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Rain—he could hear it rustling through the dark;
Fragrance and passionless music woven as one;
Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers
That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps
Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace,
Gently and slowly washing life away.
It was a grey morning when Kim Dokja got to work just three minutes past eight. There’s absolutely no need to arrive early, Dokja is simply not passionate about having eyes on him after getting out of the elevator.
Today’s lunch is one roll of kimbap from the convenience store. There’s nothing of note for its taste other than the slightly salty taste on his tongue, and the cold touch of the unmelt cheese inside the roll. He was too lazy to heat it up today.
Yoo Sangah finished her lunch by closing her blue bento box. Dojka peaked at it and swallowed at the smell of it. She gave him a smile.
“Are you doing okay? Doctor mentioned that you should have stayed for one more week.”
He should. Kim Dojka did not want to. 20,000 won a day. Multiply by seven. He used to be an average student, but even he can make the math. “I am feeling just fine.”
“Right,” she says, though her hands reach inside her bag. “I have made an extra lunch box. If you don’t mind…”
“Oh.” Kim Dokja is not accustomed to attention from women. “No, thank you. I just ate.”
She looks equally uncomfortable. “Okay,” she says, putting it back in her bag. “I’ll have to throw this at the trash, then.”
“You’re free to eat it.”
“This isn’t mine,” she says. “I’m not good at cooking.”
Dokja did not miss the five-star display of culinary school from the first glance. “I think you’re better than me,” he says.
Her expression closes off. Kim Dokja doesn’t know, nor cares enough about her to find out why. “Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi made them.”
“What?”
“He wanted to give the other one to you.”
Kim Dokja blinks. “Sorry,” he says, “let me rephrase that. I mean, who?”
Kim Dokja woke up in the hospital with the guy called Yoo Joonghyuk, as he later found out, next to him. He has forgotten about the whole thing before Yoo Sanga reminds him of his existence, though he faintly remembers the striking features of his face, them being a little too symmetrical for a real human being, which results in the first thing he said to him:
“I transmigrated to a romance novel?”
The guy did not look pleased by the subtle compliment. In fact, he looked just a little angrier than Dokja was when he first got his lunch stolen in middle school.
“Kim Dokja,” he said, voice ever so flat in his delivery, “I am going to kill you if you don’t shut up right now.”
The guy has the temper of a bully, Kim Dokja reasons after the imagery he is most familiar with, the faceless head of a guy yelling at him over a table, though this one is just a little too good-looking to play the role. He shuts his mouth for a moment until the man rose an eyebrow with crossed arms.
“Say something.”
Kim Dokja must have stared, but the guy looked unfazed.
“Are you awake?”
“Um,” Kim Dokja says, and realised that his voice was meek, fragile in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long time. The guy’s hand suddenly came close to his field of vision; and with that, a small, plastic cup of water.
“Drink or you die,” the guy said. Kim Dokja took the offer gracefully and drowned the water in one move. His neck let out an embarrassing sound at the movement, but the guy did not mention it.
“Um,” Kim Dokja repeated, but this time with more vigor. “Mister…”
“Yoo Joonghyuk.”
“Right, Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi,” he said, a little more aware of his surroundings. The white curtains and bandages in his arms made him remember where he was. “I suppose you’re someone I know.”
“You don’t remember me,” Joonghyuk said.
“I apologize. I suppose we didn’t know each other for long.”
“Are you awake?”
“What?”
“Answer my question, Kim Dokja.”
He straightened his spine. For a moment, he thought he was back in the military. “Uh, yes, I suppose I am awake.”
“And you don’t remember me.”
Kim Dokja was getting a little nervous. The smell of antiseptic was not helping. “Should I remember you?”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t seem like someone who would smile even if all the puppies in the world gathered around him. This could be the reason why Kim Dokja’s head spun a little when he smiled. It was like witnessing something he shouldn’t.
“No,” he said, smiling. His head tilted to the door. “Your friends are waiting outside, Kim Dokja. Go greet them.”
Kim Dokja has not seen Yoo Joonghyuk since that day at the hospital. Hearing his name reminded him of his existence for a brief moment, but that too was washed away by the hurries of daily life. Not that he hates being busy. He just doesn’t like much of anything.
“Oh, he’s a weird one,” Han Sooyoung says with a mouthful of fried chicken. “This man just locked us out of the hospital door. Did he try to kill you or something? Make you sign a contract for idol career?”
“What I can possibly contribute to his hypothetical idol career.”
Han Sooyoung shrugs. “Maybe he’s gay and needs a fuckbuddy but he’s a future idol so he can’t let go of his image—”
“You read too much.”
“—oh, Yoo Joonghyuk-hyung, don’t leave me, I have developed feelings for you—”
Kim Dokja sinks his teeth in his garlic fried chicken. “That wasn’t a compliment,” he said. “He also looks younger than me.”
“What, you would prefer him to call you hyung?”
The fried chicken tastes great, Kim Dokja reasons. This is the only reason why he hasn’t left the room. “I don’t think an idol would want any business with me.”
“True, you would steal all their money and run away.”
“What I mean is that that I am not very attractive.”
Han Sooyoung points the bone at him. “That too, I guess.”
Kim Dokja forgets why he is friends with her. He supposes that there is a reason behind it, after all these years.
“Han Sooyoung.”
“What?”
“Do you remember when we first met?”
He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain
Leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore
His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.
But someone was beside him; soon he lay
Shuddering because that evil thing had passed.
And death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared.
Kim Dokja has never been the dreamy type. He never dreamt, at least not about things that don’t matter—and they weren’t many things that matter that was worth disturbing the carefully scraped hours of sleep. Kim Dokja is not partial to sleep, but he enjoys the occasional loss of consciousness, the daily life that clouds it.
“I guess I will be buying your album next year,” Dokja says, a little exasperated in this void, a black, empty dream field. He is slightly affronted that his dream is this bland, and only a little depressing. “It’s the first time I dream about someone, you know. I should give you a trophy or something. Or wait, should I ask for a signature?”
Yoo Joonghyuk stands in front of him in a simple white shirt. It looks odd on him. He looks like a star to a gala that forgot the dress code. He looks around with an impassive. Kim Dokja supposes he is supposed to feel offended when Yoo Joonghyuk scrunches his nose. It’s unfortunate that he agrees with the underlining feeling.
“It’s quite shitty to appear in someone’s dream,” Dokja says lightly, “but to be fair, I did make you up. You are not very real.”
“I am not real,” Joonghyuk says. He looks at his hands, seemingly in thought. “I am not supposed to be here.”
He shrugs. “Sometimes insomnia is a bitch.”
“Get out, Kim Dokja.”
“Excuse me?”
Joonghyuk’s face is ash grey. He looks like one of the dream demons. “Get out.”
He crosses his arms. “Well. This is my dream. If anything, shouldn’t I kindly ask you to leave, Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi?”
That face again. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
The man looks at him, but his gaze shifts, unfocused; a veil draped over his heavy lids. He seems to succumb to the weight and closes his eyes. Kim Dokja never feels the touch of rain in dreams— but his hands are wet, and at his feet, a poodle of water gathers like the aftermath of a heavy downpour.
“Not here,” Kim Dokja hears.
Kim Dokja wakes up. He hears the small drizzle of rain, and as though in defeat, puts a hand over his wet face.