Chapter Text
Kim Dokja moved through the schoolday with the mindset of someone wandering aimlessly.
Sometimes he paid attention, sometimes he wandered in between the gap of reality and imagination combining to create worldlines invisible to other people.
His surroundings were the same. Tiled floors, fluorescent lights that sometimes flickered like they had a grudge against the student body, and chairs that were on the bare minimum of comfortable.
He awaited the end of the day, for once. It was a rare thing for Kim Dokja to be so eager about something.
But eagerness did not come with pure intentions, obviously.
As the last bell rang, Kim Dokja grabbed his backpack and waited in a supply closet to make it look like he left the class.
When no one but the janitors remained, he exited the supply closet. Said janitors spared a passing glance at most, probably thinking about how they'd have to clean the floors again.
He reached Classroom 5-1's window. He opened the latch with a click, and sat on the ledge, gazing at the grey skyline of Seoul for the last time.
He held on just enough to make sure he wouldn't fall, for now. He'd let go at some point, and then his limbs would stop aching, his mind would cease imagining, and then he could have the final remainder of his presence on this earth be a grave without an epithet.
It was a foggy day, and you could barely make out the skyscrapers that stood tall behind the dozens of other buildings with lights on. People crossed the road, and he briefly wondered what their lives were like.
His hair fluttered in the wind that came in from the open window. It was annoying, but it would be a final annoyance.
Some had faced hell and returned alive. Others had been accustomed to heaven's surroundings, probably unable to comprehend purgatory.
And so, Kim Dokja released his grip on something for the final time.
What he didn't feel was the sensation of falling, like he thought he would.
The expected pain from having his body hit concrete ground never happened.
Someone grabbed his wrist hard enough to bruise.
Who would want the son of a murderer alive?
Kim Dokja got pulled back from the windowsill by someone much stronger than him.
Was it Song Minwoo? Or... who else?
He had fallen on the classroom floor instead. A thud echoed on the floor, with no one but him and the mystery person around to hear it.
Kim Dokja remained on the floor, choosing to lay down for a moment. He wanted to make sure he had as much peace as possible before he got beaten up again.
"Why?" The person asked. Their voice shook slightly.
He stood up, and didn't bother to brush dust off of his clothes. The person was taller than him, and they had wavy black hair. They also had thick eyebrows, and eyes like obsidian carrying misfortune, shining in the light of the room. It wasn't dark, but it wasn't bright either. Just in between, like a shade of grey that never really leaves your peripheral vision.
"Because," Kim Dokja replied easily.
"Because isn't an answer." The person crossed their arms, and scowled. It wasn't one of malice, but something else entirely.
"..."
The person sighed. "Kim Dokja."
"What?" He couldn't supress the flinch after hearing his name called like that. Was he about to get yelled at?
"Answer me."
No. I can't, is what Kim Dokja wanted to say. You wouldn't understand, random person.
And yet, it was said random person that saved his life without asking. He owed them something, at the very least.
"Don't you know already?" Kim Dokja asked.
"About what? The rumours?"
He nodded.
"I do," the random person said.
"So then, why'd you save me?"
"I wanted to, Kim Dokja."
He smiled bitterly. Of course this person saved him just so they could feel good about themselves, and parade around the fact that they 'saved' someone's life.
They stood on opposite sided of the room, with the stranger standing near the door and Kim Dokja near the window.
"What's your name?" He asked.
"Yoo Joonghyuk," the person replied.
"Joonghyuk-nim, why'd you save me? No one asked you to do so."
Yoo Joonghyuk grimaced. "Don't use that, Kim Dokja. We're in the same grade."
He nodded.
"I saved you because I didn't want to see you die," Yoo Joonghyuk admitted.
"That's nice and all. But what if I didn't need your 'salvation,' Joonghyuk-ssi?"
"Well, I'll still save you." He shrugged as if the answer was as simple as breathing.
"Every time?"
"Every time."
Kim Dokja didn't trust the hand that reached out to him. For someone who had been accustomed to greys, seeing in colour was a completely new experience, and one that was also daunting.
And yet he took it.
He took it, and followed the hand wherever he needed to go.
The hand was calloused, yet it was warm. Kim Dokja was drawn to that heat like a moth to a flame. Except the flame took the shape of a tall, handsome kid.
By the time he realized he was out of the school building, Yoo Joonghyuk was ushering him inside his home.
It was big, but it didn't feel lived-in. Everything seemed more expensive than Kim Dokja could possibly afford in his lifetime. He took off his shoes in the entryway, and placed them on the shoe rack neatly. He took a few steps into the living room after seeing Yoo Joonghyuk do the same.
"Won't your parents worry, Joonghyuk-ssi?" Kim Dokja asked.
"My parents left me to take care of my sister, but they send enough money for me."
Kim Dokja nodded. "Ah. I'm sure you know of mine."
"I don't. What happened?" Yoo Joonghyuk asked.
"Wait, you didn't read the book?"
"No? That would be an invasion of privacy. I've only heard the rumours though."
Kim Dokja was flabbergasted. He stood there trying to process the shock for a moment. "...You actually didn't read it," he murmured after a long silence. He decided not to tell the other boy.
Yoo Joonghyuk scoffed, before putting on a pink apron that Kim Dokja assumed someone else gave to him.
"So, what do you want?" Yoo Joonghyuk asked.
"...Omurice," Kim Dokja said hesitantly. He tried to walk into the kitchen, but the other boy pushed him back towards the living room.
"Tch. I didn't say you could cook," Yoo Joonghyuk scoffed.
Kim Dokja went back to the living room, and he sat on the sofa.
He nodded from the kitchen, where the sizzling of a frying pan could be heard. "You'll sleep over here, right?"
Kim Dokja could only gape at him. "What?"
"I said you'll be sleeping over here," he replied casually.
"My relatives would—" He started, but then he realized that no, his relatives really wouldn't be concerned. "...No, it's fine."
Even Yoo Joonghyuk looked taken aback for a moment, as if he hadn't been expecting him to give in so easily.
But is it his fault?
Is it Kim Dokja's fault that he was unlikeable? Was he really destined for an eternity of hovering in the thin film seperating reality and his imagination alone? Was it too much to ask for another soul to drag down into the depths of his mind that only consisted of alternate realities?
Was Kim Dokja destined to live up to the negative meaning of his namesake?
"Kim Dokja." The way the other boy said it sounded threatening, but Kim Dokja didn't feel scared.
"Yes?"
"You're not fine. I know it."
He flinched on the plush sofa.
Yoo Joonghyuk finished plating the omurice when he saw Kim Dokja staring blankly.
He sighed, and placed it on the dining table near the kitchen.
"Kim Dokja. Come eat."
He got up from the sofa, and sat at the dining table.
Even the tablecloth and chairs were probably worth hundreds of dollars.
He stared at the plate in front of him. There was a spoon as well.
"...Really, thank you, Joonghyuk-ssi. I never thought I'd get to have this again."
"Just eat." Yoo Joonghyuk looked away, and he was busy aggressively wiping the stove when Kim Dokja looked up.
And so, he ate in silence.
A layer of colour was added to a bleak grey canvas. Although it didn't do much to change the original grey, it was still there.
The omurice tasted like a chef from the heavens made it themselves. The egg curds with the rice had an amazing texture, and it was amazingly flavourful.
As he devoured the omurice, Kim Dokja felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. He realized afterwards that it was happiness.
"...Joonghyuk-ssi."
"What?"
"...No, nevermind."
Yoo Joonghyuk at the stove, still wiping.
Wasn't the stove clean at this point? Kim Dokja wondered. Then he went back to the sofa and turned on the TV.
He clicked the first program that popped up on the home screen, which was a cooking show.
"Kim Dokja?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you watching MasterChef?" Yoo Joonghyuk sounded oddly mad.
"Yeah. If you want, I can watch something else. It's fine with me—"
"No. Watch it."
He was shocked, but he watched it anyways.
Kim Dokja zoned out again, and he didn't notice the way the sofa sank slightly once Yoo Joonghyuk sat down.
In his mind, he was wondering why someone like him was saved. What could he have possibly offered to someone like Yoo Joonghyuk? He completely ignored the possibility of friendship—or something more entirely. He was too flawed to deserve friendship. Who in their right mind could possibly like or even love someone like him? The only relationship he'd ever have would be something like the relationship of a reader and a writer. Not friendship, no.
That would be impossible. And so, he settles on that conclusion. He completely ignored the fact that Yoo Joonghyuk's heart was in the palm of his hand, and he ripped it apart cruelly in the most innocent way possible: ignorance.
Where Kim Dokja was starting to see in colour after living life in greyscale, Yoo Joonghyuk was slowly going colourblind.