Work Text:
Yoo Joonghyuk is the kind of person that likes routine, ever-steady and dependable. So, when it’s seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, Yoo Joonghyuk’s already out the door to do the weekly shop. Mostly, it’s because Kim Dokja’s the kind of person who’d be just fine getting convenience store kimbap for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and it will be over Yoo Joonghyuk’s cold dead body that such a thing will ever happen. Again.
Yoo Joonghyuk keeps a food diary. He meal preps. He’s got a mental catalog of everything that’s in the fridge, cupboards, freezer, and nightstand snack drawer at all times. He makes his own soup stock.
Kim Dokja, if you asked, would rather boil water for ramyeon, though he does make a very good barbecue.
So. Yoo Joonghyuk does the grocery run and Kim Dokja does not. That suits Yoo Joonghyuk just fine.
Apples and oranges. Bok choi and spring onion. Scallion and potatoes. He picks out a cut of beef and a chunk of pork as well, nodding his thanks to the butcher. He passes over the fish—Mrs Kang at the wet market will give him a much better deal for the halibut and it’s fresher too.
Yoo Joonghyuk hovers over some jars of hard candy before biting the bullet and tossing that into the trolley as well. Some tteokbokki finds its way in there as well, along with a few packets of dried squid.
As he’s wheeling the shopping cart through the store, his various bags hanging off of the handle, Yoo Joonghyuk has the sudden idea to text Kim Dokja.
Yes, the more that he thinks about it, Kim Dokja might be awake at this time. And, there’s always the possibility he might want something Yoo Joonghyuk hadn’t yet accounted for.
–Dokja. Do you want anything?
A pause. Some hesitation. Yoo Joonghyuk decides to clarify–
–I’m grocery shopping.
Then, thoughtfully, he snaps a picture of what’s already in the cart, sending that too. Before putting his phone back in his pocket, Yoo Joonghyuk switches it off silent mode.
For the next fifteen minutes, Yoo Joonghyuk idles in the sauce aisles. Then he does actually get distracted with considering a bottle of cheongju, mentally rearranging the dishes for next week. Yes, shabu shabu sounds like the perfect excuse to have everybody over again.
Yoo Joonghyuk circles back to the candy aisle, picking up a bar of chocolate.
Ding!
It’s a voice message.
Yoo Joonghyuk hates voice messages. It means that he can’t just read it off of the phone screen. It means that he has to unlock his phone, go to the app, and hold it close, volume low.
It’s slow. It’s annoying. It’s a nuisance and a pain.
Yoo Joonghyuk cradles the phone to his ear, cupping it into his cheek.
“Joonghyuk-ah,” Kim Dokja whispers into his ear, still a little tired and yawning through the ah.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s stomach flips over. He’s never really understood just why Kim Dokja likes using the voice messaging feature so much. Whenever he tries, he just ends up deleting whatever nonsense that gets recorded in disgust—he never seems to sound like himself.
“I’d like some chocolate,” Kim Dokja says, and Yoo Joonghyuk can hear the smile in his voice. “But you don’t really need to text me every time you go. I’m sure you’ve got everything you need already.”
A pause. It’s longer than a usual lull, but Yoo Joonghyuk knows to wait.
“See you soon,” Kim Dokja says, like it’s a fact.
Yoo Joonghyuk drops the bar into the cart. It’s the brand Kim Dokja likes, caramel flavored as he prefers.
Then, as is routine, Yoo Joonghyuk stars the message and saves it to his phone.
He’s smiling as he puts a box of eggs into the cart as well. He feels like making omurice for breakfast today.
The chicken bones are already stewing for dinner: Murim dumplings in soup.
///
Shongsong. Th-thunk. Shongsong. Th-thunk.
The knife thuds into the chopping board as Yoo Joonghyuk chops the onions. The rice cooker is already letting out steam, positioned as to be perfectly sucked up by the running exhaust fan.
Everything is already prepared: the beef marinade, the sauce, the rest of the vegetables. All Yoo Joonghyuk has to do is get the wok ready—
Fssh-chk!
“Joonghyuk-ie,” Kim Dokja says, “It’s the vegetable oil, right?”
Yoo Joonghyuk hums a mn in agreement as he brings over the chopping board. When it’s hot enough, he scrapes the vegetables in. They hit the oil with a satisfying sizzle and he takes over the wok, smoothly handing the chopping board and knife to Kim Dokja.
It’s just as he’s stirring the garlic in and adding the beef that Kim Dokja speaks again.
“Tell me a joke,” Kim Dokja says.
Mung.
Yoo Joonghyuk freezes.
If you asked anybody really, Yoo Joonghyuk would not be the first to tell you that he’s not good with jokes. That doesn’t change the truth: he’s spectacularly awful at them, especially when he’s trying to think of them on the spot.
No thoughts. Head empty. That is Yoo Joonghyuk. That is mung.
“Uh,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, very intelligently. “Um.”
The beef sears in the wok. Sigeul sigeul. Sizzle.
He sneaks a peek. Kim Dokja is sat upon the kitchen stool, leaning closer. The windows are open. His hair flutters in the breeze, glinting.
Desperately, he seizes upon the very first joke he can think of—
“What’s Yi Sunsin’s favourite number?”
Immediately after it leaves his mouth, Yoo Joonghyuk knows it’s awful. But he can’t do anything about it.
“I don’t know, what?” Kim Dokja’s mouth curls around the last word, as he props his cheek up on his hand, resting it on his knee.
Yoo Joonghyuk grips the spatula somewhat more tightly than what’s generally recommended.
“싶.” He says. The number ten, ship.
“That’s terrible,” Kim Dokja says, but it’s not very convincing. He’s failing to hide his curving smile, the kitchen’s too quiet to drown out his snort. “Tell me more.”
“You first,” Yoo Joonghyuk counters, flipping the beef. He sneaks a glance at Kim Dokja. “If you think you can do it better.”
That lights up the competitive spirit in Kim Dokja’s eyes and it’s all downhill from there. In the end, as Yoo Joonghyuk finishes up the stir fry and Kim Dokja lounges around prodding Yoo Joonghyuk for more jokes, they decide to tally it up as a tie.
Well. A tie for the most terrifically awful joke, that is. Kim Dokja’s best contender was:
What’s a skeleton’s favourite food?
Spare ribs.
As for the worst, they were much too terrible to be committed to writing.
In any case, eventually, they do in fact get around to lunch.
“Eat,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, putting some bok choi into Kim Dokja’s bowl.
“Joonghyuk-ie,” Kim Dokja says, after scarfing down the beef instead, because he’s never learned to quit and he’s certainly not starting now, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
“To get to the other side,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, completely ruining the punchline. “Eat your vegetables, Dokja-yah. Or I’ll give your dumplings to Mia, next time she comes.”
“No you won’t,” Kim Dokja says.
Yoo Joonghyuk sighs. But he can’t hide his smile as Kim Dokja eats the bok choi anyway, grumbling suspiciously insincerely.
Later, when he thinks Yoo Joonghyuk’s not looking, he sneaks another stalk, cramming it into his mouth.
///
“Just a little while longer,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, crouched in front of the monitor. He feels at once too awake to sleep and too tired to keep on going.
It’s inertia. He can’t be swayed from his path unless acted upon by an outside force.
It’s also two in the morning. The bowls are still left unwashed, splotches of soup left drying on the rim. Kim Dokja had eaten the lion’s share of the dumplings, that cheater, while Yoo Joonghyuk had been trying to play through the game.
It’s been his newest obsession. Apparently, it has over a thousand different endings, with a different sequence of events required to reach each one.
It has been a grinding slog of endless reruns and repeats. Yoo Joonghyuk has the opening sequence memorised, the perfect minimum amount of button presses to get from point A to point B with as much of the boring cutscenes skipped as possible.
Kim Dokja always complains when he does that, but what does he know? Yoo Joonghyuk’s been through this dozens of times. If he likes the story so much, then Yoo Joonghyuk can just tell him what happens. He’s got the dialogue memorised too, every accent and inflection. It’s been burned into his brain.
“It’s two in the morning,” Kim Dokja says. “Isn’t it about time to sleep?”
“I have to get to the end,” Yoo Joonghyuk says. It’s like he’s possessed. There’s a burning need to know. He must know.
A faint sense of betrayal seeps through him, partly fueled by his sleeplessness. “You said you wanted to see it too.”
“Not like this,” Kim Dokja says. Then, thoughtfully, he goes quiet just as Yoo Joonghyuk enters a particularly difficult miniboss battle, rote memorisation of pointless details just as much of a factor in this looping game as skill.
When Yoo Joonghyuk finishes the battle, before he can move onto the next, Kim Dokja suddenly sprawls all over him.
Similarly as to when a cat lays over one’s lap, Yoo Joonghyuk goes utterly still. Then, with a sigh, pauses the game.
“Can’t you play like this?” Kim Dokja asks. It’s on purpose, Yoo Joonghyuk knows. Kim Dokja presses his face into Yoo Joonghyuk’s stomach. It’s heavy and soft. Warm.
“No,” Yoo Joonghyuk says.
Kim Dokja turns over, settling even deeper onto Yoo Joonghyuk’s lap and suddenly he has to use both hands to keep Kim Dokja steady.
“Why not?” Kim Dokja says, like he doesn’t already know.
Unwillingly, Yoo Joonghyuk looks at the clock. “Because it’s late,” he says.
“Early,” Kim Dokja corrects. He drops his head onto Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder. “Joonghyuk-ie, let’s go to bed.”
He doesn’t move.
“Do you want me to carry you?” Yoo Joonghyuk says, after a moment.
Kim Dokja, if anything, snuggles closer, apparently trying to will himself heavier. His hair is soft. So, so soft.
Yoo Joonghyuk gives a small, pleased, huff. He picks up Kim Dokja, one arm behind the back, the other under the knees, and the head in the juncture between neck and collarbone.
Kim Dokja hums.
“You’re heavy,” Yoo Joonghyuk says.
“Too many vegetables,” Kim Dokja sighs sleepily, mumbling into Yoo Joonghyuk’s skin.
Yoo Joonghyuk ignores Kim Dokja’s nonsense as he shoulders through the doorway, gently laying Kim Dokja down onto the bed, shucking off the slippers in the process.
Obviously, normally, he’d simply drop him unceremoniously, but at this hour with Kim Dokja like this, it’d seem cruel to do such a thing.
Then, Yoo Joonghyuk flops onto Kim Dokja, crushing him underneath into the mattress. Kim Dokja gives a startled shout, before settling underneath Yoo Joonghyuk’s weight.
“Joonghyuk-ah,” he wheezes, the air pressing out of him, “You sure you’ve kept in shape?”
He gasps theatrically, “Ah, think I’m dying. Give Sooyoung my last will and testament—!”
Just for that, Yoo Joonghyuk stays on him for a beat longer than he’d meant to before rolling over. He settles into the pillows, head tilted towards Kim Dokja.
It’s a hot night. There’s no need for blankets. The windows are open and a slight breeze flutters the curtains.
Yoo Joonghyuk stretches out a hand across to touch Kim Dokja, lightly. He leans into it, pressing back.
The night is silent, peaceful. Outside, through the windows, Yoo Joonghyuk thinks that he can catch a glimpse of the stars.
Then Kim Dokja rolls over and throws a leg over Yoo Joonghyuk, thoroughly trapping him. It’s like that that Yoo Joonghyuk falls asleep, face to face with Kim Dokja, completely within his grasp.