himself upright, and ducks underneath them to step onto the rubber floor below. From the other side, he turns back and lifts the ropes higher, reaching out a hand for Minhyung to follow him. Minhyung takes it, ignoring the urge insist that he doesn’t need any help. He barely makes it out of the ring before losing his balance again. His knees suddenly buckle underneath him; Minseok catches him by the waist as he tips forward.

“Thanks,” Minhyung grunts. His vision is once again being assaulted by the blinding lights above, and he shudders through a deep inhale to fight back the throbbing inside his skull. The world spins around him, bringing bile to his throat.

Seemingly sensing Minhyung’s unsteadiness, Minseok slots himself back underneath his arm with ease. “Just lean on me, you stubborn fucking alpha,” he scolds, though his tone is soft with concern.

Minhyung finally relents with an exhale, more appreciative than ever of Minseok’s scent. Their proximity grounds Minhyung just enough to push through his lightheadedness.

Progress is slow, but the two of them eventually make their way to the door of the gym, then to the elevators. Minhyung can’t go more than a dozen steps without stumbling, but Minseok manages to stop him from hitting the ground each time, murmuring gentle words of encouragement in a tone Minhyung has never heard from him before. If he weren’t so dizzy, or so overcome with affection for the omega, he would have found it horribly embarrassing to be treated like a child learning to ride a bike.

By the time the elevator opens to the floor of their dorms, Minhyung has steadied himself enough to stand upright, though his newfound balance means that the aches and scrapes throughout his body become increasingly difficult to ignore. It’s impossible to pinpoint what hurts, because everything hurts—his pride most of all.

Isn't this what he wanted, though? To suffer, to hurt? Isn't this what he deserves?

There's a part of him that believes no one truly deserves to suffer. There's another part of him, the same part that's read the four Gospels a dozen times throughout his life, that believes that everyone deserves to suffer. Suffering is what sinners deserve, after all, and every man's a sinner in this world. Minhyung's been told this—and truthfully, he tells himself this, too—day in and day out, yet still, it's hard for him to accept.

He thinks, often, about the biblical story of Job. He thinks about God testing Job’s faith by taking everything away from him: his wealth, his children, his health. He thinks about how useless all that suffering was. What did anyone gain from it, no matter how deserved or undeserved it was? Why should anyone need to prove anything to an all-knowing God?

He wonders if that’s the real lesson in the Book of Job, hidden underneath God’s trials: sometimes the suffering is pointless. Sometimes people suffer for nothing. Sometimes suffering is just suffering. Sometimes suffering is all a person can do.

It sure would be nice, though, if all Minhyung’s suffering was just a test of his faith, like some modern-day Job reincarnate. At least, it would be a comforting thing to believe. But believing it wouldn’t make him suffer any less; it would only make him more willing to suffer.

Minhyung is no Job. He’s never been willing to suffer—at least, not enough. He’s too proud, too greedy, too in love with the world and everything in it. Worst of all, he’s too unwilling to watch anyone else suffer, either. He can’t stand horror movies, or crying children, or newspaper headlines of wars happening oceans away. No matter how much he can justify it with his mind, or with Scripture, he can't quite justify it in his heart.

At least, suffering isn’t so bad when it’s only his own, because there's at least a twisted kind of pride laced into the ordeal, a small step towards becoming more Christlike through the carrying of a painful burden. But suffering feels so much worse, and so much less holy, when other people get dragged into it, too—because then he feels less like a martyr and more like a victim.

Sometimes Minhyung thinks, too, about the side characters in the Bible, the ones reduced to a pawn in someone else’s story, merely collateral damage for a rhetorical goal. He thinks about Job’s children all dying in one fell swoop, crushed to death inside their collapsing home, right as they gathered for a meal together. Perhaps they went out quietly, quickly. Or perhaps they were trapped and crushed beneath the rubble, screaming for help until they bled out, surrounded by the mangled corpses of their siblings. Perhaps they spent their last moments praying—perhaps for themselves, or for each other, or for their parents. Or perhaps the agony too great for them to pray for anyone or anything at all.

Did they even know what they were dying for? Minhyung often wonders. Would they have thought their deaths were worth it, or would they even have cared? Would it even matter if they did?

The only question to which he knows the answer is the final one, and the answer is no.

It's no secret that Minhyung cares: he cares about his team and his fans and his career and his legacy—but most of all, he cares about Minseok. And yet, he realizes, much like Job's children, how much he cares is irrelevant to how much he suffers; the pain is no different either way, because the circumstances that beget his suffering come down from above. Perhaps it's God, or perhaps it's just kkOma, but it's a higher power all the same. He'd never be so blasphemous as to claim that kkOma and God are even remotely comparable, but from where he's standing, he can't help but look upward and wonder if they might as well be.

He's still dizzy and dazed enough that the overhead lights of the elevator are painfully blinding, almost terrifyingly radiant in the way that angels are described when they appeared on Earth, but Minhyung knows better. Even through his disorientation, he knows the closest thing to an angel that he'll ever encounter isn't up above—because Minseok is standing right next to him.

Minhyung walks out of the elevator and to the apartment door without Minseok’s help. The omega doesn’t protest, but Minhyung can hear him following behind closely, as if waiting for an inevitable stumble that miraculously doesn’t happen.

He freezes at the door, unsure of what to do. He’s shirtless and in a pair of workout shorts, pockets empty. He can’t quite remember where any of his belongings are; his mind has somehow been rendered as opaque and turbulent as a stormcloud.

“I have your stuff,” Minseok pipes up from behind him, apparently sensing the confusion in his body language. He turns to see Minseok holding out his phone and dorm keys with a wan smile.

“Thanks.” Minhyung takes his belongings from Minseok’s outstretched hand, shoving them both in his pockets as he turns back to the door. He pauses again, brain still short-circuiting. What’s he supposed to be doing, again? His thoughts might as well be made of molasses. He makes an attempt at wading through the muck, but finds himself hopelessly stuck.

“Keys, Minhyungie,” Minseok murmurs with concern from behind him. “They’re in your pocket.”

“Right,” Minhyung stammers, clearing his throat. He reaches into one of his pockets, finding it conspicuously empty. He swears he just put them in his pocket, right? Oh, wait—other pocket. That’s right.

Pulling the keys out of his pocket is easy enough, but his hands suddenly lose all semblance of agility when he tries to insert a key into the lock. He fumbles once, twice, then three times, eyes unable to focus on the keyhole enough to line it up with the key in his fingers. On the fourth try, a small arm reaches around him, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, and plucks the keys out of his hand. He can’t decide if he’s embarrassed or grateful. Both, probably.

Minseok unlocks the door with an almost petulant ease, giving it a push so that it swings open in front of Minhyung. “Go lie down,” he says, “I’ll bring you painkillers.”

Minhyung clears his throat, but can’t bring himself to say anything. He steps into the apartment, bracing himself for the affront of Hyunjoon’s scent, but it’s faint and stale, with no trace of the aggression from their sparring match. Clearly, Hyunjoon hadn’t come back to the dorm after leaving the gym, and Minhyung instantly understands why. Once again, he’s both embarrassed and grateful.

After clumsily kicking off his sneakers, Minhyung trudges through the common area in the direction of his bedroom, suddenly desperate to lie down. He clips the edge of the kitchen table as he walks past. The sharp corner makes contact with an angry bruise on his hip and elicits an unbidden, unflattering yelp from his throat.

Instinctively, his head turns toward the doorway where Minseok is standing. The omega is staring back with a furrowed brow, more worried than Minhyung has ever seen him.

“I’m okay,” Minhyung calls out. He tries to muster a reassuring smile. Judging by Minseok's abject lack of a reaction, he surmises that the attempt fails miserably.

“Okay,” Minseok echoes in a whisper. The tangible concern in the omega’s face stops Minhyung in his tracks, sucking all the air out of his lungs. He wishes there was a way to make it all better, to make Minseok’s worries go away—but that’s an impossibility, because he is what Minseok is worried about. The next best thing he can do is follow instructions.

Guiltily, Minhyung rips his gaze away from Minseok and shuffles to his room, leaving the door open behind him. He lets his body crumple onto his bed. The impact onto his mattress makes him woefully aware of a litany of bruises across his limbs that he hadn’t even noticed before.

Minhyung rolls onto his back. He’s desperately seeking a position where his body isn’t screaming bloody murder, to no avail. He resists the urge to bury his face into his pillow—no point in getting blood everywhere on top of all the sweat, he thinks—as he closes his eyes and lets himself wallow in the discomfort.

Now that Minhyung is finally alone, the ringing in his ears gets unbearably loud. The room spins around him. He swallows the bile that starts to rise in his throat.

It's quieter than he wants it to be. It's the type of quiet that makes everything too noisy, too overwhelming: the rushing of water through pipes in the walls, the gentle pitter-patter of drizziling rain outside, the careful footsteps trodding down the hall—footsteps that halt at the door to his room before they're followed by the sound of his door creaking open.

“Are you awake?” a quiet voice breaks through the lull.

“No,” Minhyung grunts. He hears an unenthusiastic snort and opens his eyes in the direction of the sound.

Minseok’s standing in the doorway, holding a glass of water and a blister pack of acetaminophen. The dorm’s communal first-aid kit is tucked under his arm.

Minhyung sits up with a wince. Minseok steps into the room, shuts the door behind him, and wordlessly holds out the medicine. He watches as Minhyung pops two pills out of the pack with clumsy hands and swallows them dry.

“Drink,” Minseok says gently, holding out the glass. Minhyung accepts it with both hands and takes a small sip, grimacing when the water touches the split on his top lip, already half scabbed over. He hands the glass back with a nod. Minseok doesn’t press him to drink more.

“I’m going to clean you up,” Minseok says. It’s a statement, not a question.

Minhyung can’t think of a reason to say no. He sighs and shuffles to the side of the bed, draping his legs over the edge. He tries not to acknowledge the bruises already starting to form on his knees.

Minseok sets down the water and painkillers on the bedside table and places the first-aid kit onto the bed next to Minhyung. He opens it and pulls out a handful of individually packaged alcohol wipes, ripping two packs open at once and tossing the wrappers to the floor.

“I'm pretty sure your nose isn’t broken, so that’s good,” Minseok murmurs, less to Minhyung and more to himself. “Get ready, this is going to sting a little,” he continues, stepping forward so that he’s standing between Minhyung’s knees. Minhyung grunts in acknowledgement.

One of Minseok’s hands pushes Minhyung’s hair back gingerly, his palm resting just above his forehead. The back of his other hand tips Minhyung’s chin upward, its fingers clutching an alcohol wipe. He offers a tender smile as Minhyung complies easily.

Minseok goes for the cut in his eyebrow first, dabbing away the surrounding dried blood before pressing on the wound itself. Minhyung inhales with a hiss at the white-hot burn that blooms immediately on his skin, but he resists the impulse to pull his head away.

The bloody nose is next, followed by the split lip. The sting isn’t as jarring the second time, now that he’s prepared for it, but the pain forces him to dig his nails into his palms regardless. He focuses his attention on Minseok’s face, mere inches away from his, to give himself something else to think about.

Minhyung can’t help but admire Minseok’s methodical determination, evidenced by the tip of his tongue peeking out from between his lips. Each movement is ginger and gentle, yet purposeful and precise. Despite the moment being punctuated by the stings of his wounds, Minhyung finds himself melting into Minseok’s touch.

It feels wrong to be cared for with such kindness. Alphas aren’t meant to have soft, vulnerable moments like this. That was why he went on the suppressants in the first place—he doesn’t deserve to hold on to Minseok’s affection, now that his inner alpha is back in full force. He’s not worthy of it. He hasn’t earned it. It’s not how things are supposed to be.

But he doesn’t tell Minseok to stop. He lets Minseok wipe at his skin until all the traces of blood are gone. When Minseok is finally satisfied, Minhyung allows his eyes to flutter shut as he leans forward and presses a cheek to Minseok’s standing torso. He wraps his arms around Minseok’s waist and hugs tight, ignoring the dull ache of a bruise in one of his shoulders.

There’s something stopping Minhyung from saying thank you. There’s something stopping him from saying anything at all. He can only hope that Minseok knows what’s on his mind better than he does himself.

He loses track of time in this position. The world stops spinning quite so dizzyingly, and instead, it fades away entirely. For a blissful few minutes, nothing exists except for him and Minseok—Minseok’s steady heartbeat that he can hear despite the ringing in his ears, Minseok’s hand combing through his hair back and forth, Minseok’s peachy-sweet scent seeping into his every breath.

It’s Minseok that finally ends the silence.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asks quietly.

Minhyung freezes, body stiffening. He pulls his arms away from Minseok and leans back to look up at him. He’s not quite able to focus his eyes fully, but Minseok’s face is no less beautiful this way.

He tries to summon the right words and gives up quickly. How could he possibly describe what happened without looking like an irredeemable asshole? I used alpha voice on Hyunjoon after he safeworded. I think I deserve to be in pain but I’m such a coward that I made someone else do it for me.

A minute of stillness stretches out between them. Minseok patiently waits for an explanation that Minhyung knows he can’t provide.

Eventually, Minseok accepts Minhyung’s silence as his answer. He sighs and cups Minhyung’s cheeks in his hands. “I’m worried about you, you know,” he murmurs, eyes flicking across Minhyung’s face in search of some undiscovered insight into the alpha’s mind.

“I know,” Minhyung replies. He closes his eyes, folding under the scrutiny of Minseok’s gaze.

“We all are,” Minseok continues with caution. “You didn’t exactly, uh, take the news well.”

Minhyung doesn’t open his eyes, but his expression contorts into something scornful. “Sue me for not taking my impromptu benching with grace,” he spits.

Minseok sighs with the knowledge that he willingly walked into a minefield of a conversation. “Don’t let it get to your head, Minhyungie,” he says, leaning forward and settling his chin on top of Minhyung’s head, pushing out his scent just enough to cocoon the two of them. The fury in Minhyung’s face fades, leaving only a faint mournfulness behind.

“But where else would it get?” he whispers. It’s not really a genuine question, insofar as he’s not really looking for an answer. Minseok’s only response is bending down to wrap his arms around Minhyung’s neck, hugging him tight and pressing their scent glands together.

The pheromonal bliss of their mixed scents somewhat abates the aches across Minhyung’s body, if only for a moment, and he finds himself finally comfortable enough to confess his most recent sin to the patron saint of his heart.

“I used alpha voice on Hyunjoon,” Minhyung admits in a whisper.

Minseok stills for a second, processing this information, before he tears himself away. The omega staggers back until he’s no longer within arm’s reach, his scent souring in an instant. Minhyung feels the excruciating absence more acutely than any of the injuries on his body.

“You did what?” Minseok demands, speaking at full volume for the first time in what must have been an hour. The sound sends a shooting pain through Minhyung’s head. He can’t stop himself from wincing.

Minhyung buries his face in his hands, digging his elbows into his thighs. “Can we talk about this when I’m not concussed?” he pleads. His ears ring with every word he speaks. He doesn’t have to see Minseok’s face to know that he’s furious.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Lee Minhyung?” Minseok yells, blatantly ignoring the request. “What the hell were you thinking? Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

“Please, Minseokie, can we talk about this tomorrow?” Minhyung groans. He’s fully begging at this point, and he still can’t muster the courage to look up at Minseok.

Minseok shows no signs of stopping. “For fuck's sake, Lee Minhyung, what the hell is your problem?”

Minhyung regrets saying anything at all, but as he hears Minseok stomp toward the bedroom door, he can’t stop himself from answering anyway. The words barely make it out of his mouth before Minseok slams the door shut behind him:

“My problem is that I’m not a killer.”