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༺ ⚘ ༻
A memory
The glare of the sun reflects off the distant clock tower as Yoo Joonghyuk makes his way through the hectic marketplace, easier said than done with the sheer number of people gathered in the winding roads. The hubbub of visitors bargaining for lower prices mixed in with vendors trying to attract more customers accumulates into a rowdy acapella that does nothing to help with the low throb behind his eyes, and he begins to regret not taking the longer route to his destination, already wishing he was home with Mia instead.
A couple more twists and turns, and the crowds gradually dwindle down to the occasional passer-by. Makeshift stalls are slowly replaced with rows of mysterious boutiques and discreet stores that have their display windows frosted over, and he’s reassured that he’s on the right path, recalling the directions given to him by an acquaintance expressing concern over the dark rings that were gradually descending below his eyes.
If he’s being entirely honest, he doesn’t understand the reasoning behind the return of the sleepless nights any better than the occasional enquirer. Eight years have passed since his retirement from the Knights Order, and he’s more content than ever in the peaceful life he has built with his sibling, occasionally accepting commissions from old acquaintances to keep the two of them comfortable. He grows his own crops, raises his own livestock, and lives far enough from the hustle of the town center that the air is calm and crisp, pleasant to breathe. Yet insomnia has deemed itself fit to return to his doorsteps with a raging vehemence, ensuring that the last few weeks of his life have been filled with nothing but nights of tossing and turning, staring at the patterns engrained on the wooden slats of the ceiling while wishing for the sweet relief of unconsciousness.
And so, when a former comrade with a heart too kind for his own good had suggested a shop rumored to sell candles enchanted for healing, he had thought, well—might as well give it a try. Tiring himself out had certainly not worked, and neither had whatever god awful concoction that the local healer had haggled a considerable amount of coin for. He’s never been one to reject novel approaches, and as long as the seller didn’t demand an exorbitant price, he’s willing to dip into his miscellaneous funds if it means possibly attaining a night of good sleep.
While mulling over whether there’s enough coin in his pouch, he turns into an alleyway narrow enough to barely fit two grown men, the cobbled pathway leading to a dead end up ahead. Even from a distance, he’s easily able to spot it; just as Lee Hyunsung had described, a wooden signboard carves out from a shabby looking dwelling crammed at the very end, shaped in the distinctive sign of an 8-pointed star. As he gets closer, he’s able to make out the crooked structure of a two-story lodging, small windows at its front barred by iron melded into unique patterns that lend a peek into a foggy interior. Scrutinizing eyes hover over the worn out door for a fleeting moment before Yoo Joonghyuk pushes his way in, the tinkling chime of a bell ringing over his head.
The cramped interior is simply a small room with an assortment of wooden shelves and cabinets lining its walls, all adorned with candles of varying sizes. Crude slabs of wood have been repurposed to create floating shelves that display more goods up above, while towards the furthermost corner, an unoccupied counter with a collection of lit up candles blocks the path to a staircase that would lead to the upper floor.
A single glance through the humble room is enough to conclude that no one else is in the store, and he briefly ponders over where the store owner is before thinking to himself that he can simply take a look around until they arrive. A few steps to the right take him to the closest shelf, and he eyes the small labels below each candle that are filled in with neat handwriting with a cocked brow.
An educated person, then. Even the vast majority of the Knights Order had been illiterate, through no fault of their own, of course. Curiosity rears its head at the enigma of how the mysterious owner ended up in a place like this, resorting to selling candles in a store that didn’t appear to have many visitors.
He goes through row after row, reading the attached descriptions along the way. A candle that smells of the riverside and mowed grass is labeled ‘Childbirth’, while a more pungent one that gives off a smoky, earthy scent is described as ‘Fatigue’. If they worked as directed, the seller should be some form of a great healer, and once again, he’s flummoxed by their presumed unpopularity.
He’s peering into the candles stored inside a cabinet when there’s a light breeze in the air, and a quiet voice sounds in his head.
[Would you mind sharing what you’re looking for? I could be of help.]
He freezes briefly, his hand still placed on the cracked wood. Slowly, he straightens up, checking his surroundings before settling his gaze on the ground as he asks in a calm voice, “Are you the owner of this store?”
[I suppose one could call it that. I craft the candles, and facilitate the trades.]
“What alias do you go by?” He tries to probe, curious on whether he might have heard of their name. There’s a brief pause, and then the air ripples once again as the voice replies,
[...An alias and such things, I don’t recall possessing. You can consider me a dream, in a manner.]
Yoo Joonghyuk mulls over the strange words, then insists, “Even a dream must have a name..?”
Another pause, longer this time, and the gentle breeze within the room turns into something delicate, brushing over the hair that falls over his brow until the mysterious figure finally replies in a hesitant tone:
[Dokja. Kim Dokja.]
“Yoo Joonghyuk.”
He holds his breath, waiting for the expected reaction from any who hears his true name. The surname Yoo never failed to make people feel ill at ease, and rightfully so; memories of the usurped lordship, famed only for its cruelty and a cold-blooded rule still too much of a fresh wound for their remnants to be easily forgotten.
[What an interesting name. What brought you to my store, Yoo Joonghyuk?]
He falters for a moment, not expecting the indifference, let alone the respectful flattery. He quickly recovers, turning around to lean his lower back against the cabinet as he admits, “I’ve been ailed by a malady of sleepless nights. You wouldn’t happen to have anything for it?”
There’s a thoughtful silence, and then the voice sounds again.
[Sleeplessness, is it? Yes, I do recall something that could help. Would you mind taking a few steps to the left?]
With patiently delivered instructions, step by step, the voice guides him to a row of pillar candles that stand taller than the rest, unlabeled, unlike those that fill the rest of the room. The gentle delivery of the words, along with the pleasant voice in which they are whispered into his ear leaves him feeling a little strange; something almost akin to an intimacy that he rarely frequents making him a little befuddled on how to react.
Kim Dokja asks him to pick up one of the furthermost candles, and he brings it to his nose, sniffing the cool wax. He’s reminded of fresh linen, with a slight undertone of chamomile and lemon balm, a soothing combination that already alleviates some of the heaviness in his skull.
“How much is the payment?” He asks, satisfied enough, his hand already halfway to his pouch when the voice speaks;
[I don’t accept the kingdom’s currency. There’s options that you can choose from, would you like to hear them?]
Joonghyuk nods shortly, staring towards the counter. The stairs leading to the upper floor — surely this Kim Dokja must live in this house, and if so, they should have a corporeal form, should they not?
[You can grant me any of the following: a compliment, a wish, a secret, a memory, or a smile. The choice is left up to you.]
How ludicrous, he thinks in spite of himself. He repeats the options in his head before slowly asking, “How does this work? If I share a memory with you, would that mean I would no longer possess it?”
[Exactly so. But of course, the choice of memory is in your hands. It can be something insignificant, or even a memory you wish to part ways with.]
He thinks about their words, then asks another pressing thought. “What about the wishes? Do you grant them, or erase them from the donor?” He looks down at the candle in his hands briefly and presses on, “If it’s the former, can’t I simply wish for an end to my ailment?”
A gentle laugh flutters against his ear; something warm and tender that tugs at heartstrings as Dokja replies in a somewhat amused voice.
[I’m afraid my powers don’t extend quite that far. No, a wish would simply be for me to hear, not to grant or steal. It will still remain yours.]
So a memory would be taken, but a wish only shared. He doesn’t care for sharing his secrets, and a compliment or a smile—well, it seemed unnecessary.
“I’ll share a memory.” He eventually states. A wish felt too personal, and would require too much thought.
[Alright. Close your eyes, Yoo Joonghyuk. Focus on the memory you wish to concede.]
He follows the instructions, peering into the back of his lids as he tries to think of a memory he can part ways with without regret. He could choose from the haunting crusades of his past that had resulted in too much bloodshed, or something as trifle as the spider he had found this morning, forming cobwebs by the side of the well. For some inexplainable reason, however, doing so felt…improper; the dilapidated state of this dwelling crosses his mind along with its owner’s hospitality, and he has a sudden thought that surprises even himself – he wants to leave them with a good memory.
He finds himself settling on a recollection from six summers back: sunlight shining on his backyard, a gentle afternoon. The crush of soil beneath the soles of his boots, and an unexpected discovery; within the pile of compost packed in a corner near the edge of his fence, one of the discarded watermelon seeds had taken root – a short coil of fluffy vine, barely five leaves in, curling over the fence and arcing towards the sun.
He feels something warm brush against his forehead, and the picture painted in his mind slowly disintegrates into dust and void, and he’s back to staring at the back of his lids. He feels no different than moments prior; there’s the knowledge that he had just paid the chandler with a pleasant memory, but he can’t quite place what it was.
The warmth retreats, and he opens his eyes. The shabby store comes back into view, and the warm glow of candlelight mixes in with the scarce amount of sunlight filtering in through the windows as together, they illuminate the various candles lined up for sale.
While he’s blinking away the slight fogginess in his thoughts, Kim Dokja’s voice sounds in his ear once again.
[Your payment has been made. Keep the candle lit by your side whenever you try to sleep, it should be of some help.]
He gives a light nod to his head, wavering for a moment before crossing the short distance left to the door that he came in through, but then the air ripples again, and the voice calls out;
[Yoo Joonghyuk?]
He pauses mid-step.
There’s a smile in their voice as Kim Dokja says,
[Thank you for such a lovely memory.]
Yoo Joonghyuk eyes the gleam of his own boots, a myriad of thoughts flashing through his mind. Eventually, he simply mutters, “It was nothing.”
The bell tinkles again as he walks out into the alleyway, a creamy hued candle stored within his pouch.
༺ ⚘ ༻
A compliment
Exactly three weeks later, Yoo Joonghyuk finds himself walking in through the familiar frayed doorway, a coil of tension he hadn’t even been aware of unwinding in his chest as his eyes land on the candles adorning the run down shelves.
[You came back.]
They sound happy, he observes quietly, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Were you expecting me?”
[No, but I hoped you would return. That would mean the candle worked, wouldn’t it?]
“I slept well within the last weeks.” He confesses begrudgingly, moving towards a display of tealight candles. It’s the full truth; on the first night, he had been admittedly skeptical, laying on the bed as he watched the flickering flame dance over the wick, standing tall and casting moving shadows upon the cobblestone walls. It’s the last thing he recalls before sleep overtook him, sudden and swift.
He dreamt of a blazing bonfire. Soft crackles of branches and twigs, flames that licked one another as they tried to reach heavenward, obscuring the stars in the sky with the golden mist they cast upon their surroundings.
Vivid and warm, stirring unnamed emotions as they persisted through every night that followed—always comforting and kind. He’s never felt this rested, and he’s loath to part with the source of his recently shored repose, hence another visit as the wax dripped down to its last inch.
A question lingers on his mind, and he carefully asks, “How exactly are the candles made in your store?”
[Was that what was on your mind? I dip cotton wicks in tallow, then carve the final form in a way that suits them. Nothing different from other chandlers, I assume.]
“What about the scents and the healing properties? Is that your magic?”
The voice releases a pondering hum, and the air vibrates mildly with it.
[I wouldn’t quite call it magic. I think of the conclusions I would like to see as I make them, so I suppose you could say there’s a little part of myself imbued in each of them.]
Hell, sounds like magic to him.
[The candle you last purchased, I made it by chance while thinking about contentment. Was it suitable?]
“They gave me dreams of bonfires.” The words spill out a touch accusatory, not at all his intention. He’s witnessed the destructive nature of fire before; the fiery dreams bestowed by the candle were nothing alike.
Concern leaks into Kim Dokja’s voice as they ask;
[Did the dreams not sit well with you?]
“No.” He immediately retorts, then falls into silence, confused by the harsh tone to his own voice.
It’s not that he’s particularly unfamiliar with being the recipient of concern, be it the scarce number of people that dare to express it to his face. Lee Hyunsung, simply because it was impossible for him to hold his emotions in. Mia, because she was his little sister. His former teacher, lovers from a time far gone, even the occasional patron unfamiliar with his guarded nature.
Appreciated, but always brushed off — yet somehow, coming from this poverty stricken shopkeeper, it scratches at something vulnerable, cloaked and hidden away that it startles himself.
“...No,” he tries again in a more neutral tone. “They were… peaceful.”
A light current of air makes the flames of the candles on the counter flicker ever so gently, and a foolish thought crosses his mind; that the person is expressing happiness—for him.
He coughs lightly, quickly changing the subject. “So you do make them by hand. Why choose to hide yourself, then?”
There’s a curious pause, and then a breeze plays over his temple, sweeps a few strands away from his face as Dokja asks in a teasing tone;
[By chance, are you curious about how I look, Yoo Joonghyuk?]
“Not at all.” He bites out, and laughter rings in his ears.
[I just didn’t see a necessity for it. Besides you, no one has ever asked.]
An awkward silence settles through the room, and Yoo Joonghyuk struggles to think of something to respond with. His efforts are spared as Dokja asks him;
[So are you here to make another purchase of the same kind?]
He jerks his head in a nod, walking towards the aisle that the chandler had directed him to on his last visit.
[I don’t have the same candle, but there’s something similar I can suggest. Do you see the one at the very center?]
He lifts it up and brings it to his nose, already used to expecting the distinct scents of each candle within the store. This one smells of citrus and mint; an odd combination.
There’s a brief stillness to the air, followed by a thin breeze that almost feels hesitant.
[I have a request of you today, if you are willing to hear me.]
His brow lifts in a silent acquiescence, and Dokja continues.
[Would you mind making your payment with a compliment?]
“A compliment?” He repeats tightly, a furrow appearing over his eyes. “Why?”
A nervous laugh sounds in his ear.
[It’s a popular form of payment, as it happens. I just thought, well—]
Joonghyuk frowns towards the empty room, waiting for them to finish their sentence.
[You, who have shown yourself different from the rest—I thought I would like to hear it from you.]
The room falls back into silence. Unforeseen thoughts race through Yoo Joonghyuk’s mind, one by one, pulling his mouth into a tighter grimace.
This wreckage you call your store brings me peace.
Your breezes are a gentle presence.
The smiles within your voice—
“Your candles are well-made.” He says in a flat voice, his grip around the candle growing a little tighter.
There’s a soft breath of air in response, a little resigned.
[Thank you. Your payment has been made, I hope you’re able to enjoy restful nights ahead, Yoo Joonghyuk.]
He gives a short nod and turns around to leave, but an unpleasant sensation keeps his feet rooted to the ground. He hides his hesitance by loosening the tweed on his pouch, making it as if to place the candle inside carefully as he voices, “What were you thinking about while making this?”
Dokja sounds surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting their conversation to continue after the payment.
[Ah, that. I thought of peace.]
What a peculiar person. Educated men used peace as a façade to veil their bloodthirsty campaigns and assert their control — Kim Dokja used them to make candles.
He says after a short pause, “Your candles work well.”
And then,
“I’ll be back.”
The air feels lighter as he walks out. They must be happy, he thinks to himself, unaware of the relief that lightens his eyes as walks through the winding roads back to his home.
༺ ⚘ ༻
A secret
Sparks fly out from the coal burning in the forge as Yoo Joonghyuk places the steel base within, watching as the dull gray turns into a glowing yellow. He brings it out, placing it on the anvil by its side as he begins to bevel its edges with a hammer, dipping the tool in a bucket of water every now and then as he uses his shoulder to wipe the sweat that drips down to his eyes.
The small smithy has little sunlight that pours in from the door kept ajar. The day hasn’t reached noon, and he thinks to himself that he’ll halt his work for today after finishing the cutting edge on the other side of the sword. He can catch some trout for lunch time then, make some porridge with the radishes and the cabbage he had harvested the day prior to go with it. He wants to be done a little earlier today, planning to make another visit to the chandler’s store in the afternoon. There’s little wax left in the last purchased candle, and he feels oddly anxious at the thought of sleeping without the flickering flames of a burning wick by his side.
The warm glow of ember burns brighter as the bellows are pressed down, and golden specks flutter over the forge, disappearing into the hot air. Remnants of the dreams that had followed him over the last few weeks flicker to the forefront of Joonghyuk’s mind, distracting him from the methodical work that he’s luckily too familiar with to make any mistakes.
This time, his dreams had been filled with a sea of stars. Constantly on the move, but at the same time never moving; a paradoxical contradiction in every sense because despite its beauty, an empty feeling would pool in his stomach within those short moments of awakening before consciousness fully returned. Despite it all, it had been effective; but he looks forward to changing to a new scent all the same.
In the back of his head, he wonders what peace means to Kim Dokja, and if they were ever lonely by themselves in that hidden away store, never revealing themselves even to the rare patrons who never thought to ask.
*
“I want something different.”
There’s a thoughtful pause, and Dokja responds,
[That was always going to be the case, but why this specific time? Was there a problem?]
“No problems. I just think you and I have different views on certain matters.” Joonghyuk mutters, picking up a tall, thin candle tapered towards its end, the wax smooth and rubbery against his fingertips.
[Ah.]
A knowing sound, and the air flutters around his feet as Dokja asks,
[What does peace mean to you, Yoo Joonghyuk?]
He thinks about it for a while, placing the candle back on the shelf as he finally voices, “A day well lived. Freedom, without pressing conflicts.”
[That’s admirable. For me…]
There’s a long silence, and Joonghyuk begins to think that the sentence will be left unfinished when he hears the softly whispered admission.
[It’s something like acceptance.]
He thinks about their words as they direct him to a candle that smells of wood-pulp, turning it in his hands while only paying half attention to the voice that continues to murmur against his ear. Comfort; this is what the candle was based after, Dokja explains. He wonders what they would think if they knew of the solace he associates with their presence—not entirely sure how he feels about it himself.
Did they ever step outside the doors of this store? What did they do in the time they did not spend making candles; did they eat? Feel the warmth of direct sunlight on their face? Make conversation with someone who isn’t a customer—experience the touch of another without the veil of separation he constantly donned?
The tips of his fingers twitch unconsciously towards the empty air as the pool of thoughts spirals and twists until they finally spill out of his lips in another form.
“I’ll make my payment through a secret.”
He is curious. Not just of their true form, but about him. What he is, what he does, his thoughts, his reality. The conclusions he shapes into his creations, their sources, where they began. He wants to know anything that he can—but Yoo Joonghyuk will never be one to ask such a thing outright, so he’ll do the one thing he can think of; yield a little part of himself with a silent hope that the favor will be returned.
The little breezes that curl over his neck feel unbearably gentle as he reveals, “Near my home, just over the hillside, there’s a field of poppies that faces west. I planted each seed for every life that fell by my hands.”
A moment passes in a silence that feels respectful, and Dokja murmurs,
[Do you regret it?]
“No.” He admits for the first time; feels the closure of finally having spoken the words aloud. “It was inevitable.”
And then he adds, “But a life is still a life.”
Dustmotes float amidst the faded sunlight seeping into the store, undisturbed; a little universe of their own.
[You’re a good man, Yoo Joonghyuk.]
Is he a good man? He doesn’t think about such things; righteousness and virtue, the black and white scales of judgment. At the core of it all, he is a selfish man. When presented with a goal he seeks, he will do everything in his power to see it through to the end.
[The payment has been completed. You’ve shared something with me, Joonghyuk, can I share something back?]
A stuttered heartbeat, the broad back of a man standing towards the corner of the weathered store, surrounded by rows of candles, his gaze directed somewhere and nowhere at the same time. Waiting.
[I always look forward to your every visit.]
Joonghyuk immediately thinks; as do I.
༺ ⚘ ༻
A wish
Some things don’t always dawn as a revelation, as a sudden epiphany that shakes mountains and moves heavens.
To Yoo Joonghyuk, his feelings accumulate like moss growing on stone; the signs evident from the beginning, but easily ignorable. That is, until the greens bloom and spread, covering the expanse and filling the gaps in between till it becomes impossible to overlook, because it’s everything you can see.
A nonsensical emotion. He’s not a complete fool, he wouldn’t call it love—not right now. Something without a name, but a prelude, a conviction. It grows with the days that he unconsciously spends counting down to their next encounter, in lost gazes that Mia remarks on, perceptive as she is, and the occasional distracted thought as he herds cattle back to their pen. Always lingering, making its presence known.
Curiosity that has spilled beyond that person’s before’s and now’s, because the things he longs to know the answers of now include the future; of the existence of a possibility.
How ridiculous that he has been reduced to a yearning man.
Yet it comes with a silent acceptance; the feelings already exist, after all. Perhaps it was always inevitable, as most things are.
The days pass slowly. The candle wax drips inch by inch, and he sleeps through dreams of being submerged within the passages of a manuscript, blurred sentences that float around and gently embrace his waist as if welcoming him home. In the mornings, he collects the eggs laid by the hens, tends to the crops that have gone without water, lugging buckets on his back as he walks tirelessly through his fields. He spends time with his little sister, trades produce and dried meat for new clothes and books, a pair of sturdy shoes she may like. The patron that had last commissioned him comes to collect the newly finished sword, and the sun rises and sets over the hill, again and again until the day finally comes for him to make his visit to a hidden alleyway, this time with a resolution.
*
[You want to trade it with a wish?]
Surprise leaks into their voice, as if it were something entirely out of his expectations.
“Will you hear it?” Joonghyuk insists, eyes determinedly fixed on the candle in his grip, never straying, not in this moment. Not when his heart beats this heavy, tongue morbidly dry.
[You remember what I told you in the beginning, right? A wish will only be for me to hear.]
“I want you to hear it.” Just like that, he looks up towards the empty space in front of him, imagining the presence that must be somewhere close. “I want you to hear it. Kim Dokja—”
A culmination of their brief encounters, bursting forth in its truest self;
“—I wish to see you.”
The air halts.
Silence descends, agonizing long seconds of him standing alone, candle in hand—bearing his heart for the world to see and feeling like a fool for it.
And then ever so slowly, streams of air begin to push out from the center of the room, blowing out the candles on the countertop as they gather speed into something that would be impossible to keep gazing into the heart of.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes never drift shut. Not once.
In the dim light from the fogged windows, two pairs of eyes soon stare into one another, one with a quiet satisfaction, the other with an overwhelming fondness, a light twinkle contained within that outshines everything in the room.
“I thought you didn’t grant wishes.”
Footsteps echo against the cracked floors as Dokja closes the distance between them, raises their hands to his cheeks, brushing over the light hair that grows towards his chin. Tugging his head lower and he allows it as his vision blurs, and something brushes against his lips—not with a kiss, not just yet.
Bare grazes of chapped skin, simply breathing into one another as hooded eyes that hung heavy look up and meet his gaze, and he’s finally able to see the smile that lingered in the voice that had taken root in all his thoughts.
“Didn’t I mention before? You’re not like others.”
Any rebuttals are swallowed by the lips that press into his own, firm and insistent, molding over every curve. Teasing retreats that shouldn’t count because their noses are still nudged together; always followed by another slot of their lips, each more daring than the one before.
Blood pulses in Joonghyuk’s ears, makes the back of his neck feel ablaze with heat as the hands on his cheeks travel lower, over his shoulders down to the waist of his tunic, yanking him forward until their bodies collide while his own arms hang limp and stupid by his sides, still clutching onto the candle for God knows what reason—not that it matters, not when his lower lip is being caught between theirs, his mouth tugged open, a tongue sliding in and deepening the kiss with a confidence that dances on the line of being obnoxious. But maintaining his pride is the last thing on his mind as the hands on his waist dig deeper, pulling him forward and then backing him towards the counter in stumbling steps, candles getting knocked onto the ground as he’s nudged onto its surface, legs pressed apart, their lips never parting along the way.
Breaths stolen and deemed unnecessary as Dokja fits himself between his thighs, fingers twisting into his back that’s followed by the soft thuds of the candle in his hand falling to the ground, rolling away. Suddenly, it becomes imperative that he touches him back; one hand clutching onto the edge of the countertop as he presses forward and uses the other to twist into their nape, bringing them closer and returning the kiss twofold. A laugh that vibrates against his skin, long kisses that last for what feels like an eternity until Dokja finally retreats—only just so. Foreheads still pressed together, humid air filling the short gap between their lips as they both pant heavily, trying to recover from the moment of lost inhibitions.
“...What took you so long.” He finally manages to get out, feeling the numb throb to his lips as Dokja smiles brilliantly bright.
“I thought I’d wait for you to ask.”
༺ ⚘ ༻
A smile
It’s a gradual transformation, the weeks that follow.
Some things remain the same; Joonghyuk will still grow his own crops and raise his own livestock, accept the occasional commission that will take him to his smithy where he batters steel into shape. Down the hills, in a secretive alleyway in the heart of the mysteries of the town center, a dilapidated candle store will have its front door open for the rare visitor who hears of it through the occasional grapevine; bartering trades through regular business hours.
Some things change. The meal times that are ever so steadily greeted by another presence at their table — skepticism dripping off his younger sibling who throws question after question over bowls of hot food. He appreciates it; welcomes the childishness that they seem to bring out in Mia who’s at the age where she insists on growing up too fast.
Another change; the mornings that dawn with the crows of roosters, now greeted with another body pressed to his side.
No longer a need for candles, their limbs entwined.
A series of epiphanies, sometimes eliciting indignance, but always welcomed. He learns that he doesn’t mind soft, teasing words. Learns to tolerate stubbornness, the probing questions that try to peer into his life. Probes back in return. The liberation of lowering his guards with someone who will always keep trying to inch their way in further, never once backing down. The joys of learning about someone, not just existing together, but relying and being relied upon in return. The touch of skin against skin, different from the times before; conceding to another, learning that it’s alright to sometimes simply accept—and reciprocate in return.
New worlds that slowly assimilate into every corner of his life, until being with them becomes something that he no longer has to think about — it just simply is.
*
A dull sky – a clouded sun having set a while back; a meld of muted blues and grays that melt into the horizon as waves crash onto the shore, drowning out the calls of seagulls up ahead. Mia is far out in the distance, dipping her feet in the ebbing tides and chasing them into the ocean, in a world of her own. A rare day of indulgence that had included hiring a wagon to the seaside, and it seems to have been worth it; he hasn’t seen her this animated in a good while.
Sand coats his hands and feet, and he takes in a deep breath of the salty air, leaning back against stretched arms while letting the wind blow through the folds of his tunic. His head feels calm, at peace.
“You’re smiling.”
He tilts his head to his side lazily. Dokja sits next to him, surprise widening his eyes as he stares back at him.
“You haven’t seen me smile before?” He asks, bringing his knees closer, wrapping his arms around them as he props his chin on top.
“Not like this.” He insists a touch passionately, and Joonghyuk’s mouth tugs up higher.
He takes in another lungful of air, exhaling slowly as he looks up ahead, replying in a quiet breath, “I’m happy.”
Comfort, peace, and contentment. Three words that were so closely entwined, but different enough to yield their own title, and yet somehow–
He’d thought he had found it all even long before meeting them, and he still stands by that. It had been the result of his own efforts, the trophies of the hurdles he had crossed to reach that point of his life.
He just never thought he would find them for a second time, simply within the company of a singular person by his side.
(-What does peace mean to you now, Kim Dokja?
–The nights and the mornings, and the things in between. A life spent with you.)