Chapter Text
Maybe one day, in the far future, there would be a day where Kim Dokja didn't love Yoo Joonghyuk. A day where Kim Dokja’s every inhale and exhale of breath wasn't designed to match the beating of Yoo Joonghyuk’s pulse. A day where loving Yoo Joonghyuk didn't feel like someone was eviscerating his heart from the inside out, spreading the shattered pieces across the ground like shining rubies; bright, bloody, and so damn pitiful.
Perhaps a day like that would come but it wasn't yesterday, it isn’t today, and it most definitely won't be tomorrow. So now, the only thing Kim Dokja has left apart from the dwindling self-respect he has for himself is the empty hole right in the middle of his chest, slightly to the left of his breastbone, where his heart is supposed to be, stolen by rough and calloused hands, torn away from him unknowingly, unwittingly, unwillingly.
And, surely, if he has been so denuded of his own heart, then it truly shouldn't hurt as much as it does, should it? The cavity in his chest shouldn't have control over his lungs, shouldn't squeeze and constrict them so painfully that breathing becomes one of his most difficult tasks, shouldn't block his airways, his escape, his relief, whenever he looks at the two of them.
Lee Seolhwa and Yoo Joonghyuk. Across the wide table from him, their heads bent together with small private smiles on their faces, looking to the rest of the world like the most loving couple. And they are. Maybe that’s what does it for him; the pair of them, the world’s most beautiful couple, love each other so completely, so fervently, so tenderly — so heartbreakingly. Not for them, obviously. The only heartbreak reserved in this world is for Kim Dokja and Kim Dokja alone.
Kim Dokja watches them out of the corner of his eye, a near-empty pint of beer clutched tightly in his palm, and a wry smile painted on his face. It feels more like a grimace, to him, but Kim Dokja has spent most of his life deceiving others so he’s sure his fake smile looks feasibly believable to anyone else.
He watches quietly as Lee Seolwha whispers to Yoo Joonghyuk, sugar on her lips from the icing of Lee Jihye’s birthday cake, sugar in her words, most likely, from the way he laughs , profoundly, lovingly, earth-shatteringly, his ears turning cherry red, the way it always gets when he’s really flustered.
He should look away. He really should. But if Kim Dokja is number one then self-sabotage is number two, always next to each other, two always following after one, a neverending cycle of misery.
Kim Dokja is still watching the pair of them as Lee Seolwha catches Yoo Joonghyuk in a kiss mid-laugh and they melt into each other happily. He can vaguely hear the group cooing and cheering at them but there’s a dull buzzing in Kim Dokja’s brain; It sounds like someone screaming or crying at him. Perhaps even both. He doesn't listen hard enough to know the difference.
He tips his head backwards, the leather of the booth sticky and uncomfortable, the bright, garish lights of the restaurant giving him more of a headache than the alcohol is but staring at it helps him mould his facial expression back to lazy, happy, and uncaring. It nearly slipped when they kissed, crumbling like wet paper.
He closes his eyes and thinks of good things: He’s 19 and in the best university in South Korea; he’s finally starting to form a semi-stable relationship with his formerly estranged criminal of a mother; his friends are amazing and kind and wonderful; he’s not in complete poverty; He’s in the process of publishing a book with his best friend; he’s living in a nice flat with his best friends in a good neighbourhood. Life should be good. Life is good.
(maybe if he keeps telling himself that, he’ll finally be able to mean it)
Someone nudges him and he hums, his eyes still glued shut. An arm slips around his elbow, their hand curling into his. Kim Dokja smiles and tilts his head to the side.
“You okay?” Yoo Sangah whispers in his ear, her chin digging into his shoulder. She sounds concerned, earnestly so.
Kim Dokja laughs shortly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just asking, love.” she shuffles around him and plucks the pint away from his other hand and replaces it with a bottle. “Drink this for me, yeah? It’s water.”
His smile grows a little wider, a little more genuine, and he raises his head and opens his eyes. She leans back to give him a proper grin, even if her eyes are still worried. He uncorks the bottle with one hand and takes small sips.
“It’s not as if this is my first time watching them kiss, Sangah,” he eventually sighs when she still says nothing, just staring at him like she’s afraid he’ll start sobbing like a small child.
“It doesn’t make it any less painful though.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do I look like I'm in pain?”
She rolls her eyes at him, reaching up to pat at his bangs. “No, you never do,” she says softly. “Doesn’t mean you can't still feel it.”
“Don't worry,” he tells her quietly. “I’ll tell you when I feel it.”
She rests her head back on his shoulder, her hand gripping his tightly; to comfort him or to ground him, he doesn’t know. He doesn't ask.
“Will you though?”
“Yes.”
It’s a lie. They both know it. They don’t say anything about it.
At 20, three very life-changing things happen to him.
Firstly, his mother gets released from jail 1 year early on account of good behaviour. Objectively speaking, this shouldn't be a very big deal for him but oh how it is. His mother and he have a very unusual relationship, you could say. For 9 years, the only way he’d been able to talk to his mother was by sitting opposite her in a small, dingy cubicle, partitioned by a glass divider.
Up until he was fifteen, he went to the prison centre dutifully every Friday after school, sitting across from her and talking into the metal telephone. Talking talking talking. Of what? Kim Dokja couldn't exactly tell you. She never exactly responded often, content enough to listen to her son ramble on about everything and anything except for all the things they should have talked about.
He was happy in those times, he believed. It obviously didn't last very long.
Because, at fifteen, The Underground Killer was published.
Kim Dokja hadn’t often thought he knew what betrayal truly felt like up until that moment. But, oh, how he knew then. He felt as if a knife in the shape of his mother’s hands had struck his heart, tearing at it, ripping him apart.
He remembered finding the book in the school library. He didn't know what it was at first, so he picked it up, curled himself into his favourite little corner in the vast room and started reading. And reading and reading and reading. He remembers feeling the confusion, closely followed by the disbelief, flowing into dread and then, finally, the numbness. He flipped the pages mindlessly, listlessly; his tears had stopped falling at some point. He just kept on flipping the pages.
It must have taken him 3 hours to finish the book in total but he couldn't be too sure anymore. It was dark outside by the time he finished. The librarian was ordering everyone to leave so he picked up his school bag, left the book abandoned on a dusty shelf, and walked all the way to the prison centre.
It took 10 minutes by bus and 30 minutes by leg. He got there in 15.
When he got to the centre, the receptionist took one look at him and winced. It was far past the appropriate visiting hours. She let him in any way.
He doesn't remember what he said to her when he saw her. He knows it involved yelling and tears and curses and I hate you’s though. His mum still didn't say much to him. She had a resigned, sad look on her face, as if she already knew what was going to happen. He supposes she did, sort of.
“I’m sorry,” she had whispered at some point. He pretended he didn't hear her.
“You’re dead to me,” he spat at her, chest heaving. She flinched. He pretended he didn't see that either.
When he stormed out, the receptionist passed him a strawberry lollipop with a sad smile. She had always been nice to him, so he took it. He never saw her again.
It took him three years, when he was eighteen, with the help of therapy, and a buttload of shitty(well-meaning) friends, for him to seek out his mother once more.
This time, he stayed quiet. This time, she was the one talking.
There were more tears, more yelling, and probably a whole lot more curses but a very distinctive lack of I hate you ’s so Kim Dokja reckons that as far as reunions go, this had been a very successful one.
Their relationship started getting repaired, slowly, as Kim Dokja visited her more and more, and now, Kim Dokja could say that his relationship with his mother was not as odd as he would have thought it to be four years ago; he could even say that it was… normal.
So, case in point, his mother was getting released from jail. This was good, wasn't it?
Wrong.
This was not good.
Why? Because Kim Dokja had always seen a part of her in himself and for years upon years he had hated himself, hated her, and hated the world because, truly, what had he done so fundamentally wrong in all of his past lives to deserve the childhood that he was given?
Blaming his mother for all the horrible things they both had been put through because of him had always seemed easier to Kim Dokja than ever admitting the real truth to himself. But now his mum was being released from jail, and he could no longer hide behind that wall of façade that he had so carefully constructed for himself ever since he was all of eleven years old. Eleven years old and looking at mahogany floorboards stained with the dark red of his father’s blood, because it wasn’t her fault, no, it was his fault; his father, his mother’s husband. He was the real(and only) villain.
Guilt and defiance were what he tasted on his tongue every morning when he started visiting his mother again after two years. It was what he felt whenever he saw her eyes glaze over, staring into the distance during the lulls of their conversation. It was what he felt when he picked her up from the prison centre three hours ago. It’s what he feels now, sitting across from her in a little cafe with coffee cups laid between them on the table but this time, it’s different, in a way.
There’s still defiance and definitely a whole lot of guilt but there’s also relief, and maybe just a bit of happiness lying undercut as well; he’s probably said he’s hated his mother more times than he can count but it’s not only hate: there’s love, brimming and full, pure in a way that he never expected to feel, but she is his mother after all. He can't fault himself for loving her. He could never.
He’s not sure if he would even want to.
“Dokja,” Lee Sookyung calls out. Kim Dokja’s eyes shoot up and he gives her a wry smile.
“Sorry– just got in my head a bit.”
She shakes her head and laughs, quiet and genuine. “It’s fine, of course. We all get that way sometimes, don't we?” she has that twinkle in her eyes she always gets when she’s teasing him.
Kim Dokja rolls his eyes but can't stop the smile from tugging at his lips.
“I was asking if you were ready to go?” she says.
“Ah.” he looks at the time on his watch and grimaces. “I’ve kept you long haven't I?”
“No. You could never,” she says simply as if she hasn't just tipped the little boat he has in his head sideways once again.
“Shall I drop you at granny’s place then?” he asks instead of answering. Lee Sookyung was renting a flat with some of her old inmates in prison. For a brief moment he had considered renting a place with her but then his therapist calmly and dutifully explained to him that, maybe, their relationship hadn't progressed that far just yet.
Lee Sookyung nods at him and they leave the cafe together; the mid-January air hits him like a brick. They run into his car quickly and drive the entire 20 minutes to Lee Boksoon’s building in comfortable silence. Once they get there, Kim Dokja takes the few bags out of the backseat and follows his mother inside the building, up all eight flights of stairs and stops right in front of Lee Boksoon’s door.
Kim Dokja looks at Lee Sookyung and Lee Sookyung looks at Kim Dokja. They don't say anything, just continue staring at each other. Kim Dokja drinks in her features; people always used to tell him when he was little that she looked much too young to be as old as she was. He was also told once that he had her eyes, as well. That was his favourite compliment for years.
She reaches up her hand and strokes his hair gently, “Look at how big you’ve grown. My sweet boy.”
He blinks several times, just to get the torrent of emotions crashing over him under control; the boat has fully upturned, wading wildly with the tides, thoughts strewn around the ocean. There are tears in his eyes but he doesn't care to wipe them away. This is his mum. She’s probably seen much worse from him.
He feels as though if he spoke, this intangible, tender moment that they had formed would come crashing down, fraying away from them before they even had the chance to see it properly. But before he even has the chance to try, Lee Sookyung pulls him into such a fierce hug that it surprises the both of them. They had hugged when he picked her up from the prison centre but it was nothing like this.
Lee Sookyung squeezes him against her chest, holding him so tight that he nearly fears that his ribs are going to crack. His head spins a bit, all his pent-up feelings swirling through him. The boat has been fully destroyed, the debris lost against the tsunami of waves, crashing against the walls in his mind.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers against his hair. He thinks it's a testament to their growth that he fully believes her.
“Yeah,” he says back, his voice wobbly. “Me too.”
And that’s that. His mum’s back with him and, while their relationship isn't perfect, it is real and their trying , and that's enough. It’ll always be enough.
Now.
Onto the second thing.
(and third thing. They happen on the same day. Can you just believe his luck?)
He may or may not have published a book with his best friend. That became a bestseller in record time. And is now being sold(in millions ) across the world.
When he and Han Sooyoung had first posted their shitty transmigration novel on a shitty, sketchy web novel website, it was purely for shits and giggles; they were seventeen, (partly) depressed, and bored out of their minds.
They were meant to write it, for what, two, three months before they eventually got tired of it. They were not meant to get random bursts of passion in the middle of the night, call each other up at 1 am, and spend an entire nine hours rewriting a very, very, ill-thought, half-assed excuse of a novel but. Well.
They did.
(People don't call Han Sooyoung and Kim Dokja geniuses for no reason)
And when it got scouted by an admittedly extremely dubious and unknown publishing company, they had not been sceptical in the slightest. Why? They were then eighteen, already graduated and thought, ‘What’s truly the worst that could happen?’
Many things. Many, many things. He thanks God every day that they decided to use pen names when the stupid book got published. He’s never liked media attention. He never will.
But who he does like is his best friend; the bane of his existence, the light of his life, roommate for the past two years, his first ever real friend, and the biggest pain in his ass.
“It’s a fucking literary festival,” Han Sooyoung snaps, throwing a pair of trousers at his head. “Not a fucking funeral. You’re going.”
“No, you don't get it. I would actually rather die.”
Han Sooyoung chucks one of her boots at him that he barely has enough time to dodge before it clunks on his headboard behind him. He glares at her. “That’s going to dent, asshole.”
“Good,” she says calmly. Han Sooyoung bends down to pick up one of his dress shirts from his closet. She holds it against his chest and tsks thoughtfully. “Cute. try this on.”
“I'm not trying anything on because I'm not going ,” Kim Dokja says irritably.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she dumps the shirt on his lap. “Do you want to tell Persephone that or should I?”
“Fuck you,” he seethes.
“Already on that,” a voice says from the doorway and Kim Dokja looks, rolls his eyes, and goes right black to glaring straight at Han Sooyoung, whose face lights up like fucking Christmas morning. Yoo Sangah smiles at her girlfriend, all sweet and gummy in her pink cocktail dress, and pulls her into a kiss as soon as she’s close enough to touch her.
Kim Dokja flops back on his bed and groans as loudly as he can. “Jesus Christ could the lot of you not be gross right inside my fucking room? Let the single people live for fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, fuck right all the way off.” He hears Han Sooyoung say as Yoo Sangah laughs quietly.
He feels the bed dip to the side of him and Yoo Sangah’s head resting on his chest. His arm instinctively comes around her shoulder.
“As I was saying,” Han Sooyoung says. “Both Persephone and Hades and Uriel planned this whole thing so we could be the main guest speakers. It’s been in the works for months! You know just as well as i do that you can't miss it. Just pick a fucking outfit, you insufferable prick.”
“Oh, you manipulative, pompous piece of shit. I hope those heels break your ankles in half, whore.”
“I swear being around the two of you is affecting my ears,” Yoo Sangah groans, rolling away from him. “Can the two of you not talk like respectable human beings? Stop swearing!”
“There’s nothing respectable about that cunt,” Han Sooyoung points out, picking up a pair of Kim Dokja’s favourite slacks and the cream-coloured dress shirt she threw at him earlier. She turns to him with a malicious grin, victory hidden in her eyes. “Wear this. You’ll look hot I swear.”
Kim Dokja sighs and reaches out to rub at Sangah’s shoulder as she frowns disapprovingly at both of them. He snatches the clothes from Han Sooyoung’s outstretched hands and shoves her out of the way of the door to his conjoining bathroom.
Kim Dokja looks into the mirror and swears quietly once the door is shut properly. His hair is ruffled and he looks so dreadfully uncomfortable that it’s kind of amusing. One couldn't even call it a festival because if it was a festival, it would be outside, people wouldn't have to dress so goddamn formally, and it would be open to everyone instead of just rich elites with highly debatable reading tastes.
It’s more or less a fancy book club.
He doesn't want to go for this. He really doesn't want to go for this, but he’s gone to every single year for the past 5 because it’s his foster parents who endorse it; Persephone and Hades, probably the scariest and most supportive parental figures he has. The only difference now is that instead of sitting in the back of the audience, nose buried in his phone as he ignores all else around him, he has to be one of the people speaking because he’s an author now and has responsibilities and it’s technically because of the book Han Sooyoung and Kim Dokja wrote that this year's banquet is triple the size more popular than it was last year. Still sounds like utter bullshit to him.
But If he doesn't go, his foster parents— most likely won't be all that mad, honestly, but it’ll make him feel like shit and he hates feeling like shit over situations he can control. He groans into his hands. Even the thought of leaving his bedroom nearly sends him into cardiac arrest. He hates leaving the flat more than anything in the world.
When he’s about one minute into his mini-breakdown, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket incessantly. He pulls the phone out, looks at the caller ID, and starts cursing for a whole other reason. Why him of all people?
The universe truly never gets tired of giving him shit and laughing at him.
“Yes, asshole?” he says once he picks up. His voice sounds deliberately cheerful. Just the way Yoo Joonghyuk hates it
Yoo Joonghyuk huffs annoyingly and Kim Dokja swears he could feel the glare. “Where the fuck are the both of you?”
“Huh?” Kim Dokja sets the phone down on the sink and starts dressing up. “Where are we supposed to be?”
“Oh, I don't know, maybe the fucking event Han Sooyoung has been screaming ballads about for the past month and a half? You know, the one the both of you are guest speaking at .”
“It doesn't start until like 5 pm.”
He already has the trousers on and is halfway through buttoning his shirt when he hears Yoo Joonghyuk’s longsuffering, “It’s already 4:50. What time do you want to get here?”
“4:50?!”
“Jesus—fuck, I'm not doing this. Good luck.” then the line goes dead.
“Han Sooyoung, it's fucking 4:50. Why the fuck didn't you tell me it was fucking 4:50?!”
“How the fuck was I— did you say 4:50?”
“We need to go like right now,” Yoo Sangah says, her voice much more muffled than Han Sooyoung’s since she doesn't scream like an insane person. He finishes dressing up in record time, pockets his phone, and runs a stressed hand through his hair. He glances at his reflection in the mirror and shrugs. They can't say he didn't try.
He sprints out of the bathroom and sees Han Sooyoung tugging on her purple dress in his room with the ferocity of a cat and Yoo Sangah running around the flat with her high heels in one hand and his nicest pairs of shoes in the other.
Once Han Sooyoung finishes fighting with her dress, she looks at him, takes one second to obscenely whistle at him and says, “See? You look hot.”
“I always look hot.”
“Uh-huh,” she says sceptically.
“Guys!”
“Sorry babe,” Han Sooyoung quips, tugging Kim Dokja out of the bedroom with her. Yoo Sangah hands him his shoes while she tries to one-handedly put on her own, whilst also trying to simultaneously put on her earrings at the same time.
By the time they all pile up in the car, it’s already 4:52 and it normally takes a ten-minute drive to get to the event but Yoo Sangah drives so fast and aggressively that Kim Dokja grips the grab handle with such white-knuckled desperation he’s sure he breaks one of his fingers; he’s very sure he hears Han Sooyoung praying which is amusing because he’s very sure she’s never stepped one foot in any place of worship before in her life.
They get there by 4:59 on the dot.
Yoo Joonghyuk is at the entrance, tapping his foot on the gravel like a petulant child. He glances up at them and rolls his eyes. “Early as ever guys. Really and truly commendable.”
Kim Dokja feels his heartbeat quicken despite himself but you truly can't even blame him. Kim Dokja swears last week he saw a magazine that said Yoo Joonghyuk was in the Top Ten Hottest Men in South Korea . He swears! And, yeah, Yoo Joonghyuk is wearing the same old boring black colour that he always wears but it just fits him. The black button-up with the tie and the vest and the pants and the Yoo Joonghyuk.
So, his heart skipped a beat, sue him. It’s Yoo Joonghyuk. Kim Dokja’s heart was only ever his to skip anyway.
“No thanks to you,” Kim Dokja breathes and he sounds sarcastic and so out of love that he nearly gives himself a pat on the back. He knows his neck is probably fiery red but it’s March so he can leave the weather to do all the explaining.
Yoo Joonghyuk spares no dignity in giving him the finger. “As if I wasn't the one that reminded you–”
“Oh shut the fuck up you two,” Han Sooyoung wheezes, clutching at her chest. She points at Yoo Sangah, who has the mind to look a little sheepish and says, “You’re so hot but you’ve just given me a heart attack. I want to kiss you so bad but I have to go. I love you!”
Then she grabs Kim Dokja’s and barrels past the open doors and races through the cluster of tables and photographers and fancy people dressed in fancy clothes until they get to the stage, completely ignoring the entire audience of people staring at them.
His foster mother is giving the opening speech and when she sees the both of them, her polite smile turns a little more dangerous. They both shiver. Kim Dokja’s foster dad is right behind his wife but all he does is give them an amused eyebrow raise before going back to staring impassively at the crowd.
Kim Dokja and Han Sooyoung sink into their chairs on the stage, uncomfortable with the way the entire room seems to be scrutinising them, and start immediately whispering to one another.
“Hey,” Han Sooyoung says, her elbow digging into his rib. “Does my breath stink? I didn't have time to use my stupid mouthwash. Also, look at my hair–” She waves to her head as discreetly as she can which is not at all “– on a scale of 1-10 how good does it look? Do I smell? I wanted to use that fancy perfume Jung Heewon bought me last week for Sangah’s and my anniversary, but again, didn't have any fucking time, for fucks sake. Am I hot? You’ve got to tell me I look hot.”
“Alright,” he sighs. “Number one, gross, ew, but your breath smells fine. 9 for the hair but it’s gonna decrease to 6 if you keep–” he tugs her hand away from where it's twiddling with her hair “– playing with it. You smell like me so I’m assuming you stole my soap again, fucking thief. And you’re always hot. Don't be ridiculous.”
Han Sooyoung smiles at him brightly, pulling at one of his ears. She’s about to open her mouth, to tease him probably when there is a very loud and deliberate cough coming from in front of them.
Persephone is looking back at them, her smile gone, replaced with eyes filled with daggers and her mouthing, get up here . Kim Dokja and Han Sooyoung both realise that, once again, the entire fucking room is staring at them, some with amusement, others with distaste, and hurry up to the podium, trying to hide their snickers in their sleeves.
“Ok, so um,” Han Sooyoung starts when Kim Dokja all but shoves the mic into her hands. “As the lovely Persephone has already stated, welcome to the 15th annual Underworld Literary Festival.” She has on her customer service smile, already sinking into the role of a host so flawlessly that Kim Dokja is just a tiny bit gobsmacked even though he’s seen her do this a thousand times.
“I am tls123 and this right here,” she waves at him haphazardly and nearly pokes his eye out, “is DKOS and we are the authors of The Ways of Survival.”
It’s a bit funny, somehow, the way the entire audience seems to all take in a collective gasp. Kim Dokja winces against the onslaught of flashing lights from the photographers, his mind taking him back to when he was fifteen, just trying to leave the dingy apartment his aunt had sequestered him into when she didn't want to deal with him anymore, and having to face a barrage of flickering flashes and reporters and the words, murderer’s son being repeated over and over and over–
He feels Han Sooyoung grip his hand tightly in hers but when he looks back at her, his best friend's smile hasn't dropped in the slightest, her voice still smooth and charismatic. Kim Dokja squeezes back just as tightly and feels a small smile creep onto his lips. He doesn't think he’ll ever quite find another person who means the same to him as Han Sooyoung does. They might shit on each other a lot but she’s still his person , his other half. No one gets him like she does.
Heaven forbid he ever tells her that, but still.
Kim Dokja doesn't pay much attention to what Han Sooyoung is saying, content to just faze in and out, his mind drifting and floating away from him, until Han Sooyoung gives his hand one last squeeze and lets go. As she sets down the microphone, she nudges him with her elbow and they step down the small stage so Persephone can go back to the podium.
“Persephone sent me the itinerary for the night last week,” Han Sooyoung whispers, as they weave their way through the crowd, the stinging of eyes searing into their backs.
Kim Dokja blinks. “Why didn't she send me one?”
Han Sooyoung rolls her eyes. “Because she knew you wouldn’t read it,” she says arrogantly. “Anyway, in a bit, we’ll have to read two chapters each from TWSA. There’s been a table set up for us to sign books and have one-on-ones with fans. You have to talk to people.” She at least has the decency to say the last part apologetically.
“Can we go after we’re done?”
“No. Your mother expects to stay for at least an hour extra. Bihyung says it’s for publicity.”
“Publicity,” Kim Dokja deadpans. “What more publicity do we need? Isn’t the book popular enough?”
Han Sooyoung shrugs. “You’re the one that hired him.”
“I didn't hire shit,” he quips. “ You’re the one who signed the contract.”
“Yeah, 'cause you told me to!”
“Um— excuse me?”
They both turn away from each other to see a man, most likely around their age, staring at them with wide, nervous eyes, a book clutched tightly in his hands. Kim Dokja feels Han Sooyoung straighten up beside him, a smile already slapped on her face.
“I’m so sorry but I’m a really big fan and I was just wondering— not that you have to say yes or anything— if I could get an autograph or a picture or um… a both?” The man rambles on and it’s endearing, a bit. His eyes dash between the pair of them, lingering more on Kim Dokja and his smile is small but so charmingly sincere that Kim Dokja is helpless to do anything than smile back. He’s handsome as well, in that nice boy-next-door kind of way. Nothing like Yoo Joonghyuk obviously but still very very nice to look at.
Maybe this stupid ‘festival’ won't be as dreadful as he thought it would be.
“Yes, of course,” Kim Dokja says, taking the copy of their book from the man’s hands. He looks up to see him giving Dokja a wide-eyed stare. “Your name?”
“Ah,” the man rubs at his neck. There’s a flush high on his cheeks. “It’s Sangho. Lee Sangho.”
Kim Dokja hums and digs a pen out of his pocket. “Kim Dokja.”
He feels Han Sooyoung elbow him in the ribs. She’s looking at him alarmingly and mouths, “What the fuck ?” and he understands. When they published TWSA, he swore that his real name wasn't going to be released to the public at all. This means that giving it out to random fans at a ridiculously expensive literary festival was probably a bad idea.
Kim Dokja looks to Lee Sangho, whose jaw is dropped right to the floor and whose eyes are beginning to look just a little dilated. Kim Dokja signs the book quickly and offers it to him. “You wouldn't mind keeping that bit of info to yourself, would you, Sangho-ssi?”
He made his voice pitch a little low, a little like when he flirts with random people at bars to get free drinks, and Han Sooyoung’s elbow digs deeper into his ribs.
“O–of course, Dokja-ssi!” He takes the book from his hand and Kim Dokja deliberately lets their fingers touch, just for a second. Lee Sangho’s face gets impossibly redder and Kim Dokja’s smirk gets impossibly wider. “I wouldn’t violate your privacy like that!”
Kim Dokja cocks his head to the side and crosses his arms over his chest. “Is that so?”
Lee Sangho nods rapidly, “Yes, I mean, obviously ye-”
“Okay!” Han Sooyoung claps. Lee Sangho jumps nearly a foot in the air and he turns to her with guilty eyes. Kim Dokja rolls his eyes. “It was truly quite lovely meeting you, Lee Sangho-ssi, but if you would just excuse us– we have work to do…”
“Oh. Of course! Please don't let me take up much more of your time,” Lee Sangho says, completely sincerely and Han Sooyoung wastes no time in dragging them over to their (admittedly very nice) makeshift booth for the evening.
Han Sooyoung spins around with a finger pointed at his face. “What the hell was that?”
Kim Dokja sighs. “What the hell was what?” He sits down on the stool behind the table and signals to the guard beside them to start letting in the abnormally long line of people to start coming up.
“Oh, you know what,” she says, but her business smile is already on and she has an open pen in front of her. “You did the thing with the voice and you gave him your last name! Do you even know how dangerous that is?”
A young girl and her mother come up to the booth with matching grins and they gush to the two of them about TWSA and the vision and how it impacted their lives and if there’s going to be a sequel blah blah blah.
Kim Dokja tunes them out after a minute and only comes to it when they’re signing two new copies of their books and taking perfunctory selfies with them.
“He seems like a nice enough guy. I trust him,” Kim Dokja says as he waves the pair of them away with a smile that feels as bland as his soul.
“You trust him,” Han Sooyoung deadpans just as the next fan comes up. It’s a guy and they don't waste nearly as much time as the mother and daughter did. Han Sooyoung stares at Kim Dokja after he leaves, her frown unimpressed. “You talked to him for less than a minute.”
“He seemed nice,” Kim Dokja shrugs and Han Sooyoung starts fully glaring at him. The glare doesn't ease up even when two more fans come and go, the both of them staring inquisitively at her until Kim Dokja redirects their attention to him with painfully awkward smiles and lame jokes as he signs their books and poses with them.
After that, he gets fed up and turns to the guard to tell him to give them a minute. He swivels to her with a glare of his own. “Okay,” he spits. “What exactly is wrong with you?”
“What you’re doing isn't healthy,” she snaps and he just has to laugh because what?
“What I’m doing?” he mocks. “What am I doing, then? Please, tell me.”
“Oh, don't play dumb with me.” her eyes narrow. “This isn't the second, third or even fourth time you’ve gone home with someone else this week! If you’re trying to drown yourself IN sleeping with a hundred people a month and risk catching a case all because you’re trying to get over him, it’s not healthy and you need to fucking stop.”
Kim Dokja barks a laugh, sharp and brittle. “I don't know when you got so judgemental, Han Sooyoung, but it really fucking sucks.”
“You know that’s not what’s happening right now!”
“Then what’s happening? Tell me!”
Their voices had been getting progressively louder and louder the more they talked but Han Sooyoung quiets her voice into a whisper when she says, “You’ve been in love with that bastard since we were fucking sixteen, Dokja. Do you honestly believe I don't know your fucking coping habits by now? You think I don't know that you’re fucking killing yourself doing this? You hate hookups.”
“No,” he exhales. “No, I don't.”
“Yes, you do. We’ve loved each other since we were ten. I probably know you better than I know myself and you hate hookups. You hate it so much than when you and that stupid exchange student slept with each other in senior year and she didn't so much as give you a single text back, you cried on Sangah’s and I’s lap for two hours.”
“Anyone would have cried over that.”
“Yeah, anyone but not you .”
Kim Dokja runs a hand over his face. “I don't know what you’re getting at, Sooyoung-ah.”
“Don’t kill yourself just because you can't have him. You don't like doing this. You know you don't.” She’s pleading with him. She looks almost desperate.
“You can’t tell me what I do and don't like. It doesn't work that way.”
“It does and I will. Get into a relationship. An actual relationship.”
“That’s easier said than done,” He says, and suddenly feels so bone-achingly tired. They’ve had this conversation before and he’s sick of it. He’s so sick of it because she’s right. Of course, she’s right. There’s no one else that can read him like she does.
“Yeah? You mean to tell me that more than half of the people in this room wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to date you?”
“Good looks are not all that merits a relationship.”
“No, but it’s a start,” she says determinedly. “Start something. See where it goes. Try. ”
Kim Dokja closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. “I can’t promise you anything,” he whispers.
Her hands clasp around his and she squeezes tight. “I’m not asking you to.”
He wants to stay here with her, with his hands clasped between his best friend’s but his mind is already working into overdrive, blaring alarms through his brain, and he needs something to focus on so he untangles himself from Han Sooyoung, gives her a smile that looks entirely fabricated and goes back to pretending like the last thing he wants to do is to lie down on his bed in complete darkness and cry like the pitiful fucker he has grown up to be.
He’s drunk off too many flutes of champagne when the third and final life-altering event that came with the unfortunate year of 20 happens to him. He’s sitting down on a cushion he found somewhere, hidden away in a corner covered by a gauzy curtain, his phone clasped in his hands.
He’s nursing an empty glass with one hand and scrolling through web novels on his phone with the other. He was more social before, he swears he was, but after he was done doing all the things Persephone had thrust upon him and managing to have some weird, telepathic, eye-to-eye conversation with Lee Sangho that simultaneously made a frisson of warmth shoot up his spine and made him want to throw himself over a building, the number of people coming up to him to ask for something was starting to get really quite frustrating so he found a corner, as he tends to do, procured a cushion from either heaven or hell, take your pick, and sequestered himself as comfortably as he could with his shitty phone data and an empty cup of champagne.
It had been thirty minutes, at the time, of amusing himself by looking at different web novels with increasingly ridiculous titles and even more ridiculous plots before his hiding place was discovered.
Yoo Joonghyuk, beautiful and pissed off as always, stumbled into the curtain and nearly tripped over himself. He swivelled around to glare at the curtain before he noticed Kim Dokja and started glaring at him as well.
“You’re here?” Yoo Joonghyuk had asked. “Go away.”
Kim Dokja rolled his eyes. “I was here first you bully. You go away.”
Yoo Joonghyuk huffed, annoyed and stubborn and sat himself carefully down beside Kim Dokja. He scowled at the party through the translucent curtains.
“Who shit in your wine tonight?” Kim Dokja asked, pretending he was not at all affected by the fact that Yoo Joonghyuk was right there, beside him, smelling like pine and vanilla and everything that Kim Dokja loved and hated.
“Stupid people with stupid faces,” Yoo Joonghyuk breathed out and he had sounded so frusterated that Kim Dokja felt actually quite sorry for him.
“Wanna tell me what they said?” he tried to make his voice gentle but it came out slurred and blunt.
Yoo Joonghyuk had turned to look at him then, his head leaning against the wall, and he looked amused and there was a small smile tugging at his lips and oh no and why me and stop and never stop were all that was running through Kim Dokja’s mind at that very moment.
“Doesn’t matter much now, does it?” Yoo Joonghyuk carried on, oblivious to the internal turmoil he had just put Kim Dokja into with only a half fucking smile. “Not going to be seeing them ever.”
“Cheers to that.” Kim Dokja raised his empty glass but Yoo Joonghyuk didn't have a glass so he kind of just clinked his hand to the chute awkwardly and it was stupid but endearingly stupid and it made Kim Dokja laugh like a little girl, all in love and stupidly endeared.
“Okay, okay.” Kim Dokja held his phone to Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. “Wanna play a game?”
Yoo Joonghyuk raised an eyebrow. “What kind of game?”
“So I read the names of the titles of these novels and you have to guess the plot of each one. You get it wrong, I win. You get it right, I lose. Get it?”
Yoo Joonghyuk narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “What’s the catch.”
“No catch.” Kim Dokja grinned. “Let’s play, yeah?”
Yoo Joonghyuk had nodded, still mildly suspicious but intrigued. “Go on.”
Kim Dokja cleared his throat. “‘Help! The duke’s son wants to have my babies but I’m in love with his brother!’ Guess.”
Yoo Joonghyuk scoffed. “Easy,” he said. “A girl is being pursued by a duke but she wants his brother.”
“Wrong.”
“What.”
“It’s a guy, not a girl.”
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked. “Ah. I should have been more inclusive. I won't forget next time.”
Kim Dokja hid a snicker in his hand and read the next title off his phone. “‘Note to self, In the future, don't get involved with the villainess’.”
“That’s so fucking vagu— whatever. A person falls in love with a villainess and she fucks them over?”
“Wrong. Use more occults. The villainess is a dragon.”
“How the hell am I supposed to know that?”
Kim Dokja shrugged. “Guess.” He scrolled to the next title and froze for a second. “‘I’m heels over head in love with a shitty gamer!’”
Yoo Joonghyuk rolled his eyes. “A person is in love with someone that is bad at gaming?”
“Bingo,” Kim Dokja says. He felt a bit light-headed. Maybe the drinks were finally getting to him. “Probably something they could write about you,” he said, because he just loves digging his own grave sometimes.
“Yeah, but I’m the furthest away from a shitty gamer .”
“Sure about that?”
“Oh, fuck right all the way off. Next title.”
Kim Dokja took a deep breath and scrolled. Once he read the next title, he smiled to himself. Not because it was funny, no, but because the universe had this bad habit of always giving him the shittiest luck and laughing at him and maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be a part of the joke too.
He reads, “I’ve been in love with my best friend for nine years but they got a girlfriend right when I was about to confess! Help!”
“These are so easy,” Yoo Joonghyuk had said jokingly. “Some person is stuck in an unrequited love with their best friend? And then said best friend gets a girlfriend?”
Kim Dokja blinked several times. “Y-your expertise never fails to amaze me.” Words were coming out of his mouth but he couldn’t fathom them, couldn’t parse them out. They sounded otherwordly, and the only thing he was hearing at that time was the blood that rushed through his ears. His mouth had felt dry and he held his phone in a vice-like grip.
“That’s so depressing, isn’t it?” Yoo Joonghyuk had said at one point during the middle of Kim Dokja’s semi-panic attack. He had this faraway look in his eyes, staring off into the distance with a glazed-over expression.
“What is?” Kim Dokja asked, but he already knew the answer. Remember when he said he loved digging his own graves? Yeah, he meant it.
“Loving someone for so long and then right when you thought you had the chance, it gets snatched right from underneath you,” he had breathed out. His hands flexed on his thighs. “It’s really fucking depressing.”
Kim Dokja couldn’t breathe.
No, he could breathe, but it was too much. He felt his lungs expanding in his rib cage and it was overwhelming him, suffocating and killing him. His hands were white-knuckled in his lap and he stared at the pristine floors like his life depended on it because he knew that if he looked up, if he stared Yoo Joonghyuk in the eyes at that very moment, he would break.
His mouth would open like a dam, spilling out secret love letters he had made in his head over the past 4 years; carefully constructed walls he built up to shield the heart-shaped hole in his chest so it wouldn't crumble any longer, so he would have a piece of his heart that he can say is his, not Yoo Joonghyuk’s. Not this ridiculous, awful, wonderful man in front of him who has an amazingly kind girlfriend that he loves and deserves and wants.
He couldn't look up because if he did, he would shatter, just like his heart, but he didn't want to be bloody or bright or pitiful. He wanted( wants ) to be himself and loved. But he can't have both and that’s truly never going to be fair.
“Um– I think Uriel might er need me so have to–” he’d already stumbled out of their little corner before he finished his sentence and he thought he might have heard Yoo Joonghyuk calling out to him but he didn't look back to check. He just searching wildly for anything, anything, that could get him to stop feeling the way he felt right at that moment.
Then he spotted him. Lee Sangho, leaning against a wall, bored out of his mind by the looks of it and a half-empty flute of champagne swirling in his palm. Kim Dokja took a minute to compose himself. To pack all of the tide of feelings into a big black box right at the corner of his brain and slap on the flirtiest and I would like to get laid smile he owned and walked up to Lee Sangho.
This leads him to where he is now; they're still at the party, making out in a corner(a different corner) and doing a whole lot of groping that is starting to properly pass over the indecent line but they’re in a corner so it’s fine.
Lee Sangho pulls away from him after a moment with a hiss and whispers in his ear, “Bathroom break. I’ll be right back.” and then he’s off.
Kim Dokja takes a second to look at his surroundings. He’s sure he felt Han Sooyoung glaring daggers at him at some point during the 20-minute makeout session he’s had with Lee Sangho but she didn't try to do anything to stop him so he knows she’s allowing him to be messy in peace.
There’s a pleasant and unpleasant buzz just under the lining of his skin that he made his peace with. It’s not as if Lee Sangho is unattractive in any way. He’s taller, has nice big hands and can do wonders with his tongue. Kim Dokja will get over himself eventually.
His eyes are still wandering over the banquet hall when he spots Yoo Joonghyuk and Lee Seolwha together. They’re on the dancefloor, swaying into each other. He hasn’t been able to see Lee Seolwha all night. He knew she was going to be late because of a hospital thing and he’s glad that she’d been able to even arrive at all. He feels like he should go over there and greet her, give her a hug, and pretend he isn't begging to be her in his mind. But he can't move his legs and he doesn't even blame himself. If he goes over there he’s essentially torturing himself.
While he’s blatantly staring, Yoo Joonghyuk catches his eyes over Lee Seolwha’s shoulder and it’s only for a second before Kim Dokja looks away, but he feels as though they were having a thousand thoughts at once. Yoo Joonghyuk had an indescribable look on his face and Kim Dokja couldn’t figure it out in the slightest. He’s not sure if he should even try.
“Hey.” A hand lands on his shoulder and Lee Sangho comes into view, his eyes concerned. He really is nice. “You okay?”
Kim Dokja shakes his head with a smile. “I’m fine. But I was wondering,” Kim Dokja grips Sangho’s hands in one of his, playing idly with his fingers, “if we could go somewhere else?”
Lee Sangho smirks and he nods. “I’ll lead the way.”
And, yes, he’s going to wake up tomorrow and most definitely regret doing this. He’s going to hate himself for this just like he’s hated himself every other time he's woken up next to a person he doesn't love after a night of great, unemotional sex and be miserable, but now?
Now, he’s going to enjoy his night with a cute guy and ignore Han Sooyoung’s nagging voice in his head because he’s 20, slightly tipsy, and he’s allowed to make mistakes.