“Well, hopefully that won’t be the case.” What’s the case? What was he saying a minute ago? Wait. What?

         “Huh?”

         “Surgery.” His voice is a little curious, a little impatient. Mingyu would be impatient too if his therapist was tripping over his words and not making any sense, “Hopefully I won’t need it.”

         “Right.” Mingyu shuts his mouth. He’s worried if he doesn’t that it’ll hang open, gawking at the evolutionary miracle that is Minghao Xu. It’s not that Minghao was ugly in high school, far from that. While most of his attractive qualities lay embedded in how he moved, he was known for a cute face and soft features. And although he was quiet, Minghao had a sharp tongue and his playful nature came to surface when the setting was right. But the man sitting in front of him now is in his mid-twenties, still lanky, but filled out with a few more ear piercings and his hair styled messily, swept to the side and out of his eyes.

         Oh man, those eyes. He lost a lot of the baby fat around his cheeks. He’s handsome even though he still carries that aloof manner he had a decade ago.

         “So…” Is Mingyu staring? Is that inappropriate? Yeah, it’s probably inappropriate. He’s an adult. A full-fledged adult. High school troubles don’t matter a decade down the road.

         “Let’s get started.” A lot of the first half-hour consisted of Mingyu pulling and pushing on Minghao’s leg, asking him to rank the pain on a scale of one to ten and it’s pretty clear that the latter has a strong resolve because most of his rankings are pretty low, between a 5 and 6 for the most painful areas where other patients would go up to 8 or 9. With how bruised and swollen the area is, and how it clicks when he reaches certain angles, it’s apparent that he should be up where the 8’s and 9’s are.

         After figuring that out, Mingyu moves Minghao onto some exercises. These ones are pretty basic. Minghao lays down on the machine and props his legs against a panel that he has to push against. It’s awkward just to sit there, listening to his breathing. The room feels stuffy, so he moves to open a window, but that doesn’t seem to help. It’s the atmosphere that’s viscous. He wonders where Wonwoo is. It’s possible that he took a late lunch today or that he’s working outside with his patient. The fresh air usually treated those with more sedentary lifestyles well during their recovery. He should break the silence, “Did you go to Oakdale?” That’s a safe question. “I think we were students at the same time.”

         It’s totally safe. Maybe—if he’s lucky—Minghao won’t remember him. Okay, it’s kind of hard to forget a guy as stunning as Mingyu Kim especially at the height of hormonal teenage interest, but they were in completely different social circles and were popular for different reasons. They barely ever talked or interacted despite being in the same year since they had different schedules and homerooms. Hell, Minghao transferred in mid-way through sophomore year. There’s a big chance that he doesn’t remember Mingyu at all.

         “Right, you were the guy that made a huge scene in the cafeteria about not wanting to date me.”

         Mingyu wants to vomit.

         He remembers. He remembers. How could he not remember? Mingyu essentially ruined his life. He took poor Minghao’s teenage years and flushed them down the big public toilet of high school peer pressure. Even if he wasn’t the direct cause or even stood near the tormentors, Mingyu made life horrible for Minghao.

         A decade ago.

         He laughs nervously, “I don’t remember it being a huge scene, but- yeah. So, what are you doing now?” He’s going to sweep it under the rug as quickly as possible. They’re in a professional patient-PT relationship now. There’s no room for high school drama.

         “Uh,” . Minghao already told him what he did earlier. The patience this man has for him is godly, “Dance instructor. Choreographer. The guys and I have worked with performance venues a few times, like back-up dancing for music videos or on stage with artists. No one super huge, but it’s pretty interesting to hang out with people who can afford to burn money. Big competition semi-finals coming up next month and state finals after that, so…”

         Mingyu finally realizes that Minghao’s been done with his leg presses for the last three minutes and quickly shuffles him over to a wall where he hands him a resistance belt and instructs him on how to move, “You sound confident about semi-finals.” When he pulls his knee forward—the resistance band in his hands—it’s evident that he’s been working out.

         “Well, we haven’t been defeated this year. So, I think my confidence in my team is sound.”

         Minghao has always been good at leading teams to victory. That’s what he did back in high school at least. He became captain immediately after transferring despite not being the club’s founder. At that time, the current president was gearing up for his college entrance exams and handed over the reins to whoever he thought was the best suited for the job. Sophomore dance prodigy Minghao was the prime choice and the rest of the team agreed; he pulled ahead in a team vote. He had an impressive portfolio of trophies and routines already, so he was probably the obvious choice. He still had a light accent back then since his family had moved to the States half-way through his elementary career, but that accent is completely gone now.

         They spend the remaining half hour in silence. Aside from Mingyu leading him through exercises, counting reps with barely a whisper, and asking if he’s feeling okay every few minutes, there’s no other exchange. Mingyu’s filled with guilt and Minghao is probably filled with seething, bubbling hate. Probably. It doesn’t show on the surface, but it’s probably there; underneath. Mingyu knows that he would have absolutely hated anyone that put him in that position, enough hate for it to stew and concentrate for ten years. What else would drive Minghao to this small-town clinic if not to square Mingyu up about the events that transpired ten years ago?

         When they’re done, he provides Minghao with a green resistance band to take home and a black knee brace to wear full-time, telling him to go over the exercises a few times every day and to stretch before doing any of his work- and only if he had to work. He should be taking time off. Resting. Taking care of himself. He walks the shorter man out to the lobby and says goodbye before quickly returning back to the PT room to finish paperwork.

         “Oh, you’re here.”

         Wonwoo squints at him, “Mingyu, I’ve been here the whole time.”

         “What?”

         “Yeah. Like, the last twenty minutes. I took my patient back in almost half an hour before you walked Minghao out. Seriously. Are you okay?” he comes over to look at Mingyu up close, worry on his brow. That worry doesn’t last long because it’s quickly replaced with a scoff and a chuckle, “Man, you were really out of it.”

         They aren’t yet familiar enough for Wonwoo to put a hand to Mingyu’s forehead to check his temperature, but that’s probably what he would have done.

         “Out of what?” Mingyu straightens up.

         “Stay professional, Gyu.” Wonwoo stacks his papers and heads out of the PT room.