Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

APRIL 26, 20XX

“And you can tumble dry Biyoo, but only with white clothes, and uh make sure that her stuffing is removed! Also, be careful about—”

The prattles came on and on about the different controls on the washing machine, as if Yoo Joonghyuk did not know the difference between the bubble soak and pre-wash settings. The duffel bag that was in Dokja’s hand was now left sleeping on the ground. Instead, his hands move around animatedly, mimicking pouring laundry detergent with a disgusted look on his face.

“—and it doesn’t go on the clothes!” Dokja said, emphasising the ‘on’.

“You pour one cup, using the measuring lid, one cup only! In the second compartment, not in the third, not in the first, and for the love of god not directly on the clothes— god no—” the look of grievance on Dokja’s face did not go unnoted by Joonghyuk.

“—YAH! Are you even listening to me?!”

Yoo Joonghyuk simply deadpans, looking horridly impassive and unamused by Kim Dokja’s rant.

“Shut up.”

Kim Dokja pulls a face, his features contort into an excessively dramatic scowl as his eyes squint up at him, his expression screaming, ‘how dare you!!!’.

“I could be gone for two minutes and you’d have split the house apart! You’ll probably drown everything in water while using the washing machine!”

“You almost burnt the house down boiling tea.”

“T-that’s different,” Dokja attempted to twist it, but it was of no use.

But Yoo Joonghyuk remains stoic. This flavor of stoicism is what Dokja would characterise as the ‘If I wasn't an inexpressive bastard I’d have rolled my eyes so hard they’d have fallen out of the sockets’ face. But Yoo Joonghyuk was an inexpressive bastard with no sense of etiquette in social situations, so of course he has his resting bitch face on at all times.

If Kim Dokja hadn’t known Yoo Joonghyuk since his second year of university, he’d have assumed that Joonghyuk had partial face paralysis, which had his entire face, barring the occasional twitch of his eyebrows, stuck in a frown. However, it is noteworthy that, yes, Dokja did in fact think that Yoo Joonghyuk was recovering from an accident that had affected his face when he first saw him.

A few beats of silence pass by, and Yoo Joonghyuk begins to glare at him. You know, just the usual.

“Okay, what. What did I do now, huh? Why are you glaring at me? I’m leaving, I’m literally leaving home, and what, all I get is a glare? And that too while sending me off. Would it really kill you to smile while saying goodbye?” Kim Dokja exclaims, throwing a glare back at him. His hands search for the duffel bag on the ground, not once breaking his stare. Stumbling around just a bit, Dokja grasps the handle of the bag and picks it up with a bit of effort, a mild grimace shows up on his face before being squashed the next moment as if he hadn’t strained himself at all. The unsolicited thought of how Yoo Joonghyuk wouldn’t strain a muscle lifting this bag pushes through Dokja’s mind. He sobs a little inside. Life really was so unfair sometimes.

All this while Dokja’s glower hasn’t dropped. Their twin glares seem to open into a tacit staring contest. A few beats pass, and the corners of Dokja’s eyelids begin to twitch. Another beat, tiny beads of tears well up, and he blinks. The other bastard hasn’t even twitched, still glaring. Joonghyuk’s eyes seem to follow Kim Dokja’s face as he canes his head down, almost like they were possessed. Dokja’s eyelids twitch, and tears bead up and clump on his lashes as his eyes squeeze shut.

“Fine, I get it, you win, dumbass, don’t need to rub it in my face,” Dokja manages to mumble indignantly, not quite the finish he was hoping for, but quite definitely expecting.

“The only things being rubbed across are your tears,” Yoo Joonghyuk replies in an instant, his voice still carrying that monosyllabic tone.

“Heh,” Dokja says, seeming almost proud, like he’s achieved an impossible goal, not acknowledging the insult.

“So you admit it. . .” he mumbles, in a nearly evil tone.

“Admit what?” Joonghyuk replies flatly.

“That it was a contest. A staring contest, Er. . . glaring,” Dokja looks up at him with a shit-eating grin. “But you admit it! I didn’t think you’d be this petty Joonghyuk-ie, so childish,” he taunts.

“I didn’t admit shit.” Yoo Joonghyuk’s left eyebrow was twitching now.

Dokja opened his mouth to say something, but before he could talk, Yoo Joonghyuk interrupted him. “Don’t.”

Kim Dokja rolls his eyes, trying to not let his fondness show.

And then, Dokja’s phone pings. A notification with a bright blue font appears.

‘Your taxi is here! Your code is. . .’

“Ah. . .” his voice trailed off. Dokja seemed uncharacteristically open, his face reflecting the nervousness he felt.

It was the first time that Dokja was going to leave their shared apartment for an extended period of time. Yoo Joonghyuk did leave for his competitions here and there. But throughout their living situation, Dokja hadn’t ever left for more than a day or two, of course, ignoring their trips together. And even those were only around a week at most. But now, Dokja will be away for a week and a half, ten days to be exact. A developers’ expo was happening in Busan, and it was Kim Dokja, along with a few producers and directors from other game departments, who was chosen to attend it.

For some odd reason, they had only one member from programming in the whole group, and that was Dokja. This seemed to put him even more on edge. He wasn’t very good with situations like these in the first place; going to such a prestigious event was throwing him off-kilter.

Kim Dokja worried his bottom lip between his teeth as anxiousness bubbled up. He’d been ignoring the whole situation for a while, packing his clothes mindlessly and dancing around the topic. But now it was impossible to ignore, with it being thrust right in front of his face.

“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice pulls him out of his trance. “It’s barely two weeks.” It was obvious that Joonghyuk isn’t used to comforting people. Still, it was nice to see him try. Yoo Joonghyuk has his face mildly contorted, frowning even further.

“Yah. Stop frowning, you’re going to get wrinkles before you’re thirty,” Dokja chastised him. Kim Dokja knew it was almost illogical to think that Yoo Joonghyuk could get wrinkles so young. He frowns enough for a whole country of petulant children deprived of their candy, and not a single mark on that impeccable face.

“Kim Dokja.”

“Could you ever say anything other than that?”

“Your cab,” Joonghyuk said, unphased by Dokja’s idiotic comments.

And that seemed to be a wake-up call for Dokja. He clenched the duffel bag and placed it on top of another suitcase, and began to trudge closer to the door. Another smaller suitcase lay on the ground, unzipped and open from which Dokja had rechecked his clothes, all with their tags still on. He had nothing to wear for the business casual event; his wardrobe had been so atrocious that even Sangah had cringed looking into the closet. Sooyoung looked so disappointed that, for a second, Dokja felt embarrassed.

Dokja had all but squawked that time, telling them to take a look at Joonghyuk’s clothes. The bastard seemed to wear black and only black, save for the neon lining on his team jacket. Dokja had been slowly trying to integrate the idea of grays into his closet, feeling so proud when Joonghyuk had willingly brought out a taupe jumper.

APRIL 22, 20XX: 18:30 P.M.

"At least his emo ass clothes look decent, not even a hobo would wear the shit you have going on. You left that fuckass youth hostel six years ago. Why the hell do you still dress like you’re homeless, Kim Dokja?” Sooyoung had chastised him, going on and on in that annoying ass tone.

“Shut up, Sooyoung,”

Dokja had replied scathingly, masking his embarrassment.

“That's gonna be the crap those fancy motherfuckers at Busan will be thinking when you show up dressed like a depressed incel with attachment issues.”

“Attachment issues?! Where did you even get that from?”

Sooyoung then stoically pulled a hoodie out of his cupboard, raising it up to showcase squids plastered all over it tastelessly, the fabric itself was a worn out cream, knackered through overuse and time. And then, dramatically, she turned it over to expose the words ‘I Feel Like DyeInk Without You!’

Even Sangah, who'd remained quiet all that while, grimaced.

“Okay I wouldn't have worn that. . .” Dokja began, trying and failing to protect the honor of his wardrobe.

“Yeah, sure.” Han Sooyoung said while throwing the garment back into the cupboard, her face scrunched up in disgust.

Kim Dokja sighed as he glanced over, the sorry state of his clothes finally dawning in on him.

“So what am I going to do now?” he asked, defeated.

And that’s how Dokja had found himself dragged to the mall four days before he was set to leave. It wasn’t that Dokja didn’t know how to dress, really, it was that spending money on anything other than sheer necessities seemed wrong. And who knew what his state would become if he suddenly got fired; or Joonghyuk realised that he could be doing much better than living with Dokja, and wanted to move in with a pretty girlfriend; luck was never on his side anyway.

At least Sooyoung and Sangah seemed to be having fun.

“Hmm, I think the green would look better.”

“What? No way the gray obviously makes more sense,” Sooyoung stubbornly insisted. But the dark green would look nice on Joonghyuk; a knitted sweater, maybe?

“But the green would bring–”

“Does it really matter? Let’s just pick one and leave,” Dokja interrupted Sangah, not finding the conversation one bit productive, not that he was a productive person. He’d rather be rereading TWSA, or watching reuploads of Joonghyuk’s streams, or lying on his bed and reading; maybe get to all the pending errands— speaking of that, didn’t he have to pay the utility bills? Electricity, gas, and water, he should go home and get to it, so he doesn’t forget. He really should set it up to automatic transfer, last time he forgot and their electricity got cut off right in the middle of one of Joonghyuk’s streams, he’d looked so startled and cute—

“What? Missing your hubby already? Don’t tell me your guard dog is already whining about being left home alone,” the unimpressed voice of Sooyoung came through in immediate objection.

“Sometimes I really am confused about what you’re talking about,”

“You know just what I’m talking about Kim Dokja,”

Sangah had sighed and trailed away for a bit, looking rather intently at another line of clothes a distance away. In a way Dokja felt relieved, relieved that she won’t have to hear this conversation again, like she has been all these months.

But before Dokja could respond, his phone pinged with a notification. It was a reminder for Sangah’s birthday next week, the 30th. Kim Dokja automatically opened his calendar app and checked the date, 20XX, April 22, Wednesday. He wouldn’t be here for it, maybe he should entrust the gift to Joonghyuk.

“Drop it, Sooyoung,” he said absentmindedly, ignoring her groan as he opened KakaoTalk, just to be met with a message from Joonghyuk.

Sunfish Bastard

Yoo Joonghyuk is so hot it's unfair.

“You’re literally proving my point here.” An unimpressed voice startled Dokja off his reverie.

He tried not to yelp in surprise, his arm shooting into his chest to hide his phone screen.

“Don’t do that!” he admonished as twin pinks settled on the tips of his cheeks.

“You’ve been staring at your phone for a hot minute with those lovesick, sparkly eyes of yours,” Sooyoung sounded exasperated, but Dokja could hear the smile in her voice.

Dokja didn’t deem her worthy of a response this time, too occupied trying to tamp down the flush on his cheeks and the fizzy sweetness sighing into the tip of his tongue. The candied taste seemed to linger longer and longer each time Joonghyuk did something, anything till one day it’ll remain there forever, making every smile and lick and swallow taste of syrup and mead.

Kim Dokja believes it could happen.

Kim Dokja hopes it will happen.

Sunfish Bastard

Dokja pocketed his phone and followed Sooyoung who had sighed and began to walk away a few seconds ago.

His steps felt light, as if blueberry cotton candy clouds had floated down to nestle into his shoulders and lungs, making every breath taste of berries and every step weightless.

They’d walked to where Sangah was then. She’d smiled demurely and began to point out a few clothes she’d chosen.

“I really like the stitching on this one,”

APRIL 22, 20XX: 21:06 P.M.

Half an hour later, they were at the register as the clothes began to be billed. Dokja pulled his phone out, wanting to open his phone wallet app, when a notification distracted him from his motion.. He instinctively clicked the pop-up, letting the Twitter app expand.

Kim Dokja felt his breath slow.

Thud. Thud.

Dokja was well acquainted with the phrase ‘time slowed down’.

He’d experienced it many times, yes, but rather than time slowing down, to him it felt like it was always him who lagged behind. Like right now, when his frail heart started to clench painfully as vices began to constrict his veins. Joonghyuk never told him that he was going to meet with Seolwha. Why didn’t he tell him? When did they meet? Busan? Busan was an hour from home. Did he travel that far to meet her? Why were they meeting? Were they on a date? Maybe it was about their old feelings. Were they sparking up again?

But Joonghyuk didn’t tell him.

Why would he have to though?

Yoo Joonghyuk and Kim Dokja were friends. Friends for five years now, roommates for three. Why would someone go out of their way to notify their roommate about a date with an ex?

Dokja’s throat felt dry. His fingers scrolled the page automatically and his eyes— tremulous for some reason —took in the words scrawled on the page like they were verdicts.

Clicking off the page, Dokja recognized that Ah, they really did look good together.

Like the protagonist and his female lead.

There was this sort of dichotomy to them:

Black and white. Rough and gentle. Strong and delicate.

Kim Dokja was not in love with Yoo Joonghyuk. But it still stung. He wasn’t in love, but felt the pricking of frost, reprimanding him, on the tips of his fingers and nose and ears and lips and suddenly his tongue no longer tasted of honey. It assayed of cold, bitter medicine. The nauseating flavor trailed up his tongue, laving his palette with cuts and sores till Dokja finally tasted sweet, metallic blood.

He’d nicked his tongue. The small appendage darted inside the cavern of his mouth, sprawling the warm tang over the hind of his teeth, just to be licked up once again.

Because Dokja was not in love with Yoo Joonghyuk.

When Dokja came to his senses again, they were standing outside the mall. Gentle April winds whisked by and the sky embodied a swan. But heady lights illuminated the city, as vehicles sped across the streets. The thought of Joonghyuk made Dokja feel warm, except now he felt desolate.

Dokja should feel disgusted with himself.

Yoo Joonghyuk looked gentle in that picture. His face was relaxed and his eyes languid. Wavy hair billowed softly in the wind and those strong shoulders which had once looked so lonely standing up there at the top now had another pair, slender and grounding, right next to them.

Just the notion of such a sight, and his blood transmuted into tonic.

And it was idiotic because Yoo Joonghyuk’s face wasn’t seen in the picture.

But the lines of his back and loll of his shoulders would presage such an expression.

Kim Dokja could imagine that. He could make it out so well that when his eyes fluttered close, wisps of twilight colored affection bowed into ribbons and tethered around his heart strings till the musculature of his frame harmonised with the wine-soaked fabric of the ribbon. The silk plucked melodies of heartbreak as blood pumped through his arteries. The threads reached out in desperation towards Joonghyuk, begging and pleading to be able to cradle the contours of his face.

His voice came out a choked whisper as he called out to Sooyoung and Sangah. Both of them turned back, and the next second noticed the absolutely stricken mien reflecting off his eyes like jagged glass shards injected with red desperation. The corners of his eyes fringed with pink capillaries made him look almost anguished

“Let’s go out for drinks, yeah?” Dokja attempted a smile, but the curve of his lips fragmented into piteous sight; the crinkle on the rim of his eyes glimmering like gossamer wings, reflecting the flashing lights of the vehicles speeding past the road.

Sooyoung looked troubled as she began to speak. “Hey—”

“I heard a new bar opened up just a few blocks away from here.”

Sangah’s voice piped up with a warm suggestion. Sooyoung gave her an annoyed glare, to which she smoothly replied back with a cold smile.

“You. . .” Sooyoung muttered annoyedly, but then cruised towards Dokja and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him down with a zealous grin. He yelped, a helpless smile curving.

“You’re not leaving till we’re fucking wasted!”

“Shouldn’t take you too long.”

“HAH? That’s rich coming from you? Do I need to remind you about that time when you quite literally fell into that guy’s—”

“I’m not listening to you,” Dokja said decisively, making his way to Sangah, who already had the directions to the place pulled up, and wordlessly began to follow her.

“Don’t ignore me you bastard!”

APRIL 22, 20XX: 21:27 P.M.

Fifteen minutes later, they were severely underdressed for the ritziness of the club. Neon lights flashed in epileptic patterns and shapes, peeking out through slits and openings. Bass boomed from every corner. People adorned in maximalist, attention catching clothing moved without a care in the dance floor, and a line of scantily dressed individuals waited noisily outside the entrance as a few bouncers stood guard. Hooting and hollering could be heard from the outside.

“Yeah they definitely aren’t letting us inside,” Sooyoung stated blandly.

Sangah seemed a little embarrassed as she checked the details of the ‘bar’ once again.

“I’m sorry guys,” she said, doleful.

“It’s alright, Sangah, we can go to some restaurant or stall, there should be something nearby. . .” Dokja trailed off as he reassured Sangah, looking around and into the distance.

And then, Sooyoung let out a raucous noise, glee and mischief bleeding into her voice. Dokja turned to where she was facing, following her gaze to an over the top storefront. It had written on the top, in bold, dramatic font, ‘Vectordelia’. The store itself was painted black, with white, sharp, curved lines in intricate patterns that seemed to glow.

To put it frankly, it wasn’t Dokja’s scene. He’d have never imagined to be shopping in such an establishment, with all its bulky leather belts and grungy clothes.

But Sooyoung had practically hauled Sangah and him there without a word, but only an almost manic grin stretching across her face.

“I feel like I’m back in the 2000s,” Dokja said, looking left and right, just to be faced with animal print crop tops and the most embroidered boots he’d ever seen.
“What are we even doing here?” he asked Sooyoung, facing her and an equally confused Sangah.

“How haven’t you still caught on yet?” Sooyoung said, groaning as she examined a line of embellished tank tops. “We’re gonna buy clothes, bust into that club, and get black out drunk,”

And that's how Dokja found himself adorned in clunky black jeans, lying low on his hips, adorned in metal waist chains curving across a short length of his hip. Silver studs and rivets in more shapes and sizes than he could count embellished the area around the base above the seam. It looked nice, it made Dokja feel nice. It wasn’t something he’d have really worn if it was up to himself, but now that he was wearing it, he could see the appeal of dressing in such a way.

The real problem was the top. Because he had on the tightest white, t-shirt he could fit in on, and that piece ended a few inches above his hips. Which meant that his waist was fully exposed.

“Sooyoung, I don’t think—”

“Come on,” Sooyoung whined, “loosen up and live a little.” She paused for a moment, looking intently between two necklaces, “And that’s pretty tame anyway,”

If this was tame, he really didn’t want to know what her idea of the opposite was.

“I think you look wonderful, Dokja,” Sangah complimented with a genuine smile, herself wearing a gorgeous looking dress.

“And I thought we were gonna get drunk in a bar.”

“Okay, we get it, now change fast, we need to go and bill all this.”

A change of clothes, and just a few minutes later another change into the same garments, the three of them were huddled together towards a corner of the store, pressed together to catch a glimpse of themselves in front of the mirror.

Kim Dokja was now also wearing a necklace, for some reason. Sangah told him it’d look nice, so he graciously accepted.

“I have some makeup on me,” Sooyoung announced as she pulled out a hefty pouch from her bag.

After putting some make up on for themselves, both Sooyoung and Sangah turned to him, blinking almost dazedly for a moment.

“Oi, you rat, come here.”

“What? Why?”

“Just come here! Goddamn. . .” Sooyoung grumbled as she pulled him closer.

Forcing him to sit down on a stool, both got to work.

APRIL 22, 20XX: 22:21 P.M.

The club was absolutely thrumming with this invisible energy. People were bobbing their heads while having the night of their lives on the dance floor.

Sooyoung had dragged Sangah off to the platform after three or so drinks, leaving Dokja behind. He was the one who suggested it anyway.

He was here for a drink. God knows he needed it.

He couldn’t get that image off his head, like the sight was seared into the back of his eyelids. The words replayed like a broken cassette tape.

They really did look like they were made for each other.

It was his fourth drink of the night, or was the fourth the last one? He couldn’t tell.

The bartender slid across a drink, even when he hadn’t asked for anything, only giving him a secretive smile.

Dokja still took a sip. He wasn’t too well versed in the area of alcohol, preferring to not drink whenever he could. But sometimes you just needed it.

He could taste peaches first, then apple, which was overpowered by the intensity of gin and brandy. God, was it strong. . .

Kim Dokja could feel his head grow foggier, and his eyes turned bleary. His face was definitely flushed by now. The thumping of music seemed to grow fuzzy, and everything tingled.

He hiccuped once, a clipped lilt of his chest and called out to the bartender.

“C-can I have another one of— hic —this?” his voice was higher, just a little slurry.

“It’s a cocktail,” the man replied, his voice smooth, “Angelface. Looked like it’d suit you,”

“Oh, ‘s nice. . .” Dokja’s brain was doing that swirly thing it did whenever he had too much alcohol during those absolutely terrible work dinners. Working as a contract worker in Minosoft truly had scarred him.

He was fresh out of university, with a hell load of debt, desperate for a job. He’d applied to almost all the companies he was able to, but was unable to get in. Even with his major in CompSci, many game companies were hesitant to accept him still. So when he’d gotten an acceptance call from Minosoft, even if it was for an office worker position, he’d accepted without question.

( Kim Dokja didn’t really know what spurred him to take game development as a career option. It just was him majoring in Computer Science, with a minor in Literature. Dokja wasn’t really the one to write stories of his own, so although he was a ‘Reader’ to his core, he didn’t think of going towards Literature as a focus.

Not that he could grant himself that lenience. He had next to nothing to his name. It was only while laboring part-time jobs during all of high school, working himself to the bone to even have a chance of getting into college, did it truly dawn on Dokja the reality of what sort of life he’d live.

He understood that his childhood was not that of a loved child. That he would not be granted all those gifts and moments the child next to him in kindergarten would have. Kim Dokja would not be able to play as freely, he wouldn’t feel a father’s hands picking him up and twirling him around, raising him to the sky so that he’d be able to see the sunrays peering through blotchy clouds shyly. Wouldn’t lick the melting ice-cream off his stubby fingers as the leaves painted shadowed mosaics onto his hands and arms and clothes in pretty patterns unlike the reality of the marred canvas of his skin, salty with sweat and tears as his mother wailed and father raised his arm to strike—)

The bartender placed the drink in front of him with a quiet clack.

Dokja had to blink a couple times to level himself. Alcohol did this. Why was he even here? He didn’t like it. He hated this, he hated himself. He kept doing this thing. Kept trying to cope and now it had brought him to this club where he’d simply let himself go.

Was Dokja becoming like him?

Blood is always thicker than water.

In the quietest of nights when even the roads had become silent for minutes on end Dokja couldn’t help but wonder if it would only take a spark. A bit of rage and pain and a timed sip of alcohol till he became the man he despised the most.

Kim Dokja downed the drink in one go.

The brightness of his phone screen burned his eyes as Dokja switched it in uncoordinated motions. He wanted to talk to Joonghyuk-ie. Joonghyuk-ie would come and pick him up right? It was 11:46 P.M. and Dokja couldn’t think straight.

He clumsily tried to press on the icon to open up his phone app, and missed it amazingly. Instead, Twitter popped up.

Ah. That was what brought him here.

Kim Dokja, whenever he wanted to stop worrying about an issue, found the most successful solution to that was to ignore it. But the problem with the solution was that one would also realise that when you remember it again, your dopamines crash further below.

Scrolling by the thousands of tweets, Dokja felt dread creeping up his bones. Tendrils of black ice ascended till they got to the tissue of his neck, chilling the muscles of his body. The mass extended outwards, breaching through vessels of veins and arteries; causing black capillaries from the monster’s own green body to imprint onto the thin, taut skin of his neck.

Kim Dokja had no right to feel this way.

He has no right to read about people proclaiming their new devotion to Joonghyuk and his ‘wife’ and feel pain.

He has no right to see and despair over the praises they throw Joonghyuk’s way, congratulating him about how ‘they make such a perfect match’.

He shouldn’t feel that sick sense of satisfaction when few talk of how it makes no sense.

Yoo Joonghyuk was always so good to Dokja.

Without him, Dokja didn’t know how he would have survived all those hellish times.

But through all that, would this be the way he’d repay Joonghyuk back?

Would Dokja conceal all these ugly feelings inside his heart and attempt to go on with himself as if his soul wasn’t already oozing its life out to Joonghyuk, for Joonghyuk, as if his blood didn’t sing and curl in affection whenever he saw a crook of his lips or a twitch of his brow, like a flutter of his lashes and the shift of his hair didn’t make Dokja yearn to touch, to feel, to adore.

Kim Dokja probably looked like shit already. Just as he was about to call the bartender for another round, Sooyoung’s voice piped in.

“Dokja? Are you still drinking?” her voice was tinged with concern. Dokja’s countenance must have been quite an indicator that he was going through something because her face shifted in immediate worry.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? You never—”

She cut herself off then, her eyes trained on the wording of the post standing bright on Dokja’s screen. He had not switched his phone off, and Sooyoung’s eyes zeroed in on it.

Ah. Did it have to be that one?

Why was Dokja staring at that, could he not have been looking at a more subtle post? Now she knows.

It was obvious with the way Sooyoung’s face shifted. Pity and sympathy coloring her visage.

“You,” she paused, “why don’t you try and confess?”

He was embarrassed; no, ashamed. But he’d rather hear Sooyoung’s teasing than be the victim of her pitiful glances. Like he was in need of consolation for being in such a pathetic position.

But Sooyoung sounds genuine. Which makes the shift in the conversation worse.

“I really don’t, Sooyoung,” but Kim Dokja does.

“For how much longer are you going to lie to yourself?”

“I’m not,” the words felt like ash melting onto his tongue.

“Why won’t you confess, just tell him. Do you really believe he’d hate you? You know—”

Dokja bit his tongue.

“—you’re hurting yourself too!”

Dokja lowered his eyes. How had the atmosphere changed so fast?

“Look at yourself, Dokja!”

Sooyoung looked pained. Dokja’s eyes were swollen and his features were pale. There was something about Dokja’s eyes that made them a window into his soul. When he was open, in such a state, his eyes could hide nothing. And just by those two organs, his entire expression seemed to appear crumpled.

“For how much longer are you going to keep this up?”

His voice came out as a whisper when he spoke, “I can’t,”

“What?”

“I can’t tell him,” Joonghyuk was gentle. He loved and he cared and he was so tender to him. Yoo Joonghyuk wouldn’t hurt him. Dokja knew that.

Yoo Joonghyuk was far too mellow to cause that sort of pain. He might be concise and blunt but he wouldn’t willingly be the cause of pain to him. And they’d known each other for five years now. That time should factor too, should it not?

There was a sort of warmth that came with knowing Joonghyuk— loving Joonghyuk. He could throw the phrase out casually in his head but those were words only Kim Dokja could utter, could experience, could even dare to think of. Because it could only be Dokja who would ever love Joonghyuk so absolutely.

He feels it seep into the marrow of his bones and settle there, a soft pressure reminding him that there was a person in this wretched world who was compassionate enough to save a boy as wretched as himself. Like tendrils trailing up to wrap around his neck lovingly Dokja had let this love consume him. Was it not him who had given in to take more, more, more, more, and more till he’d grown drunk and greedy for just a little bit more.

He was ashamed of himself. Kim Dokja was ashamed of himself.

He was ashamed of waking up every morning to catch glimpses at Joonghyuk in his loungewear looking soft, softer than the cotton candy pink clouds that had littered the sky the day Joonghyuk said that he wasn’t alone. His eyelashes parted like thick, velvet drapery to let the light inside but instead came Dokja’s soul, crawling inside like a newborn foal with broken limbs and gashed flesh.

But could you blame him? Could you blame Dokja for wanting and loving and adoring till it hurt, till the fondness seemed to ooze from his chest and bones and eyes till his body weeped in yearning, because Yoo Joonghyuk made Dokja feel like he wasn’t just that fifteen year old boy who couldn’t take it any longer.

So Kim Dokja would let this feeling remain with him.

“Why?”

“I can’t.”

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural for someone like Joonghyuk to end up with someone like him. Even if they did, Dokja knew it wouldn’t last. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t correct. Dokja knew what sort of a person he was. How could he compare, how could he ever even imagine standing on the same level as Joonghyuk, standing beside him?

Had he not been selfish enough?

Kim Dokja still sat down on that small dinner table Joonghyuk picked up from some sale all those years ago, bringing it home and saying ‘It’s big enough for the two of us,’ offhandedly, just throwing out those words like it wouldn’t make Dokja’s heart clench and his breath catch till his pulse bubbled up in orange flavored fizz sparkling from that cheap orangeade in that one summer day when it was so, so hot. His fingers had been sticky and his cheek stung from the condensation on the can from when Joonghyuk had pressed it on his left cheek, putting an end to his whining and complaints about the heat and Dokja had then felt sticky inside. Staring at the two chairs placed adjacent by their dinner table, Dokja feels sticky inside. Because with Joonghyuk he felt so, so warm.

Gazing at Joonghyuk’s profile under the warm light as he ladles spoonfuls of Galbi-tang broth into Dokja’s full bowl, telling him to, ‘Eat more,’ till Dokja feels as if his eyes would be able to see only soft amber tinged fog waltzing across Joonghyuk’s frame as he peered down at him silently, fond. Because Yoo Joonghyuk was beautiful.

Kim Dokja couldn’t parse when he’d fallen in love, time without Joonghyuk seemed a hazy blur only supported by thoughts of ’Joonghyuk would like this,’; ‘Joonghyuk-ie wouldn’t do that,’; ‘Joonghyuk’s brows curve that way,’; ‘Joonghyuk’s—’; Oh even the syllables of his name sounded pretty. They’d look pretty too, strong, purposeful strokes in licorice colored ink. ‘Yu-Jung-Hyeok’; ‘Yoo Joonghyuk’; ‘Joonghyuk’; ‘Joonghyuk’; ‘Joonghyuk’; Joonghyuk; Joonghyuk-ie ; Joonghy—

“—okja!” Sooyoung worried her lower lip in frustration, her voice breaking him out of his trance.

Sooyoung parted her mouth, about to say something before Dokja interrupted.

“It’s Sangah’s birthday soon, right?”

Sooyoung sucked a breath in. “Yeah, it is,” she looked defeated.

“I won’t be there for it, but let me help some way though,”

“Okay.” hesitance colored her voice.

“Okay.”