Chapter Text
Patience and focus, two things Donghyuck was desperately trying to hold on to. But it was hard. So hard. Especially when there's a god-awful beeping coming from one of the monitors in the back, a dull ache behind his eyes, and Jaemin breathing down his neck like an annoying little conscience he never asked for.
His fingers, damp with sweat beneath the tight latex gloves, gripped the needle holder a little too tightly as he leaned over the simulation dummy. He was mid-suture, trying to remember the proper angles, trying to breathe evenly through his nose.
“Could you give me some space?” he mutters through clenched teeth, keeping his mouth covered behind his mask.
“No,” Jaemin replies way too cheerfully. “You’re going to kill the patient.”
Donghyuck blinks, hand faltering slightly. “It’s a dummy,” he hissed, flicking a glance sideways.
“Yeah, and you’re stabbing it like it owes you money.”
“I’m suturing,” Donghyuck snaps, refocusing on the fake skin stretched in front of him.
Jaemin leans a little closer, voice low but sharp. “You’re suturing like it’s Mark Lee in front of you.”
“Shut up,” Donghyuck mumbles, tightening the stitch a little more aggressively than necessary.
“Look at that aggression,” Jaemin whispers like a nature documentary narrator. “Textbook emotional repression. We’re witnessing a medical student on the verge of committing a crime of passion on rubber skin.”
“Do you want me to stab you?” Donghyuck asks sweetly, flashing the needle in Jaemin’s direction.
He snorts, not at all threatened. If anything, Donghyuck has a sneaking suspicion Jaemin is a little amused. It would be a shame if someone took a scalpel to that pretty face of his, really.
Donghyuck was placed under the direct supervision of Dr. Kim Hakyeon for his next few weeks of surgical training. The legend. The actual rockstar of cardiothoracic surgery. Donghyuck had dreamed about scrubbing in with Hakyeon since his first year. Had literally written about him in his med school entrance essay. So this should've been a career-defining moment.
It was supposed to be a dream come true.
But, after a disastrous episode last week, and as Donghyuck was learning very quickly, everything comes with a price. And in this case, it was the unbearable amount of time he had to spend with his big mouth best friend, Jaemin. Because Jaemin is the best one when it comes to surgery simulation. One thing that Donghyuck is half good at.
Jaemin taps his foot against the tile, impatient and clearly seconds away from making another snide comment.
Donghyuck doesn’t give him the satisfaction. He forces himself to focus on the last few stitches, the dummy’s synthetic skin tugging awkwardly as he works. The angles are all wrong. His spacing is uneven. The whole thing looks like it’s been through a blender and put back together by someone with a grudge.
He grimaces.
Peels off his gloves with the kind of flair that says I’m done with this bullshit and tosses them into the bin like they.
“There,” he mutters, arms crossed tight over his chest. “I’m done.”
Jaemin looks down at the messy suture job and then up at Donghyuck, eyebrows raised. “Are you, though?” he says, biting back a laugh.
Donghyuck doesn't answer. He just glares at the dummy’s chest, wishing it would burst into flames. Or maybe that Mark Lee would walk in so he could yell at him.
"Not bad," Jaemin concedes. He steps forward, running his gloved hands over the wound to inspect the stitching. Donghyuck watches the movement of his hands, the way he pulls apart the stitches, runs a finger over the line and then pushes the fake skin back together.
"Not great, though," he finally adds, and Donghyuck wants to smack him. "Your tension is all wrong and your angles are off."
"Not my best work. I get it," Donghyuck sighs.
"Because you're distracted," Jaemin answers calmly, turning around and heading towards the suture table. He starts clearing up the materials, pulling off his own gloves.
Donghyuck grits his teeth, following after him. "I'm not distracted."
"Then why does your suturing look like a toddler did it?" Jaemin shoots back, throwing the latex into the bin.
"You—"
"Hyuck, let's call it a day," Jaemin says, his tone bordering on exasperated. His voice has that edge now. Not quite annoyed, not quite pleading, but teetering somewhere dangerously close to exasperated. The kind of tone that says I love you, but please stop before I lose it.
Donghyuck doesn’t look up. He’s still staring down at the suture kit. “I could try again,” he mumbles, pouty.
Jaemin lets out a sigh and leans against the table, arms crossed. “Our break is over. And Mr. Kim only allows us in this sim room for an hour, max. If he even thinks we skipped lunch for extra practice, we’re dead. Like, actually funeral-level dead.”
Donghyuck shrugs, pulling off his gloves with slow movements. “Well. I’m doomed either way.”
“It’s not gonna be that bad,” Jaemin tries gently, voice softening like he knows it’s a lie but wants to sell it anyway.
“Oh no, it’s gonna be fucking terrible,” Donghyuck scoffs, tossing the gloves into the trash. “It's gonna be flames and screams and the fiery depths of anger.”
What a joke. What a cruel joke his life had become.
And to think the day started out so promising.
Five hours ago, he’d walked into St. Mary’s Hospital smiling. Like some kind of fool.
He’d had a full eight hours of sleep. Like, actual uninterrupted sleep, not that twitchy, half-alive kind residents usually get. His mom had stayed over and made him breakfast: eggs, toast, even one of those little yogurt parfaits he pretends he’s too cool for but secretly loves. His hair? Cooperative for once. Skin? Clear. Not a single pimple in sight. The sun was out. Birds were chirping. It was practically a K-drama opening scene.
And then, the universe kicked him in the face.
Because the first thing he saw when he stepped inside was none other than the walking curse himself.
Mark. Fucking. Lee.
Bony cheeks, fried brown hair that somehow still worked on him, stupid round glasses that made him look like a stupid librarian. And that little half-nod thing he always does, like he’s too polite to ignore Donghyuck but too cool to say hi.
God.
Usually, Donghyuck isn’t the type to hate people. He likes to think of himself as tolerant. Easygoing. Civilized. There were only two people on his certified Hate List: his fifth-grade teacher who told him he “lacked discipline,” and that movie theater guy who forgot the extra butter when he went to see Infinity War. That was it.
He used to not be a hater. Donghyuck was a lot of things — dramatic, occasionally petty, sleep-deprived to the point of hallucination — but he wasn’t a hater.
But then came Mark Lee and something inside him snapped.
It wasn’t even sudden. That was the worst part. It crept up on him. Like mold.
For starters, they were never close. Donghyuck had been pretty sociable when he started med school. He knew people’s names, made small talk in elevators, nodded politely in hallways. But real friends? Just Jaemin. Always Jaemin. Everyone else was background noise.
Mark was part of that background. Quiet. Always polite. Kept to himself. They barely exchanged words for the first few semesters. There was never a reason to. They existed in parallel timelines. Donghyuck's being loud, fast, and chaotic, and Mark's being whatever weird pacifist, softly blinking planet he came from.
Then the group projects started.
At first, it was nothing. Those big, disorganized assignments where half the people don’t do anything and the other half just silently hate each other. But then, slowly, it became smaller groups. Pairs. Them.
And that was the beginning of Donghyuck’s villain origin story.
Because here’s the thing about Mark: he looks like an easygoing person. He’s got that soft-spoken, confused-by-sunlight, maybe-he-reads-poetry-on-the-weekends vibe. But no. That’s a lie. That’s his disguise. Underneath that stupid warm hoodie and those innocent puppy eyes is a manipulative little wolf.
An egocentric fucker.
Wait, no. Egocentric isn’t even the right word.
He’s just a bastard.
Because he’s smart, the kind of smart that’s annoying. Like, obnoxiously smart. Answers questions before the professor even finishes asking. Submits projects two days early with perfect formatting and stupid footnotes. Uses words like “interdisciplinary approach” in casual conversation.
And he doesn’t brag. He doesn’t need to.
He just exists. And that’s the brag.
Donghyuck could’ve dealt with a guy who gloated. He could’ve torn that kind of person apart in seconds. But Mark just does everything right without saying a word, like it’s effortless. Like it’s easy.
And that makes Donghyuck want to kick a chair across the room.
Mark Lee was just too damn cynical.
Not in the cool, mysterious way that made you want to crack him open like a puzzle box. No, in the way that made every conversation feel like a war. Like no matter what Donghyuck said, Mark would twist it into something clinical, overly logical, or just plain annoying. He had a gift for killing the mood, and not even on purpose. It was like his default setting was “condescend softly but firmly.”
So yeah. Eventually, they stopped working together.
No dramatic falling out, no public screaming match in the middle of anatomy lab. It just happened. Like a quiet breakup, if you could call it that. The kind of mutual avoidance that builds slowly over time. Side glances, silent tension, project sign-up sheets mysteriously filled out just before the other could add their name. It got to a point where they couldn’t hold more than two minutes of civil conversation without one of them biting their tongue hard enough to draw blood.
Which was fine. Totally fine. Except for the part where they both ended up matching at the same hospital for residency.
Because the universe has a sense of humor.
St. Mary’s, a place meant to be about learning and growing and saving lives, had turned into a damn battlefield. A daily mission to tolerate each other’s existence in surgical rotations, night shifts, sim labs, rounds, eating shitty cafeteria soup five feet apart in the residents’ lounge like two bitter exes trying to keep it professional.
And they didn’t just see each other every day. They had to interact. Collaborate. Communicate. Pretend like they didn’t have years of passive-aggressive tension simmering under the surface like a gas leak waiting for a spark.
That spark finally happened last week.
After months of near-misses, clipped conversations, and silent eye-rolls, they finally collided. Exploded, actually. In the worst, most inconvenient moment possible.
There’d been a massive accident downtown, a bus crash. Multiple cars, dozens of people injured. The ER went into full-blown crisis mode. Residents were called in from every floor. Everyone was running on adrenaline and caffeine and half-eaten granola bars.
And in the middle of that chaos of blood, stretchers, screaming, Donghyuck and Mark had their meltdown. Right in front of Dr. Kim. Right in the trauma bay.
It was supposed to be about the patient. Everything was. That’s what they were taught, drilled into their skulls from day one. Put your ego aside, prioritize the patient, you’re not the main character here.
But tell that to Donghyuck’s blood pressure when Mark started talking over him.
The trauma bay was pure chaos. Monitors beeping in every direction. People shouting codes, numbers, medication dosages. Someone knocked over a tray of tools and didn’t even stop to clean it up. It was that kind of day.
Their patient—mid-thirties, chest trauma, pulse weak, unresponsive—needed a central line. Donghyuck had been first on scene. Gloves on, sterile field prepped, saline flushed, everything ready.
And then Mark fucking Lee just appeared.
“We need a second line,” he said, calm as ever. “I’ll take over here.”
“No,” Donghyuck snapped before he could think. “I’ve got it.”
Mark blinked at him. Tilted his head a little. “You’ve never done one in a trauma setting before.”
“I have, actually. And I’m already prepped.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m not shaking.”
“You’re definitely shaking.”
And that was it. The dam broke. Months of eye rolls, muttered comments, and the unbearable heat that came with being too close to Mark Lee in too many elevators. It all poured out.
“You’re not even supposed to be in this bay,” Donghyuck hissed. “Go handle the guy with the broken femur or something.”
Mark stared at him, jaw tightening just slightly. “You’re letting your pride get in the way of someone’s life.”
“And you’re letting your savior complex get in the way of mine,” Donghyuck fired back.
Around them, people kept moving. No one stopped, but the energy shifted. Dr. Kim turned around, nurses looked uncomfortable. Jaemin, somewhere off to the side, winced.
And still, Mark didn’t back down.
“You’re scared,” he said, quietly this time. “And you don’t know how to ask for help. That's fine.”
That was the moment Donghyuck almost threw the scalpel. He didn’t, thankfully. But his hand did slam down on the edge of the gurney loud enough to make everyone glance over.
“Fuck you, Mark,” he spat, voice tight.
“After the central line,” Mark replied, without waiting too much.
That. That exact kind of calm sarcasm. That’s what did it.
Full-volume, no-holds-barred arguing in the middle of a trauma code. Gloves snapping, words flying, egos bruising by the second. Dr. Kim didn’t yell, but his eyes said everything.
“You think you’re better than everyone just because you can quote journal articles and keep your scrubs wrinkle-free,” Donghyuck hissed at some point.
Mark blinked at him, then leaned. “I don’t think I’m better than everyone,” he said, voice low and steady. “Just you.”
That should’ve been the end of it. That should’ve been the moment Donghyuck stormed off, slammed a door, complained to HR, or at least punched a wall.
Instead, he stared at Mark. And Mark stared right back.
The trauma bay kept buzzing around them—orders being shouted, monitors beeping, gurneys wheeled past in a blur—but Donghyuck couldn’t hear any of it. All he could hear was the pulse in his ears.
And for one electric second, Donghyuck thought: I’m going to kill him.
He didn’t. Obviously. But, oh, how he wanted to.
Instead, Dr. Kim stepped between them, told them both to “get out, cool off, and come back when you remember how to act like doctors,” and Donghyuck left the room shaking.
Not just from anger. From something worse.
And that was the turning point. The moment everything tilted, just a little, like a shift in gravity you don’t notice until you’re halfway down the stairs and suddenly falling.
Which brings them to this morning. Too early. Too bright.
“Good morning,” Mark said like they were friendly. Like they didn’t almost physically fight in front of a dying person a few days ago. His voice was all smooth and polite.
Donghyuck narrowed his eyes and didn’t slow his pace. “What now?”
Mark stepped in line beside him.
“Dr. Kim wants to see us in his office.”
Donghyuck stopped mid-step. Turned to stare at him. “You’re joking.”
Mark shook his head, totally calm. “Wish I was.”
“Both of us?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re just casually drinking coffee like we’re not about to get our asses handed to us?”
Mark shrugged and took a sip. “What can I say? I make peace with death early.”
Donghyuck thought about turning around and leaving the hospital entirely. Maybe switching careers, opening a flower shop in another country. Something less emotionally violent.
Instead, he sighed and said, “This is your fault.”
Mark shrugged again. “You were the one who said ‘fuck you’ in front of three nurses and a trauma surgeon.”
“Oh, and you saying ‘after the central line’ was a model of professionalism, huh?”
“I got the line in, didn’t I?”
Donghyuck stared at him like he could make Mark’s coffee boil in his hands through sheer rage alone. Then he muttered, “God, I hope Dr. Kim makes us mop the OR floors with your eyelashes.”
Mark chuckled softly and started walking toward the hallway. “Come on. Wouldn’t want to be late for our shared execution.”
Donghyuck followed, dragging his feet, the doom curling in his stomach.
Dr. Kim’s office was too quiet.
That kind of clinical, pin-drop silence that made Donghyuck suddenly hyper-aware of how loud his own breathing was. Or how squeaky his shoes sounded on the tile. Or how annoyingly unbothered Mark looked next to him, standing with his hands in his coat pockets like this was a routine dental appointment and not, potentially, a full career-ending scolding.
Donghyuck was less composed. He was chewing the inside of his cheek and going through the five stages of grief in rapid succession. Denial, anger, more anger, rage, and then back to denial.
Dr. Kim didn’t even look up at first. Just kept typing at his computer, the soft clack-clack of the keys somehow more stressful than any yelling would’ve been.
He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look not angry, either. Which was worse.
“Sit,” he said, not looking up.
Mark and Donghyuck did that.
The silence that followed was long. Long enough that Donghyuck started tapping his fingers against his knee. Finally, after what felt like a hundred years, Dr. Kim sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“So,” he said. And that so carried the weight of an entire monologue. “I’m not going to waste time. What happened last week in the trauma bay was unacceptable.”
Donghyuck opened his mouth, just to close it again.
Mark said, “Yes, sir.”
“You both know better,” Dr. Kim continued. “You’re not interns. You’re not high schoolers. You’re residents in a hospital with lives on the line. If you have issues with each other, settle it outside my trauma bay.”
Donghyuck felt his ears go hot.
“I expect my team to function as one. Not as two sparring idiots trying to outdo each other while someone’s bleeding out.”
That one hurt a little.
“But, as much as both of you were idiots, you both are the elite of your group. Plus Jaemin. That’s why it took me some time to think about what to do with both you,” he tapped his finger on the desk. Donghyuck felt his heart throbbing on his throat. “Which is why you two are being paired together for the next month.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Donghyuck said, voice cracking a little.
“You’ll be assisting on all rounds together. Sim labs, pre-op, post-op,” Dr. Kim said, as if he wasn’t dropping a live grenade between them. “If one of you is on a patient, the other is too. If one of you is on call, congratulations, the other one’s stuck for the ride.”
Donghyuck stared at him like he'd just been told he had six months to live. Maybe three, if Mark started breathing too loud.
Beside him, Mark sat perfectly still, the picture of calm professionalism. No twitch. No blink. No sign that this was the worst news either of them could’ve received.
“This isn’t punishment,” Dr. Kim continued, folding his hands on the desk. “It’s preparation for real-life medicine. Where you don’t get to choose your coworkers based on who doesn’t piss you off before noon, and you definitely don’t get to start turf wars in my trauma bay.”
Donghyuck opened his mouth to protest, but Mark beat him to it.
“Well, sir—”
“No rotating partners,” Dr. Kim cut in, sharp as a scalpel. “No switching mid-shift. You’ll eat together, scrub in together, round together. I don’t care if you have to share a damn stethoscope, but the two of you will learn how to function as one brain, or you’ll both be out of this program before you can say ‘stat.’”
Donghyuck opened his mouth, hands twitching in his lap. “But that’s—”
“And I want documentation,” Dr. Kim barreled on. “Reports. Weekly. Pick a day, sit down and work together. Write it up. I want names, patient histories, diagnoses, interventions, outcomes. I want to know how you collaborated, how you resolved conflict, what you learned. I want footnotes. I want a damn portfolio if needed.”
It was so quiet after that, Donghyuck could hear the second hand ticking on the office clock. He genuinely considered biting his own tongue off just to get out of this conversation.
Dr. Kim just stared at them. “Do I make myself clear?”
Donghyuck swallowed. It felt like chewing on gravel.
“Yes, sir,” Mark said again, steady as always.
Donghyuck hated how his own voice wavered when he finally managed, “Yes. Sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Just like that. Donghyuck wanted to flip a table.
He stumbled out into the hallway like he’d just been told he was pregnant with Satan’s child.
Mark followed behind, looking way too calm for someone who’d just been sentenced to a month of forced proximity with their arch-nemesis.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the hallway felt way too quiet. Too bright. Too sterile for the emotional whiplash Donghyuck had just experienced.
He didn’t say a word for a solid five seconds — which, for him, was a personal record.
Then, deadpan: “I’m going to throw myself down the stairwell.”
Mark, without missing a beat, tilted his head like he was considering it. “Want me to push you?”
Donghyuck turned slowly, eyes blazing. “I will stab you.”
Mark raised a single brow, almost impressed. “Just make sure it’s a clean incision. Subcostal approach, please.”
So yeah. Here it was, the beginning of what was, undoubtedly, going to be the biggest challenge of Donghyuck’s life.
It was going to be a test of patience. Of survival. Of Donghyuck’s will to not jab a pen into Mark’s neck during pre-op briefings.
A full month of checking pulses and, hopefully, no flatlines.
May he and his career survive.