Chapter Text
One glance, and the pages,
once empty, are set aflame ;
my ink, once dried,
is fueled by his name.
— Kim Dokja
*
“Yeah, no shit.” Kim Dokja laughs nervously, finally deciding to stop in his tracks when he almost trips again. His phone is pressed between his shoulder and ear, while his left hand keeps searching inside his bag for the folder he desperately needs today, as if it would just magically appear there if he just keeps digging.
Spoiler alert: It wouldn’t. He’s been searching for it for almost five minutes now, and even if he flips his bag and scatters its contents, he still won't find it. He knows this, because after minutes of panicking, he finally remembers where he can actually find it. But. But.
Kim Dokja should’ve known, should’ve expected this, because isn’t he just the luckiest person ever? Take note of the sarcasm — but then again, that’s not really the point.
The point is that, of all things he could forget, of course it has to be the currently most important thing in his life as a student right now. And, of all places he could forget it from, it just has to be at the —
At the… at the…
He throws a glance at the traffic lights. Ten seconds before it turns green. What the fucking fuck, he’ll surely fail this class. Eight seconds. And it’s a damn major, too. He’s really going to be a starving artist like his aunt told him, oh my god. Seven seconds. Maybe he should cross the road without looking and have someone run him over with their car and he —
“Okay, shut the fuck up with your mumbling and listen here, you suicidal piece of shit.” Han Sooyoung’s rough voice comes from the other side of the line, more clearer than when she was talking earlier, so he figures she’s got her phone near her mouth. “You know where you forgot it. You know where.” — okay, not really helpful at all, but thanks for the reminder, Ms. Han Sooyoung. Yay, haha! — “All you have to do is bring your ass over the place and ask if someone sees it.”
Kim Dokja slaps his palm over his face, and sighs. “It’s not that easy,” he replies, sounding as dejected as he was when his first manuscript got rejected by a magazine issue he badly wanted to be a part of.
“Well, nothing in life is. And I actually think failing this class will be harder, if I’m being honest.”
“Cool, but have you thought that maybe honesty is not what I need right now, Han Sooyoung!” Kim Dokja raises his voice, rather dramatically. “Maybe it’s a bit of affection and support, a reminder of our camaraderie for years! Would it hurt you to say, oh yes, Dokja-ssi, I know it isn’t easy, but you’re so brave and strong and —”
Han Sooyoung imitates the sound of someone retching. “Ew.”
Kim Dokja rolls his eyes. “Wow. I rate you one star. Would not recommend to anyone. At all.”
“Shut up now, you rat, do you even hear me? You bet your ass you’re gonna fail. Are you crazy? You over-caffeinated yourself to having hyperacidity flareups just to pump your creative juices and make me come over with medicine because you can’t stand up from the pain. You spent sleepless nights writing, calling me to fill in the spaces that don't make sense or have me proofread it over and over — when I could be doting on someone I’m trying to date — because your perfectionist ass can't stand to make one mistake.” Okay, kind of hits the sore spot, but true. Kim Dokja can't say anything about that. “You poured your efforts into that paper, and pulled me along with you through it, too. So no way you’re going to fail, and will let yourself fail. Ya hear me?”
Kim Dokja rubs his temple and smiles. “Was the aggression necessary?”
“We’re talking about you here, so yeah, it is.” He hears her click her tongue, then the sound of a swivel chair being moved around. “Okay, seems like you understood. So now, answer me, because I know you already realized where it is. So, where is it?”
Kim Dokja chuckles nervously. “Wooow, the sky is very blue today!”
“You little —” Han Sooyoung hisses, then, to spike up Kim Dokja’s anxiety, whatever insult she’s planning to throw suddenly comes to a halt. As if realization also dawned on her.
And then, she burst out laughing.
Kim Dokja bites his lips, closes his eyes begrudgingly, and mumbles fuck.
“No way… you. That café you always write at —”
“You’re not helping.”
“Yeah, no, fucking hell — that’s just so fucking —” Another burst of laugh. Kim Dokja wishes he didn't call her about this. Or maybe it would’ve been better if he didn't meet her at all! (says someone who knows damn well he wouldn't survive without her) “This is gonna be so good —”
Yup. What’s that thing that he always hears? About how someone’s misery will always be another’s entertainment?
Okay, but Kim Dokja, it isn't that serious. Why do you want to kill yourself.
Yeah, right. Bullshit. He lost his fucking maniscript for this semester’s final project for his major and the last time he saw it was at the fucking cafe he usually writes at because:
One. The scenery is good.
Two. The drinks are excellent. Especially their matcha. Matcha latte, matcha berry, dirty matcha, matcha chai latte, matcha frappucino. Whatever matcha.
Three. It’s somewhere between his university and apartment. Pretty convenient.
Four. Their barista is hot. He looks mean with all his usual frowns, sounds kinda mean with his grumpy statements, but he’s hot and handsome and maybe he can excuse the glares he always throws at him when he enters the café at midnight because he actually makes Kim Dokja feel so inspired to write so his creative juices are greatly stirred and he actually managed to —
To come up with the storyline slash concept slash plot for his project.
Because it was inspired by him.
The center of the character was based off of him.
And now he left the said fucking project at the café the said muse was fucking working at?
God, this is a disaster. Kim Dokja wants to die.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
■■, A SNIPPET.
BY KIM DOKJA.
I stare at the coffee in front of me, memorizing the way it stirs around, noticing how the color is quite different to the one he brought to me two days ago; sweeter than the one from four days ago.
I graze my fingertips over the cup where his palm rested once, and wonder how it’d feel to have them in mine.
I am trying to find traces of him in them. In the coffees, the pastries, the welcome greetings when I step into the shop. I take notice of the pitch and tone of his voice when he asks my order, the way his hands move when he takes note of it, or when he writes my name on the cup. I memorize how he carries himself with elegance, or how he raises his eyebrow when he sees me ordering another cup again.
This café is the home of my insurmountable yearning and affection. Here, I will get closer to him without actually taking action. Here, I will know him without taking the risk of being known.
I will memorize you, if only through the marks you leave this place. I will fantasize about you, if only through the bits I am shown by your grace.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
It’s to his own stupidity that he lost the manuscript worth his blood, sweat, and tears. So really, it should be to his own bravery as well to walk into that entrance he’s very well familiar with, having been inside for months already. But no. This is a different matter. This one involves his reputation. One that’s already not good in the first place, but still worth protecting, of course.
“I’m telling you, man up and go ask him if he saw it.”
Kim Dokja remains hidden behind a large tree just a few blocks away from the cafe. Sweat building up in his temples, he groans at the sunlight still poking through the leaves and hitting his face. He’s been standing here for ten minutes, gathering his courage to man up like Han Sooyoung mentions, but ugh — “I can’t do that,” he replies, fear in his voice. “What if he read it? What do I say, huh? You think I have no shame?”
Han Sooyoung cracks out loud at that. Kim Dokja wonders again why he’s friends with her when all she ever does is this, while he’s in the moment of need. “You wrote almost thirty pages worth of confession that might as well be a fanfiction and you want to talk about shame?”
Kim Dokja flushes at that. “Excuse me,” he says, defensive. “It’s not my fault he brought out the poet in me!”
“I don’t know, bro. I think that says a lot about you.”
“Ugh, fuck you,” he groans.
It took a while of breathing and repetitive mantra of I am Brave I am Strong No One’s Out There To Get Me I’m Not Going To Be Executed I’ll Just Ask And Leave before he finally found himself setting foot to the entrance floor mat that has the word ‘Welcome’ as its design.
His grip around the strap of his messenger bag is tight enough that the usually not-so-evident veins in his hand bulged; if it was another situation, he’d believe that adds up to his charisma, but not when he’s almost a walking bag of anxiety. Fucking hell. Even when he was stiffly walking towards the place, some people couldn’t help but throw a glance at him because, relax, dude, no one’s gonna steal from you.
He looks up and meets the eyes of —
Oh.
… Another barista.
Not that handsome and sexy guy who usually takes his order who he’s actually expecting to see, no.
Of course, he’s not disappointed. He’s actually very, very relieved. Yup. That’s true.
Luckily, there’s no line of customers, so he immediately but also stiffly strides towards the woman. She looks around his age, with her soft smile and gentle demeanor and light brown hair. Definitely fits someone’s type. Someone he knows damn well. Someone who was just laughing at his sorry ass a few minutes ago.
“Hi,” the woman greets when they come face to face. Kim Dokja briefly looks down to where her name tag is. Yoo Sangah.
Wait a minute. Wasn’t that handsome and sexy guy also someone surnamed Yoo?
Huh.
Oh my god.
No way.
There’s no fucking way he was thirsting over a married man, right!?
Oh my god —
Okay! Chill! What’s there to worry about, huh! That’s not confirmed yet. Maybe they’re siblings. Or cousins. Or, like, whatever. And anyway, if that was the case, then he’d go to the police station himself and offer his wrists because, fuck, arrest him, officer. Guilty as charged.
“Um, hi?” The woman, Yoo Sangah, repeats, seemingly awkward. “What can I get you?”
“Hi.” Kim Dokja looks around to see if there’s a queue behind him, and sighs in relief when there isn't. Because shit’s about to get serious from here on. “Okay, so, I need something.” Great. Now Yoo Sangah looks confused. Obviously that's not the best start, he says it like he’s not in a damn café, and no one gives a shit about what he needs. She has to take his order. “Okay, so, uh. Two days — no, actually, I think it was three days? Yup. Three days, or four. Fuck. Whatever. So, I was here.” He points at himself, and then, very unhelpfully: “I’m actually a regular.”
“Oh,” Yoo Sangah says, as if she doesn't know how to react to that. “Um, congratulations… and thank you…?” Yoo Sangah offers a very customer service-like smile at that, something Kim Dokja is very much familiar with, having worked in the same industry for years. He slaps himself mentally, because god, did she really need to know that? How was saying that going to help with anything? Oh, my, I’m actually a regular~ who the fuck cares!! Where is his proper construction of sentences now? Where is it now that he actually needs it?
Dear lord, this is why he’s a writer. He’s not suitable for speaking. He should be banned from doing it. He should just keep his mouth shut.
“Sorry, that was weird as hell.” He chuckles. “Oh, well, fuck it. Actually, I left my project that time, I think, here. And I need it back because the submission is today. I was just wondering if you or the other staff ever found it?”
Yoo Sangah nods with clarity, like she has finally made some sense from him. Kinda rude, if you ask Kim Dokja, but he shrugs it off because he’s the one whose ass needs help right now. “I see. Thanks for letting me know. For this project, was it perhaps in a binder? Like some thesis?”
Kim Dokja beams at that. He nods, full of hope. “Yes, yes! That one! Have you seen it? Can I have it back?”
Yoo Sangah scratches her cheek and smiles apologetically. “About that… our barista from the night shift has it with him.”
Kim Dokja's mouth falls open. Suddenly, he feels as though his body weight slips off him, and he shifts his body against the countertop, much to Yoo Sangah’s surprise. He looks like the world just fell upon his shoulder, like he was suddenly sentenced to death.
Our barista from the night shift has it with him.
Okay. Fuck. Calm down. Let’s try to dissect that sentence, because maybe it’s not what he thinks it is, right?
Our barista from the night shift has it with him.
First of all: there is no name mentioned. That can be a safety net. Second: she may have used the he pronoun, but that doesn't make that guy special. Surely, he’s not the only one with he/him pronouns here, right? Okay, lastly: he’s not the only one working in night shifts. Kim Dokja usually goes here. He’s a damn regular who usually stops by at night since his creativity is more active past 8 PM, and he is confident to say that Mr. Sexy and Handsome Barista Yoo is not the only guy around that time, so yes, fuck it, he shouldn’t be —
“Ah!” Yoo Sangah suddenly exclaims as the bell by the entrance rings as the door clicks open. Kim Dokja flinches. “That’s him. Seems he’s on shift today and not later.”
Kim Dokja slowly turns around, silently calling and praying to the gods, the universe, the divine guidance, the angels, the spirits —
But oh well, there he is with his stupid tall height and stupid handsome face and stupid long hair and stupid… s-s-soft… stare…?
… and stupid soft smile (yeah, what the hell, that guy smiles?) when he sees Kim Dokja.
Kim Dokja looks down and sees the goddamn project he’s about to die for, in his hands.
Fuck me, Kim Dokja thinks, but not in a sexual way (though it could be because what the hell is he being so sexy for when he’s just standing there) but in a fuck-I-should-really-start-counting-my-days way.
“You look constipated,” Yoo Joonghyuk comments before sipping at his iced americano. Kim Dokja is almost touched, because really, this is their first (normal? Regular?) conversation ever outside of their usual customer service exchanges, and that’s the first thing he’ll say?
Not that he lied, of course, but c’mon. Some courtesy for someone who has been pining over you and even wrote something pathetically romantic about you wouldn’t hurt? Where’s the thank you? The I-Appreciate-It commentaries? The feedback? Hi, hello, good day, how are you today?
“Haha, wow, thanks,” Kim Dokja replies, because what the hell should he say to that?
Yoo Joonghyuk cocks his head, before sighing as if he’s in front of a lost cause. “I meant you should relax.”
“Oh.” Kim Dokja wants to smack his face. Does he look like someone who can relax now? He has his project in him — project that, mind you, today is the deadline of — and the class already fucking started and at this point he’s almost thirty five minutes late, and he’s sure as hell he will fail and he might as well drop out and go back to his province he swore he would never go back to and help with his aunt’s farm and suck it up every time they remind him of his failures and I told you so’s. “Appreciate you for translating. Very helpful,” he adds with an awkward smile, as if the worst case scenarios aren’t running through his mind.
Yoo Joonghyuk stares at him with an unreadable face, and Kim Dokja suddenly feels challenged, so he stares back. Neither of them says anything, so after just a few seconds (almost a minute), Kim Dokja looks away as heat rushes to his face.
Goddamn bastard.
Finally, Yoo Joonghyuk speaks. Thank God.
“I read your work.”
Good fucking start. By how Kim Dokja already considered numerous ways of offing himself due to the shame of being exposed, that’s not really obvious, eh?
But Kim Dokja is a kind man. So, “Yeah. I believe so.”
“It’s for a project, and the deadline was due today?”
God, yes, remind him more of his failure.
“Yes. And unfortunately, I just missed it.”
“You write well.”
“Been told that a lot. Thanks.”
Yoo Joonghyuk chuckles and oh my fucking god is he seducing me — “You like me?”
Kim Dokja clamps his mouth shut. Any automated response he’s got is thrown out of the window. What the hell. Did he get to be attacked like that? Kim Dokja didn't even have the time for defense, and fuck it, what’s that question? Should he say yes to that? And then what?
He gets rejected? Fine.
He gets told that he has no chance? Whatever.
He gets confirmation that he’s actually married? Well, fuck it, arrest him and send him to the church to pay for his sins.
“Hey,” Yoo Joonghyuk calls out when he doesn't say anything. “You wrote this,” He taps at the folder. “about the main character who’s pining for someone who he believes he’s got no chance to be with. It’s a commentary about unrequited love and self-isolation and self-sabotage, I believe. There’s a café here, and the person he likes works there. Thirty pages set in one place. Almost a love letter.” Yoo Joonghyuk pauses for a moment, as if he’s trying to find the right words. And then, “Am I free to assume that this is about you… and me?”
Kim Dokja wants him to shut up. He wants to stand up and take the folder and run away and never come back and just forget that this ever existed, but he looks at Yoo Joonghyuk’s expectant gaze and he is nailed in his place and he can swear that he’s not the bravest person alive but maybe, maybe he can face things properly this time.
He sucks in a breath and breathes deeply, while Yoo Joonghyuk waits patiently.
What should he say? Where should he start? With an apology, for writing about him without any permission? But he didn't even expect that it’d be read. It was never meant to be read by him. So then what? A thank you, for bringing it back to him and complimenting him about how he writes well? Or should he just confess his pent up affections, and get it over with? Surely, he has no chance. Not one bit. Not at all. I mean, why would Yoo Joonghyuk take that chance with him? Kim Dokja couldn’t think of a reason why.
In the end, “yes,” is what he settles with. He could say a lot, but he already wrote about it. He could start with an apology, but Yoo Joonghyuk doesn't seem to need it yet. He could say thank you, but he figures he’ll save that for later.
Yes, because it’s true. Because what’s there to deny when his heart already bled to the pages, written and exposed?
Yoo Joonghyuk smiles.
“Thank you.” He slides the folder to Kim Dokja’s direction, and nods at it. Then, he stands up and looks at the direction of the cashier. “Don’t worry about your project, I already submitted it on your behalf.”
Kim Dokja gapes at that. “Huh?”
Yoo Joonghyuk snorts an amused laugh. He reflexively reaches a hand out to Kim Dokja, seemingly wanting to ruffle his hair, but stops himself midair, pulling back and playing with his fingers instead. “I’m from Star Stream University too. Computer science major.”
“Huuuh?” Kim Dokja says again, confused and surprised both at the same time. He points at his folder. “Then what’s this? And how’d you even know where my class is?”
“Oh. The details were on the first page, so I just went around and asked where the liberal arts department is. As for that,” he points at the folder as well, “It’s my copy. I printed it for myself. I hope you don’t mind?”
What the hell.
Kim Dokja is about to say something when Yoo Joonghyuk turns around. “My shift’s about to start. I’ll leave you here first.” He runs as fast as he can, almost tripping when he misses a step, and Kim Dokja is left in awe because he notices the flush in his ears and neck and oh my god, is that really the same man who glares at him every time he sees him? Who always looks like he carries the entire world on his shoulders?
Kim Dokja wants to laugh, but figures that he has no right to because what the fuck. Yoo Joonghyuk made a copy for himself?
He stares at the folder, wondering why Yoo Joonghyuk gave it to him when he said it himself that it was his copy. He contemplates for a while whether he should open it. In the end, he decides to flip the folder open because after all, that’s his work.
Kim Dokja stops and stares.
On the title page, beneath the printed words Written by Kim Dokja, is a neat handwriting (definitely not his, because his handwriting is horse shit) using a blank ink: For Yoo Joonghyuk (that’s me.)
When he flips the next page, that’s where he sees them.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
■■, BY KIM DOKJA
ANNOTATED BY YOO JOONGHYUK
[…] There’s something romantic in the idea of someone bringing out the artist in you. It’s like life starts to flow again.
[ You didn’t even know my name. ]
[…] Sometimes, I stare at him and wonder how he sees me, how he feels about me. But I’m more scared of knowing than not.
[ Nothing to fear. I think you’re pretty and lovely and hardworking. You write well. Also that you drink too much caffeine. ]
[…] I think he hates me.
[ Far from the truth. I actually picked up night shifts to see more of you, since you usually go to the cafe at night. I also got a copy of one of the books I saw you reading. I work on my skills in making drinks to make sure it’ll suit more of your taste, though the only basis of my judgment is how you react after your first sip. I like looking at you when you write, and I always hope I could sit beside you when you do. Sorry for glaring, I just lose my shit when I see you. But don’t worry, I’ll do better. ]
[…] I’m not sure what love is supposed to feel like. But sometimes, when I see him, I start to have an idea.
[ Oh. Is it fair to say that I think the same about you? Maybe we can risk it, to know for sure? ]
[…] I will memorize you, if only through the marks you leave this place. I will fantasize about you, if only through the bits I am shown by your grace.
[ That’s so romantic and sad why couldn’t you just flirt with me maybe that can solve your unresolved yearning and our unresolved romantic tension ]
[…] I like you, I like you, I like you.
[ Can you say it to my face next time? I want to say it back. ]
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
When Kim Dokja finishes reading the last sentence, seeing the word The End, he could barely breathe from the overwhelming softness and warmth that’s filling into the spaces of his heart. He is about to close the folder when he notices and feels that there’s a folded piece of paper behind the last page.
He takes it, and opens it to read.
Kim Dokja,
I’m not a writer unlike you, so I apologize already if whatever I wrote here does not make sense at all. But I’ll do my best.
I read your work. Not only did I read it, but I also made sure that I held every word you wrote close to my heart; though I didn’t have a hard time doing that. It was easy, for some reason. It was easy to take all of these seriously, to fall deeper.
Your words matter so much to me, and I want you to know that I’m so lucky that I was noticed by someone so talented. I have to say that, the first time I read it, I slept holding the manuscript in my arms. I am careful with it, don’t worry. It’s your feelings and emotions there. I won’t dare to hurt it, or ruin it, even just slightly.
Like you, I also don’t know what love is supposed to feel. I don’t know how love should feel. I don’t want to say that this is love just yet, because I think it’s still too early for that. We barely know each other; our knowledge only lies in our silent observations of one another.
But I have to tell you that I want to know about love, and I want to know it through you. With you.
We spent enough time longing for each other, this I picked up on the moment I finished reading everything. Like you, I also spent days thinking about you and what you like, fantasizing about going to classes together and studying together in the cafe. Having you read your books to me, and learning more things with you.
I want to know how you like your coffee not just by observing you when you take your first sip, but by telling me after I make you one.
I want to know more about the genre you’re into without memorizing the titles of the books you read so I can search it in my free time, but by telling me about them after you read them.
I want to go on dates with you, and know more about you. I want to know what’s bothering you. I want to know about your dreams. I want to cook for you. I want to do the things you like.
Kim Dokja, I know it must be embarrassing to know that I have the manuscript with me when you probably didn’t want me to read it, but I want to tell you that I’m happy that I found it. I’m happy that you wrote this for me. I’m happy to be your muse. Thank you.
I appreciate you writing to me.
But can you tell me next time instead?
Or I can tell you. Whichever you prefer.
Yoo Joonghyuk.
Kim Dokja stares dumbly at the letter, his hands shaking as everything sinks into him.
Yoo Joonghyuk likes him back.
He likes him back.
It feels unreal. Why him, of all people? How could it be him? What did he see in him? Kim Dokja doesn’t want to let his crippling self-esteem issues get in the way, but he just couldn’t help but think about it, and it scares him.
It scares him, but he looks up and sees Yoo Joonghyuk stare at him softly from behind the counter and he feels like he could take on everything the world throws at him if that means he could have the man in his arms.
So he stands up with the manuscript and the letter, because apparently, being exposed and seen and having your heart be read and written back makes you braver.
He walks towards the counter where Yoo Joonghyuk is.
“Hi,” Yoo Joonghyuk greets him when he arrives. “What can I get you?”
I want you. I like you. I want to throw myself against you and hug you and memorize the feeling of having you in my arms and kiss you.
He doesn’t say any of that.
“I was wondering,” he starts. He puts his elbow against the counter and leans, smiling sweetly at Yoo Joonghyuk. “Are you free tonight?”
Kim Dokja grins at Yoo Joonghyuk’s reaction. Poor guy looks so taken aback, and he’s been hiding his feelings well earlier, then he fails to do it now. The flush that was once only in his cheeks begins to creep up his face, and he seems to not know what to say. Kim Dokja takes pride in that. Why shouldn’t he? This is the first time he ever made a move to someone he likes. Not that he liked a lot of people, no, but he’s never one to make a move. If there’s one thing, he’d only write about them.
With Yoo Joonghyuk’s reaction though, he seems to be doing well at this. I mean, weren’t Yoo Joonghyuk acting so cool earlier when they first talked about the manuscript? Look at him now.
How the tables have turned.
Now, he looks like he’s the constipated one, but Kim Dokja doesn't want to make fun of him like that. So he waits.
Finally, after a few moments of them just staring at each other, Yoo Joonghyuk looks away and turns around, acting so busy when there’s not even an order at all. “I hate you,” he hears him mumble. “I was going to ask you first.”
Of course, that was his plan.
God, they’re both such idiots.
Kim Dokja puts the manuscript on the countertop and slides it towards Yoo Joonghyuk. When he finally looks at him, Kim Dokja raises the letter and plants a kiss on it.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes widened.
“You have my heart with you, and I’ll have yours with me.” He winks. “I’ll see you later, Joonghyuk-ah. I’ll be back at seven.”
He turns around, not waiting for Yoo Joonghyuk to say anything back. He bites his lip in embarrassment, because fucking hell, did he just flirt?
Well, damn it, he kind of slays that one—
He stops in his tracks, suddenly remembering the last few sentences in Yoo Joonghyuk’s letter.
I appreciate you writing to me. But can you tell me next time?
Alright. What’s wrong with making the wish of your future boyfriend come true?
He turns back to Yoo Joonghyuk, whose eyes are still glued to him, and mouthed three words. He watches as the man’s eyes soften, before finally smiling in relief, as if he finally receives a confirmation that everything is real.
Kim Dokja wonders the same, and when Yoo Joonghyuk mouths it back, he knows that everything is so fucking real and life is so fucking good.