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It’s raining when the scenario ends.
Kim Dokja wipes off the falling raindrops that begin to trickle down his cheek. He feels cold droplets run rivulets down his throat, which should feel unpleasant, but it comes as a sharp relief, washing away the blood and grime after surviving yet another scenario.
He should head back to the Industrial Complex, but somehow, the rain feels calming. It chases away his doubts and insecurities, the cold presence familiar in the way that many things aren’t in Kim Dokja’s life.
He stands there for a while, lost in his thoughts when he hears steady footfalls behind him. The steps are even and measured, and Kim Dokja can’t help the smile that comes to his lips as Yoo Joonghyuk comes to a stop beside him.
It’s a recent development how Yoo Joonghyuk keeps track of him and his well-being. Though this is something he would’ve expected for the rest of their companions, it feels like an odd waste of time when they could be preparing for future scenarios.
But Yoo Joonghyuk is different now. He’s settled in a way that he’s never been in previous regression turns. Kim Dokja remembers standing in the face of it, a regressor that refused to regress. And at that moment, a thought came unbidden to him—that even now, the protagonist still managed to surprise him.
“Yoo Joonghyuk,” he greets, though he makes no effort to move, standing under the downpour of rain.
“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk replies. Wet tresses of hair cling to the sides of his cheeks and the regressor huffs in annoyance, running a hand to push back the wet strands away from his forehead. “What are you doing?”
Kim Dokja smiles, reaching out to feel the rain through his fingers. “I’m relaxing, is it a crime to enjoy the weather?”
There isn’t a single ray of sun in the sky, thunderclouds rolling in from the distance. The entire area is deserted in the aftermath following the scenario completion. Kim Dokja takes a peek back at Yoo Joonghyuk who, unsurprisingly, glares back at him.
He can’t fathom why Yoo Joonghyuk is here, or what he could want from him.
“Did you want a weapon or something?” Kim Dokja asks, glancing around the area. He mentally runs through a mental list of the acquired rare items, but there isn’t anything particularly special about any of them. “The manticore should be in the hidden dungeon by now—”
Yoo Joonghyuk continues to glare as Kim Dokja rambles on, the contempt in his eyes easy to decipher. Kim Dokja almost rolls his eyes in the face of it, half tempted to peek at his thoughts, but the frown on Yoo Joonghyuk’s face makes him curiously intrigued. Enough to annoy the answer out of him by deliberately ignoring the problem.
Finally, Yoo Joonghyuk sighs, and something in his glare softens as he steps closer to Kim Dokja, enough so that he can feel the beginnings of warmth from Yoo Joonghyuk.
“Is there something bothering you, Joonghyuk-ssi?” Kim Dokja questions, tilting his face just slightly to meet his probing stare. Rain droplets spill down his bangs, but Yoo Joonghyuk’s larger frame blocks out most of the rain, acting as a convenient shield from the blowing wind.
“Kim Dokja, you’re bleeding,” Yoo Joonghyuk says slowly, the hint of a reprimand in his voice. There might be disdain there too if Kim Dokja squints. But Kim Dokja isn’t a lesser man, and he can’t bring himself to care when the world is so distant.
“The wound will heal,” Kim Dokja says a bit wryly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He hadn’t even noticed it, whatever it was. “It isn’t anything serious, Joonghyuk-ah. It won’t interfere with future scenarios.”
Yoo Joonghyuk snorts in what seems like disbelief and continues to stare at the wound that is sluggishly bleeding on the outside of his wrist. Kim Dokja follows his gaze and turns his wrist to better assess the damage to his Incarnation body.
Kim Dokja remembers only just avoiding the piercing fangs of a 3rd-grade snake servant, but another one had re-spawned in its place in a matter of seconds. After he disposed of the servant, he had poured a B-level antidote on the bleeding gash, just to counteract the poison, but other than that he figured the wound would heal on its own.
“You were too careless,” Yoo Joonghyuk states, a little ominously.
Kim Dokja drops his wrist, muttering under his breath about damn protagonists and their almost supernatural skills. Not everyone was equipped with the brilliance that Yoo Joonghyuk had, even more so now that he was now more than just a character pulled out from a novel.
He could refute with a snarky reply, but the rain makes Kim Dokja feel at peace. It makes him feel more honest, more worn around the edges. He takes a shallow breath before releasing it, just to see the breath condense in the air as it dissipates.
“It’s none of your concern,” Kim Dokja finally replies, and he takes a step back into the rain. He lets the rain fall over the skin of his injured hand, letting the water cleanse away the blood that is bubbling to the surface.
He had practice before the apocalypse, almost a lifetime of hiding injuries beneath large sweaters, smiling to hide the hurt. This pain is a familiar discomfort, barely an inconvenience, and he moves his sleeve over the wound to conceal it from view. The action causes the frown to deepen on the regressor’s face, and Kim Dokja blinks back in surprise when Yoo Joonghyuk takes a step to narrow the distance between them, casting a lengthy shadow over him.
“Give me your hand,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, the glare on his face and the perpetual frown daring him to resist.
Kim Dokja puts up a token resistance, but Yoo Joonghyuk is quicker, a calloused hand grabbing a hold of his shoulder to pull him forwards. Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands are much larger than his, fingers encircling the entirety of his arm as he moves his palm lower. Kim Dokja shivers at the heat of it, and Yoo Joonghyuk hums in displeasure as his other hand comes to push up his sleeve.
Touch has always felt like an alien concept to Kim Dokja. Over the years, touch was something violent. A slap to the wrist. A punch in the stomach. But this touch is gentle, and Yoo Joonghyuk turns his hand over to reveal the gash that is still bleeding.
Kim Dokja’s heart aches with something close to wanting.
“…Are you a nurse now, Yoo Joonghyuk?” Kim Dokja teases, “I didn’t realize getting injured would merit this kind of treatment. Should I get injured more, Joonghyuk-ie?”
“Don't joke around Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk hisses in reply, and the grip around his wrist tightens imperceptibly. A telltale flush of red colors his ears red, but the frown on his face almost seems fond.
For a second, Kim Dokja wants to marvel at the red staining the regressor’s face. The red makes Yoo Joonghyuk look softer, less worn and battle-hungry, more approachable. Kim Dokja is about to comment on it, but he instead yelps in surprise as an amber liquid is poured over his wound. The neck of an A-class potion is held right above his wrist, and the viscous fluid bubbles at the site of the injury.
Damn bastard, he curses as the skin regenerates, the feeling uncomfortably close to ants crawling over his skin. Kim Dokja curses again at the sudden sting, and he tries to pull his wrist back, only to be stopped by Yoo Joonghyuk’s arresting grip. As the potion bubbles away, so does the wound, leaving behind unblemished skin.
Kim Dokja breathes a sigh of relief as Yoo Joonghyuk gentles his hold on his wrist. The pressure slackens, only for the regressor to place his palm directly underneath his, slotting their fingers together into a gentle hold.
“Hey, sunfish bastard,” Kim Dokja calls a bit petulantly, though he feels wary at the intensity of Yoo Joonghyuk’s stare. “You can let go now.”
There is electricity in the air, a foreign heat that rushes through Kim Dokja as Yoo Joonghyuk brings him closer, pulling him into a loose embrace. The newly healed area is still remarkably sensitive when Yoo Joonghyuk delicately runs a finger over it, and Kim Dokja gasps at the sensation.
Was Yoo Joonghyuk always so close? Kim Dokja thinks, and he is faintly aware of the way their bodies are touching, how his fingers are splayed on Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest, right below the unnecessary belt that wraps around his upper torso. His other hand remains in the possessive hold of Yoo Joonghyuk, and in a moment of clarity, Kim Dokja wonders if there is something he is missing.
Kim Dokja tilts his chin up. The retort on his lips immediately dies when Yoo Joonghyuk leans down at almost the exact same moment. This close, their noses brush up against each other, and Kim Dokja thinks he can see the subtle darkening of Yoo Joonghyuk’s pupils.
Raindrops fall on his forehead, trailing down from Yoo Joonghyuk’s jaw. If he breathes, the taste of Yoo Joonghyuk is right on his tongue, only a millimeter of distance separating their lips.
Kim Dokja is rendered breathless at their proximity and he flushes.
“Ah—Yoo Joonghyuk… we should… we should head back,” Kim Dokja mutters, swallowing against his dry throat and casting aside his gaze. Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze trails over his skin, and despite himself, Kim Dokja shudders because really, was Yoo Joonghyuk always this kind of person?
Rain is still falling, and a crackle of thunder shakes the ground. Whatever moment they had is rudely interrupted as a torrent starts to pour down on them, immediately drenching them. In the end, it’s the worsening weather that prompts them to leave.
The journey back to the Industrial Complex is quiet, undercut by the thunder and lighting. Yoo Joonghyuk leads, their fingers still laced together. Kim Dokja stares at the regressor’s broad back and recalls the details he read, and how different Yoo Joonghyuk is.
You were never just a story to me, Kim Dokja thinks privately, and he curls his fingers against Yoo Joonghyuk’s. Reading the story would have never done him justice, and for a moment he is glad Yoo Joonghyuk cannot see the tentative smile on his face.
There are still words left unsaid between them, words that he can’t bring himself to say. But there would be time to explore his feelings later, Kim Dokja decides. After the scenarios, after the rush of the apocalypse, he would confront whatever this was.
The thought stays with him as they re-enter the compound.
Kim Dokja waits for an opportunity, but the time never comes.
When the scenarios clear and the tranquility settles, echoes of that shared moment linger. If Kim Dokja runs his fingers over his palm, tracing the spider web of veins beneath his skin, the ghost of Yoo Joonghyuk’s warmth is there.
They hadn’t talked about any of it—the almost kiss, or the gentle way that Yoo Joonghyuk had held his hand like something fragile and precious. And in the whirlwind of events that followed, the final scenario and Kim Dokja’s eternal journey, the remaining memories are all that remain.
Things are different now. The world can almost be called peaceful without the scenarios breathing down their necks. The tentative promise of a future is just on the horizon, and they all have the scars to prove it.
Seoul is rebuilding, and so is Kim Dokja.
It’s here, too, that Kim Dokja finds himself at times disoriented, stuck in a haze between a reality that is real, and the unimaginable sensation of being connected with the universe.
Sometimes when he closes his eyes, he hears the rush of the subway train as it travels to a destination that will never be reached. In the quiet of it all, his heartbeat matches the smooth travel of the train as it glided past universes, distant galaxies, and the far remnants of what he would have once called home.
Back then, he hadn’t wanted to peer at the window, hadn’t wanted to look at his reflection to see what he’d become. Instead, he watched as stars collapsed, and watched distant timelines where a single protagonist saw the perpetual end of a story that didn’t want to die.
He’s watching them now—burning galaxies as Constellations fall from the sky in a display that reminds him of exploding fireworks. The subway window is cold against his fingertips. It always is, the kind of cold that seeps into his skin and settles into his bones. He sits in the forgotten corner of the universe, a reader staring at the words written on the pages of a worn novel, discovering a world that is far beyond his reach.
“Kim Dokja,” a distant voice calls, and Kim Dokja hums back in reply.
A huff, and then there is the familiar warmth that draws near before it engulfs him entirely. The solid form of Yoo Joonghyuk wraps around his back, reaching around to entangle their fingers together.
The touch is gentle, as it always is, but there is something different about it that speaks to more than just casual affection. A thumb strokes gently against the cold of his skin, and he shivers against it, the sensation of being found.
Kim Dokja hums again, fighting against the distant echo of train tracks. He turns his hand so he can feel the heat of Yoo Joonghyuk’s warmth against his palm, laces their fingers together with a shaky sigh as he reorients himself back to the present.
Kim Dokja opens his eyes.
He tips his head back to see the ever-persistent scowl etched on Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. There are more lines there, wrinkles that have started to crease between his eyes. Kim Dokja reaches up with his free hand just to brush aside a fringe of Yoo Joonghyuk’s hair, catching the barest glint of starlight in the gray strands that peek out through the black.
All at once, his surroundings begin to blur around Yoo Joonghyuk, the subway disappearing from sight. He’s sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, cookie dough sticky on his fingertips and the sweet taste of chocolate on his tongue. Yoo Joonghyuk still has his arms wrapped around his waist, his thumb stroking tendrils of heat on his wrist.
Kim Dokja tips his head further back to stare at Yoo Joonghyuk, meeting his attentive gaze. He has so many things he wants to say, questions he wants to ask, but he is strangely content here, surrounded by the steady warmth that chases away the cold.
In a million worlds, there hadn’t been anyone like Yoo Joonghyuk. He spent 1864 lifetimes as a sponsor, a reader, and a companion, and yet Kim Dokja still wanted to read Yoo Joonghyuk’s story, over and over again. He wanted to be a part of it, journey beside him, and continue their shared narrative to see the end of an impossible dream.
Somehow, after everything, Yoo Joonghyuk is here, and so is he.
“Joonghyuk-ah,” Kim Dokja says softly, content to pretend that his episode didn’t exist, “the cookies won’t bake themselves, you know. You’ll disappoint the kids.”
Instead of the irritated sigh that Kim Dokja expects, Yoo Joonghyuk smiles. It’s a small thing, just the barest tilt of his lips, an expression that Yoo Joonghyuk only afforded to himself when he was truly happy. The sight of it makes Kim Dokja’s heart stutter, and he quickly shifts his eyes away as heat crawls to his face.
“They know how to wait,” is all Yoo Joonghyuk says by way of reply, and he squeezes his wrist in reassurance. Kim Dokja barely resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut against the unfamiliar tenderness, and instead coughs awkwardly to clear the air.
The quiet is what he notices first. Yoo Joonghyuk draws back when Kim Dokja turns his focus to the whir of the preheating oven. In a matter of seconds, Yoo Joonghyuk appears on the other side of the kitchen island, facing Kim Dokja with an assessing gaze.
“Are you done already?” Kim Dokja wonders, staring at the cookie dough that sits in the stand mixer, tiny bits of chocolate chip peeking out through the dough.
Kim Dokja looks around at the empty kitchen, and wonders just how much time he lost. He remembers, distantly, sitting in the same spot, surrounded by familiar faces as they gathered the ingredients, chattering loudly all the while.
The recipe book sits in front of Kim Dokja, the worn pages beneath his fingertips. He traces his fingers over the faded words, trying to remember, but the memory fades away in bits and pieces that he can’t piece together.
“How bad was it?” Kim Dokja asks, staring blankly at the words on the page.
Yoo Joonghyuk reaches for some loose flour, sprinkles it on the counter, and fans it out in preparation for the sticky dough.
“It doesn’t matter,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, and Kim Dokja startles at the sound of his voice. He then scoops the mixture out of the mixing bowl and drops it unceremoniously onto the countertop. “What matters is that you are here, Kim Dokja.”
That’s not good enough, Kim Dokja can’t help but think, the thought poisonous in his mind.
Kim Dokja tries to reply, but instead winces as the rolling pin comes down in a violent arc, the sudden noise startling him out of his thoughts. Yoo Joonghyuk stares at Kim Dokja intently before he rolls the dough into a perfect circle.
The dough is sectioned off, cut using a knife into identical gingerbread men shapes. Yoo Joonghyuk then trims off the remaining dough, using his palms to shape the excess into tiny wings and horns before sticking them on a gingerbread man.
“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, and Kim Dokja stares at the cookies, as each companion of their nebula is crafted by Yoo Joonghyuk’s expert hands. “All you need to do is stay.”
He watches as Yoo Joonghyuk carefully lays each of them out onto parchment paper, the outlines of them distinctly clear. With each addition of dough—a sword, a shield, a coat, loose strands of hair—Kim Dokja can see each of their companions come to life.
Kim Dokja leans against the kitchen island with his face resting on his palm, ankles crossed at the footrest. It’s easy to drift back into his thoughts as Yoo Joonghyuk moves around the workstation, falling into a quick rhythm of decorating and molding.
Every so often, Kim Dokja will nudge at one of the cookie figures, poking it curiously with his fingers. When the cookie inevitably dents, Yoo Joonghyuk pushes his finger away, only for Kim Dokja to repeat the process again.
“Is it cannibalism if you eat yourself?” Kim Dokja asks, and Yoo Joonghyuk sighs in disapproval. He’s turning the mini cookie of himself in tiny circles, gentle enough to preserve the detailed dents and divots in the dough. “And won’t these cookies lose their shape when they’re baked?”
“No,” Yoo Joonghyuk says with certainty, and he removes the cookie from Kim Dokja’s prodding.
Yoo Joonghyuk molds each cookie with precision, and Kim Dokja falls into a trance, watching Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands move. There is chocolate being chopped into small pieces and fed into a pan, set aside on low heat. The sugary sweet smell drifts past, and the taste pleasantly sits on the tip of his tongue.
Kim Dokja closes his eyes, basking in the quiet solitude. The rustle of the parchment paper and Yoo Joonghyuk’s movements fade into a static white noise, and he must drift off because when he opens his eyes next, the cookies are nowhere in sight.
Yoo Joonghyuk is in the stool beside him, his seat propped up right next to his. Kim Dokja is leaning against him, head resting on his shoulder, and Yoo Joonghyuk must’ve moved him because he doesn’t remember falling asleep quite like this.
His presence is immediately comforting. Kim Dokja reaches out, a thin thread of tiredness settling in his bones as he leans up against the taller man’s side. Eventually, he ends up placing his head on Yoo Joonghyuk’s collarbone, breathing in the scent of home.
“…Just a little longer,” Kim Dokja sighs against Yoo Joonghyuk’s collar, fingers wrapped around his neck to draw him close until there is barely any space between them. Everything is so bright and peaceful, the scent of baking cookies wafting through the kitchen.
Yoo Joonghyuk rests his forehead against his, and something in Kim Dokja shakes. His heart beats an irregular rhythm, an unsteady breath pulled from his lungs as Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands settle on his waist. Kim Dokja licks his lips, only to find the action mirrored.
All it takes is a tentative press of lips, hesitant and shy when Yoo Joonghyuk leans in. Once, twice, the pecks are gentle and soft, enough to make Kim Dokja want more. Kim Dokja laces his fingers in Yoo Joonghyuk’s hair and surges forward, crashing into Yoo Joonghyuk, reaching up to capture the sweetness of the kiss.
Kim Dokja shudders, closes his eyes. If this is a dream, he wants to hold on to it. He wants to have this for as long as he can, until he is sick of it, until he can’t hold on anymore.
“Stop thinking,” Yoo Joonghyuk murmurs in between breaths, lips brushing against his. “You’re not good at that.”
“You—” Kim Dokja starts, the caustic reply on the tip of his tongue, but Yoo Joonghyuk sweeps in to capture his exhale into another searing kiss. He kisses like a raging fire, and Kim Dokja gasps at the heat that builds steadily as they kiss, moans when Yoo Joonghyuk draws him into the intensity of it all as he slips his tongue into Kim Dokja’s mouth.
When they drift apart, Yoo Joonghyuk rests his forehead heavily against Kim Dokja’s, his fingers stroking at the skin behind Kim Dokja’s ear.
“You can’t own my thoughts, sunfish bastard,” Kim Dokja says, though the sound is a weak whisper that is murmured against Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips.
“Then stay here,” Yoo Joonghyuk replies.
The words are stuck in Kim Dokja’s throat. Even though he is here, a piece of him went missing the day he boarded the train, and while the pieces are still drifting back into something resembling completion, the process is slow, and he slips back every so often into the emptiness.
I don’t want to let go, Kim Dokja thinks, and the fear returns in the next heartbeat. Even if this was all an illusion, he wouldn’t want to let go.
And, isn’t that a ruinous thought that Kim Dokja would forsake the entire world for a tiny scrap of happiness?
He doesn’t speak, but Yoo Joonghyuk must see something in his eyes because all he does is gather Kim Dokja in his arms, pressing them even closer together.
“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk breathes quietly, a plea in his voice, “do not go where I can’t follow.”
He buries his face in Yoo Joonghyuk’s collar, soaking in the warmth of his embrace. There is the distant rush of train tracks again, the sound of it causing Kim Dokja to shiver.
He holds on until the sound fades into a distant memory.
It gets easier, over time. There are days Kim Dokja spends wandering that vast expanse of the subway, lost and searching for home. There are days he spends in the sunlight, warmed by his companions and company.
He can tally the things he has now. A home. A makeshift family that is loud and rambunctious. Books that line the shelves of his own personal library, all courtesy of Han Sooyoung. And there is also Yoo Joonghyuk. These are things he never thought he would have as a child, and even less so now that he is an adult, past the age he thought he’d be.
Time has made him more solid, almost whole. When he dreams, memories from the scenarios trickle back slowly, of different worlds and different timelines reading the same story, the story of Kim Dokja.
He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this happiness, but now he thinks, maybe he doesn’t need to understand. That this happiness is freely given, and he’s allowed to keep it too.
Kim Dokja stops to admire the way that the peering sunlight casts on Yoo Joonghyuk, who is cooking at the gas stove. The fire licks at the underside of the sizzling pan, the fragrant smell of kimchi bokkeumbap drifting through the kitchen.
Thin rays of the setting sun peek through the windowsill that is placed right beside the stove, highlighting Yoo Joonghyuk’s strong features. It’s domestic in a way that Kim Dokja would have never imagined, and Kim Dokja stands just outside his periphery, a neatly wrapped present held behind his back.
“Joonghyuk-ah,” Kim Dokja calls and is pleased by Yoo Joonghyuk’s immediate responding grunt. The kimchi rice is meticulously plated, and Kim Dokja resists the urge to laugh at Yoo Joonghyuk for insisting to cook on his birthday.
“I have something for you… and I don’t want you to get lost,” Kim Dokja says, holding out his hand in offering. Yoo Joonghyuk regards his fingers with apprehension, the same way one would look at a predator staring from a distance. He wiggles his fingers as he draws closer to Yoo Joonghyuk, until their fingertips touch.
“Kim Dokja,” he says a bit warily, and Kim Dokja shushes him with a finger pressed to his lips. He grabs his hand and guides him, walking backward to keep his gift concealed.
Kim Dokja leads Yoo Joonghyuk into the adjacent room. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights, so the room stays pleasantly dark with just enough light to distinguish Yoo Joonghyuk’s perplexed face as he places the small gift box in Yoo Joonghyuk’s palm.
A tiny smile stretches across his face as he gestures at Yoo Joonghyuk to open the gift. He waits with bated breath as Yoo Joonghyuk peels apart the gift wrap, then opens the lid of the box containing the present.
The gift shines with an ethereal glow that lights up the room in a faint wash of silver. It’s a pocket watch, newly crafted with a similar design as the one he had gifted Yoo Joonghyuk during the scenarios. He had seen it before on multiple occasions, broken beyond repair, with the entire face of it destroyed after the Final Scenario.
Kim Dokja hadn’t managed to get the damn thing away from him, and so he had settled for something similar, but different. Twin moons are carved on the silver surface, the symbol of Ouroboros, the snake eating its tail, at its center. In the background, Kim Dokja’s constellation is joined by lines, each star representing a member of their company.
“Open it,” Kim Dokja says, nudging at Yoo Joonghyuk’s fingers.
Story fragments are not as common as they were before, but as the Oldest Dream, there were still fragments that Kim Dokja managed to salvage. All of their shared stories, Life and Death Companions, the Torch that Swallowed the Myth, Seasons of Light and Darkness, are embedded into the pocket watch. With each cycle of the minute hand, their stories are replayed on a tiny holographic projection.
He hadn’t known how to surprise Yoo Joonghyuk, or what would make him happy. He had thought of many things, inconsequential gifts, but none of them felt meaningful enough to represent their relationship. But he thinks this might be it.
“Happy birthday, Yoo Joonghyuk,” Kim Dokja says, and he watches as amazement flickers through Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes. He reaches out, loops his arms around Yoo Joonghyuk’s waist, watching the tiny figures on the projected screen.
Yoo Joonghyuk turns around, immediately burying his face in Kim Dokja’s hair. Kim Dokja laughs, bright and cheery, and the sound is swallowed by a kiss, deep and longing. The pocket watch is dropped in the aftermath, and the kimchi bokkeumbap lies forgotten in the kitchen.
It must be a crime to be this happy so late in life, but Kim Dokja wouldn’t have it any other way.
And, if Kim Dokja slips a ring on Yoo Joonghyuk’s ring finger when he’s sleeping and curls up beside him in contentment, that’s no one’s business but his own.