Chapter Text
“I hate my life.”
“Don’t we all,” Han Sooyoung says, picking at her nails.
“You don’t get to say that,” Kim Dokja snaps, slumping across the table while one hand waves around in the air aimlessly. “Successful, rich, and a laid-back freelance writer—do you know how many people would kill to be you? Hm? Do you?”
Han Sooyoung sighs, taking the bottle of soju away from Kim Dokja’s grasp. He makes a pathetic attempt to get it back but fails. “Okay, I get it. You got fired and now you’re taking out your stress and pent-up sexual frustration on your poor, dear friend, who is very undeserving of it all. I'd appreciate it if you toned down on the passive-aggressiveness."
Kim Dokja lifts his arm up enough to try and flip her off, but the alcohol has made his nonexistent muscles so flimsy that it ends up looking like he’s flipping his wrist around instead. He makes a garbled sound and presses the heels of his palms against his eyes.
“Clearly, you don’t get how I feel ‘cause you don’t even have a boss,” he points at her and glares, eyes half-lidded. “Meanwhile, my boss got caught in a corruption scandal, got arrested and—oh, listen to this—then got me dragged into it as well!" Kim Dokja starts cackling and hiccuping, and Han Sooyoung pours herself a well-deserved drink, the liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass.
"Y’know what’s—” he hiccups and then giggles like a schoolgirl, “—funny? Nobody except Yoo Sangah vouched for me.”
Han Sooyoung raises her brows in mock surprise and he nods his head vigorously, completely falling for it. “That’s right. Me, the one who hates Han Myungoh? Me? Really?” He slams his fist down onto the table and then glowers at it like it’s offended him. Kim Dokja and Table have a stare off for a solid five seconds before he pulls away reluctantly, eyeing it warily.
“Shit,” he grinds out, spreading across the table like he's hugging it, “even thinking about that son of a bitch repulses me so much I think I might throw up right no—"
“Don’t you dare,” Han Sooyoung finally hisses out, gripping his arm and pushing him back so he’s sitting upright with a dazed expression. “I will not be helping you if you make a mess here—I’m already paying for the drinks and the fried chicken, and listening as you complain about your unjustified unemployment.”
Kim Dokja makes a noise that sounds like a dying animal and lets his head tilt back. Han Sooyoung eyes him carefully, making sure he doesn't fall off the stool.
Fortunately, he doesn't puke, and he breathes for a couple of seconds, the chatter of the other people in the restaurant filling his senses. The cool air from when the door opens rushes over his skin and makes his head feel less stuffy.
“Should I go back to Canada?” he asks after a few moments have passed, like he wasn't cursing his boss out less than a minute ago.
The good thing is that he seems more sober than before. Bad thing is that he’s come to a stupid conclusion, meaning his brain might have overheated, leaving a gooey, mushy mess behind.
Men and their mood swings, Han Sooyoung thinks idly.
She swirls her drink around, watching the bubbles fizz and pop. This time, Kim Dokja has stopped talking, meaning he’s waiting for a reply.
“Do you want to?”
“No,” he replies immediately, but then hesitates. “I don’t know. Maybe. My English is still good, I think.”
Han Sooyoung downs the shot in one gulp and sets the glass onto the table. “And what are you going to do there? Walk around in the snow? Die of hypothermia?”
Kim Dokja doesn’t reply and Han Sooyoung exhales deeply, feeling like a mother refraining from lecturing a child. “You know what you need? A vacation. Get outside, touch some grass, find a stranger and make out, I don’t fucking know.”
Kim Dokja finally looks up at that and she leans forward, her eyes narrowing. “And I don’t mean overseas. Don’t just get on a plane whenever you’re experiencing a mid-life crisis. You’re already broke.” She emphasizes her point by flicking his forehead.
“I have savings, thanks,” he says, half-heartedly, rubbing at the spot where her finger had hit. “I don’t like travelling anyways. Unknown variables scare me, you should know this.”
“Then go somewhere you do know.”
“What?”
“Gangneung,” she says, pouring another drink for herself. She stops right as it’s about to overflow. “Go back to where we grew up. You haven’t been back there in what, ten years?”
He blinks at her. “Gangneung,” he repeats, pronouncing each syllable slowly. "You know why I haven't gone back."
"I know. But it's been a decade, nothing is going to happen. Go back, Dokja. Maybe it’ll be good for you.”
“Maybe,” he repeats, sounding lost. Han Sooyoung wonders if the alcohol actually did manage to burn away the remaining brain cells that he’d possessed.
—
He should have never trusted Han Sooyoung.
Travelling alone, no matter the place, sucks. Gyeongpo Beach is deserted, save for an old couple taking a stroll and a guy walking his dog. He should have expected this, considering how most people are either at school or work, or doing something meaningful with their lives.
The wind is stronger here, tossing his hair back and forth. He shivers, huddling his knees to his chest, the sand under his feet shifting as he does.
A seagull passes overhead and even that bird probably has more life goals than him. Something like ‘Steal a Sandwich Today’ and ‘Poop on Three Cars’, while all Kim Dokja has is ‘Find a Will to Live’. His goal is undoubtedly harder than the seagull’s, but it’s also probably never going to be achieved, so the seagull still wins in the end.
I should get up, he thinks and proceeds to not do so. He gazes mindlessly out at the horizon, watching the ripples of the waves and wondering if water is a solid. Science says no, but Kim Dokja has a variety of diverse arguments prepared for why it actually is. His Bachelor of Music is a qualified degree to make such ground-breaking discoveries.
He gets up in the end, after he's too cold to even think properly, though he hasn't been doing that anyway.
His hometown is still practically the same despite the years, he finds as he walks down the streets. There's still that bakery at the corner that sells really good pineapple bread, and there's also the flower shop at the intersection that charges way too much for a measly bouquet of roses. He vaguely remembers going to school with the owner's daughter.
It's not the most interesting thing he's ever done, but it's not bad. He finds himself recalling old memories as he spots different landmarks, the nostalgia an odd, lukewarm swirl in his stomach. He thinks he understands now why people go to high school reunions, or take their kids to see the places where they grew up. Not him, he would never do that. But objectively speaking, he's gained a new perspective.
(He makes sure to avoid the street where his old house used to be. Some memories are better off forgotten.)
The place he's staying at is a cozy, little condo, with a decent price and a clean room. The owner, a woman in her thirties, offered him a discount because of the number of vacant rooms she has. Most people are, again, working or at school. Kim Dokja reminds himself of this fact every five minutes so he can keep himself grounded to the rude, ugly, capitalistic society he lives in.
The box spring creaks as he throws himself onto the mattress, spreading out like a starfish. He briefly wonders how Han Sooyoung is doing before he comes to the conclusion that she's living a better life than him and he has no obligation to concern himself with people who make over 100 million won annually.
As if she had been listening to his thoughts—he wouldn't be surprised, considering how eerily creepy she can be sometimes—his phone rings, with her contact name flashing on the screen. He hovers over the screen for a few seconds, debating whether he's mentally stable enough to handle her, and decides that he's never mentally stable, so he presses accept.
"Are you still alive?"
"Unfortunately."
"Wonderful," her voice comes out cheerfully, like flowers are blooming or something. "I'll come visit you soon, don't miss me too much!"
He scoffs. "More like you'll miss me because you have nobody to proofread your chapters anymore."
"I have others I can call on, you're not special," she says and Kim Dokja makes a dubious humming noise, having lost interest in the conversation ever since she first spoke.
"Anyways, how long are you going to stay there?"
He glances up at the ceiling in thought. "Until I get my job back, I guess."
"Forever, then."
"Are you here to degrade me or to provide moral support?"
"Neither, I'm here to make sure you're still breathing."
He sighs, leaning back against the pillows. "Well I am, so goodbye," he hangs up before she can say anything, and lets himself lie bonelessly on the bed, his phone tossed to the side.
He'll think of what to do tomorrow. For now, he lets his eyes close until everything is dark and blurry.
—
It's a beautiful Thursday morning, Kim Dokja is still unemployed, Han Sooyoung is still filthy rich, and his blanket has fallen off the bed.
He forces himself to get up at some point in the afternoon, eating the instant noodles that he had gotten from the nearby convenience store the other day.
He almost misses the steady routine of getting to work, sharing a sense of comradery with the fellow people on the subway, most of whom likely hated their lives like Kim Dokja. It made him feel less alone, though that's all in the past now.
He visits the market, the streets bustling with carts and stands. He isn't looking for anything in particular, letting his feet drag him along with the crowd, eyes flitting across fruits and seafood, eyeing the numbers scribbled in marker precariously.
A building he doesn't recognize comes into view, hidden to the side, and his curiosity gets the best of him as he makes his way over. The sign at the front indicates that there's a youth mall on the second floor, and he climbs up the stairs, his footsteps echoing along the cramped walls.
The sounds of the city fade away as he pushes the door open, looking around and seeing a variety of different shops. There’s a small cafe, a hair salon, and one of those shops that sell everything and anything, from clothing to electronics.
The smell of freshly baked bread and hairspray wafts through the air, the dim lightbulbs overheard casting golden shadows along the brick walls. He runs his hands down the indents of cement, letting his feet carry him down the corridor.
Near the end, there’s a particular shop catches his eye and he drifts over. It seems to be a music shop, '1863 Studio' etched into the glass window. Underneath, there's a name and a phone number in swirls of white calligraphy.
Yoo Junhyun, the name of the owner, Kim Dokja assumes, reminds him of someone else—someone he’d rather not remember. A face floats up from the depths of his memories, soft, wavy hair and features hidden under the light. Blank, because Kim Dokja can’t remember what he used to look like. Perhaps that’s for the best.
The bell jingles as he opens the door, finding nobody inside. It's probably not the best idea to leave a shop empty, since someone could easily come in and steal, but it's the countryside and people are probably too tired to give a fuck at this point.
The shop is surprisingly diverse, carrying a wide variety of discs and books. Most of them are classical, but some are more modern. Kim Dokja picks up a book that says 'Easiest Keyboard Collection' with Britney Spear's face plastered on the cover, and flips through the pages.
"Welcome," someone says from behind and Kim Dokja turns around, a polite smile already plastered on his face when he abruptly freezes, nearly dropping the book in his hands.
His smile melts into something sticky and warm, slipping down his face slowly like ice cream. Every cell in his body seems to slow, freezing him in place.
The man in front of him is similarly frozen, an expression of horror, confusion, and shock mixed together on his face. He looks like he's seen a ghost, which, in a way, he has.
Their staring contest lasts for a good, long minute, maybe more, before Kim Dokja glances down at the name tag and lets out a quiet sigh of relief. Almost instantaneously, his limbs unfreeze and the smile that had slipped off his face reappears in a flash.
"Ah sorry,” Kim Dokja bows slightly, hoping it’ll ease some of the tension. “I thought you were someone else for a moment," he offers a wider smile than he would normally. That whole prolonged eye contact thing must have been suspicious, and Kim Dokja really doesn't want to get arrested for suspected theft on top of being unemployed. He's not sure he'll be able to recover from that.
Yoo Junhyun seems even more horrified and confused than before, and Kim Dokja tries to smile brighter to make his memory of the past few minutes disappear. When the man makes no move to say something, Kim Dokja awkwardly fidgets with the Britney Spears book that’s still tightly clasped in his clammy fingers.
"By any chance, do you know of a Yoo Joonghyuk? Your names sound similar," Kim Dokja fumbles awkwardly for something to say, still holding onto the hope that he can get away with a clean criminal record.
"...," says Yoo Junhyun, now looking like he's just been dumped by his significant other and is extremely done with life. If the guy is going through it, maybe he should consider closing his shop for a few days instead of taking out his anger on innocent civilians. The silence drags on and Kim Dokja contemplates telling him to get a therapist.
Yoo Junhyun finally opens his mouth, but then closes it again. Is Kim Dokja such a magnificent being that he's made this guy speechless? Really?
"Are you going to buy that?" he says eventually, sounding like he's pushing each individual word out of his mouth by force.
Maybe Kim Dokja should set him up with a therapist and recommend him a few customer service training courses. It'll do his business and his love life some good.
"Am I going to buy this," Kim Dokja says, looking down at Britney Spears. She looks up at him like he's an idiot and, fair enough. "Sure, I'll buy it."
He follows Yoo Junhyun to the counter and finds himself thinking how unusually familiar everything he does is. It's like he's seen this back his whole life, which doesn't make sense because Kim Dokja has a shockingly good memory for pretty faces, and he has absolutely no clue who this guy is.
"26,000 won," Yoo Junhyun punches in a few buttons and Kim Dokja hands him three 10,000 won bills, sorrowfully bidding them farewell.
"So, how long have you had this studio for?" he tries again.
Fortunately, Yoo Junhyun verbally acknowledges him this time. "Three years.”
"That's nice."
He hands him a couple of coins, "Your change."
Kim Dokja thanks him and reaches out to grab the change, only to find his gaze drifting to Yoo Junhyun's arm. His sleeves are rolled up, so Kim Dokja can clearly see the dark mole on the inside of his elbow. Normally, a mole wouldn’t be anything special, but this one is.
The gears in his head begin to move again, creaking and sliding against each other and fuck—denial is a magical thing, really.
"Yoo Joonghyuk."
'Yoo Junhyun' looks up and yeah, that confirms it.
"Fuck you."
"That's rude."
"Why did you lie to me?"
Yoo Joonghyuk schools his already passive face to something even more passive. "I didn't."
"You didn't say anything, which technically counts as lying."
"You never asked."
"I asked if you knew him! I asked if you knew yourself, you bastard!"
Yoo Joonghyuk looks like he wants to roll his eyes. "Again, I said nothing. You assumed it all on your own."
Bastard. Kim Dokja glares at him and Yoo Joonghyuk uses Resting Bitch Face Lvl. 100 to deflect it. "Fine. Let's pretend this never happened."
He moves to walk away but Yoo Joonghyuk grips his wrist, pulling him back. "You're not leaving."
"What? Yes, I am. Let go of me," he snaps, trying to get out of his grasp. When the grip only tightens, Kim Dokja looks up. Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes are hard and determined, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. "Yoo Joonghyuk. Let. Go."
"No."
"What do you want?" Kim Dokja spits out, his heart beginning to crawl up his throat, an itchy sensation spreading down to his toes. Those eyebrows, those curls, that perfectly defined nose, those lips, and that stupid voice—it’s too much all at once, like he’s been in the dark for all his life, and then suddenly, the light is turned on.
"Why are you being so goddamn difficult?"
This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to see him ever again.
Yoo Joonghyuk laughs. It sounds dull and empty. "Difficult? I'm being difficult?"
He leans forward and Kim Dokja shrinks back instinctively. "You're the one who's difficult," Yoo Joonghyuk sneers and his tone sends a jolt through Kim Dokja's body. "You think that if you run away, everything will end up just fine. You're an idiot."
Kim Dokja feels his patience snap and he pushes his arm instead of pulling it, catching Yoo Joonghyuk by surprise and making him lose his balance, tripping backwards. He falls against the shelf behind him, and Kim Dokja has half a mind to care about if it hurt or not.
He swallows, trying to settle his nerves. "Don’t make this harder than it should be," he says, clenching his fingers into his palm. He wills his voice to stay steady, unbroken. "We've both managed for a decade already, it's nothing new."
"I don't care," Yoo Joonghyuk says lowly, sounding strained. He winces as he tries to straighten up and Kim Dokja feels a twinge of guilt pierce through his chest.
"Go to the hospital later, I'll send you—" his words turn into something sour as he reaches out frantically, pupils dilating as his tongue lays heavy against the roof of his mouth.
Yoo Joonghyuk's expression shifts to confusion as Kim Dokja scrambles, not noticing the shelf falling forwards, straight towards him, the books wobbling.
It all happens in a split second: the shelf crashes, Yoo Joonghyuk under it, and Kim Dokja screaming out as his fingers close around air. He clambers over the counter with zero grace, adrenaline pumping through his body and making his heart pound against his chest, threatening to burst at any moment.
"Joonghyuk! Fuck, answer me!"
There are papers and various objects everywhere, but Kim Dokja barely registers them as he tries to push the shelf off of Yoo Joonghyuk.
But he's never been known for his strength, having lost every single arm wrestle in his entire life, and so his attempts are futile, doing nothing but making his anxiety spike higher and higher.
He curses colourfully and reaches for his phone instead, fingers trembling against the screen as he presses out three numbers in succession—three numbers that he had prayed to never have to press again. Yoo Joonghyuk is unmoving next to him, either passed out or—he doesn't want to think about the other possibilities. A small pool of red begins to seep around him.
Please, please, please, please, his fingers twitch against his phone and he closes his eyes, breathing through his nose.
He shouldn’t have come back, shouldn’t have met him again, shouldn’t have—
The line picks up.