Chapter Text
At the end of the semester as the week of the conference creeps closer, Han Sooyoung volunteers to drive him to the airport and Yoo Sangah insists she join them. Kim Dokja doesn’t like this because it means he’s sentenced to sit in the backseat, when he could very well be sitting up front.
It had been a terrible, grueling four months to get to where he is now. Many days and nights were spent holed up in his little corner of the graduate student office, and he spent even longer at his team’s lab workbench in the medical school. Any conversation had with Yoo Joonghyuk was minimal and crass, seething passive aggressive remarks as they tried to share the same space. A silent agreement had been drawn up in which neither discussed the topic of the conference, including what happened when Kim Dokja found out of his acceptance.
Dr. Rodgraim, on the other hand, had found his position as speaker to be remarkable.
Kim Dokja finds it nauseating, even as he climbs into the back of Han Sooyoung’s flashy red car with his backpack and sensible carry-on. He collapses across two of the seats, and lets his bags rest over the third, the weight of them digging into the plush leather of the car’s interior.
Han Sooyoung doesn’t care. She kindly buckles Yoo Sangah’s belt, lingering a second too long before doing her own. They link hands over the center console in a gesture that’s equally sweet and impractical; Han Sooyoung needs that hand to change from park to drive. She refuses to let go, and brings Yoo Sangah’s left hand with her as she shifts gear. They laugh over the pop song playing on the radio, and Kim Dokja feels like he’s invading a private moment.
He’s not jealous. Not of either of them, at least, but he resents that he doesn’t have what they do. Of how deeply he understands intricacies of certain sciences, love is one that has always eluded him. Love is intangible, and no procedure or design will ever accurately describe how to achieve the result. He has a hypothesis, poorly formed, but a hypothesis nonetheless.
Alternative hypothesis: A subject that has received a considerable amount of love in their formative years (ages 0-18) will have an easier time finding healthy, consistent love in adulthood.
Null hypothesis: A subject that has received a considerable amount of love in their formative years (ages 0-18) will not have an easier time finding healthy, consistent love in adulthood.
He hasn’t collected enough data to accept or reject the null hypothesis, and he’s not sure if he would rather have the letdown from acceptance or the false hope from rejection.
“I’m worried about you,” says Yoo Sangah. Han Sooyoung meets his eyes through the rearview mirror, gauging his reaction.
Yes, there is this kind of love too.
Kim Dokja is lucky, he knows. Despite the home he came from, he has a solid support system and amazing friends and they would truly do anything at all for each other. This should be enough.
It isn’t. There’s a certain emptiness in his chest where the stickiness of guilt makes room for profound melancholic longing. Kim Dokja leans his head back and tries not to think about how uncomfortable, how unnatural it feels to even think of involvement in the romantic kind of love. No one is more or less deserving of love than the person next to them, he doesn’t believe he is either. Maybe it's fear of the unfamiliar. An anxiety aligned with the way his head spins during presentations and the dooming feeling of impending failure.
He plasters a grin on his face, one that hurts his cheeks not because of genuinity, but force. “I’m just nervous about the flight,” he replies.
Whether they believe him or not, he doesn’t care. They don’t need to know the way his mind jumps from insecurity to insecurity. The idea of insecurity is baffling, silly, really. At the end of the day, none of it matters outside of the science of it. He’ll continue to mentally categorize data that he comes across for his hypothesis, and that’ll be all.
The car shuttles through the highways and Kim Dokja lets the scenery blur in his unfocused vision. By the time they reach the airport, he has just under three hours before departure.
“Thanks. I’ll text you,” he tells Han Sooyoung. He steps out of the car once it’s idling at the curb and slings the backpack over his shoulder, lugging his carry-on behind him.
“Wait, Kim Dokja,” Yoo Sangah calls before he leaves, pushing open the passenger side door. “Let me walk with you.”
He pauses, hand curled around the handle of his bag. “You don’t have to—“
“I insist.” She gives him a patented you-won’t-be-able-to-get-out-of-this smile and he folds like paper. She promises her girlfriend that she’ll be back in a few minutes.
He made sure in his obsessive planning to do whatever he can to avoid checking in a bag, so he only has to stop at the ticket kiosk before security. Yoo Sangah matches his pace, walking beside him.
“Why?” he asks. Very rarely do these two have no ulterior motive, and he promises he means that lovingly.
She hums noncommittally and averts her gaze as he types his information into the kiosk screen. He clicks enter. The page doesn’t change. Enter, again. Nothing. Enter. Enter. Enter.
“Kim Dokja,” she says pleasantly, “the page is loading.” A circle chases its tail in the corner of the screen, confirming her statement. “Be patient.”
He stares blankly and jumps into action to get the ticket printed when the next screen comes up. “Is this why you’re here? Some sort of guiding angel?”
Her cheeks rise as she laughs. “No, but is it such a crime to want to see a friend off on his trip?”
The machine buzzes and he picks up his printed boarding pass. He looks over the information and shrugs at her. “Not a crime, just confusing.”
They move away together, letting a family take over the printer, and approach the winding line for security. He finds himself surprisingly reluctant to go, and it’s clear Yoo Sangah feels similarly. She stands with her hands clasped in front of her, waiting.
And the pieces come together. Her request to come this far and her concern. Kim Dokja frowns and holds out his hand. “Phone,” he demands. Her expression doesn’t shift, but she does relinquish the device and even unlocks it for him. A quick series of taps affirms his theory.
He opens an email thread between Dr. Rodgraim, Han Sooyoung, and Yoo Sangah discussing his departure to the conference. Most of it showcases concern, a wanting for him to feel comfortable in doing this, but the last email from Dr. Rodgraim asks them to ensure he makes it his flight. The phone clicks off and he hands it back.
He sighs. “Did you not trust me? I’m not that much of a flight risk.”
“You read it. It wasn’t about trust at all.” She tucks her phone away. “We’re looking out for you. I didn’t quite agree with the way we did it, but it was out of my hands.”
That’s right. Looking out for him. It’s love, caring. “Wish you would have involved me in this, anyway.”
“I understand.” She nods. “Promise me you won’t worry about any of this, okay? We really just want you to enjoy your time.”
“It’s not a vacation,” he counters.
“You’re talking about something you love, something you discovered, to a room full of people who are interested in the topic, at a winter resort,” she points out, not impolitely. “If that’s not a vacation for you, I don’t know what is.” This brings a smile to his face, somewhat bashful. “Exactly,” Yoo Sangah says. “Now, give me a hug and get on that damn plane.”
He does as he’s told, and curves one arm over her shoulders as she wraps both of hers around his midsection. “Thank you,” he murmurs against her caramel hair. Mentally, he counts one, two, three, and releases.
Yoo Sangah gives him one final wave and turns. She doesn’t watch him walk through security, but she lingers, fiddling on her phone.
—
HOUR 0
Kim Dokja types an email to Dr. Rodgraim as he waits at the gate, letting him know of his status. In passing he mentions that he’s aware of the scheme he had planned with his friends. With a brief ‘I’ll see you at the conference,’ he sends the email.
He keeps one headphone in his ear, the other hanging from the wire, allowing him to keep track of announcements. He checks the books he downloaded for the connecting flights and layover. Though unlikely to be used, he also has his laptop easily accessible so he can review his presentation if he gets bored of reading and sleeping.
An hour later, the boarding groups are called one by one, and he finally gets onto the plane. Beyond first and business class, twin aisles divide the plane into two seats to the left, four in the middle, and two to the right. His boarding pass leads him to a window seat in the second to last row, with a currently empty aisle seat to the right of him.
He shoves his carry-on into the overhead compartment and places his backpack between his legs once he sits down. Earphones in, music playing, and book open, eleven hours in a metal bird should be a piece of cake. Really, it’s not very different from how he likes to spend his weekends, other than the amount of people that are sharing the space with him. He reassures himself that everything will be fine, afterall, he can’t concern himself with the flight path or turbulence when that’s the pilots’ job.
His eyes slip closed, deciding to get a few minutes of rest as the rest of the passengers board. He’ll have plenty of time later to read as much as his heart desires. Something heavy lands on the seat next to him, startling him. He glares at the dark bag and then looks up to see the asshole who threw it down.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
He must have done something terrible in his past life for this much karma.
“No,” Yoo Joonghyuk says upon realization.
Mouth dry, Kim Dokja pauses his music and asks, “Are you sure that your seat number…”
“41B.”
Kim Dokja groans, defeated. He swears he hears Yoo Joonghyuk grumble a string of curses under his breath as he puts his carry-on away and sits down.
While more people board, a flight attendant begins an announcement, “Today’s flight is full, so please make sure you get to your seat as quickly and efficiently as possible to make sure we lift off on time to our destination. Thank you.”
Kim Dokja considers making a scene, crying about some sort of emergency that requires him off this plane right this instant. Facing directly ahead, he shifts his gaze to the right. Yoo Joonghyuk isn’t happy about this accommodation either. His usual attire of a dark turtleneck under a black lab coat is replaced with a denim jacket over a gray hoodie and sweatpants. Stupidly casual and admittedly sensible for a long flight. Scowling as he catches Kim Dokja’s invasive gaze, Yoo Joonghyuk settles too comfortably, placing an elbow on the armrest installed between them. If Kim Dokja was a worse man, he would start an argument over the ethics of the center armrest. Unfortunately, he’s got eleven hours of Yoo Joonghyuk’s ugly face and equally terrible personality ahead of him.
It takes a full run through of the album Kim Dokja is listening to before the plane is on the runway. The engines roar to life, and he pulls out his earphones and opens one of his downloaded books. He tries to settle comfortably in his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him the best he can in a cramped area.
“Airplane mode,” Yoo Joonghyuk grits out through clenched teeth. When Kim Dokja doesn't acknowledge him, he clarifies roughly, “Put your phone on airplane mode.”
At this, Kim Dokja looks up, annoyed. “You know it doesn’t do anything, right? The whole ‘interference’ shit is mostly a myth, especially now that there’s in-flight WiFi.” Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t look convinced, and he holds onto the ends of the armrests with a white knuckled grip. “But… whatever. It’ll save battery anyway.” He makes a big show of turning on airplane mode, keeping the screen in Yoo Joonghyuk’s view. “Happy, Dr. Yoo?”
The man exhales shakily, but otherwise doesn’t speak and neither does his grip lighten. Kim Dokja goes back to his book as the plane rumbles down the runway and begins to gain altitude. Every so often until the seatbelt signs go off, he takes a peek at Yoo Joonghyuk out of the corner of his eye. His state seems to worsen the higher they get, his eyes squeezed shut and foot tapping an anxious beat. Kim Dokja can tell when Yoo Joonghyuk’s ears pop, because he makes the strangest expression, a sort of full-face-scrunch, a bit of an extreme wince. It’s entirely too boy-ish on him, a rare instance of vulnerability that leaves Kim Dokja unable to focus on his book for more than a few words at a time.
HOUR 1
At some point, Yoo Joonghyuk’s face relaxes enough that Kim Dokja assumes he’s asleep, but as soon as the flight attendants come down the aisles with food, he opens his eyes.
Good. He wouldn’t have woken him up.
Doesn’t look like Yoo Joonghyuk wants to eat the food, anyway, picking at the contents of the tray. He pauses his foraging, and glares at Kim Dokja. “What?” he asks scathingly.
Kim Dokja rolls his eyes and finishes the last bit of food on his own tray. “Not good enough for you?” He’s heard the rumors, few as they are, of Yoo Joonghyuk’s insistence to eat only what he prepared himself.
Pointedly, Yoo Joonghyuk takes a rather large bite from the fruit cup that was given as a side, as if to prove he isn’t picky. This pulls a laugh from Kim Dokja, short and mocking. “Is that all you’ll eat? Do you want mine?”
“Shut up, Kim Dokja.”
HOUR 2
His novel is riveting, a lovely tale of an alchemist struggling to fit into a world that seems to be against him at every turn. He’s at an unexpected plot twist, one that even his extensive annotations didn’t predict, when Yoo Joonghyuk’s intense fidgeting beside him gets to be too much.
“Stop that,” he insists.
“I’m not doing anything. It’s the turbulence.”
The seatbelt sign is unlit, allowing for people to move about. Whatever turbulence Yoo Joonghyuk feels isn’t extreme enough to be of concern. “Is this your first time on a plane?”
Yoo Joonghyuk nods once, a single jerk of his chin like a petulant child. This is the same man that discovered a process that’s currently paving the way for unprecedented advances in medicine.
“Mine too.” He’s surprised by his own relaxed voice. “Distract yourself. Listen to music, read, watch something.” Met with a blank stare, Kim Dokja sighs. “How weren’t you prepared for this? Sleep or walk the aisles. I don’t fucking know, man. Do something.”
Yoo Joonghyuk huffs and turns away.
HOUR 3
This time, Yoo Joonghyuk really is asleep. Kim Dokja pokes his arm. Again. Once more. Okay, another time. Fuck it, his demons win and he clamps his hand down on Yoo Joonghyuk’s denim covered arm, digging his fingers into the fabric. Yoo Joonghyuk jolts and looks at him with fire in his eyes that would have grown men running the other way.
Kim Dokja has no such self preservation. Instead, he says, “I need the bathroom.”
Yoo Joonghyuk raises a thick eyebrow. “Then go.” He doesn’t get up to let him through easily, just brings his long legs under his seat to leave a few inches of space unobstructed.
He can’t be for real. Any argument that Kim Dokja starts will definitely get him in trouble when they land. Fine, he’ll do it, he’ll be the bigger man and swallow his complaints and try to get through this miserable flight without complaints against his seatmate. He stands, knees slightly bent in the little space between his seat and the one in front of him. Now comes the troubling part. There’s no way he’ll be able to get out just like that. Kim Dokja will either face the front of the plane, or the back. Front means Yoo Joonghyuk will get embarrassingly familiar with his ass, while back means Kim Dokja will actually have to see Yoo Joonghyuk way too close to—
Yeah, nevermind. Facing forward it is. He steps over his backpack and scoots to the right, holding onto the cushioned top of the seat ahead of him. His heel must catch onto one of Yoo Joonghyuk’s feet, because he hears a sharp inhale of breath from behind. Kim Dokja is beyond humiliated, but at least he thinks he can breathe somewhat once he’s in the aisle. He doesn’t spare Yoo Joonghyuk a glance and speedwalks to the lavatory.
Yoo Joonghyuk steps into the aisle to let Kim Dokja in when he comes back, and Kim Dokja furtively stares at the floor as he walks in, praying that the heat on his face isn’t obvious.
HOUR 4
He finishes the book. There are tears. A sympathetic, if not confused, flight attendant brings him a cup of water and a napkin, the latter of which he uses to wipe at his face. He ignores the incredulous look Yoo Joonghyuk gives him. “You wouldn’t know a good story if it hit you in the face,” Kim Dokja mumbles, sure that he wouldn’t hear.
Quiet enough that Kim Dokja would have thought he made it up if not for the fact he was unabashedly staring, Yoo Joonghyuk says, “I know plenty, and none of them make people cry.”
Kim Dokja decides that Yoo Joonghyuk is an asshole that doesn’t know anything about books, and opens a chapter of a webnovel he downloaded.
HOUR 5
Bags of chips are handed out and Yoo Joonghyuk declines to take one. Kim Dokja very happily says that he’ll take an additional bag on Yoo Joonghyuk’s behalf. He enjoys both as he breezes through the webnovel.
The last chapter he has downloaded ends on a cliffhanger that devastates him and leaves him staring straight ahead contemplating life and love and everything he knows to be true. With how immaterial his life is in the much grander scheme of the universe that contains him, do comparatively simple sciences and petty rivalries matter?
He doesn’t care. Antagonization and invention are the last two things that seem to keep him going. Kim Dokja catches Yoo Joonghyuk’s intimidating stare and Kim Dokja promptly flips him off.
HOUR 6
His legs are sore, the joints aching every time he adjusts his position. Every muscle in his body screams at him to get up and do something, but Kim Dokja stays put in his seat. God knows what kind of scheme Yoo Joonghyuk will come up with this time. He continues to shift awkwardly, and as he leans forward to work out a cramp in his back, he pulls something and does a poor job at hiding a gasp of pain.
Yoo Joonghyuk shuffles in his seat, and after a moment it’s cleared and he’s standing a few feet away in the aisle. The silent demand hangs in the air between them. Kim Dokja gets up and walks into the aisle to stretch his legs. Neither acknowledge the interaction, lest it bring up memories of a few hours ago, and Kim Dokja prefers it that way.
HOUR 7
The turbulence picks up and the seatbelt light goes on. A flight attendant makes an announcement that everyone should stay seated. Out of habit, Kim Dokja looks to his right.
Contrary to Yoo Joonghyuk’s previous haggard appearance, he appears fine. He has cheap plastic earphones plugged into the tiny monitor on the back of the seat in front of him and is utterly engrossed by what looks to be Star Wars Episode IV. Kim Dokja watches him, mouth gaping, for a few minutes and Yoo Joonghyuk mumbles one of the lines before it’s said.
The more he learns about Yoo Joonghyuk against his will, the less he understands.
HOUR 8
Kim Dokja works on the finishing touches of his presentation, cleaning it up and fixing typos that he missed the first hundred times he was editing. Here’s something new that he finds out while doing that: Yoo Joonghyuk snores in his sleep.
The sound is shocking enough that it makes Kim Dokja pause with his fingers hovering mid-word over his keyboard. It’s terrible despite how quiet it is, but he places the fact into the blackmail-against-Yoo-Joonghyuk drawer in his mind, that sits comfortably beside the blackmail-against-Han-Sooyoung drawer.
He draws up a pros and cons list detailing the advantages and consequences of telling Yoo Joonghyuk about this habit. Kim Dokja doubts he lives with anyone, much less shares a bed with them, that would know of his snoring. He’s fully determined to let any significant other or partner know about the snoring as soon as he learns of their existence. There’s no way he’s letting him live this down.
Having lost interest in the presentation, Kim Dokja switches windows, pulling up his written speech outline. Just thinking about it makes his hands clammy and his heart beat irregularly. Any option to back out was closed months ago, and faking illness will make it difficult for him to network in a field that is already difficult to survive in. He needs to do what he hates: swallow his pride and keep moving.
That doesn’t mean he has to do so now, though. Satisfied with his little progress, Kim Dokja powers off his laptop and grabs his bag from between his legs with one hand. He’s stopped by a foreign weight settling on his shoulder and a soft tickling on his jaw.
Ah.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s head rests at an awkward angle on Kim Dokja’s shoulder, but at least his snoring stopped. Kim Dokja lets go of the bag, abandoning all hope of putting his things away. He’s trapped like this until Yoo Joonghyuk wakes up or moves away on his own accord. Pushing him off will almost certainly do the trick, but that means they’ll have that weird moment where they just stare at each other afterwards. Kim Dokja can’t let himself do that. He’s humiliated himself enough. He counts the minutes by tracing the flight path on the small monitor. Three hours left and he’ll be free.
At some point, he too must have dozed off, because when he comes to, Yoo Joonghyuk tilts his head the opposite way, resting his cheek in his hand.
Kim Dokja feels a little colder than he did earlier. Must be the fan. He reaches up and twists the knob to turn it down.
HOUR 9
Dinner. Or breakfast or lunch or something in the middle. The passage of time as they cross timezones makes Kim Dokja’s head hurt. There’s a reason that he’s a biomedical engineer and not interested in space and time. All he knows is that he’s hungry.
He finishes his meal quickly, and leaves the fruit cup intact. However it’s prepared can’t be right, because it tastes slightly off. He glances over to see Yoo Joonghyuk’s fruit cup is empty, but his main meal is untouched.
Before he can stop himself, Kim Dokja holds out his fruit cup to him. The seconds pass slowly, and Yoo Joonghyuk responds by giving him his foil wrapped meal in exchange.
HOUR 10
Kim Dokja enjoys a forty-three minute nap.
When he opens his bleary eyes, that bastard Yoo Joonghyuk greets him with, “You drool in your sleep.”
“You snore obnoxiously in yours,” Kim Dokja retorts.
After a solid minute of intense staring—Yoo Joonghyuk's dark irises blend easily with his pupils in the dimmed light—they reach an impasse and return to their own forms of entertainment.
HOUR 11
“We are beginning our descent into Los Angeles. Please make sure your seat back is straight up and that your seatbelt is fastened. Current local time is 3:34 PM, and it is 49°F, 9.4°C. Thank you for flying with Sky Stream.”
The first part of his journey is almost over. He survived! Just barely.
Yoo Joonghyuk is about as well as he was during take off, which is to say that he looks absolutely terrible. He grimaces and clutches at the armrests like they’ll save him from falling out of the sky. Kim Dokja peeks into his packet of gum, takes one for himself, and holds a stick out for Yoo Joonghyuk.
He stares at it like he doesn’t know what it is.
Kim Dokja sighs, and pushes it towards him. “Chewing will equalize air pressure. Try it.”
Tentatively, Yoo Joonghyuk takes the offered gum. “Thanks.”
—
The airport is in chaos.
Kim Dokja doesn’t fully understand why until he’s able to push through the throng of people standing in front of the flight information display. As he scans the screens, big chunks of highlighted yellow text declare flights as delayed. His connecting flight into La Guardia is one of them. He can live with that. A few extra hours for a layover is no big deal. Gives him time to stretch out his legs.
As he begins to leave, the crowd explodes into commotion, prompting him to turn to the object of their displeasure. The display had refreshed, now showing most delayed flights as canceled, including the one he was supposed to board.
Okay. That’s fine. He keeps his head on straight and heads to Sky Stream’s customer service counter in search of answers, or maybe a voucher for the next flight they can get him on.
“We’re really sorry,” says a man in a blue and white uniform and pin that reads Bihyung. “There’s a winter storm approaching the Northeast, which means all flights going in that direction are grounded until things clear up.”
Kim Dokja tunnels his hands through his hair and exhales. “How long is that going to take?”
Bihyung shrugs. “Can’t tell you.”
He channels his anger away from the customer service representative and towards nature. It’s not Bihyung’s fault that this is happening, but that doesn’t mean that he keeps the bitter tone out of his voice when he asks, “Can you get me a hotel until flights are running again?”
“Unfortunately, our services don’t cover that.” Bihyung shakes his head.
Kim Dokja should have listened to Yoo Sangah when she questioned his choice of airline. Sky Stream was known for skimping out on accommodation in times such as this. “What do you suggest I do, then? I have a conference I need to get to.”
Bihyung sighs, dramatic and aggravating. “We can offer you a refund for your connecting flight.” He types on his keyboard frustratingly slow, using only his pointer fingers. The invoice prints on boarding pass paper, and he hands it to him. “There you go. If you’re interested,” Bihyung offers, “the airport has a rental car center. I’m not sure if they have many cars left, though. People made a beeline for the center hours ago when the storm was announced.”
Rental car… he can make that work. He mumbles his thanks, pockets the invoice, and walks away from the counter. As he turns, he catches sight of the man who was standing behind him in line. Yoo Joonghyuk levels Kim Dokja with his stare. He exits the line and leisurely goes to the walkway, where Kim Dokja stands frozen.
There’s no doubt in Kim Dokja’s mind that Yoo Joonghyuk overheard the conversation he had with Bihyung. Yoo Joonghyuk pauses beside Kim Dokja. Something stirs in his chest, a spike of adrenaline, a youthful rush.
Then, Yoo Joonghyuk breaks out into a speed walk that’s borderline considered full out running, and Kim Dokja follows just as fast, chaotically rolling his bag with him to the rental car center.