Work Text:
Sooyoung kicks him in the shin.
“Ow!” Dokja yelps, and glares at Sooyoung. He hunches over and rubs fruitlessly at the sore spot. “What was that for?”
She narrows her eyes at him with an assessing gaze as if he’s one of Gilyoungie’s particularly revolting insects and she’s ready to dissect him. “You tell me. What was that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dokja declares and goes back to poking at his food. “They overcooked the tteokbokki again.”
Sooyoung kicks him again.
“What is wrong with you?” Dokja says despairingly. He glares at her and scoots his chair further away from her to be just out of kicking distance. “Stop that. Are you insane?”
“Don’t play dumb, Kim Dokja.” She waves her chopsticks threateningly. “Tell me the truth. Why were you and Yoo Joonghyuk acting so weird?” Then, Sooyoung pauses, and puts her chopsticks down. “Weirder than usual,” she amends.
He contemplates feigning innocence, but unfortunately, Dokja knows why she’s asking: a couple minutes ago, Yoo Joonghyuk walked into the cafeteria. On a normal day, Dokja would sidle up to him for a chat or steal his food—or something equally annoying—until Joonghyuk would get annoyed and escape.
Today, Joonghyuk walked up to their table unprompted. He said, “hn.” Dokja evaded eye contact, nodded back in greeting, and then let out a breath of relief once Joonghyuk left, as silent and sudden as he arrived, all the whilst Sooyoung was watching them.
Dokja weighs his options and decides to play dumb anyway. “We weren’t acting weird. That’s how we always are,” he tries.
Sooyoung rolls her eyes and scoffs. “I know he likes to pretend he’s Uchiha Sasuke 2.0 or whatever, but that was not normal— wait.” She sits up suddenly, her eyes wide with the shock of a sudden epiphany.
“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong,” Dokja interrupts.
Like always, Sooyoung ignores him. “You fucking sly dog, Kim Dokja. You finally did it, didn’t you?”
“No—”
“You finally slept with your hot roommate, huh?” Sooyoung’s grin is maniacal as she leans forward. “You fucking slept with Yoo Joonghyuk! That’s why you’re both so awkward with each other right now, isn’t it?”
“I’m telling you, no—”
“Oh, come off it! You’ve been thirsting over him since first year, you horndog!” A satisfied look makes its way onto Sooyoung’s face. “I’m proud of ya, y’know. I was scared you’d be a virgin forever.”
This time, it’s Dokja’s turn to kick Sooyoung. For good measure, he stomps on her toes and hisses, “I did not fuck Yoo Joonghyuk, are you crazy?”
Sooyoung curses and kicks him harder. The yelp he lets out definitely attracts them a few questioning stares from the other students in the cafeteria, and his face heats with embarrassment.
In a quieter voice, he tries again. “Seriously. We didn’t— and what do you mean I’ve been thirsting over him, I would never— ruin the sanctity of our perfectly harmonious and cordial relationship as roommates—”
“Ugh,” Sooyoung cuts in with a roll of her eyes for good measure. “Give it up.” She wads up her napkin and throws it at Dokja. “If it’s not that, then why did you go all weird and pink in the face when he came up to us earlier? And why did he walk up just to grunt at you like a complete wacko?”
Dokja sinks down in his seat. He curses his pale skin, which is undoubtedly doing a poor job of hiding his furious blush right now.
“We didn’t sleep together. Or anything like that.”
“Then what is it?” asks Sooyoung, a hint of impatience seeping into her voice.
Dokja thinks back to the night before, and his face burns with mortification. “It’s worse,” he declares.
When Dokja was 14 years old, he forged himself an employment permit and worked his first job at a laundromat that was run by the crankiest ahjumma he’d ever met. When he was 17, he emancipated himself from his relatives’ house—who had been more than happy to see him go—and lived in a youth hostel where he worked a series of underpaying odd jobs until he graduated high school.
In university, Dokja stumbled upon the perfect part-time job: it offered a flexible schedule that could adapt around his academic calendar, it gave him regular hours so he never had to worry about finding a second job, and after he moved in with Yoo Joonghyuk in their second year of university, his job was only a mere 20 minute walk away from the apartment.
Best of all? He earned up to his nose in tips with each shift. Given that tipping culture isn't prominent in South Korea, that was a major bonus.
There was only one downside, however, and that was that Kim Dokja wanted to keep his job a secret. Han Sooyoung knows, of course, by virtue of being his best friend and also an incorrigible busybody. But Yoo Joonghyuk? Kim Dokja would rather die than let Joonghyuk know where he works.
And he succeeds. At least for two full years.
But, of course, when has life ever treated Kim Dokja with kindness?
“Table 14 has just been seated,” Yoo Sangah tells him with a small smile on her face. “Party of 3.”
Kim Dokja nods and grabs the menus off of the counter. “Thanks, Sangah-ssi.”
Out of habit, Dokja runs his fingers through his hair to fix any wayward strands and readies his best customer service smile. He adjusts his clothes, pats down his apron, and surges back to the front of house towards Table 14. There’s two men at the table, one with his head ducked behind a menu and the other studying the cafe with a manic grin. The third chair at the table is empty, but a dark coat settled over it signifies that they must’ve stepped out for a moment.
“Good afternoon and welcome to Cafe Honeypeach,” says Dokja, his speech slipping automatically into aegyo as he immediately launches into his spiel. From the corner of his eye, he can see another customer approaching their table and assumes it’s the missing third party member, and he shuffles closer towards the table to make room for him to pass by. “I’ll be your cutie for today—”
The third guest sits down on the empty chair. Dokja freezes mid-script.
There’s a brief blissful second when Dokja’s mind goes completely blank. His mind feels fuzzy, the scripted words dying on his lips, and time drags to a halt as his eyes land on the third person to join the table—and his familiar face.
Horrifically familiar. Yoo Joonghyuk stares back at him. His mouth is thinned out with displeasure and his eyebrows are furrowed so deeply that if this were any other situation, Dokja would reach out to smooth it out and tease him for bringing upon an early onset of wrinkles.
But this is not any other situation. This is Dokja’s worst nightmare.
He watches with mounting horror while Yoo Joonghyuk levels him with a flat stare. He drags his gaze from Dokja’s head where a frilly headband rests atop the crown of his head, down to his bare collarbones, left exposed by the low dip of his petticoat and accentuated by the frill of apron, to his matching wrist adornments. His only saving grace is that the table covers the lower half of his body and his legs are hidden out of view, but there’s no mistaking it: Kim Dokja is wearing a maid dress.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth twists when he studies his exposed arms and the subtle flare at his waist. A look of what Dokja can only assume is disgust flashes across his handsome face.
Something unpleasant twists in Dokja’s stomach. Fuck.
“U-um, is everything okay?” The man sitting across from Joonghyuk asks in a timid voice. He tentatively fishes himself out from where he’d been plastered behind the menu. It takes Dokja only a second to recognize him—Lee Hyunsung, Joonghyuk’s friend and Jung Heewon's spouse.
His question jerks Dokja out of his thoughts. Time speeds back up again, returns to normal, and Dokja swallows back his horror. With a deep breath in, he somehow manages to muster a feeble smile and slips back into autopilot with his spiel. This time, he drops the aegyo.
He can maintain a degree of professionalism, but there’s a limit to how much he can debase himself in front of Yoo Joonghyuk.
The third man at the table—who Dokja belatedly realizes must be Kim Namwoon, the delinquent that only recently joined Joonghyuk and Heewon's kendo club—blissedly doesn't seem to recognize him, and Lee Hyunsung is too polite and too embarrassed to say anything. But there’s no hiding from Joonghyuk. Whether he’s tactfully keeping quiet or he’s been disgusted into silence, Dokja doesn’t know.
But for the rest of their stay at the cafe, Dokja profusely ignores any eye contact with Joonghyuk, and profusely pretends that he doesn’t feel Joonghyuk’s silent gaze on him the whole time.
When Dokja finishes relaying the story to Sooyoung, she bursts into a shrill witch’s cackle. Completely ignoring Dokja’s attempt to shush her, she clutches her side like she’s in pain from the schadenfreude. Briefly, he contemplates jabbing his elbow into her side.
“Oh my god!” Sooyoung gasps out, deftly evading Dokja’s hands when he tries to slap his palm over her mouth instead. “Oh my god! Who woulda thought that Yoo Joonghyuk would step foot into a maid cafe?”
“I don’t think you’re understanding the gravity of this situation,” Dokja says, grimly.
“A fuckin’ maid cafe!” Sooyoung cackles. “Why was he there?”
That’s a great question. Dokja would also like to know why Yoo Joonghyuk was a patron of Cafe Honeypeach. With his movie-star looks alone, it’s rare for the cafe to see customers of his visual standing. He stood out enough that Dokja could overhear Min Jiwon gossiping to Sangah about that handsome man afterwards.
As his roommate—and yes, perhaps as what one would consider as Joonghyuk’s friend—Dokja knows him well enough that even if it weren’t for Joonghyuk’s face, a maid cafe would be one of the last places you would ever find him. Reticent to a fault and more grim than any student-in-their-20s should be, Joonghyuk simply does not have time for shenanigans like a maid cafe.
It simply makes no sense that he would visit a maid cafe. The only reasonable answer is that one of his friends must have forced him.
Sooyoung continues waxing hypotheticals: “Hey, isn’t he a gamer or something? Do you think he has a—” Her face nearly splits apart from the width of her grin. “—waifu?”
"I never want to hear that word coming from your mouth again," says Dokja after a brief pause.
"Waifu, waifu, waifu," she chants loudly, with none of the maturity she should possess as a 22 year old. "I bet your loverboy has some weird hentai fetish. Tentacles, for sure."
Dokja gives her a shrewd look. “Aren’t we talking about Yoo Joonghyuk?”
“You never know. I’ve been telling you since first year, that guy has a dark side to him.”
“I thought we both agreed that it’d be more likely that he’s a serial killer than an incel.”
At that, Sooyoung shrugs. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned with the fact that you live with someone who you’d accept more readily as a serial killer than as a pervert virgin creep?”
Maybe. It’s too late now, anyway. If Yoo Joonghyuk were ever to kill him, he’d have done it back when he first asked Dokja to move in with him a couple of years ago.
“That’s not the point,” Dokja says, put-upon. “The point is that he now knows about my job. The job that was a secret.”
Sooyoung takes a couple of seconds to respond this time, but when she does, she pins Dokja with a gaze that’s too sharp. “So?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. “So he knows. Why does it bother you so much? There's more to it than you're telling me, isn't there?”
Then, she pauses. Her face scrunches up in concentration. “Unless you were serious about the serial killer thing and now you’re worried he might kill you?”
Dokja ignores her last question and pushes his tray of food away from himself with a sigh. That’s just it—maybe that’s what bothers him the most: he doesn’t have an answer.
His traitorous heart hasn’t quelled its anxious fluttering since he made eye contact with Yoo Joonghyuk while wearing a maid dress, and Dokja doesn’t understand why.
Maybe, Dokja mulls to himself, he’s scared that Joonghyuk will tell everyone about Dokja’s job and doom him to yet another life of ostracization from his peers.
But as much as Yoo Joonghyuk is a bit of an uncaring bastard, he’s never been the type to use such underhanded tactics to intentionally hurt someone.
So that can’t be it. Even if that was Joonghyuk’s plan, there’s no one that he could tell that would care. Dokja is yet another anonymous student in the midst of tens of thousands other students. His only friend is Han Sooyoung.
Besides, after living together for years—and Dokja can only admit this in the privacy of his own mind—he might trust Joonghyuk with his life. It’s an embarrassing thought. Dokja forcibly suppresses that train of thinking.
Why does he care so much, then? The worst case scenario is Joonghyuk being disgusted with him. Maybe angry that Dokja’s been paying his share of the rent while wearing a frilly skirt and fishnets. There’s a possibility that he could even kick Dokja out of the apartment out of revulsion. Does he see Dokja as depraved? Has he lost Joonghyuk’s respect forever?
In any of those situations, Dokja reminds himself that he could just leave and make himself scarce. He’s spent most of his life alone. A couple of years of living in comfort with Joonghyuk shouldn’t be enough to entirely soften and erase all of Dokja’s hardened edges.
If he needs to, he’ll leave.
For some reason, though, at that thought the ball of anxiety that weighs heavy in the pit of his stomach seems to travel up his throat. It tastes bitter on his tongue.
When Dokja gets home after his last class for the day, it’s already nearly six in the evening. Like he is every Tuesday evening, Joonghyuk is in the living room. A hideous floral-printed shopping trolley, gifted to Dokja many years ago from the laundromat ahjumma, is propped next to him against the arm of the couch.
Every Tuesday evening, the two of them do their grocery shopping together. Dokja doesn’t remember when the routine first began. At first, it was at Joonghyuk’s insistence that Dokja take full responsibility for his own diet—”I’m not going to feed you, you shitty bastard”—which Dokja was all too happy to do. But after a few weeks of Joonghyuk watching Dokja forget to eat, or eating convenience store kimbap and ramyeon when he did, he started to drag Dokja with him to the store.
In retrospect, Dokja figures that Joonghyuk must’ve just needed someone to help offset those grocery costs. He’s not sure why Joonghyuk would care otherwise.
Now, it’s ritual. The sight of Joonghyuk in his usual place eases the lump in his throat. Ah, thinks Dokja in a scant thought, he doesn’t hate me enough yet to stand me up.
At his entrance, Joonghyuk looks up from his phone. His narrowed eyes land on Dokja, who’s still frozen at the door. A few seconds pass. Silence drags out between them, and the narrowed look on Joonghyuk’s face turns pinched, as if there’s something that rests on the tip of his tongue and is just waiting to be spat out.
Just as quickly, the butterflies return to Dokja’s stomach in a swarm of nerves. He panics. Dokja thinks, I’m not ready to be kicked out yet. As he always does when he’s the most nervous, Dokja defaults to his defense mechanism: bluffing.
“Yah, Yoo Joonghyuk,” he calls out while he ducks down to remove his shoes, hoping it’ll disguise the tremor of anxiety in his hands. “What did I say about skulking in the dark like that? One day, you’ll give me a heart attack and then you better admit me to a top university hospital.”
Joonghyuk stands up. Dokja catches sight of his pinched eyebrows, his dark eyes swooping down to where Dokja’s unlacing his shoes. He seems tense. It’s hard to tell when Joonghyuk is hardly ever relaxed.
“Where are you going,” says Joonghyuk.
Bastard never learned how to inflect his voice appropriately when asking questions. The familiarity of it shouldn’t induce such an instinctive response in Dokja, but it does and he relaxes—just a miniscule percentage more.
“Gotta use the bathroom. I’ll be back in a second. Make sure to grab the flier on the fridge. Persimmons are on sale!” Dokja says before he scurries off to buy himself more time to regain his composure.
Maybe Joonghyuk will wait until after they’ve cooked dinner to kick him out of the apartment. There’s a flutter in his stomach; Dokja doesn’t let himself recognize the glimmer as something as feeble as hope.
Lost in his thoughts, he misses the subtle way Joonghyuk’s shoulders relax, and how his eyes follow him down the hall.
It’s not until they’ve returned from the uneventful grocery run that the ball of anxiety finally loosens from his throat and stomach.
The sun had long set before Dokja had escaped from the lecture hall that evening, but the pull of winter leaves their apartment kitchen even darker than usual. They don’t always cook together. Dokja has always tried to respect the kitchen as Joonghyuk’s domain, but when they returned from the store, it was Joonghyuk who handed him a bundle of spring onion and herded him towards the sink.
Tonight, the shared silence between them feels like an old friend. Dokja has never grown up with domestic rituals, unless he counted ones that left bruises and scars. This is new—but it’s also not, not after living with Joonghyuk for a couple of years. Standing in the kitchen with him, it’s easy to forget about the dogged thoughts that have followed him since Joonghyuk entered his cafe.
Surprisingly, Dokja thinks to himself, it always feels this easy when they’re cooking together. He wonders if that’s how everyone else grew up feeling; meditative and at peace, accompanied by the fragrant aroma of leftover roasted pork, a medley of root vegetables, and spring onion.
He fills each dumpling wrapper with the stir-fried mixture and hands it off to Joonghyuk. Dokja watches as Joonghyuk deftly squeezes the dough and rotates them in his palms, creating little bowls of dough that he then folds and seals the edges. They work together like this, with Joonghyuk on double-duty with gently frying the dumplings with an aged set of long wooden chopsticks.
“Kim Dokja,” Joonghyuk says at last, and maybe Dokja had been waiting for him to say something after all, because he tilts his head towards him.
The sizzle of oil particles leaping from the wok in submergence of the small batches of dumpling serves as ambient noise. Dokja passes another plate of uncooked dumplings to Joonghyuk.
Joonghyuk takes it, his sturdy hands easily spanning the circumference of the plate.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Joonghyuk says next. “You don’t need to be...”
His voice trails off. Dokja wondered what he wanted to say.
He doesn’t get a chance to ask, not that he would have, because Joonghyuk continues: “Your job. Who gives a shit.”
His crass words end with a note of finality, like there’s no room for question or argument. It’s so terribly Joonghyuk, that Dokja finally, finally relaxes. If nothing else, he thinks he can trust Yoo Joonghyuk to be exactly himself, and it’s never been Joonghyuk who’s the liar between the two of them.
Dokja doesn’t respond. “You should wear that apron Sooyoung got you for Christmas last year,” he says instead. “You’re gonna splash oil on yourself.”
Joonghyuk scowls at him. Just like that, the awful ball of misery dissipates, slowly until it’s no longer there at all.
After that, it’s as if they’ve unlocked a new level of understanding in each other.
As much as Dokja likes to tease Joonghyuk for his stoic reticence, he’s been bashed over the head by Sooyoung—sometimes literally—enough times to recognize his own reclusivity. He’s never been in the practice of sharing much about himself, doesn’t know how to wedge open those vulnerable pieces of himself, really.
Neither does Yoo Joonghyuk.
He’s learned more about Joonghyuk from the sighs he lets out when he’s had a long day at school, or from the furrow of his eyebrows when he’s stressed about a school project. He’s well-acquainted with Joonghyuk’s love for food and cooking, and the therapeutic practice he gleans from it. Dokja has learned that Joonghyuk appreciates a warm bath at night, that he trusts Dokja to manage their joint bank account to pay off the apartment.
He knows the small things, like how Joonghyuk wakes up earlier to make them both a cup of coffee and that he always remembers to add cocoa powder in Dokja’s, or how Joonghyuk will cut and peel fruit for him without Dokja even asking anymore, even if Joonghyuk acts cantankerous about it the whole time.
So, Dokja isn’t usually the type to share. Joonghyuk doesn’t typically ask. They’ve learned to mould themselves around each other through years of trial, and more hours spent in error than with success. Sometimes, Dokja thinks it’s more that they’ve both worn each other down until they’ve learned to fit together as roommates and as friends; weathered by time as if it were a tide that knocked into them relentlessly until they both turned smooth.
It’s ridiculously easy to slide into a routine, Dokja thinks, when that routine is with Joonghyuk.
Which is all to say, the first time Joonghyuk asks Dokja how work went for him feels a little apocryphal. His first instinct is to study Joonghyuk for any signs of illnesses. His second is to ask him outright.
“Do you have a fever?” Dokja says, looking up from his webnovel with suspicion seeded into every word. “Why do you need to know?”
His response earns him a disdainful glower from Joonghyuk that still manages to be a bit scary even after all these years. Dokja edges closer to his end of the couch. Not that it has much of an effect when they’re both squished together on a loveseat.
“Nevermind. Idiot.” Joonghyuk turns his head back to his Nintendo Switch and furiously mashes buttons.
If Dokja hasn’t spent hours—cumulatively—just watching Joonghyuk game while they’re hanging out in the living room, and is well-aware that he really just has freakishly quick instincts, he’d assume that Joonghyuk was just spamming buttons.
He thinks that the pinched eyebrows appear to be more severe than usual. Dokja frowns. Could it be that Joonghyuk was sincerely asking?
“Work was okay,” Dokja starts, his words coming out haltingly. He watches carefully for Joonghyuk’s expression. “Uriel-ssi—a regular—came by today. She’s always a generous tipper.”
Joonghyuk doesn’t look up from his Switch but his angry button-mashing slows down incrementally.
Incredible. Dokja’s mouth falls slack. His phone actually slips from his hand and falls to the couch cushion. For whatever reason, Joonghyuk is genuinely listening to Dokja’s lacklustre encounter of his day.
Maybe he’s bored, Dokja thinks, his mind whirring to rationalize Joonghyuk’s odd behaviour. Or maybe he’s going to use this information as retribution for the next time I forget to buy his stupid and overpriced gourmet coffee beans.
“Hm,” intones Joonghyuk.
And that’s that.
But then Joonghyuk keeps asking. Not daily, but regularly enough that Dokja stops startling from the question, and finds himself sharing more and asking more—sometimes even without prompting—and forgets why he'd been so worried about keeping his job a secret in the first place. It becomes easier to share when Joonghyuk is the one listening.
“—and then Sangah-ssi squeezed the bottle hard enough that it spurted all over the creep’s face,” Dokja tells Joonghyuk another evening. He stretches his feet out, slightly achey from standing all day at work. “I think she’d get along with Heewon-ssi, to be honest. Maybe you should recruit her.”
Yoo Sangah is incredible. He’s never witnessed anyone so capable of sowing chaos with such an innocent and guileless face. No one, not even the customer, dared to accuse Sangah of doing that intentionally. If she joined Heewon and Joonghyuk’s kendo club, she’d probably excel.
Joonghyuk’s gaze snaps from somewhere on the carpet and back to Dokja. “Does that happen a lot? Give that here.”
Dokja blinks and his lips frown in confusion. “Give what? Does what happen a lot?”
Instead of using his words like a fully capable adult, Joonghyuk grunts. Then, in one quick movement, he sweeps Dokja’s feet off the carpeted floor and unceremoniously deposits them in his lap.
Not having expected that, Dokja lets out an uncharacteristic yelp. He shrinks back.
Joonghyuk just grabs his foot and pulls it back towards his lap. “Do you get a lot of— customers...like that?”
Dokja gapes at him. “What are you doing?” his voice comes out shrill. His heart rises to a staccato rhythm, beating furiously against his ribs.
“Shut up,” Joonghyuk says. He catches Dokja by the ankle when he tries to kick out at him, his long fingers easily encircling the thin bone. “Stop that. Your feet are sore, aren’t they?”
And then, as if to prove his point, Joonghyuk slides his hands gently along Dokja’s ankle, before they settle on the arch of his foot. His thumb digs in.
Dokja lets out an embarrassing noise that sounds akin to him dying, and he slaps a hand over his mouth. His face, blazing crimson, feels like it’s on the verge of eruption. His mind goes blank. Dokja’s mouth dries out. Should he check their carbon monoxide levels? Is he hallucinating?
Joonghyuk seems to hear his thoughts because he digs his fingers in again, skilled in his ministrations as he intentionally massages the sorest parts of Dokja’s feet. His touch leaves tingling trails in its wake, and Dokja finds himself unable to process anything outside of Joonghyuk’s deft hands. No one’s touched him like this. No one touches him, ever.
“You didn’t answer me, dumbass,” Joonghyuk says, his harsh voice in contrast to his gentle touch. “Do you get a lot of customers like that?”
Dokja feels like he’s been shocked dumb into acquiescence. “Like, uh, like what?”
“Creeps.”
“Oh, um,” Dokja stares down at the strong splay of hands on the pale arch of his feet. It should be an unseemly sight. Joonghyuk should be disgusted by him. He wants to burst into flames. “Uh. Sometimes, I guess?”
It happens. Though rarely turned towards him, laughably average even in a dress, he still works at a maid cafe after all. But it’s the last thing that’s on his mind while Joonghyuk’s touching him like this. Lost in the haze of the massage and the uncalled-for touch that leaves sparks tingling up and down his spine, Dokja misses the expression that briefly darkens Joonghyuk’s face.
The next shift at Cafe Honeypeach starts out as normal.
He has his set of regulars, though not nearly as much as Yoo Sangah does, and a larger handful of customers who stride into the cafe and don’t particularly have an opinion of who serves them. It’s his fourth year at this job. At this point, he functions on autopilot.
Dokja is in the midst of a three-set aegyo when he becomes distantly aware of the swell of whispers coming from his coworkers, but it’s not until he flashes his customer service smile and retreats to the back of house with a swish of his dress that he catches snippets of their conversation.
Min Jiwon’s ears are tinted red. “Do you think he’s back for someone?” she says to Sangah. “Maybe he’s going to become a new regular?”
Sangha looks speculative. “He was served by Dokja-ssi last time, wasn’t he? Though it’s Hayoungie who’s serving his table today...”
Chills run down Dokja’s spine. He has a bad feeling about this. As he approaches the kitchen to hand off the empty plates, he slows his stride and tries to surreptitiously listen to their conversation.
“He’s so handsome,” Jiwon continues, a little breathlessly. She lets out a wistful sigh. “I wouldn’t mind if he was my regular. I’ve never wanted to write an omurice message more for anyone in my life.”
The bad feeling turns into something more akin to his fight or flight instinct. Dokja passes the dishes to the kitchen and starts to turn around.
Sangha laughs politely. “If he becomes a cafe regular, Jiwon-ssi will get a chance.”
“Look, he’s looking our way now!”
Dokja scans the front of the house, dread settling in the pit of his stomach, and—
There he is. Yoo Joonghyuk sits at a corner table with a sulky expression on his face. He’s alone this time. Even if it weren’t for the sour face and the look of disdain he trains on the menu, he would look out-of-place for his extraordinary looks alone. It’s not just Min Jiwon who has noticed him, but some of the other customers as well.
Dokja pays them no attention. Rather, he’s more preoccupied with the damning fact that Joonghyuk isn’t here by accident or happenstance this time—he’s here on purpose.
Maybe he really does need to check the carbon monoxide levels in their apartment. Dokja wonders whether he should be alarmed by Joonghyuk’s uncharacteristic behaviour. There’s no reason why Joonghyuk would be here a second time.
Except he sees the moment Yoo Joonghyuk locks eyes with him: the crease between his eyebrows smooths out and the scowl on his face softens into a little frown instead. On Joonghyuk’s face, that’s about as relaxed as he gets in public. He doesn’t acknowledge Dokja any more than that, but there’s a reassured air to him as if he’s found something he was looking for.
It only sends Dokja into a tailspin. A part of him wants to stride right up to Joonghyuk and grab him by the shoulders to give him a vigorous shake. That should set his wits about him.
He’s hindered from doing so, unfortunately, not only by obligations of professional conduct—but also because he’s flagged down by one of his tables, just behind Joonghyuk. He hurries over in his stupid ballet flats to tend to them, one hand reaching up to push back the frilly headband that threatens to slip down his face.
Just as he’s about to round the corner of the cafe, a customer scoots their chair back abruptly. Dokja swerves out of their way at the last second, but the sudden movement destabilizes him, and he barely has time to brace himself for a fall when he feels his left ankle wobble in his heels.
Strong arms wrap around Dokja’s waist. Panic squeezes at him and he lets out a gasp. His hands automatically coming up to steady himself on broad shoulders, his fingers scrabbling for purchase as he clings to the fabric material.
“Dumbass. Don’t you look where you’re going?” says an annoyingly familiar deep voice.
Life hates him. Dokja holds back an embarrassed grimace when he finally finds his balance. He looks up and meets Joonghyuk’s eyes, and then has to avert his gaze when he finds Joonghyuk looking back. His traitorous heart starts to race.
Dokja drops his hands and tries to step back. Instead of letting go, Joonghyuk slides his hands down until they’re resting on Dokja’s waist right where the skirt flares out with the fluffy layers of his petticoat. The heat of his palms sear through his uniform, almost as if they're on his bare skin instead.
“Congratulations, Yoo Joonghyuk,” Dokja says, wincing when his voice comes out more tremulous rather than the dry wit he was aiming for, “you just won an award for being a real life protagonist of a KBS romantic drama.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joonghyuk says, and before Dokja can admonish him for his utter ignorance on anything pertaining to the Korean wave, he lets go and sits back down at his table.
Dokja’s cheeks turn pink. He resists the urge to hide his face behind his hands and straightens out his skirt. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Drinking coffee.”
Indeed, there is one single cup of coffee on Joonghyuk’s table. Most people at least order a meal or a dessert. Cheapass.
“You know what I mean—oh, nevermind.” Dokja shakes his head in exasperation. “I don’t have time for your weird behaviour. I have to get back to work.”
Joonghyuk doesn’t respond and continues to sit there and peacefully sips his coffee as if he’s not the most suspicious bastard in the entire world at the moment. And Dokja is hapless but to abide by his own words and return to working. He finishes his path to his table, but not before he gives Joonghyuk a side-eye.
By the time he’s finished ringing up the bill for the customers, Joonghyuk has already left the cafe. Nothing but an empty mug of coffee and a wad of bills worth thousands of won remain on the table.
And then Joonghyuk keeps coming. At least once a week, he visits Cafe Honeypeach. Always alone, and to Min Jiwon’s delight, he never requests any specific employee. All he orders is coffee, and at first, he only stays for an hour.
He wonders whether Joonghyuk has a crush on one of the employees there—maybe Lee Seolhwa, who’s always beautiful and always respectful—but the thought leaves him with a sense of emptiness. Joonghyuk never explains his behaviour, and Dokja never asks.
(Or, at least, he doesn’t ask Joonghyuk. He tries to talk to Sooyoung about it, but she just laughs and calls him an idiot.)
Then, he begins to visit the cafe near whenever Dokja has a closing shift. On those days, Joonghyuk starts to stay longer, and then longer still—until it becomes a habit for Joonghyuk to wait for Dokja to change out of his uniform. Afterwards, they walk home together, so close that if Joonghyuk ever chose to, he could put an arm around him. It freaks Dokja out.
But perhaps even more undeniably, even as much as Dokja wishes he could deny it...
It also feels...nice.
“Ah, shit.” Dokja searches through his duffel bag once more. Nothing but his wallet, keys, and a hoodie. He pops his head out of the employee change room and flags down Sangah. “I forgot my uniform. I have to go back and get it.”
Sangah glances at the clock hanging on the wall and nods. “Ah, I’m sure I can handle opening the cafe.”
There’s only half an hour until they’re scheduled to open. It’ll take Dokja at least 20 minutes to walk back to his apartment, and then another 20 minutes to return. While he’s sure that Sangah could open on her own, Dokja frowns with guilt at the thought of it.
“It’s fine,” says Dokja, pulling out his phone. “I’ll ask my roommate to drop it off. We live close by.”
He sends a quick text to Joonghyuk. Within a few seconds, the tiny 1 next to his chat bubble disappears, signifying that Joonghyuk’s already read the text. No response follows.
Dokja rolls his eyes. “He’ll be here soon,” he tells Sangah, who looks relieved.
True to his assumptions, Joonghyuk shows up at the cafe just ten minutes before opening, then proceeds to stand at the door unmovingly and wordlessly. Dokja hurriedly lets him in, but not without a snide comment, “You look like a stalker when you just skulk like that. What are you, a vampire? Just knock next time.”
Joonghyuk ignores him and shoulders past. In one hand, he holds a small black bag that must contain Dokja’s maid uniform. He pushes it into Dokja’s hand. When Dokja reaches out to grab it, though, Joonghyuk holds on and their fingers brush.
He has to tamp down on the flare of— something that tingles under his skin at the touch. It’s not his fault, Dokja tells himself, that he’s always been more aware of Yoo Joonghyuk than anyone else on this planet, when that bastard’s practically made to be seen.
With a slight frown to hide his fluster, Dokja yanks at the bag and Joonghyuk finally lets go. “Thanks,” Dokja says, because unlike a certain someone, he has manners. He heads towards the staff changeroom. Sangah, for some reason, has the expression of someone who has reached a new stage of enlightenment as he walks by her. Dokja ignores it.
Of course, because he’s a weirdo, Yoo Joonghyuk follows him into the changeroom, close on his heels. A backward glance at him reveals nothing but a perfectly stoic face. He stares back at Dokja and gives him nothing. Typical Joonghyuk. He always does whatever he wants to do.
Dokja sighs and starts to pull off his shirt. The likely explanation is that Joonghyuk has something to say to him, and he’ll say it at his own convenience.
He’s proven right when Joonghyuk clears his throat. “Kim Dokja.”
Dokja turns his back to Joonghyuk and unzips his pants. “Yoo Joonghyuk,” he responds mockingly, as he bends over to shuck off his bottoms until he’s left in just his briefs.
Belatedly, he realizes that Joonghyuk still hasn’t responded. He cranes his head to look at him. Joonghyuk’s eyes are averted. His mouth is twisted into a scowl so deep that the only befitting explanation for his expression would be if someone told him his world has ended and he has to restart from zero, or that his little sister has tried to swallow yet another pair of scissors in class.
“Joonghyuk-ah?” he repeats.
Joonghyuk glances at his phone, and with visible effort, he relaxes a tad. “Dinner. Tonight.”
Dokja studies him for a few seconds more before he decides, whatever Joonghyuk’s problem is this time, it’s not his business. Reaching inside the bag, Dokja pulls out the white petticoat and slips it on until it’s snug around his waist.
“We have dinner together every night,” Dokja says, absentmindedly. He pulls on the maid dress and adjusts the pleated knee-length skirt until it’s to his liking.
“I’m not cooking.”
Next, he slips the frilly headdress on his head and its matching wrist adornments onto his arms. “That’s fine, I can cook tonight.”
He really doesn’t understand why Joonghyuk needs to have a conversation about this. It’s not as if they don’t take turns cooking dinner for each other on a daily basis. This has always been how they operated: Dokja hates spending money eating out, Joonghyuk hates eating food that he hasn’t cooked himself.
Dokja sits on the bench and takes out the final pieces of his uniform: the stockings and garter belt. He straightens out his leg and lifts it into the air, moving as quickly as possible as he drags the sheer, silky fabric onto his foot, up his calf, and higher still until the band is cinched around his upper thigh.
“Sooyoungie made us ojingeo-jeot yesterday,” Dokja continues and starts to pull on the other stocking. “And we still have some kimchi left. Are you in the mood for dakdoritang?”
He stands and picks up the garter belt. With the heft of his skirt and petticoat, Dokja has to maneuver the belt a little awkwardly until it sits properly on his waist. Dokja hooks the metal clasps together before tugging the clasped side to his back. Normally, he’d attach the garter first before climbing into the dress, but he can’t help but feel a tiny bit self-aware of Joonghyuk’s presence in the small room.
Dokja reaches for the clasps hanging off the garter belt and tugs on the band of his stockings until they reach the right height. He slots in the rubber nub underneath the edge of the stockings, then attaches the metal piece until they’re in place. With the ease of practice, Dokja places his other socked foot onto the bench for a better reach, adjusts the straps until they’re the right length, and clasps those belts together too.
It’s only as he finishes with the garter belt that he notices yet another drawn out silence. Dokja looks up at Joonghyuk, then does a double-take when he sees Joonghyuk staring at something on the ground, a hint of redness decorating his ears.
“Hey, don’t tell me you’re sick?” Dokja says, studying Joonghyuk’s face a little more carefully. Other than the slight flush, he looks alright. Annoyingly handsome, as always, but no worse to wear.
Joonghyuk’s eyes snap back up. “Dinner tonight,” he rasps out, with a slightly manic look in his eyes.
Dokja eyes him with concern. He seems mad. Did he do something to make Joonghyuk angry?
“No cooking. Out. I’ll text you where,” grits out Joonghyuk. And then he slams his way out of the changeroom. If only he had been wearing a cape or a long black coat, he would have achieved a dramatic swishing effect.
He leaves Dokja alone in the changeroom, blinking after him in confusion.
“He must really be sick,” Dokja mutters to himself as he slips into his heels. “That guy never wants to eat at restaurants.”
“I didn’t realize he was your...” Yoo Sangah pauses and stares straight at Dokja, her eyebrows raising, “...roommate.”
Dokja doesn’t notice the emphasis she places on the noun, distracted by the cup of royal milk tea he’s brewing for one of his favourite regulars. He doesn’t know his name, but the man has beautifully bleached hair and tends to wear a golden headband to pin back his long tresses.
He nods. “Since second year, once I returned from the army. Although I first met him when we were in first year.”
“Ah,” Sangah says. There’s a heftiness to that note that’s lost on Dokja. “Everything makes a lot more sense now, Dokja-ssi.”
Dinner, as it turns out, turns out to be closed. The barbeque restaurant Joonghyuk takes him to is under unexpected renovations, and the abrupt wrench in plans seems to leave Joonghyuk nearly as angry as the time Dokja caught pneumonia in the winter.
(That time, Dokja really thought Joonghyuk was going to kill him for being a waste of time and space. Joonghyuk took a full week off of work at the PC Bang just to nurse Dokja back to health, cooked congee and chicken ginseng soup and swaddling him with his own blankets to keep Dokja warm. There’s no small part of him that doesn’t still feel indebted.)
That is to say, he looks vaguely enraged but mostly just miffed. An understated reaction from anyone else, but Dokja can’t help the twinge in his heart and thinks, ah, for some reason, this guy was really looking forward to this.
Joonghyuk must have been really hungry. His broad shoulders hunch a little, and even with the barely discernible change in his expression, Dokja’s reminded of a lost puppy that’s been abandoned by his family. If the puppy was a wolf, maybe. Or perhaps a particularly dangerous cryptid.
Aish. Dokja can never make himself leave this guy alone, can he? In the time he’s known Joonghyuk, there’s one thing that he’s discovered about himself: somehow, somewhere in his genetic makeup or something, Dokja is hardwired to pay attention to Joonghyuk. He hates to admit it to anyone, least of all himself, but there’s always one sentiment that rises into his mind, unbidden and instinctive, whenever he sees Joonghyuk unhappy. And that is the desire to fix it.
He checks Naver Maps for the closest grocery store to them, and locates an E-Mart nearby. “Let’s go,” Dokja says to Joonghyuk.
“Where?” Joonghyuk grunts, still eyeing the restaurant sign like it’s a personal attack on his morals.
Dokja rolls his eyes and starts to leave. When Joonghyuk doesn’t move at first, he grabs Joonghyuk by the crook of his elbow and drags him towards the bus stop.
“Let’s go home. Didn’t I say I’d cook?” he says. It’s impossible to not suppress that swell of warmth in his chest when Joonghyuk stares at him like this, like Dokja’s an anomaly. He likes surprising Joonghyuk. Dokja’s mouth relaxes into a loose, gentle curve. "But first, groceries."
“I like this more,” admits Dokja, as he sets the table. It feels like too much of an honest admission, and yet he can’t help himself—this rare act of truthfulness, even as he hides away the pitter-patter of his heart.
Steam rises from the fluffy white rice, two small dishes piled with Sooyoung’s kimchi and ojingeo-jeot sit on either side, and the rich aroma of the dakdoritang sits in the centre of the table. Scattered with fresh spring onion and a medley of root vegetables, Dokja picks apart what he knows are the most tender pieces of chicken and ladles it into Joonghyuk’s bowl.
Their kitchen is small but warm. Joonghyuk asks him about the webnovel he’s currently reading, and just half-smiles while he listens, the two of them curved together over the kitchen table while Dokja chatters.
Dokja wonders when he first started to associate this space as warmth. He wonders when he started thinking of this as home. When he was younger, Dokja used to think that to be his oldest dream: the irrevocable condition of creating a home. As he grew older and the dream grew more fleeting, Dokja never thought it could be within grasp.
When did Joonghyuk become...
Dokja freezes. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Joonghyuk look at him. An unasked question rests on his lips. Dokja has to turn away.
He stares at the bowl of rice in his hands. “More than a restaurant, I mean,” and doesn’t let himself fill in the gaps he left between those words.
Somehow, though, he thinks maybe Joonghyuk gets it.
A pause builds between them; a sense of quiet. Then, Joonghyuk takes the bowl from Dokja’s hands. In the brief half-second where their fingers touch, Dokja shivers.
“Thanks for the food,” Joonghyuk says. His voice is strange, a little soft. Quietly, and nothing more.
Breakfast the next morning is a quiet time for the both of them. It once was a rarity, with their sometimes mismatched schedules, and it felt like Dokja was trespassing into Joonghyuk’s time and space if he took up the kitchen in the mornings. But somehow, this too has slipped into their routines without Dokja realizing until now.
Joonghyuk’s on his laptop, looking at homework, as Dokja checks through their fliers and sips at his cocoa. Lotte Mart has pork belly on sale. He makes a mental note to stop by after classes on his way to the cafe; Joonghyuk would like some, he thinks, absentmindedly. Maybe he can pick up some snacks too, even though they’re not on sale. The other day, Joonghyuk mentioned he’ll be going on a training trip with his kendo club. It would make the kids happy. Just this once, he could buy them without a sale...
“I like these moments the most too,” says Joonghyuk, eventually.
Dokja looks up. “Sorry?”
Joonghyuk takes on a constipated face. “Nevermind.”
Dokja waits a moment for him to continue speaking, but Joonghyuk’s already turned away. He must have heard wrong. There’s no way...
His heart skips a beat, despite his own denial.
“Your...roommate is back again,” Sangah tells him. “He’s in your section today.”
Dokja wrinkles his nose. “Does that jerk not have anything better to do with his time?” he mutters to himself.
Somehow, Sangah appears amused. “You two are so sweet,” she says, quite nonsensically in Dokja’s opinion. Did she not hear him insult Yoo Joonghyuk just now?
“Wait a minute—”
Seolhwa pokes her head behind the coffee bar. “Sangah-yah,”
“Yes, unni!” Sangah leaves Dokja with a smile.
Huh. Strange. He shakes it off, and follows them back out to the floor. His eyes find Joonghyuk immediately—he could probably find that attention-grabbing bastard in the middle of any crowd—and he grabs a menu on his way towards Joonghyuk’s table.
“You’re going to order just a coffee again, aren’t you?” Dokja says by way of a greeting. He places the menu on the table, then puts his hands on his hips.
Joonghyuk drags his eyes from bottom-up until they land on Dokja’s face. His mouth twists into a facsimile of a smirk, and Dokja feels the sudden urge to squirm. “If you already knew, then why ask?”
If Dokja wasn’t at work right now, he’d attempt to smack the back of Joonghyuk’s rude head.
“Jerk,” he says instead, but still silently gives Joonghyuk a free refill an hour later when the man’s still at his table, typing away at a school assignment on his laptop.
At lunchtime, a flood of customers fill the small cafe. Dokja expects Joonghyuk to leave during the rush to escape the crowd, but to his surprise, he moves towards the coffee bar instead so that he can relinquish his table to a small party.
Dokja has to repress the pleased smile he wants to make when he notices.
Halfway through the lunchtime rush, one of Dokja’s favourite regular customers is seated in his section, right next to the coffee bar. The man with the flashy blond hair is alone again, and already smiling up at Dokja as he approaches his table.
“Maknae-yah,” he says in greeting, even though Dokja has reminded him plenty of times that Jang Hayoung is now the newest member of their team after joining a month ago. The man’s eyes light up with delight at the sight of Dokja, and it makes him nearly as handsome as Yoo Joonghyuk. “I was hoping you’d be working today.”
Dokja smiles at him. One hand comes up to scratch his cheek, always unsure of how to respond to his praise. “Lunch plate C today again, our cherished guest-nim?”
“You know me best,” he says with a tilt to his head, a hint of a teasing smile flirting at the corner of his lips. A couple strands of fall loose around his forehead, and the man slides off his golden headband to comb one hand through his long blond hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. “With your magical spell, of course.”
Dokja follows the movement with his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without that on,” he says, curious.
“This?” the man says, lifting the headband in the air. “I got it as a gift many, many years ago. I’m not so sure it suits me anymore though.”
“Why not?”
The man hums and glances at the headband in his hand. Up close, it’s constructed much more ornately and delicate than Dokja realized. “To tell you the truth, I think you would look prettier in it than me.”
Then, before Dokja can react, he gets up from his chair. With a gentle hand, he slips the headband onto Dokja’s hair right over where the frilly hairpiece sits, and smooths back a wayward lock of Dokja’s hair that dislodges from the movement.
“There,” he says, sitting back down, “just as I thought, it suits you better.”
Belatedly, Dokja jerks back in surprise. The back of his neck prickles with heat at the unexpected touch and he finds himself floundering for a response. “I—”
“Kim Dokja,” a low voice says from behind him.
Surprised, Dokja whirls around and nearly bumps right into the familiar and sturdy chest of Yoo Joonghyuk. He cranes his head up to see Joonghyuk’s pinched face; he’s standing closer to him than expected. His heartbeat quickens and he immediately takes a step back.
“More coffee,” Joonghyuk says, in the same grave tone he used to call his name. His eyes flit to the side to something or someone behind Dokja. Then, he says something weird: “Please,” he adds.
Dokja’s jaw drops. “You really are sick, aren’t you?”
Joonghyuk glares at him, or maybe somewhere above his eyes. “Kim Dokja,” he says, sounding pained.
“Are you stressed?” Dokja says, and he’s only being half-snide this time. “Sooyoungie can brew us a herbal supplement again.”
Joonghyuk is still staring at his head and doesn’t respond. Now sincerely a little worried, Dokja slides his hand along the middle of Joonghyuk’s strong back and starts to gently herd him back to his seat. “Sit down, you oaf. I’ll get you tea instead.” He then turns to give his customer a placating smile and adds, “I’ll be right back with your order. Ah—” Dokja goes to tug the headband off.
The eyes of the blond man flits between Joonghyuk and Dokja. A smile grows on his handsome face and he laughs quietly, like there’s an inside joke that only he understands. “Keep it. It’s a gift, maknae-yah.”
Underneath his palm, Joonghyuk’s back tenses.
Poor Yoo Joonghyuk, Dokja thinks, his school project must really be stressing him out.
The work day finishes without much fanfare, but before any of them can escape, their boss decides to play the role as a team leader and drags them out to a nearby restaurant. If there’s one thing that Dokja detests in this world, it’s the culture of after-work drink gatherings.
“Dokja-ssi,” a soft voice calls out, followed by slim fingers that shake his shoulder, “Dokja-ssi, wake up.”
Dokja peels his face off the table and blinks at the voice, bleary-eyed and dazed. “Sangah-ssi?”
Sangah shakes his shoulder once more. “I texted Sooyoungie for you. It’s time to go home.”
“Ah?” Dokja blinks again, his eyes sweeping around the table.
Min Jiwon is still drinking their boss, Han Myungoh, under the table, while Jang Hayoung has already put on her jacket and looks ready to fight the winter air. He doesn’t see Lee Seolhwa anywhere and assumes she’s already left, as poised as she came.
Dokja looks back at Sangah and the beanie tucked around her ears. “How are you—?”
“I called a taxi, don’t worry.” Her eyes crinkle into a smile, a little more mischievous than her usual polite ones. “You know I’m the best drinker there is. Come on, let’s get up now.”
He pulls himself together through his drunken haze and haphazardly shrugs on his coat. He slips into his feet into his shoes and curls his toes against the slide of his stockings, left on even after he changed out of his uniform to guard against the cold. While Sangah leaves him alone to bid farewell to the rest of their team, he trudges out the door of the restaurant.
Instead of Han Sooyoung, however, he finds Yoo Joonghyuk with an umbrella in hand. He’s not alone. Lee Seolhwa is next to him, her pale hand clasped around her own umbrella and the other tucked into her pocket. Her body is turned towards Joonghyuk and their voices are too soft for Dokja to hear their words but, Dokja thinks, the image of them side-by-side is striking.
Joonghyuk’s sculpted features are comparable to Seolhwa’s cool beauty, their contrasting hair colours a perfect complement to one another. Even shrouded in the darkness under the smattering rain, the two of them could be laid out on a magazine spread. They look good together.
Dokja’s gaze hovers over Seolhwa’s small smile and Joonghyuk’s smooth face, clear of any irritation, and something burns at the back of his throat like hot coal. He coughs, trying to dislodge the unease that sinks to the bottom of his stomach. There’s an itch in his heart that Dokja wants to get rid of.
At the sound of his throat clearing, Joonghyuk looks up. A fleeting expression passes over his face that Dokja doesn’t know how to read, and his mouth twitches like he wants to smile.
“You took too long.” His eyes flit to Dokja’s head. “That headband’s gone.”
“Yah, Yoo Joonghyuk,” Dokja starts to say, but then pauses when he realizes he doesn’t know what else to say. He left the headband back at the cafe, but he doesn’t see any reason why Joonghyuk would care to know that.
He glances between Seolhwa and Joonghyuk and wonders whether he’s interrupting them. An emptiness builds in the pit of his stomach, along with the desire to shrink himself into a miniature size, if only to not take up space and get in their way.
But before he can make himself scarce, Seolhwa bows politely to them both. “It’s nice seeing you, Joonghyuk-ssi.” Her smile is as beautiful and friendly as ever; even though Dokja doesn’t know her very well, he’s always enjoyed her company. Joonghyuk would complement her calming and mature disposition well. “I’m glad you can take Dokja-ssi home safely,” she says, “I’ll be going now too.”
A pang hits him in the gut. “Ah,” Dokja says with a little uncertainty. “Good night, Seolhwa-ssi.”
As soon as Seolhwa leaves, Joonghyuk turns to him. His eyes are piercing even through the dark. “Why did Han Sooyoung threaten to brew me something strong enough to make me puke my guts out?”
Dokja startles, remembers his text to Sooyoung, then laughs. “Did you come here from her place?”
Joonghyuk grunts. “You two are always up to something weird.”
The cab ride home only takes them 15 minutes. The silence between them is comfortable, but Dokja can’t help the thoughts that circle through his mind. Does Joonghyuk like Lee Seolhwa? Is that why he keeps showing up at the cafe? Dokja wonders whether Joonghyuk is disappointed that he interrupted their conversation.
At some point, he must’ve fallen asleep to those swirling thoughts. He’s brought back to awareness when Joonghyuk’s stupidly big hand on his shoulder shakes him awake, and Dokja startles, knocking his head against the cab window.
“Fool,” Joonghyuk says, the faintest hint of amusement leaking through the syllable. His hand slides from Dokja’s shoulder to cradle the tender part of his head where he bumped it. “Are you still drunk?”
“No,” Dokja immediately protests, feeling the backseat spin a little even as he speaks. “Your face is drunk.”
“Idiot.”
Somehow, Joonghyuk makes the insult sound so fond. Joonghyuk’s fingers slide from the crown of Dokja’s head to his nape, tentative as if Dokja’s a back alley cat. The touch is gentle enough that it could be non-existent. It’s too affectionate of a gesture, more than Dokja can comprehend. He must really be drunk after all.
Why does it make Dokja’s heart ache a little?
“Come on. I’m not carrying you up.”
Despite his words, Joonghyuk still lets Dokja lean heavily on his shoulder as they painstakingly climb up the short flight of stairs to their apartment. He lets himself be propped against the wall while Joonghyuk reaches for his keys. His eyes fall shut.
“Dokja,” Joonghyuk murmurs, followed by the soft sound of the door opening. It takes a momentous effort to open his eyes again—and perhaps realizing that, Joonghyuk huffs and manhandles Dokja onto his back.
He flails from the sudden movement before he manages to wrap his arms around Joonghyuk’s neck. Even through the haze of inebriation, Dokja heats up with embarrassment. “Hey—”
“Kim Dokja” Joonghyuk says, and there’s an undercurrent in the syllables of his name that startles Dokja into silence. If he closes his eyes, if he lets his imagination escape him—he might delude himself into thinking it was affection.
The next few seconds pass in silence. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of Joonghyuk’s computer in their living room and the faint chatter through the wall of their neighbour’s. For a moment, Dokja is distracted by the slight swaying movements of Joonghyuk’s steps, and the reassuring hold he has around Dokja’s thighs.
“You really...Joonghyuk-ah,” Dokja murmurs, his eyes heavy with sleep. Joonghyuk’s back is strong and sturdy, warm against his cheek. If Joonghyuk responds to him, he doesn’t know; Dokja falls asleep, the layering effects of fatigue and alcohol finally taking hold of him.
That night, he dreams of cool hands helping him out of his clothes, the lightness that came from his shirt collar unbuttoned, and the gentle comfort of a hand stroking through his hair.
When he wakes up the next morning, he’s alone in his bedroom, tucked away under the blankets, stripped down to his briefs and a t-shirt. On his nightstand, he finds a filled glass of water.
Han Sooyoung punches him in the arm.
“Shit!” Dokja flinches back and cradles his arm to his chest with a baleful look. “Why do you keep doing that?”
Sooyoung looks annoyingly righteous. She props her foot up on Dokja’s bed with her hands on her hip as if she’s some Arthurian legend. “You,” she declares, “are an idiot.”
Dokja narrows his eyes at her feet. “Get your socks off my bed. That’s disgusting.”
For just a second, Sooyoung only looks at him. The corner of her mouth curls up. She slips the socks off of her feet.
“You’re going to do something gross, aren’t you—”
“Take this!” Sooyoung throws her socks at Dokja’s face. No matter how much time passes between them, Han Sooyoung always seems to bring out the child in him. The sound of her laugh rings loudly through his room; familiar and comforting in its unchanging quality, reminiscent of the only memories he has of his childhood that weren’t painful.
Dokja bites down on a smile even as he bats away her socks with a cringe. He lunges at her and vengefully smears his sullied hand over her face. She shrieks and thrashes in his grasp, squirming so violently that he almost takes a knee to the groin when he jabs her in the sides in retaliation.
“Kim Dokja, I swear to god—”
“You take this, you— ow—”
“I’m going to kill you!” Sooyoung aims another kick.
The door slams open. Dokja and Sooyoung both freeze, and simultaneously, they turn towards the entrance to his bedroom. Joonghyuk stands there, a pile of clothes cradled in the crook of his elbow. The apron gifted to him from Sooyoung is tied around his neck, and Sooyoung lets out another cackle at the glittered Kill the Cook emblazoned over his front.
“Here,” says Joonghyuk, monotonously, as he steps into the room. He hands over the neatly-folded pile over to Dokja.
Dokja entangles himself from Sooyoung and sits back on his haunches. The laundry smells like his favourite fabric softener. “Hey, you remembered to use it this time!” he says happily, sorting through the pile to put away.
“No one is as annoying as you when it comes to laundry,” Sooyoung says as she, too, straightens back out on his bed. “Nice apron, by the way.”
“Hm,” intones Joonghyuk.
Dokja gets up and shuffles over to his closet. “I picked up some persimmons on my way home with Sooyoung, by the way.” Persimmons are Joonghyuk’s favourite fruit, and they always eat their first persimmons of the winter together. “I’ll cut them up for you after dinner.”
He can hear Sooyoung making dry heaving noises in the background. He ignores her, and presumably, so does Joonghyuk.
Dokja frowns at the laundry. He looks up. “Have you seen my socks?”
Joonghyuk’s jaw twitches. “What socks.”
“For work,” he says, and makes a mental note to check their shared laundry basket later.
“Stop losing your things,” Sooyoung chimes in, her commentary as unnecessary as ever. “Is dinner ready yet,” she pauses, and her face lights up with a foreboding smile, “—oppa?”
Oppa. Dokja pauses, a chill going down his spine in utter horror and revulsion.
Joonghyuk looks as terrified as he feels. His mouth is set in a grim line and he holds the air of someone who’s just experienced a grievous injury and is trying to hide it. “I’ll fucking kill you if you ever call me that again,” he warns Sooyoung, and promptly stalks out of the room, his stupidly enormous shoulders hiked up to his ears.
Sooyoung grins with maniacal delight and laughs with enough force that her shoulders shake. “The look on his face—”
“And dinner’s ready,” calls Joonghyuk through the door. An object flies out of the air and whacks her in the head, followed by Dokja’s door slamming shut. It's Sooyoung's discarded socks, balled up and rolling a few inches on the ground before it comes to a stop.
“The look on your face,” he crows, lips quirking without his permission.
Sooyoung rolls her eyes and flops backwards onto his bed. “Shut up, Kim Dokja. That’s what I was talking about earlier. This is why you’re an idiot.”
“Why,” Dokja says, deciding to entertain her for once, “exactly am I an idiot?”
“You and Yoo Joonghyuk.” Sooyoung rests her cheek on her hand. “You know you’re married, right?”
For a moment, Dokja freezes. Not just at her words, but at the surefire expression on her face as she peeks up at him. It’d be easier to pass her words off as jest, if not for the assessing gaze she levels at him. Like this is a test and she’s waiting to see if he’ll pass.
“What are you talking about?” Dokja says, mustering a laugh that sounds as incredulous as he feels. “Where did that come from?”
“You’re practically dating,” says Sooyoung. “He literally does your laundry for you—”
“I do his, too,” Dokja protests. “We take turns. We have a system.”
“That’s worse, Kim Dokja.”
Dokja fidgets, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “We’re just good roommates.”
“You do all of your grocery shopping together. You literally have dinner together practically every night, and he picks you up from work.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“You go out of your way to buy him small things just because you know he likes them, even though you’re miserly in every other way,” Sooyoung continues, “Joonghyuk wakes up early on purpose even though all he does is game all night and have classes late. Just so he can make you hot chocolate to start your day.”
Dokja swallows down the unease that rises in his throat like bile. “Sooyoung—”
“You have a joint bank account. Not even Jung Heewon and Lee Hyunsung have a joint bank account together, and they’re actually married.”
Dokja can’t take it anymore. “Han Sooyoung.”
At the sharpness in his tone, Sooyoung stills, her next words dying on her lips. The next few seconds pass in silence. When she speaks again, her voice is gentle.
“Is that such a bad thing?”
Yes, he wants to say. But it’s neither good nor bad; it’s an abstraction that holds no moral value to it, simply because it doesn’t exist. He’s not dating Yoo Joonghyuk. There’s nothing between them, no lines in which they need to read between. This is a simple fact.
So, Kim Dokja doesn’t think about it.
Her eyes soften. Somehow, that’s worse. Dokja turns away from her pity. “Come on,” he says instead, and fights to keep his voice steady. “He said dinner’s ready.”
Dokja is dozing on the couch when Joonghyuk comes in. The clatter of keys echo faintly in the kitchen, then he feels the couch sink under Joonghyuk’s weight when he sits next to him. His presence is a comforting warmth.
“Welcome home. How was the drive?” Dokja asks, with a stretch of his arms overhead. Joonghyuk hardly ever uses his car, but Sooyoung lives on the other side of the Han River and this late at night, they’d rather drive her home than have her commute.
“We had to wait almost 10 minutes for the car to warm up,” Joonghyuk tells him. His long fingers comb through Dokja's hair, still damp from the shower he took after Joonghyuk left to drive Sooyoung home. “Did you fall asleep while reading again?”
“Mm,” says Dokja. He shifts, sitting up just enough to lean against Joonghyuk. Joonghyuk doesn’t seem to care—he angles himself so that Dokja can rest more comfortably against him. “Oh, I also found my socks for work.” The sheer stockings were in his drawer. Dokja swore they weren’t there when he looked earlier, but he must’ve overlooked them somehow.
Joonghyuk’s fingers stutter, then resume their movements. “Dry your hair. You’re going to get sick again, you fool.”
“It’ll be fine,” Dokja says, dismissively. He’s too comfortable to bother.
Joonghyuk grunts and his hand slides down to cup Dokja’s shoulder instead. He gently pushes Dokja back until he’s resting against the cushion, and the extra weight on the couch disappears when he gets up.
He’s only gone for a few seconds—he returns, and signals his entrance by dropping something on top of Dokja’s head. It takes a moment of disorientation for Dokja to realize that Joonghyuk grabbed a towel, and is now rubbing his hair dry with slow, smooth motions.
“Hey,” he complains, but he leans into Joonghyuk’s touch anyway, “I’m not Yoo Mia, you know.”
“Of course not,” says Joonghyuk, and he sounds as equally exasperated as he is fond—such an older brother type, that guy. “Mia takes better care of herself than you do.”
Dokja ignores the jibe. He relaxes again, his eyes falling back shut as they chat away about everything and nothing: Dokja’s work schedule, their grocery list for next Tuesday, and a funny story he heard from Lee Jihye about Shin Yoosung the other day. They talk about Joonghyuk’s midterm project for his game dev class, his rant on the latest patch on Overwatch 2, and the upcoming kendo club trip with Jung Heewon and the kids.
Joonghyuk’s voice is low, quiet and soothing. Neither of them are particularly talkative, but there’s an ease between them that has snuck up on Dokja over the years. Silence never feels like a loaded sentence, but neither does talking. He breathes—the words come out—and there they stand, given to Joonghyuk in exchange for his thoughts. Aside from Sooyoung, Dokja has never found it so easy to share his life with someone.
Sharing a life. A home. Dokja’s never had a home before, not even when he was a child. He could say that he’s lived in a lot of places—the shared hell that was his childhood house, the rotation of distant relatives that passed him around his adolescence, the skeevy hostel that had more cockroaches than hot water available, and his first-year dorm room.
Now, he has an apartment. Dokja has a home. He has someone to come home to. Someone who cooks for him and with him, and knows what he’s like when he’s tired from work, stressed from assignments, and embarrassingly awkward with people even when he tries to hide it. He has someone who made the effort to learn how Dokja likes to do his laundry or drink his coffee. There’s someone in this home, in this precious space, that knows Dokja more than he lets anyone else in—and Joonghyuk is still okay with him.
Clarity burns in his mind and in his heart for one long, painful moment. Oh, he thinks to himself. A quiet admission, and a helpless one. His mind flits back to Sooyoung’s words from earlier that evening. Maybe it has dislodged something inside of him, despite his very best efforts. Oh.
The towel on his head disappears. The abruptness draws Dokja to the present and he tilts his head back on the couch cushion, eyes sliding open to catch Joonghyuk. His gaze is distracted by a wayward strand of Joonghyuk’s hair, the way it curls around his ears and his temples. It's irritating. Even upside-down, Yoo Joonghyuk has no right to be so handsome.
He’s seen Joonghyuk with hair as messy as a tangled nest in the mornings, or unstyled and loose in the way it is now, and he’s struck by how soft he appears. Not just his hair, but everything—his eyes, the relaxed set of his shoulders, and the curve of his mouth as he holds Dokja’s stare. The ache comes sudden and sharp; he wants to tuck the curl behind Joonghyuk’s ear, he wants to run his hands along Joonghyuk’s jaw, he wants to reach out and...
For a moment, Joonghyuk looks inexplicably torn between—something, Dokja doesn’t know, except that his face flashes with an expression that looks like pain. His eyes drop down, down, down to Dokja’s lips. A beat passes. An agonizing beat; Dokja’s breath comes up short, his lungs not taking in enough air, and he waits.
He waits. Then, Joonghyuk’s eyes glide back up before they slide off of Dokja’s face entirely and land somewhere in the darkness. He takes a step away from the couch, the towel clutched still in one hand. “Go blowdry your hair properly, Dokja.”
Just like that, the tense atmosphere dissipates. Dokja breathes out, a sharp exhale, suddenly remembering how to take air into his lungs yet again. With a sense of relief and emptiness, he watches Joonghyuk’s broad back retreat into the shadows of their hallway until he’s left alone in their silent living room.
Kim Dokja knows how to make difficult decisions. Perhaps more than any tangible place he’s ever belonged to, that is where his real home lies—in the crux of deliberation.
He made the choice to pick up that knife when he was just a child. He made the choice to emancipate himself too young, even if it meant poverty and exploitation from landlords and employers alike. He made the hard choices, over and over again. Over time, Dokja has learned to excise; cut out one hurt for another, in hopes that it’ll hurt less.
The next morning while Joonghyuk’s in class, Dokja returns to their living room and he looks. He looks at their love-seat with one of Joonghyuk’s hoodies thrown over the back like a particularly shabby throw. His Nintendo Switch is still on the coffee table, right next to novel that he’s asked Dokja to put away at least five times. Their granny cart is tucked against one wall. Next to it, Dokja scans the contents of the bookshelves.
When they first moved in, he and Joonghyuk had dragged in those shelves from where they had been abandoned in the apartment’s garbage facilities themselves and cleaned it up. Dokja has never realized how many of those blank shelves they’ve filled up together: Dokja’s books, old textbooks that Joonghyuk has never tossed or re-sold, their sound system, a stack of Joonghyuk’s game cartridges, the photos of the three of them that Sooyoung insisted they’d display—on Jeju Island and eating sea cucumber, their trip to Busan last year, and a low-quality one taken in Sooyoung’s dorm—and a lumpy papier-mâché sculpture made by Shin Yoosung.
Dokja stands at the join between the kitchen and their living room and thinks, this is it. A culmination of a life lived held within these rooms and these shelves, and this is it.
It’s time to make the difficult decision, Dokja thinks. Hurt now, in case you hurt more later.
Despite his own decision, Dokja allows himself to be greedy for one more day.
“Did you remember to pack enough socks?” Dokja says, peering down at Joonghyuk’s duffel. “I packed some snacks too. Don’t eat them all. They’re for the kids, not you.”
Joonghyuk scowls but shoves the ziplock bag into his bag anyway. “Lee Gilyoung and Shin Yoosung are going to get cavities because of you.”
“No, they won’t,” Dokja retorts, and snatches the shirt Joonghyuk is folding out of his hands. “I taught them how to brush and floss their teeth, and I’ve never had a cavity. How many times have you taken Yoo Mia to the dentist now?”
“More than it being a result of your efforts, you know it comes largely down to genetics, right?” Joonghyuk takes the shirt back from Dokja and folds it into the duffel. “Jung Heewon said she’ll kill you if you don’t stop texting her reminders of the kids’ schedule.”
Dokja knows. Heewon certainly didn’t mince her words when he sent another message a couple hours ago, reminding her to make plenty of pit stops during the drive since Yoosung isn’t the type of child to speak up if she needs to use a restroom. He used to chaperone the training camps when Shin Yoosung and Lee Gilyoung first joined the club, and it’s a little hard to let go.
Joonghyuk must see something on his face. “You should just come. It’d make the kids happy.”
A wry smile flits at the corner of Dokja’s lips. “I’m not even an official member of the club.”
He’d never joined, but it’s how he met Joonghyuk—when Sooyoung had joined in her first year of university before quitting after a semester. In that first semester, Dokja was roped in by Sooyoung as more of an errand boy than anything due to low membership. He had helped them recruit more members—but it’s never been his club. Dokja doesn’t belong.
“Jung Heewon doesn’t care.”
“I have work,” says Dokja. “Maybe next time.”
He doesn’t know how to describe the ambiguous sense of relief when Joonghyuk nods, and finally accepts Dokja’s answer, like next time is satisfactory enough. A promise, of sorts. It’s foolish to hope it’s because Joonghyuk genuinely wants him there. Most likely, Joonghyuk is dropping the subject because he doesn’t care enough.
The pit in his stomach grows a little wider, and Dokja swallows. He looks down at the duffel bag. “Hey,” he says, “take care of the kids, okay?”
Joonghyuk pauses in his movements. “Take care of them yourself,” he says, after a moment. “Kim Dokja, you—”
“And don’t get hurt, okay?” Dokja cuts in, tilting his head back up. “You and Heewon-ssi get too competitive sometimes. It’s not that serious.”
Joonghyuk studies Dokja intently for a moment, before he says, “Then, take care of the apartment while I’m gone.”
He could also pretend that’s concern he hears in Joonghyuk’s voice. Dokja rolls his eyes to mask how that makes him feel. “I’ve lived alone longer than you.”
“Remember to go grocery shopping on Tuesday.”
“It’ll go bad by the time you’re back.”
“I’ve texted Han Sooyoung to make sure you don’t eat ramyeon or kimbap every night.”
Dokja frowns. “What?”
“And don’t stay up too late reading on that screen of yours. You’re going to need glasses soon. And your eyebags are hideous.”
“Hey,” Dokja complains, and resists the urge to touch his face out of self-consciousness. “If you’re going to talk so much, can’t you say things nicely?”
Like always, Joonghyuk ignores him. That bastard. “I’ll be home in a week.”
Dokja’s traitorous heart skips a beat, and his ears pinken against his will. Those words sound like salvation. It feels like a knife twisting in his chest. He has to swallow against the tide of yearning that rushes against him.
If he gets his way, this will no longer be Dokja’s home by the time Joonghyuk returns from the membership training. The thought doesn’t relieve him as much as he hoped it would.
Dokja starts to look for a new apartment the minute Joonghyuk leaves for his trip with Heewon and the kendo club.
As expected, the prospects for apartments in Seoul are depressing. His work at the maid cafe is only prolific enough to help him pay his share of the bills for their shared apartment—which is tiny, but still has a better location and size than most at their age—but it’s certainly not enough for the large key deposit required with most leases.
Dokja scans through his bank account and his budgeting spreadsheet; he calculates how much he might need to dip into his savings. If he sucked it up, he could afford something in Sillim or Bongcheon. The cheapest apartments there require a trek towards Line 2, but as long as he could take the subway to school and work, the additional commute would be doable. It wouldn’t be great, but...
Dokja sighs. Living with Joonghyuk has really spoiled him. Briefly, he considers finding another roommate close to their university, but the idea fills him with dread.
It was a fluke, really, that he and Joonghyuk got along so well. Sooyoung had introduced them as a bit of a joke with herself, and they certainly didn’t have a great first impression of each other. Then again, Dokja rarely made a good first impression on anyone, it seems.
But everything worked out better than he could’ve imagined. They respect each other’s space. Joonghyuk enjoys cooking and cleaning, and aside from spending too much money on games, he doesn’t have any real bad habits. He makes a decent cup of cocoa. And even as much as Joonghyuk sometimes acts irritated with Dokja, he listens to him talk about his silly webnovels even though Dokja knows he hates them, and he never rolls his eyes when Dokja spends too long at the grocery store trying to squeeze out the best deals and judiciously saves coupons, and he never makes Dokja feel stupid or pedestrian for it. In a strange, weird way, Dokja thinks they somehow fit well together.
It’s only a matter of time. The other shoe has to drop. Dokja knows himself and how difficult he is to be with; the only reason he and Sooyoung can get along is because she has just as grating of a personality—and even perhaps moreso, she grew up watching poor little Kim Dokja being beaten. He doesn’t blame her for taking him as a charity case when he’s always been greedy after all.
He can’t afford to be greedy with Yoo Joonghyuk anymore.
The screen goes black. Dokja stares at his own reflection, now visible in his laptop, and thinks about all of the apartment listings he looked at. He imagines moving out into his own place. It could be good for him. He’d have his own bathroom again with more counter space without Joonghyuk’s hair mousse and electric razor to clutter the sink. Groceries would be cheaper again. Dokja could probably go some weeks without buying any at all.
He’d have a place all to himself. Dokja would take the train home from work or from classes, and boil some water for ramyeon, and settle into a futon to read his stories. It would be just like this week, where Joonghyuk is away for training, only he wouldn’t be coming back. The home would be empty. Just Dokja.
He feels a sudden and terrible loneliness. And it’s not until then—at that very moment—that Dokja realizes that it’s been a very, very long time since he’s felt lonely.
Dokja sighs and swipes his finger across the touchpad to wake up his computer. Best not to linger, he thinks, as he stares at the apartment listings again. He can’t be greedy anymore, after all.
“Are you crazy?”
Dokja ignores Sooyoung. He glances down at his phone and frowns. “The realtor’s office should be somewhere around here.”
“Yah—”
“Hurry,” says Dokja, and surveys the mass of buildings around them, nearly indistinguishable from one another. “I have another appointment after this one. Oh— there it is.”
He manages a step towards a nondescript grey door with a low, flat roof before he’s unceremoniously wrenched backwards by a hand on his wrist.
Dokja winces and shoots Sooyoung a look over his shoulder. He’s met with a deadly glower. If looks could kill–
“Seriously,” Sooyoung says, and she tugs his arm again with enough force that he wonders if she’s trying to dismember him. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He tries a smile. A crooked one, a half-smile. “Well, Sooyoung-ah,” he starts, in a genial tone, “As I mentioned, I have an appointment, you see.”
Dokja tries to take a step forward again, but Sooyoung’s grip holds him back.
“Pardon me, asshole,” hisses Sooyoung, “but do you mind explaining why you have an appointment to see an apartment?”
“Generally speaking, it’s advisable to view the apartment before you put down a deposit.”
The glare on Sooyoung’s face morphs into something murderous. “Kim Dokja.”
Dokja glances at his phone. “You’re going to make me late.”
“I’ll give a fuck when you explain to me why you’re looking for an apartment.”
“Well, shouldn’t that be obvious? I’m moving out.”
“Why?” There’s a moment when Dokja thinks Sooyoung will really punch him this time, but that moment disappears when a stricken expression flashes across her face. “Did something happen? Did Joonghyuk—”
Dokja’s stomach clenches. “No,” he says, cutting her off quickly. “He didn’t do anything.”
Sooyoung starts to look irritated again. Her nails dig into his skin. “Then, why?”
“Can’t I just want to move out? Be independent, have my own space?”
Even to his own ears, the words come out weaker than Dokja intended. Being with Joonghyuk has truly scrubbed him of his prickliest points, Dokja thinks. Lying used to come easier.
“You have a track record.” Sooyoung doesn’t mince her words; both she and Dokja knows exactly what she means. “And I know you. You like living with Joonghyuk.”
Dokja smiles. His stomach is laden with rocks. “You can’t know that.”
“Do you think I don’t know what you look like when you’re happy?”
Her words land like a hit. Dokja doesn’t even think he knows how that looks on himself. He opens his mouth to retort, but Sooyoung’s face catches him by surprise. Underneath the irritation in Sooyoung’s eyes, there’s a glimmer that he can see. She seems upset.
“You always do things on your own. You’re always deciding things for yourself,” says Sooyoung. She eases her grip, but doesn’t let go,
“Don’t we all?” he tries to persuade her. “We all live our own lives, after all.”
Sooyoung’s face hardens again. “Stop being purposefully obtuse. What’s going on, Dokja?”
“Sooyoung—”
“You were fine a couple days ago. I saw you two— you were fine.”
“Does there have to be something?”
“With you? Yes.” Ouch. “And when it comes to Joonghyuk? You’ve always cared more than anyone else.” Sooyoung pauses, and a dawning expression shifts her face. “Wait. Is it because of what I said the other day?”
A wave of panic crests forward. “Hey—" Dokja falters, shakes his head. “I have to get to my appointment.”
Sooyoung glances at the office behind him, then back at Dokja. “It is, isn’t it? About you and Joonghyuk?”
“Come on, Sooyoung.” Dokja laughs, a wiry chuckle. The sound squeezes out past the lump building in his throat. “In what world would you be responsible for making me move out just because you teased me about Joonghyuk?”
Sooyoung doesn’t look convinced. No—worse than that, there’s pity in her eyes.
“It’s not. Not your fault.” Dokja shoves his hand into his pocket, to hide its trembling. He really needs to get to the realtor’s office. “It just feels like it’s time for me to go.”
“Time for you to go,” Sooyoung repeats, voice flat with disbelief. But then, in a quieter voice, she adds, “You think it’s time for you to go?”
Dokja’s gaze slides past her. His body is heavy, and he drops his arm to his side, limp in Sooyoung’s now slack grip. “Well.” Dokja wets his lips. “Yes.”
For a second, Dokja braces himself to get yelled at by Sooyoung, knowing that she never backs down without a fight—and that, more than anything, has always been testament of her misgiven belief in him.
But instead of sparking with anger, she seems to deflate.
“You never tell me what you’re doing.” Sooyoung bites her lip, then continues, “Can’t you just— can’t you just talk to me, for once, and be honest?”
There’s always been something ruined inside of him, that makes him want to flinch away from the honesty of her emotions. It’s more than she usually offers of herself, this level of vulnerability. But Dokja—Dokja has seen this sadness on her face before. And more than anything, it breaks him a little. He doesn’t want to remember the last time he put this expression on Sooyoung’s face, but he knows it was during their childhood.
He tries not to shrink, but his shoulders curl upwards defensively. “It’s nothing.” Dokja shakes his head. “Sooyoung-ah, I can’t just live there, waiting for the knife to come down again.”
She watches him with a considering gaze. Then, her words more careful than usual, she asks, “But why do you think that it will?”
Dokja’s mind flashes back to the night on the couch. The night that Joonghyuk flinched away, as if he were able to read Dokja’s thoughts. “When was this ever meant to be a permanent arrangement? We’re both graduating after this year, and one day Joonghyuk will find someone he wants to be with—”
He cuts himself off. The words that he has hardly admitted in his own mind don’t have a place to linger in the air between him and Sooyoung.
“Have you even tried talking to him?” Sooyoung presses. “How do you know what he wants?”
Dokja laughs again, the sound as bitter as he feels. “The possibility is enough for me.” He grins, at that moment, a crooked one. “Besides, when has life ever treated me kindly?”
Sooyoung goes quiet. “You’re really serious about this? You’re just going to move out?”
“For my own sanity, I have to.”
It looks like there’s more that she wants to say, but perhaps she finds something on his face, because the words falter on her lips. It takes another second, then her hand tightens around his wrist again. Not out of force nor anger, but something that tethers him.
“You brought me here for reason,” she says, and he can hear in her voice that it’s her final attempt of persuasion. “Isn’t it to be a good friend? To dissuade you from making decisions that you know will hurt you?”
There’s a terrible sadness on her face. His heart wrenches painfully.
“It is because you’re a good friend,” Dokja answers. He studies Sooyoung, and his chest tightens. She’s always been there through the worst parts of his life. Without her, he thinks he would have lived a much lonelier existence. “It’s exactly because Sooyoung-ah is a good friend.”
Without her, he doesn’t know if he’d have the strength to leave otherwise.
A few beats of silence drag past. Then, Sooyoung sighs. Her gaze averts to the ground, and she swallows a deep inhale before she breathes out again. She meets his eyes. “Come on. You’re going to be late to your appointment.”
In the end, Dokja views three different apartments within his budget with Sooyoung. By Sunday, he tells himself that he has to make his decision quickly. There’s only a few days left until Joonghyuk returns home, and even less time for him to gather the key deposit and the necessary paperwork to move in.
But of the three apartments, none of them felt right. It wasn’t the size – Dokja doesn’t need much to live. But either the kitchen feels too dim, or there is no living room, and it makes the bedroom feel like a jail cell. Dokja tries to picture himself coming home to each unit, and it only makes the pit in his stomach grow heavier.
All the while, his apartment with Joonghyuk feels emptier than ever. He stares down at the splay of paperwork that’s scattered over their coffee table. Joonghyuk’s Switch has been moved back to their bookshelves.
His phone vibrates. Dokja’s eyes drift to the screen instinctively. His chest squeezes painfully when he sees Joonghyuk’s KakaoTalk notification, but before he can stop himself, Dokja picks up his phone and swipes the notification open.
Lee Gilyoung keeps threatening to take over my position in the club, it reads. Something about how he’ll prove to you that he’s worthy?
A huff of laughter escapes from Dokja before he can stop it. He can’t stop himself from re-reading the rest of the messages he received from Joonghyuk over the span of the past couple of days.
Shin Yoosung has improved her footwork greatly.
Jung Heewon is infuriating. Hyunsung is even more infuriating. He is like a puppy around her. I think they fought.
What are you teaching Lee Gilyoung? The kid used to admire me.
They are asking when you will join our next MT again.
I am cooking meat for the kids after today’s training. There’s dumplings in the freezer. Don’t forget to eat it.
If it’s too dark out by the time you’re finished work, you should take the taxi.
There’s a cat here. It looks like you.
But just like the rest of the messages, Dokja flips his phone over until he can’t see Joonghyuk’s words anymore. The words slip away from his vision, replaced with a growing sense of loneliness.
Life as always, however, proves itself to be unkind to Kim Dokja.
On Thursday evening, two days before the kendo club was scheduled to return from Gapyeong, Yoo Joonghyuk comes home.
Dokja doesn’t know it at first. He’s tired after work, barely had energy to change out of his uniform if it weren’t for the fact that he’s too embarrassed to wear the maid dress in public, and even more tired of the futile hunt for a new apartment. His mind works over plan after plan, over Joonghyuk’s texts, and half-convinces himself not to move each time he remembers them.
So, he’s not alert enough to notice the extra pair of shoes in the doorway when he finally makes his way home. It’s not until he takes one step into the living room that he notices anything at all—notices the tall shape of Yoo Joonghyuk on the couch, his broad shoulders still shrouded in his coat and half-hidden by the darkness. His back is to Dokja. There’s no way he hasn’t heard Dokja come in.
“What—” Dokja starts, surprised. “What are you doing home? Did you leave early— is everyone okay?”
Joonghyuk doesn’t turn around. “They're fine. I came back early.”
“Why are you just sitting there in the dark like some villain? With your villainous shoulders and all,” he tries to joke as he ignores the dread twisting in his chest. “Gonna wait until I get closer just so you can turn around and go, ’I’ve been waiting for you’?”
He pads up to the couch, his steps cautious despite his words—not out of fear, but from the trepidation that rises inside of him. There’s no way Joonghyuk would leave their training trip early, unless something had happened.
Then, Dokja sees it. The sheath of papers he carelessly left on the coffee table, the top three apartments he’s narrowed down but haven’t found the heart to commit to yet. Joonghyuk’s staring at them, his dark gaze cast intently on the realtor’s writing like he can’t bear to look at Dokja. It shouldn’t matter that he’s found them. Dokja meant to move out as soon as possible, before Joonghyuk had even returned home if it were possible. Yet, guilt twists his stomach into knots.
But why did Joonghyuk return early in the first place?
“Hey,” Dokja manages eventually, in a strangled voice. “Seriously. Why are you here?”
Finally, Joonghyuk looks up. His breath catches in his throat; Joonghyuk is always handsome, even with a face perpetually lined with anger. Right now, he doesn’t seem angry.
No. Joonghyuk looks sad. Why...?
“Sooyoung texted me,” says Joonghyuk, and his eyes flit back to the table once more. “She told me you were doing something stupid.”
Dokja sucks in a breath. Shit. “Han Sooyoung—”
“You are doing something stupid,” Joonghyuk cuts in, and oh— now he sounds mad, his voice darkening with emotion. “Kim Dokja, what the fuck?”
Dokja fidgets with his hands, before he notices what he’s doing and shoves them into his pockets instead. He aims for nonchalance. “If Sooyoung told you—”
“She didn’t say shit,” Joonghyuk says. “Why are you looking at places?”
“Joonghyuk—”
“—I swear, if you evade my question this time, Kim Dokja—”
“Why can’t I?” Dokja interrupts. His chest throbs. He doesn’t understand Joonghyuk’s reaction. “Don’t tell me you’re upset about having to pay for the full rent? I’ll make sure I cover this month’s—”
Joonghyuk stops. His mouth twists, and he stands to his full height. “You’re serious? You think that’s what I care about?”
“What else could it be?” Dokja says, and wishes he could take his words back. Somehow, they feel too honest, like he’s exposing the underside of his belly.
“Tell me why you want to leave.”
There’s a moment, a scant second, where Dokja wonders what he has to offer for Joonghyuk. How can he explain the tangled mess of his own emotions and the ugliness of his insecurities? Dokja doesn’t like looking within himself—and even moreso, he doesn’t know how to extract it out of himself either.
He doesn’t know what to say.
Maybe Joonghyuk takes his silence as answer, though, because in the next second, he rocks back on his heels and drags a hand through his hair. His mouth twists with bitterness.
“You were going to just leave me,” Joonghyuk fills in the absence of Dokja’s own words. “Without saying anything.”
“Well, I would’ve given you notice,” Dokja says with a wry smile, but it lands flat.
Joonghyuk stiffens. “That’s all this amounts to for you?” And his voice— he sounds betrayed.
Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Dokja’s thoughts are scrambled. He manages to ask, “Why are you making such a big deal out of this? It’s not like I was going to ghost you as a friend—”
“What is it about this apartment that makes you feel like you can leave it behind so easily? What is it about me?”
“Joonghyuk, what are you saying—”
“You were going to leave." Joonghyuk's mouth twists. "You didn’t even tell me— you don’t tell me anything.”
It reminds him too much of his conversation with Sooyoung. “What is there to tell? I don’t understand— I genuinely don’t understand—”
“I’m saying that I don’t want you to leave.”
Dokja’s heart skips a beat. “What?”
“So, please. Please tell me what’s going on in your head because I thought that maybe— maybe this was your home too.” Joonghyuk’s voice goes quiet, much quieter than Dokja has ever heard it. “Was it not?”
The longing that has been coiling in his chest tightens, as if he’s being squeezed, painful with how much he wants this— this, Yoo Joonghyuk, and what they have together. It hurts. Dokja doesn’t know if he can have it. He’s never been given this before, and he hates Joonghyuk a little bit in that moment for making him wonder if he can.
And maybe that’s why, in the foreignness of his emotions, Dokja starts to break. “It is,” he admits, his smile a gentle shade of bitter. “Maybe you’d be disgusted if you knew how much.”
Joonghyuk stiffens. “Is that how you feel? Disgusted?”
The question makes him pause—because he does feel disgusted. Not with Joonghyuk, but with himself. As he stares at Joonghyuk, as he remembers back to the night on the couch: the gentleness of Joonghyuk’s hand in his hair, the quiet way he shared his day with Dokja; he feels disgusted with himself for yearning for more, when he’s already been given so much.
Dokja, who grew up used to nothing, and is still asking for more. He’s disgusted by the enormity of his own desires.
Whatever Joonghyuk reads on his face, it makes him step forward. The closer he comes, the more Dokja’s chest feels as if it’ll burst. Everything is too much, he tries to turn to the side—but then Joonghyuk’s hand catches his chin.
Much too gently, Joonghyuk holds him steady. His hands exert no force, but Dokja feels weighed down by it as if it were a guillotine held above his neck. Joonghyuk’s eyes are dark, focused intently on his, and it makes Dokja’s heart beat erratically, so much so that it scares him.
“What’s making you so afraid?” Joonghyuk asks, voice dripping with hurt. “Is it me?”
His heart stutters, the tight coil in his chest squeezing him until he feels like he’ll burst. And— Dokja knows, in that moment, that he lost. He closes his eyes, a fruitless attempt to gather his thoughts, before he opens them on a slow exhale.
“Yes, it’s you,” Dokja stares at Joonghyuk’s chin. He can’t bring himself to look him in the eyes, not when he can hear the sharp draw of breath from Joonghyuk at his words. “It’s you, and it’s everything with you. It’s everything I want with you, and everything in how I don’t know if I ever described a place as home before I met you. I don’t know if I can do this, you know, and I don’t know if I ever can.” Dokja shrugs. “So, I had to leave. Because you’re the first person who knows how I like my coffee, and the first person who makes it for me before I even ask. You do my laundry, you ask me about my books. I can’t let myself get used to it, because if I do—” he cuts himself off, as the words stumble and shrivel in his throat.
Joonghyuk doesn’t force him to finish. Instead, he takes a breath and another step closer, thumb sliding across the line of Dokja’s jaw in one long, gentle movement. Gentle enough that Dokja has to blink away a sting in his eyes. His hand brushes the side of Dokja’s cheeks.
“If I ask you to stay,” says Joonghyuk softly, “will you stay?”
Dokja’s heart pounds in his ears as his breath catches in his throat. “What—?”
“Because I want you to stay.”
His words burrow into Dokja’s chest like an invasive species, not meant to be there but making a home nonetheless. “Yoo Joonghyuk, what are you saying?,” asks Dokja, head fuzzy. He wants to ask, will you leave after? but the words don’t come out.
Somehow, Joonghyuk seems to understand nonetheless. He leans closer, close enough that their breaths mingle in shared air. “Stay with me. Don’t leave me.”
Dokja takes several deep breaths, trying to slow the racing of his panicking heart. “I spent the whole week looking at an apartment to run to,” he says after a moment, studying Joonghyuk’s face closely. “The whole time, I kept thinking that I just wanted to go home.”
He leans in, just as Dokja puts his hand over Joonghyuk’s and feels warm skin against his fingertips. “And? Are you home now?”
Can he really have this, Dokja wonders, the crushing wave of longing and hope filling the whole length of his body. The fear hasn’t been erased, nor his own insurmountable insecurities. There’s no magic eraser that can undo the years of accumulated hurt.
But it’s hurt that wasn’t done by Joonghyuk’s own hands. For once, Dokja lets himself— lets go, and he closes his eyes, turns his face into the unfathomable cradle of Joonghyuk’s hand. He says, in a whisper, like they’re words only meant for one person to hear, “If I can really have this, Joonghyuk-ah, if I can— then, maybe. I want to...I want to say yes.”
“You really don’t know, do you?” Joonghyuk says, “Kim Dokja, you’ve always had more of me than you realized. All of me.”
Joonghyuk smiles then, soft and unguarded in a way he never does. Dokja stares at him, enraptured. His heart bursts out of his chest as a giddy sort of warmth swells inside of him.
In the end, Kim Dokja knows himself, and he knows that it’ll take more than one conversation for him to believe in the possibilities between him and Joonghyuk. He knows it, and yet he can’t stop himself from being the one to take the one step forward this time.
He doesn’t kiss Joonghyuk, not yet. But he doesn’t let go, and neither does Joonghyuk—and that has to count for something, doesn’t it, when the touch itself feels like a reiteration of home?
Their first kiss doesn’t come until the next morning. They’re both sitting at the kitchen table. Steam rises from their respective mugs of coffee and cocoa, an old familiarity in light of the newness of the day and of what’s between them.
“I’ll cook dinner for us tonight,” says Joonghyuk, apropos of nothing. It might be the trick of the morning light, but Dokja thinks his ears might be red. “I can pick you up from work again tonight.”
The realization flusters him in turn. He bites down a smile as he stares into the swirl of hot cocoa in his mug. “Trying to win boyfriend points already, Yoo Joonghyuk?”
Joonghyuk is silent for a moment. “Did you finally just notice?”
It takes a moment for Dokja’s thoughts to trip themselves into speed. “Wait—” he startles, tearing his eyes away from his cup and to Joonghyuk. The past couple of months flash through his head, of all the times Joonghyuk’s acted weird and Dokja had thought he was sick. His face heats up. “All this time—?”
Joonghyuk leans across the table and kisses Dokja. He tastes like mint, presumably from his toothpaste, and his lips are slightly chapped, and it’s so appallingly wonderful that Dokja makes a huffing noise in the back of his throat as he tries to inhale. There’s something unnameable that swells into his throat, something that leaves his lips curling up and his body melts. Giddiness, he thinks, or adrenaline, as he brushes his knuckles along Joonghyuk’s cheek, his chin, to the faintest rasp of hair under his skin.
“You should’ve said something earlier,” Dokja says, breathless, when they pull apart. His hand grazes against Joonghyuk’s jaw again, mesmerized by the slight stubble. “How was I supposed to know?”
“You’re a fool,” Joonghyuk tells him, “but the night I drove her home, Han Sooyoung did kick me in the shin and call me an idiot,” he admits begrudgingly, sounding slightly embarrassed.
Dokja laughs. He hasn’t felt this light in a long while, and he hopes—for once, please—that it’ll last, and kisses Joonghyuk again.
“So, you’re no longer mad at me, right?” Sooyoung says, and follows up with the most obnoxious slurping noise to ever disgrace the cafe.
Joonghyuk shoots her a look of revulsion, but as always, it bounces off of her harmlessly. He takes a placid sip of his own mug of coffee, and resists the urge to scan the room to find Dokja. “I was never mad at you. You just stick your nose into my business.”
Sooyoung rolls her eyes and engulfs her lemon tart in one bite, flaky pastry shattering all over the table. She swipes the crumbs off her sweater and narrows her eyes at him. “And who do you have to thank for getting you together? You know, I’ve been wondering—” she points her fork at him. “—but why were you even at the cafe in the first place?”
“What do you mean?”
“Dokja told me that you were here with your friends the first time you came here.” Sooyoung reaches over to steal a sip of his coffee, but Joonghyuk quickly moves his mug out of her reach. She scoffs, but settles back in her chair and continues, “No offense, big guy, but this is hardly your scene.”
His eyes dart towards Dokja, who’s busy giving a magic spell to a customer who ordered omurice. The frilled hem of his skirt bounces around his thighs, and a pink flush of embarrassment decorates his prettily exposed collarbones. The customer is a young high school girl who seems somehow dazed. Joonghyuk, unfortunately, can relate. It’s why he only ever orders coffee here.
The sound of the fork clattering onto the tabletop startles him from his thoughts. He tears his eyes away from Dokja’s stocking-clad thighs to find Sooyoung staring at him, slack-jawed.
“Holy shit,” she says, eyes wide, “you knew he worked here, didn’t you? You went in just for him?”
Heat creeps along his collar. Joonghyuk shifts uncomfortably for a second, before he admits, “Lee Gilyoung told me. By accident.”
“Holy shit,” Sooyoung repeats, before a dangerous smile replaces the initial shock on her face. “I knew it. You are here, like, pervertedly, aren’t you? You think he’s hot in his maid dress. Oh god, I bet you want to caress his legs or stick your face under his skirt, you pervert.” Sooyoung huffs, but looks absolutely delighted, “I should’ve known. Gamer boys are never up to anything good. God—”
“Shut up,” Joonghyuk hisses, and staunchly refuses to remember the night he had to help Dokja out of his clothes after his work party, or helping him out of his stockings, or the fact that he has already done both of Sooyoung’s accusations as soon as he and Dokja became more physical with each other in their relationship—and more.
“Does Kim Dokja realize he’s dating a pervert?”
“Why am I dating a pervert?” Dokja interrupts, sidling up to their table. He refills Joonghyuk’s mug of coffee. “Han Myungoh is going to start docking my pay if you two keep loitering at my workplace and barely ordering anything,” he adds chidingly, but a secretive smile plays at his lips when he catches Joonghyuk’s eyes.
“I’ll show you later,” Joonghyuk answers him, and allows himself to feel smug when he notices Dokja’s ears heating up at the attention.
Sooyoung gags. “Ew. Ew. Why would you say that when I’m here? When he’s at work? While we’re in public—”
Dokja preens a little, a small smile that’s just for him, filled with a warmth and belonging that Joonghyuk wants to preserve forever, for as long as Dokja will allow him.
“‘Kay. See you at home,” he says, and Joonghyuk knows it’s a promise.