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Yoo Joonghyuk’s face pinches, a deep exhale shaking the pleasant atmosphere.
His hands cusp the water that seeps through his fingers as grains of rice accumulate between the ridges of his skin. A few dart between the small gap between his hand and the bowl to drop into the sink.
Water laps at his palms again, unbothered and stubbornly pooling in his hold rather than draining properly.
Joonghyuk growls in irritation, hand twitching. The movement caused a few more grains to spill.
“Joonghyuk-ah,” Kim Dokja plucks the bowl from the ex-protagonist with an amused look, “has the great hero been defeated by washing rice?”
Dokja hurries back a couple steps when Joonghyuk moves to snatch it back, holding the bowl high over his head and pausing a few steps away from bumping his head against the cabinets.
He can’t help but laugh at the sheer offence that flashed across Joonghyuk’s face as he turns.
“Kim Dokja,” Joonghyuk mutters in lieu of a response, annoyance seeping through as a familiar gruff edge.
It’s unmistakably softened from the way he would bark the reader’s name like a curse in the trenches of the scenarios.
(It’s calmer than when he had sobbed his name like a plead until his voice went hoarse, holding Kim Dokja’s body like he could reanimate him out of sheer willpower.
Again, again, and again, only stopping when there was no body to cry over and only his name, once again, to whisper like a prayer.)
The relevation causes the smirk on Dokja’s face to fade into something fonder. He taps Joonghyuk’s face with a pleased chuckle.
“Don’t frown,” he comments with an endeared shake of his head, leaning his elbow against the sink, “you’ll get wrinkles, you bastard.”
Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t react, turning on the faucet to wash the rice that had stuck to his hands away.
He wipes his hands on the kitchen towel, a frilly neon pink with the ugliest print ever seen as gifted from Han Sooyoung, shifting his focus to the unevenly chopped vegetables strewn over the cutting board.
He raises an eyebrow at Kim Dokja’s back.
“Oh, come on. Does it matter?” Dokja rolls his eyes, already feeling the unspoken complaints radiating off the other man, “Not everyone is so picky, Yoo Joonghyuk. There’s no point.”
He turns and crosses his arms, leaning back with a scoff.
Joonghyuk doesn’t relent. “They’ll cook unevenly.”
“Will your teeth shatter if one carrot is harder than another?” Dokja drawls in return, eyes widening like a dare.
“Kim Dokja.”
He turns back around to turn on the sink. “You can’t just say my name whenever you’re pissy that I’m right.”
Joonghyuk remains undisturbed and infuriatingly genuine in his reponse, “I can say your name as much as I like.”
He glances over in Dokja’s direction. “I’ve earned the right, have I not?”
“You abuse it,” Dokja accuses, “it doesn’t even sound like a name anymore with how often you say it.”
“Dokja,” Joonghyuk sighs.
“See? Again!” Kim Dokja cries indignantly before intoning in a dramatically low tone, “Yoo Joonghyuk, Yoo Joonghyuk, Yoo Joonghyuk.”
He rolls his eyes. “See how stupid I sound?”
Honestly, Joonghyuk finds that his name sounds rather lovely spoken by Kim Dokja, falling off his tongue with a natural tease.
“You always sound stupid,” he says instead.
Kim Dokja chuckles again under his breath, going back to his attending his stolen task.
He feels Joonghyuk’s presence behind his back rather than hearing his actual approach.
“Dokja-yah.”
“Okay, okay, you know I’m joking,” he consoles absent-mindedly.
“No, not that,” he cuts in, shoving Dokja away from the sink. The other stumbles for a moment out of pure confusion. “Dokja, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Eh?” Kim Dokja blinks, glancing at the strainer than back up at Yoo Joonghyuk. “Washing rice.”
“Why the hell are you doing it like that.”
Joonghyuk stares at the strainer they typically used for washing vegetables and assorted fruits to cut for the children (stawberries or nectarines for Yoosung, blueberries for Gilyoung, and grapes for Biyoo, along with cherries for Lee Jihye since she’d be a kid to the both of them no matter how old she was), now filled with rice. He feels his blood pressure rising.
Kim Dokja shrugs innocently. “So the grains don’t fall. I’m doing better than you were.”
“Lies,” he objects sharply.
“Excuse you. Slander,” Dokja shoots back, “just watch. It’s not even that weird.”
He tilts the strainer and the grains catch against the tiny holes, water spilling out clean into the sink.
Dokja grins, smug and toothy.
“See? Easy.”
Joonghyuk can’t find it in himself to be truly annoyed with how that look makes warmth pool in his chest.
“I see.”
“That you do, Yoo Joonghyuk. That you absolutely do.”
Kim Dokja drains the rest with a couple quick shakes, moving the rice to the steamer and filling it up with water once more. He tests the level with one finger, clicking his tongue in satisfaction before dropping the cover to allow the rice to steam.
“I didn’t think you could cook,” Joonghyuk says.
“Of course I can, though not like you.” Kim Dokja rests his cheek against his palm as he watches the steam billow in thin puffs into the air before fading into nothing.
“I mostly cooked for my mom when she…” Dokja looks away, hands curling against the counter, “wasn’t able to do so for us.”
He still remembers kneeling at their shared bed, a warm bowl of soup that he had prepared in the kitchen with a step-stool cupped nervously in his hands. The feeling of his mother’s tears falling into his hair as she dropped a kiss onto the crown of his head and a gentle compliment about the dish.
He remembers feeding his mother egg and leftover meals when her arm had been broken, or her eyes were blinded from heavy punches from days earlier that left them darkened with bruises.
(One time, he had burned himself on the stove while attempting a comfort meal after a rough night with his father’s anger. His mom had noticed, cupped his small fingers with shaking hands and whispered, “I’m sorry, Dokja-yah. I’m so sorry.”
He hadn’t understood why she had been so upset. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been hurt worse than a burn.
Dokja realizes, once the memory had turned clearer with age, that it was the dependency that she had apologized for. That from a young age, he had to learn how to provide for the both of them when she was too injured, even when he hadn’t been able to reach the cabinets on his tip-toes.
He still didn’t see any reason for her to be sorry. Dokja would have gladly scalded his hands to black if it meant less pain for his mother. Even when he hadn’t understood her, he had always loved her. It had been his greatest secret for a long time.
Especially after the book. From there, the only thing that had changed was Dokja quietly wondering why she hadn’t felt the same.)
“Though she was never as annoying about food as you are,” Kim Dokja adds.
Again, too amused to be a real complaint.
“She makes good kimchi.”
A reluctant gold star of approval from Yoo Joonghyuk.
“I’ll have her bring some over next time,” Dokja promises warmly.
Knowing her, she’d rather make a whole day of it, insisting for him to stay and help as a ploy to catch up. Kim Dokja didn’t mind the idea.
Joonghyuk settles with a sigh as he sorts the dishes. “Good.”
_____
“Which banchan do we have to serve?”
“Check the fridge.”
“Yoo Joonghyuk, you make so many that I can’t even see half of them. I’m not opening that. Where’s the list? I’m sure that I wrote them down.”
“Spicy gochujang… gaji namul—“
“No, not that,” Kim Dokja hurried to remind the other, “Gilyoung-ie doesn’t like it.”
“He’ll survive,” Joonghyuk groused.
“Yoo Joonghyuk.”
“Fine. Mu namul,” he compromised reluctantly.
Dokja blinked in surprise. “I thought we finished it?”
“No,” Yoo Joonghyuk paused. “Did we?”
He thinks back to the week before, when they had been prepping a couple dishes to freeze after teaching Biyoo how to make a few after school.
(She had begun the stage of wanting to be involved in everything any of them did, so Yoo Joonghyuk made a habit of showing her recipes while Dokja was at work.)
“I’ll check later,” the reader promises.
Joonghyuk squints at the list. “Gamja bokkeum?”
“Ooh, Heewon-ssi wants your recipe. She likes how you prep it, says that hers never comes out like yours.”
“Never,” Joonghyuk denies sharply, but Dokja can see that he’s quite pleased. “She’ll have to come over if she wants some.”
“You miss her,” he teases with an overplayed gasp, hand splayed in front of his mouth.
(They both did.)
“No, I just refuse to let her steal,” Joonghyuk refuted, “Tell Jung Heewon to get out of the city and drive here herself and I’ll make it for her if she wants it so bad.”
Dokja shakes his head, concealing a smile. He moved onto his next thought.
“Make sure to get two plates of gamja jorim or else Yoosung and Biyoo will finish it all.”
“You spoil them,” Joonghyuk frowns, “and they need more protein, not just potato.”
They deserve it, Kim Dokja thinks. It’s not like Yoo Joonghyuk was any better, with how he relented to virtually anything with enough pleading from the kids.
Dokja waves a hand flippantly like he hadn’t heard him. “I’ll get more from the freezer, be right back.”
“Kim Dokja.”
“I can check for my mom’s kimchi?”
“…Fine.”
_____
“What else should we prepare?”
Kim Dokja taps his lower lip with his index finger thoughtfully. “I—“
The knife strikes down unforgivingly in quick succession and the onion is reduced into identical square pieces on the board. “If you ask for gimbap, I’ll kill you.”
“Noted,” Dokja eyes the blade warily. “…Kimchi-jjigae then?” He prompts.
“Okay.” Joonghyuk slides the vegetable off to the side to make room for his next victim.
“Can we have murim dumplings too?”
Yoo Joonghyuk turns to give Dokja an unimpressed stare. “Again?”
“Was that a no?” Kim Dokja tilts his head, eyes a little teary from the diced onion.
Joonghyuk looks up and falters, looking oddly startled. His mouth opens hesitantly then snaps shut.
“…I have some stored from last time. I’ll go get it.”
Kim Dokja watches the Supreme King bustle off in a rush without another word, bringing the back of his hand to rub his eyes, and wonders why he was in a hurry.
_____
“Try this,” Yoo Joonghyuk orders.
Dokja looks over, sentence immediately hindered by the spoon that was shoved into his face.
He grumbles, but chews thoughtfully. “It’s good.”
“Just good?” Joonghyuk’s face remains still, but the gleam in his eyes feel like a death threat.
“Wonderful,” Kim Dokja amends quickly, a nervous sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.
Why was he more scared of Yoo Joonghyuk when he was holding a kitchen ladle than a sword when covered in blood?
“What do you like about it?”
“…That it tastes nice?” Dokja tries, before waving his hands around frantically.
“Wonderful!” He corrects, clapping his hands together decisively. “It’s great, Hyuk-ie!”
Joonghyuk pinches the bridge of his nose. He twitches like he wants to smack Dokja over the head.
“You’re hopeless.”
_____
“Mayak gyeran or gyeran jangjorim?”
“I get to choose?” Kim Dokja looks up from the book he had tucked into the corner of the kitchen, halfway through a page turn.
Joonghyuk holds a carton of eggs in one hand, not bothering to look over. “Of course.”
“Why ask? They’re both soft-boiled eggs. Just make whatever you want.” He looks back down at the story in his lap.
“I want your opinion,” Joonghyuk insisted.
“I—“ Dokja debates the idea of both in his head as he rubs the back of his neck, flustered from his earnest response. “Mayak gyeran.”
Yoo Joonghyuk turns back to his work. “Good. Now get back here.”
Kim Dokja gets to his feet with complaint. Joonghyuk ignores it all to pull out a large pot.
Running water rumbles with an echo as it fills the bottom of the metal surface. He leaves a few eggs on the counter, the stove warming to boil the water into steaming bubbles.
Kim Dokja works on chopping garlic, chopped green pepper, red chili, and green onion, (which end up perfectly fine and the pieces are not cut like a psycho killer, shush, Yoo Joonghyuk) before layering soy sauce, honey, sesame oil, and water into the bowl. He stirs the mixture for a few minutes, gaging the amounts with vague estimations.
Seemed about right.
He dips the tip of the spoon into the darker sauce, looking over his shoulder at the other man.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood over the boiling pot, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His hair falls in a dark sweep over his eyes as he watches.
Dokja’s never seen someone so determined to boil an egg. He pokes Yoo Joonghyuk in the side merrily.
“Say ah, Joonghyuk.”
“Never,” Yoo Joonghyuk deadpans, but leans forward to taste the marinade anyways.
Dokja rolls his eyes as Joonghyuk makes no attempt to take the cutlery for himself and feeds it to him.
“So?” He prompted brightly.
“It’s too salty.”
Merciless. Dokja scoffs.
He dips the spoon into the small bowl and pops it into his mouth with a frown. “Eh? No, it’s not.”
“Salty,” Joonghyuk reiterated slowly.
“Stubborn. I think it’s just fine.” Kim Dokja shakes his head and taps the ladle against the top of Yoo Joonghyuk’s head. “I’m not making a new one because you’re picky, Joonghyuk.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Suffer.”
“Then why did you ask my opinion?”
“I asked for you to try it, not to speak,” Kim Dokja corrects brightly. “Maybe I knew you wouldn’t like it. It’s called the long game, Joonghyuk-ah.”
(Dokja ends up diluting the marinade after Joonghyuk’s broody silence becomes too much.)
Yoo Joonghyuk gets the main prepared while Kim Dokja takes over the eggs, cracking the hard boiled eggs against the countertop to peel off the shell surface.
The first goes well, if a bit deformed simply due to the shell being stubborn.
As the minutes go by, Dokja’s grip begins to slip. His fingers become less precise in the mindless task. A couple eggs land in the sink and he has to take a moment to breathe before trying again.
“Dokja,” Joonghyuk’s voice resonates knowingly from behind him.
“I know, I just—“ Dokja’s hands were shaking.
Kim Dokja grips the counter, feeling the tremors radiate from his fingers to his spine like mini earthquakes racking his body.
He’s so sick of this.
Kim Dokja has once been a constellation, a leader near omniscient whose name would send every adversary into a state of panic. Now, even his own body decided to betray him.
(Could he really be the same man who had led their company relentlessly, wielding a sword as quick and deadly as his wit? He wonders if his contributions during the scenarios meant he could deserve this care in the aftermath.)
Joonghyuk holds him from behind, a reassuring weight that doesn’t budge from his shaking. His chin falls over the crown of his head as he waits, silent.
The quiet understanding made him feel worse.
There’s no tidy way to sweep up all the pain and trauma they had all gone though. Reaching an end with all of them present had been difficult enough and easily seen as a miracle.
But there were pieces of Kim Dokja that had never recovered. A small price to pay for their epilogue, but it frustrated him.
Some days, he’d wake up and his legs would forget they weren’t asleep. A wheelchair was left on the side of his bedroom for those occasions.
Other times, he’d lose sense of reality and his eyes would glaze over to forfeit his mind into an unconscious state of dreaming for hours on end.
He had lost years to dreams, Dokja didn’t want to waste another minute more than he had to lost in his own imagination. He absolutely despised when he could come back to himself, only to find that a whole day had passed to a state of watercolor haze.
Most commonly, Kim Dokja’s hands shook, sometimes in the dead of night when he woke from a dream that felt like being pulled back into an endless sleep, or trying to unload the dishwasher and sending plates crashing to the floor (alerting multiple company members who immediately ran to check his wellbeing and remaining by his side despite assurances he was fine afterward).
They trembled now, in the middle of a task that should have been easy. Egg shells were scattered in fine, glimmering white pieces. The peeled eggs weren’t smooth, pieces of flesh caught against the shell and dug out from the cracks.
“Damn it,” Dokja rubs his face with a hiss of annoyance, “I just wanted to make sure these were nice. Jihye loves them and she’s been working so hard in her college classes, and she’s using her break to come here and—“
Joonghyuk eyes the mess that Dokja had made out of two of the eggs. “I’ll eat the broken ones later.”
Kim Dokja stops, turning to give Joonghyuk an incredulously look. “What?”
“It’s fine,” Joonghyuk takes his station and plucks pieces of shell away with a gentle ease. He drops the perfectly round boiled egg besides Dokja’s like his monstrosity next to the smoothly peeled result of Joonghyuk’s effortless hand. “It’s all the same, is it not?”
It’s embarrasing how much the simplicity meant to Kim Dokja.
“I suppose. Just.. egg,” he admits.
“Exactly,” Joonghyuk agrees steadily, “just egg.”
_____
“Turn on the music, would you? It’s too quiet.”
“Is my presence not loud enough for you?” Joonghyuk wraps foil over the prepared dishes, carefully smoothing over the top.
(He ignores Kim Dokja’s belated request to pack extra for Han Sooyoung. She steals from their leftovers almost every week regardless of whether Joonghyuk was considerate or not
He does, however, make sure a couple are left untouched in the fridge next to the premade food that Dokja was going to bring Sangah at work.)
“Your ego chokes every room you walk into, Joonghyuk,” Dokja assures him with a quick pat on the shoulder, “I just wanted music.”
“Fine, but don’t let it become a distraction. I still need to clean up.”
“It’s my turn to wash dishes,” Kim Dokja argued.
“No, you never do them right.”
“Picky,” he complains lightly.
The room lapses into silence as a familiar tune fills the air, soft and warm.
“Hey, dance with me.”
He holds out a hand, eyes crinkling with a gentle smile. Joonghyuk steps forward, abandoning the cling wrap on the counter to humor him in a slow spin.
Dokja’s cheek rests against Joonghyuk’s shoulder as they step in tandem around the kitchen. Neither of them are as good as dancing as they pretend to be, hands held between them as they swayed.
“We should get a record player.”
“You have an app on your phone,” Joonghyuk replies.
“Yeah, but think of the aesthetic, Joonghyuk-ah,” he wheedles. “Also, I hate the ads. Can’t we shell out like, seven dollars extra?”
“I think you can handle fifteen seconds of listening to someone talk about their dry cleaning,” Joonghyuk deadpanned. “Now, be quiet.”
___
“Dokja-yah.”
“Hm?” Dokja hums, cutting light lines into the meat of the mango to create an imprint of squares into the fruit.
(He likes to prepare snacks after school for the kids, though Yoo Joonghyuk always got fussy whenever he offered too much junk food. Mangoes had become a common request after pocky, chips, and an assortment of other sweets had been banished until after dinner.)
“We left the jeon on the stove.”
Dokja whirls around, almost knocking the cling-wrapped containers onto the floor in his hurry. The air smelled suspiciously of smoke.
“What? Oh shit—“