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Yoo Joonghyuk doesn't remember much of his life before the apocalypse.
'Trauma' the doctors say ' Something must have happened to you '.
The most he can recall is his younger sister, Yoo Mia, older than he remembers, clinging to him after it was all over. They were in Seoul, he can't remember where he used to live. Neither can Mia.
The hastily appointed government takes over rehabilitation efforts, they jump between homes, first staying in a large house with a group of people, then moving into a repurposed college dorm, finally getting themselves an apartment with money Joonghyuk had earned doing odd jobs for other survivors.
Living with other people had not been as troublesome as he had expected, but there was always something missing. An air of familiarity that he had begun to associate with groups. A large family of misfits living under one roof.
Still, Mia seemed to enjoy it. She made some friends as they moved around, idly playing around and making small conversation. It felt relieving to see her acting like a child her age should.
There were no more restaurants, and grocery stores were taking time to reopen, so when they lived with others, it was common that chores were delegated. Yoo Joonghyuk learned - or relearned - how to do laundry, wash dishes, and mop floors. He discovered that he had a knack for cooking, some unknown knowledge, muscle memory, kicking in at the familiar sights and smells of food cooking over a gas burner.
He still cooked for himself and Mia once they got their own place, but something felt off. Like he should be making larger portions. Like there should be a man peering over his shoulder making witty remarks, a young boy kicking him in the shin to tell him he was hungry, a woman slapping him on the back with a hearty laugh, thanking him for cooking for them.
The apartment feels empty with just the two of them.
———————
Kim Dokja remembers too much of his life before the apocalypse. He remembers his mother's book, he remembers the horrors of school, he remembers the nightmare that was military service.
He remembers a novel.
The contents elude him, he can't recall the name, but he knows it was important.
Scenes come to mind, hunching over his phone every day for years and years, forgotten words crowding the pages of a novel so beloved yet so foreign to him now.
The apocalypse is less clear. The world has been piecing it together, bit by bit. They had to kill, some say. They had to fight to survive.
Kim Dokja can't fight, the thought of killing someone makes him nauseous, like looking back on something you regret. He wonders how he survived.
He remembers a family. His mother was there, she is out of prison now, laws have yet to dig their roots into this reborn world.
There were children, he thinks he was fond of them. There were other adults, close to his age. A flash of brown hair, piercing dark eyes that shone gold, a kind smile and cackling laughter.
He wonders what happened to them.
Kim Dokja was alone after the apocalypse. He found his way back to his old apartment. The landlord was dead, he learned. No one stops him from reclaiming it. His things are as he left it, a little dusty, a little worse for wear, but it's home.
Something tells him the word 'home' meant something else once. He doesn't know what.
He gets a job at a school library. Public schools were one of the first places reinstated after everything. Education was still prided above all, it seemed. There’s a depressing amount of students in the building, most their age having lost their lives to the apocalypse. There are even less who dutifully visit the library.
Still, the work pays well enough, and he doesn’t mind sorting through books and enjoying them in silence.
He is still a reader, after all.
He often loses track of time, enraptured in a captivating book, paragraph upon paragraph locking him in an engrossing embrace. He is always the last to leave, exiting only when the other staff are looking up the building after everyone has left.
Until one day he had forgotten to pack his lunch, hunger luring him out of his corner just in time for the students to be picked up from school.
It was a new law that all minors should be accompanied by a guardian outside. Before, teenagers would roam free without restriction, but now, the streets are too dangerous and safety precautions are still being implemented, so they need to be monitored.
Even so, Dokja muses, watching all the parents and siblings pick up the students, didn’t these children survive the apocalypse too? It’s not as though they’re defenceless.
One pair in particular caught his eye for reasons he could not explain. There was a young girl, jet black hair tied in two pigtails, her hands clutching a pink and grey backpack. She was talking to her… father? Brother?
The man was tall, that was the first thing Dokja noticed. The second was that he was unfairly handsome.
Wavy, dark hair sprinkled with silver, a black turtleneck that was just a bit too tight, familiar eyes that glinted gold in the afternoon lighting.
He looked like a protagonist from a fantasy novel, and Dokja felt his heart thump a little faster in his chest.
His cardiovascular system then proceeds to do a full gymnastics routine when the stranger looks up and makes direct eye contact with him. Dokja was about to hastily look away and pretend that never happened when the man’s eyes widened, staring at him with familiarity and amazement that quickly shifted to… anger?
“You” he snarled, stalking forward and grabbing his collar in a fist. Dokja gulped, his survival instinct screaming at him to run as far away as he possibly could. He could almost ignore the ache in his chest pleading ‘stay ’.
“Me” he agreed shakily. The man said nothing, scrutinising him with a frown. His sharp eyebrows were furrowed, looking like they were drawn by a single stroke of a famed artist's brush. His nose and chin looked sharp enough to cut diamonds. His eyes looked like they were carved out of the most beautiful jewels-
‘Brain, this is not the time for a gay crisis ’ he scolded himself, he hoped the man couldn’t somehow tell what he was thinking, but his pink face was probably giving him away.
“Can you let go, please?” He asked meekly, breaking the silence.
The man scowled (the expression looking unfairly attractive even as it twisted his handsome face). “If I do, you’ll run” he spat; like it was some sort of bad habit rather than the sane reaction.
“I won’t” Dokja promised, the lie tasting like sandpaper on his tongue.
The man’s scowl deepened, “Your nose flares when you lie” he said shortly “Stop running, Kim Dokja”.
Dokja felt his heart stutter in his chest (he’s genuinely not sure if it’s from fear or the way the man said his name). “You know who I am?” He asked, bewildered.
The stranger tilted his head slightly “Of course, you are my companion in life and death”.
And that.
He has no idea what that means. But something inside him sings . A story deep in his soul rejoices that he’s found a piece of himself he didn’t know was missing.
The man frowns “Do you not know who I am?” He asks, there is something sad in his eyes. Dokja feels terrible when he slowly shakes his head “I’m sorry, I don’t” he says, and he means it.
The man’s glare hardens, there’s a minuscule twitch in his eye, like he doesn’t believe him. Or that he’s not going to give up just because Dokja doesn’t know who he is.
‘Stubborn sunfish ’ he thinks inexplicably.
From the way the man was glaring at him, Dokja was expecting a punch, pain flaring from his abdomen. Instead, he gasped, eyes widening as a pair of lips softly and briefly pressed against his own. The kiss was chaste, barely lasting a moment, but it stole all the breath in his lungs as the other man pulled away.
There’s a satisfied smirk on the man’s face. For some reason, Dokja thinks that if he were holding a sword, it would be scraping against the floor. Something slots into place then, another fragment of the story- of their story- waiting to be told. “You’re so unfair, Joonghyuk-ah” he whispers against his lips, darting forward to kiss the smile off his face.
They move in together the next week.