Chapter Text
For such an unsavory day at work, Kim Dokja is in a sprightly mood. His steps, confident; each slightly tattered dress shoe meeting the ground with an exuberant bounce. Were it not for his gentle smile or the barely audible notes escaping from his closed lips, one may immediately grab their phone and dial for his placement in a mental institute. Though the fact that he was evidently an adult man - in a fitted suit, no less - only made the sight more concerning. Side glances are thrown discreetly ( excluding the child who tugged on his mother’s shirt, pointing at him with a flurry of questions, innocently asking, ‘Why does he look like that? It’s dis.. distwurbing.’)
But for the apparently crazy man, slipping swiftly through the crowd on the sidewalk, was just a journey to meet his most cherished. The love of his life, who made even the most dull moments at work: jubilant. Somehow through the dark crevices that accumulated in Kim Dokja’s soul, this treasure manages to smoothly plaster over them. Sealing completely. The joy brought, so great, that even tears could not seep through.
Almost there, he rushes, rapid breaths forming small, frail puffs of air; the glowing street lights shake and blur as he taps his shoes against the pavement faster. And pushing through the door with: a grin, a sonorous jingle from just above and the vexed look from the cashier as the doorframe swings - with so much force that it crashes back into Kim Dokja’s side. He groans, rubbing the soreness and bows his head, muttering apologies sheepishly.
He grips his briefcase and briskly walks through. He’s frequented so often that he’s mapped this exact route through the store, knows which way to turn his head, which aisle holds his threatening-to-burst smile, and where to wander his eyes for a few seconds before finding his very own Juliet.
It was there. Standing proudly with it’s brothers and sisters: the carton of banana milk glowed loudly- Kim Dokja is pretty certain that there are stars blinking around it but perhaps his dark, lived-in eyebags are culprit of the illusion.
Now this would be the moment where he hurriedly sweeps the shelf, toppling the drinks into his arms (note: NOT stealing, which was assumed by a part time worker: a young girl with dark bangs that definitely did not hide her blatant disgust) although he always sighs and places them all back except one. Kim Dokja’s wallet has nothing but meagre peanuts that you call a ‘salary’.
So this is what should have happened, an ingrained pattern of his life. Yet a tower of a man with broad shoulders blocks his view. His view. Kim Dokja should be standing exactly in the stranger’s position, in front of the banana milk. In front of his banana milk.
He settles behind him, deciding to just wait it out. After all, it’s not like he had somewhere to be: the cold, dull space that is known as his ‘house’ had nothing waiting for him. Had no one waiting for him.
So, he thinks to himself, ‘Just a few seconds more, this man will move, and I can buy my babies’, yes ‘babies’ plural: Kim Dokja just so happened to have enough peanuts for two banana milks and eagerly wanted to capitalize on this once-in-a-blue moment.
Thrumming his fingers on the side of his thigh, he glances up at the back of this huge bear-like man. A very slow bear might he add, the static man has made no movements except slight tilts of his hooded head which Dokja can make out tufts of curls peeking out.
Running out of patience, he stands on his toes, trying to peer over the man - maybe he needed assistance of which flavour to pick, since this brand did have 49 different flavours (51 if you counted the limited editions). Even after tiny quiet jumps on the tips of his worn shoes, he could barely see over his huge back. Damn tall people. But my goodness look at those shoulders…
His nose collides into the man’s huge lats, precisely in the middle.
The huge lats flinch and Dokja is immediately thrown back as the tower abruptly spins around.
Kim Dokja finds that the tower is extremely handsome.
The tower squints at him for a few moments, long enough for his body to start to feel warm. He seems to give up discerning him; instead he uses those dark eyes and stupidly long lashes to throw a glare so intense that he won’t be surprised to find holes through his head which follow through the shelves behind him.
As he still gathers himself, readying to throw particular unkind remarks (asshole, bastard, slow fucking snail) the man clears the shelf, shoves all of the cartons into his basket and walks away.
What the fuck?
With his hand, he presses his chin up to close his agape mouth. He can hear his blood ringing through his head, or is that the ringing of the store door’s bell? He whisks around the aisle and sees the cashier shrug his shoulders, languidly signaling at the door with his thumb. Whipping his head,(cashier vouches that he seriously heard a distinct ‘crack’) Kim Dokja watches the disappearing back of the bear and precious milks that fade into the Seoul night.
His lips quiver and they let out a singular sardonic laugh, dumbfounded with anger, he stands there and his grasp on his briefcase makes the cashier cautiously step away from the counter.
The next time the man appears, it’s in front of Kim Dokja’s banana milk. Again, he stands there stationary as if he’s browsing for books, but not even Dokja the man himself would root himself in front of the shelf of books to search for a specific spine. His rule he forever abides by being ‘take one, read one because every story needs a reader’, so frustration boils within him, wondering as to why the man obstructing his treasures, isn’t doing the same.
“You know it’s all milk right?” He asks to the air, because the bear does not turn around.
“I’ve literally taken two laps of the store and you’re still here, do you have nothing else to do sir?”
Kim Dokja doesn’t know why he added the formality at the end and if in any case it was definitely not because of the man’s imposing height, which made him feel a tiny bit inferior. But can you blame him? I mean just look at those muscles…
Said muscle man cranes his neck and glances at him, pausing for a moment, eyebrows scrunching, knotting on his forehead in what he assumed was, disgust. If Kim Dokja didn’t know any better he’d think this handsome bastard is purposely throwing shade just at the sight of his face; mocking the few peanuts that he didn’t get to spend last time.
To add fuel to the fire, the man squints at him. And unfortunately Kim Dokja did not know any better.