Chapter Text
“Fucking hell,” said Han Sooyoung, squinting out Kim Dokja’s window. “I didn’t know your view could get worse.”
“I’m getting curtains,” replied Kim Dokja glumly. Really, he supposed this was the price to pay for living within a short distance of his workplace: the view he had before was whatever construction was ongoing, which made it impossible to rest at any hour of the night, but even that paled compared to—
“It’s gotta be illegal,” Han Sooyoung continued. She turned around, pressing her palms to her temples, and then patted Kim Dokja’s back sympathetically. “A billboard that huge in front of prime real estate—”
“It’s hardly prime real estate.”
“If you complain enough, they might take it down.” Kim Dokja raised a skeptical eyebrow, and she shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s… I mean, they’d probably replace it with something uglier or start another six weeks of construction to take it down anyway. It’ll be fine.”
Han Sooyoung made a face that suggested it would absolutely not be fine, but in the end, she seemed to give up. “Your luck is just—terrible. You know that? Every time I think things can’t get worse for you, they do.”
“Thanks,” said Kim Dokja drily.
“Well, anyway, you should at least—” She wrinkled her nose. “Jesus Christ. I can’t even look at that stupid thing anymore; I’m leaving. Visit my place if you wanna see me.”
“Your security guy hates me,” Kim Dokja called, but Han Sooyoung was already leaping around him and out of the apartment, leaving him alone staring out the billboard: at Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips, rouge smeared over them so that they looked kiss-bitten, at his swath of curly hair, artfully tousled, at his even, narrowed gaze. A form-fitting suit wrapped around him, and his eyes gleamed with something too heavy to be just the usual blank model stare. He was advertising some sort of high-end clothing brand, apparently.
Kim Dokja had spent years not searching his name just so he wouldn’t find out about this sort of thing.
He closed his eyes and turned around. It was just a billboard. It had been ten years. If he just didn’t look at it for too long, it would be as if Yoo Joonghyuk had never existed at all.
For the past decade of his life, Kim Dokja had done a better job at ignoring Yoo Joonghyuk than he had at anything else. He’d muted his name on every form of social media there was. He’d blocked all his publicist-run accounts and the account of each blockbuster he starred in. If he saw an ad campaign, he blocked it. If he ran into a billboard on the street, he started taking a different street until it was replaced. It was extreme, maybe, but it worked.
This threw a wrench into his system.
He didn’t make enough money to drop a hundred thousand won on the sort of curtains that would completely block out any light. He didn’t even make enough money to drop fifty thousand won on curtains that would only sort-of do the job. Frankly, he barely made enough money to afford living in his curtainless, Yoo Joonghyuk-facing apartment as it was, so he’d just have to deal with it until he could save up enough to block him out.
“Dokja-ssi,” said Yoo Sangah as she poured herself a coffee in the break room. “You look a little tired lately. Is everything all right?”
Kim Dokja let his smile stretch thinly across his face, trying to shape it into something convincing. Yoo Sangah’s eyebrows raised high enough to disappear behind her bangs, and he hurried to answer before she asked any follow-up questions. “I’m fine. Just, ah… it’s been hard for me to sleep lately.”
“Well.” Yoo Sangah moved forward like she was about to pat his shoulder, but she seemed to think better of it, leaning back on the counter instead. “Studies say reduced screentime helps a lot with sleep habits.” He stared blankly at her, and she hastily added, “Ah—not that you’re using your phone too much! It’s just, um. It’s a pertinent reminder for all of us, right?” She turned back to the counter, her ears red, and poured a hot chocolate packet into a steaming cup of water before mixing it and handing it to him in a gesture of silent apology.
Yoo Sangah was possibly the nicest person he’d ever met, which was the only reason he knew for a fact that she was, in fact, trying very gently to remind him that she’d seen him glued to his phone at every work function they’d ever been to. “Right,” he agreed, lifting the cup to his lips and wincing when it was just a little too hot. “I’ll… I’ll try that, Sangah-ssi; thank you.”
She smiled at him before turning away, leaving Kim Dokja with nothing to do but go on his phone after she’d told him it was bad for him or watch the television listlessly until she left. He chose the latter, watching a sitcom couple break up and then make up and then break up again until an ad break came and YOO JOONGHYUK STARS IN… flashed over the screen in big letters.
Kim Dokja drank all the hot chocolate in one go, ignoring the way his tongue burned, and dropped the cup in the trash. “Thank you, Sangah-ssi,” he said, swiveling around and hauling his laptop bag onto his shoulder, “but I’m going a little overtime on my break; I should get back to work.”
“Oh,” said Yoo Sangah, which was an extremely polite way of saying Kim Dokja, you take twice the break time you’re allotted every day . Still, he walked out of the room without looking back.
The nice thing about living in the same place for five years, Kim Dokja thought, was that all his neighbors apparently trusted him—if not enough to invite him over or suggest they cared for him as a person, at least enough to dump their kids on him without warning because they knew he didn’t have anything better to do than babysit anyway.
“Whoa,” said Shin Yoosung, climbing over the couch and peering out the window. “It doesn’t look so huge from our place.”
Kim Dokja looked up from his iced chocolate, sliding a cup across the counter for whenever Shin Yoosung wanted it. There were stains on the wood from the last time they’d done this because she never picked hers up and he never set out a coaster. “Ha,” he said. “Yeah, it’s… I got the best view, I guess.”
She glanced at him for a moment and then flipped on the television, her lips pursing thoughtfully. “All the girls in my class have a huge crush on him. But I just like him because he’s so good.”
“Yeah?” asked Kim Dokja, cracking a smile despite himself. He pulled a book off his shelf and sat on the couch. “I think he’s probably a little overrated.”
“Probably?”
“Ah, I’ve never—” He looked out the window and saw the billboard staring back. “His movies aren’t my thing, so I’ve only seen clips. Do you want your iced chocolate?”
Shin Yoosung zipped to the counter, all thoughts of the ugly billboard forgotten, and Kim Dokja sighed as he flipped open the novel. It was something popular and critically acclaimed, the sort of avant-garde literature he’d normally consider himself not well-read enough to touch, but Yoo Sangah had recommended it and every week she asked if he’d gotten around to reading it yet, so he figured he might as well give it a try now.
He read the opening paragraph twenty times before flipping it shut and turning around to glare at the billboard. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes stared back, serious and dark, his suit tugging tightly at the broad expanse of his shoulders, and Kim Dokja repeated, “Son of a bitch .”
“...Ahjussi?”
He spun back around and grinned at Shin Yoosung. “Let’s go shopping, Yoosungie. I need curtains.”
“Mom says I shouldn’t leave the complex.”
“Of course.” Kim Dokja’s head pulsed. “Makes sense.” He remembered Han Sooyoung’s advice from earlier—but asking for a change wasn’t going to do anything, and it was way too much effort when he could just let himself be miserable about it for a little.
Right. At least he could vent. He snapped a picture and uploaded it to the blog he kept—a stupid little thing nobody paid attention to except Han Sooyoung and one possible internet stalker—with the caption can’t believe this guy’s face is all I’m going to see for the next six weeks.
Instantly, he got a thumbs up. It was from the same possible internet stalker as always, someone who went by TSK1864 . They’d never left a comment on any of Kim Dokja’s posts, but they’d liked every single one for the six years Kim Dokja had been making entries. He’d tried to goad them into commenting before, but they never did, so for the most part, he’d given up.
For the most part. TSK , he typed, are you a fan of his work? Or do you hate him enough to like me being sick of him?
TSK1864 just liked his comment.
Kim Dokja sighed and distracted himself by losing games to Shin Yoosung for the next three hours. When her mother picked her up, she offered to pay, and Kim Dokja declined—not out of the goodness of his heart, but because he wanted them out of there quickly enough that he could go shopping, get the goddamn curtains, and be done with it.
“Really,” she said, thumbing through her wallet, “it was rude of me to expect you to take care of her on such short notice; the least I could do is—”
“You don’t have to do anything,” said Kim Dokja cheerfully, smiling at her and imagining a better world where he could bolt past her out the door. “Yoosung-ah’s delightful. I wouldn’t feel right taking money just to keep her company for a little.”
“Dokja-ssi…” her mother replied, shaking her head. “You’re too kind to us, but I have to insist.” She pulled out a fifty-thousand won note and didn’t pull back until he reluctantly took it. “Thank you so much again.”
“Any time,” he called, waving at them as they rounded the corner into their own apartment. He stared at the note and clicked his tongue against his teeth.
At least this would probably be enough for cheap curtains.
When he stepped out of the lobby, hordes of cameras were flashing at… something. This was a bad enough sign that Kim Dokja was tempted to just walk back in and call it a day, but if he had to stare at Yoo Joonghyuk’s beautiful stupid face after he’d spent years curating everything online so he never had to see it again…
It was decided. He ducked through the paparazzi, mumbling quiet excuses and apologies and hoping the herd was small enough that if he pushed and shoved for a few more seconds, he’d be able to make it through the rest easily enough. Instead, he walked right into someone: hard enough that he fell backwards, arms pinwheeling wildly. He closed his eyes, ready to accept the humiliation that would come with falling on his ass in front of a million cameramen, but the ground never came.
He felt a broad hand on his back, warm enough that it burned through his shirt. “Ah,” he said breathlessly, opening his eyes, “that was… I’m normally not that clumsy; I was just in a rush. Thank— you ?”
Yoo Joonghyuk stared back at him, his eyes wide and as dark as they’d been on the goddamn billboard, as dark as they were on that summer night in their final year of high school, back when the sun had hung low in the sky and his face had been open and soft and Kim Dokja had been stupid enough to—
—He wrenched himself away and laughed nervously. “I have to go. I, um.” He was torn between saying it was nice to see you and what a weird coincidence , but in the end he just repeated: “I have to go.”
If he heard an all-too-familiar, low voice calling his name, he put it out of his mind until he was far, far away.
The curtains he got came with a huge rod and were patterned with glaring fish. They were possibly the ugliest things he’d ever seen. He sent a picture of them to Han Sooyoung, who promptly responded r u trying to get smth even worse than that eyesore of a billboard , and then realized he didn’t think this decision through as he tried to haul them to the subway.
Han Sooyoung would pick him up if he asked, but she was pretty busy these days, and he didn’t want to put her out. He could call Yoo Sangah, but he didn’t know her well enough for this sort of thing, and… and he didn’t really know anyone else well enough for this sort of thing, either. He took a seat on the curb and put his head in his hands as he tried to think.
“Your taste,” someone said from above him, “isn’t good.”
Kim Dokja didn’t even have to look up to know who was talking. The voice was as clear in his memory as it had been a decade ago. “You’ve always been too mean to me,” he said aloud. The fish on the curtains glared up at him, their neon-blue sea background waving with the force of the wind. “Aren’t you supposed to have paparazzi mobbing you or something?’
Yoo Joonghyuk grunted. So that habit hadn’t changed, either. “Outran them,” he said by way of explanation.
“Outran them,” said Kim Dokja. “Of course.” He paused. “Well. I have to take these home, and I would rather not get mobbed by paparazzi whenever they catch up to you, so—”
“You’re weak,” said Yoo Joonghyuk flatly as Kim Dokja stood up and failed to take the curtains with him. “Let me.”
“Why are you even in the country?” Kim Dokja hauled the rod a little further down and yanked it out of Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands when he tried to grab it, just out of spite. “I thought you were doing all those crazy American movies with the guns.”
“I’m doing a Korean movie with the guns this time.” Yoo Joonghyuk wrenched the rod away from him, leaving Kim Dokja holding the curtains limply. “You pay attention?”
“Of course not,” Kim Dokja snapped, mostly to see if Yoo Joonghyuk’s face would fall. It didn’t—he looked as impassive as ever. “It’s just impossible not to know. You’re everywhere.” If things were different, he thought, he’d ask why Yoo Joonghyuk ended up chasing the spotlight when he’d hated it so much back in high school.
Things weren’t different, though, so he lunged for his curtain rod and almost tripped when Yoo Joonghyuk yanked it back.
“Let me,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeated, and Kim Dokja was willing to bet this bastard was as stubborn as ever, so he just scowled.
“Just to the subway.”
“How will you get it to your apartment?”
“Don’t be a nag.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“What is it that you always used to say?” asked Kim Dokja, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Right. Mind your fucking business.”
“I never—”
“You never swore; I remember,” Kim Dokja said. “I was paraphrasing.”
“You remember,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeated, a little quietly, and Kim Dokja cursed himself for immediately turning so red. He tried to rush to the subway, but Yoo Joonghyuk grabbed his wrist—while still holding the rod in one hand. He had always been so unfairly strong. “I’ll drive. Subway’s too crowded.”
“For you .” Kim Dokja sniffed and turned away. “Not all of us are celebrities, Yoo Joonghyuk. So if you just give me back my property—”
“Come on,” said Yoo Joonghyuk, walking to his car with the curtain rod in tow, and Kim Dokja had no choice but to follow.
The drive back to his apartment was slow. Yoo Joonghyuk was as agonizingly careful as ever, always staying right on the speed limit and ignoring the way half the drivers on major roads honked at him. When he got his permit at sixteen, Kim Dokja had tried to goad him into speeding, but he just called him an idiot and started driving ten kilometers per hour lower.
Kim Dokja swallowed, closed his eyes, and tried his hardest not to think to the past. The seats were warm, even on a winter day like this. He supposed Yoo Joonghyuk was rich enough to afford that sort of thing now. He’d almost been lulled to sleep by the gentle hum of the heater when he felt a hand shaking him gently.
“Ah,” he said, springing back immediately. He stepped out of the car and grabbed the stupid curtains. The fish seemed as if they were glaring even harder now. “Thanks. I’ll…” He tried for a smile, and Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes darted from him back to the steering wheel. “I’ll be looking forward to your next movie. Keep up the good work.”
“You won’t,” said Yoo Joonghyuk, sounding a little sullen, but Kim Dokja just slammed the door shut and struggled to carry everything back to his apartment.