As soon his housemate, Yixing, was informed of the accident, he rushed to the hospital. Even if Yixing was a Chinese national, Yixing felt responsible for Kyungsoo, since he was about couple of years older and had been working in Seomse Tokyo as maître d’, three years longer than Kyungsoo. 

Kyungsoo was able to go home that night, thankfully. His wounds were treated—he had a couple of plasters here and there—but he was fine altogether.

As Kyungsoo had become like dongseang to him, Yixing tucked the younger one to bed, saying reassuringly in Korean, a language he was also fluent in, “I will call the restaurant for you tomorrow. Just rest, okay?”

Kyungsoo quietly nodded and curved into a fetal position. Yixing his head in comfort as Kyungsoo closed his eyes, a couple of tears streaming down his cheeks.

The next morning, merely hours had passed when Kyungsoo begged Yixing to let him visit the hospital. Couldn’t bear to see his friend so distressed, Yixing gave in and accompanied him.

As soon as they reached the nurses’ station in the ICU, Kyungsoo asked in Japanese, “Excuse me, could I see a young man...?” His voice trailed off as the nurse gazed at him suspiciously, looking directly at the gauze on his forehead and the cuts on his face.

The nurse proceeded to look into her computer. “What’s his name?”

“I...” Kyungsoo looked at Yixing helplessly. “I... I don’t know. He—”

“Then you can’t visit him. Our patients could only be visited by family.”

“But—”

“Oh, you’re here.”

Kyungsoo turned to the friendly voice. It was the lady medic who had helped him and his rescuer last night.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” the lady medic said. “I’m Nagasaki Aiko.”

“Do Kyungsoo,” he i