Archive of Our Own

Yoo Joonghyuk never gets sick. At least, never enough that Lee Seolhwa can’t heal him, or never to the extent that his own immunity skills fail. He holds the title of Master of Panacea for a reason. A few and thousand lifetimes, and he’s always been exceptionally healthy. The worst it’s ever been is a scratchy throat and a few broken bones, but nothing he can’t immediately bounce back from within a day.

It's ironic that the worst of it hits him outside the scenarios.

He wakes up to the world spinning, all his bones simultaneously numb, and screaming in excruciating pain. It hurts to breathe. He's terrifyingly cold, but has never felt disgustingly warmer, sticky sheen of sweat present everywhere, plastering his back to the sweat-soaked sheets like a tacky, squicky glue. He might also be shaking, he can’t tell. A woeful calmness sets in, then.

I must be dying .

Yes, he’s begged his sponsor to meet his end, and that sponsor had presented the end of the scenarios to him as if to say that's where his answer awaits. It makes perfect sense. What’s left of the starstream is in utter disarray, so it’s self explanatory that his request had been a bit delayed.

Still, he can’t help but feel just a bit upset. The world had started healing, and he’s managed to nestle in with the company members into a big, warm place to call home. They were all happy and in one piece, working through the nightmares day by day. By comparison, he’s never been happier . Jihye still gets nightmares sometimes, but he gets to keep her company on the balcony on those nights, even if enveloped by silence. And he gets to tuck her into his side when lethargy finally takes its toll on her and she falls asleep on his shoulder.

Hyunsung’s offered to help him with menial household tasks for ages, and Joonghyuk had finally taken him up on that offer. The ex-military man was most joyful when unloading the grocery bags or handing out plates at everyone’s request. His wife is the complete opposite, evasive of any chore unless she’s done something to be guilty about. Like Han Sooyoung. Worse if they’re together. 

But Sangah is always in the vicinity, hot on their tails to keep them on track. Yoosung is reserved, but sweet. Gilyoung would, and has stated that he would, probably murder him if not for the fact that he ‘ makes hyung happy ’. Mia is spoiled from his attention through and through.

He works through his memories fondly, as his heart struggles to beat and he feels his muscles begin to rot, bones turning soft, into dust. A long life, seemingly never ending; he hadn’t thought that he’d be facing difficulties making peace with it when it finally did, after all those eons of begging.

That fool would be upset, if he knew. But Yoo Joonghyuk supposes that they were always meant to be star crossed, as the fragments of themselves that had never been chosen for an ◾️◾️. The memory of Dokja crying and pleading for his life at whoever would listen is still fresh in his mind, disappearing for ages to fulfil an agreement for the safety of his loved ones. 

Joonghyuk doesn’t want to see him cry like that ever again.

So perhaps, it is his saving grace that his final moments are in the peace of his bedroom, undisturbed. With everyone wholly unaware. They will come to find him eventually, gone by then, but he is thankful that his last moments won’t have to be guilt ridden and painted with their pained expressions.

Thank you , goes unsaid into the quiet of his room, trembling lips left with no energy to speak. His heart feels content, having learnt what a family could mean. What happiness could mean.

In his final breaths, he feels his consciousness slip away like a bottle of ink spilling over a page, consuming everything within.

The door to his room bursts open unceremoniously. “ Joonghyuk-ah, ” the culprit singsong’s annoyingly, smile in his voice at his own presumption of destroying Joonghyuk’s sleep. 

Yoo Joonghyuk is barely able to register it, all his senses failing, but he knows the distinct crush of his heart. Not now, please.

“You’re sleeping in so late today,” Kim Dokja sounds out loudly, as if his companion truly is sleeping, and not in the claws of death. The other strides into his room like it’s his own, to his bedside and seats himself on the mattress without a care in the world.

His voice is loud, echoing inside Joonghyuk’s skull, pulling his nerves into a pained throb as Dokja pulls his blanket off of him with a wide smile. “Did you forget what you promised to—“ his face falls, meeting the sickly pallor of Joonghyuk’s. “oh.”

Joonghyuk forces his lips to part and speak. “Kim Dokja,” he rasps, sounding out the shape of his companion’s voice, savouring it one last time. The other leans in closer, to better hear what he has to say. It takes all that’s left of him to grit out,

“I'm dying.”

A gentle, scarred palm presses against his forehead, cooling his sore temples immediately, and Dokja laughs. You fool, Joonghyuk wants to say. This is not a joke .

“Joonghyuk-ah,” Dokja says, mirth and fondness laced between the syllables. “Have you never gotten a fever before?”

Joonghyuk is no longer conscious to hear that question, succumbing to the illness.

He does not expect to wake up again, but he does. And it's to the sensation of a cool towel dragging along his forehead. The next thing he registers is the unmistakable slopes of Kim Dokja’s arms, the sleeves of his dark shirt rolled up to his elbows, first few buttons popped off as he hums a nondescript tune. Joonghyuk lies there blearily blinking for who knows how long, but it’s when Dokja catches his eyes and smiles that he realises; ah, his companion is giving him a cold compress. For his fever. He stares at Dokja like a pathetic man winding up in front of a church on a rainy night, making a pitiful show to beg for salvation.

Dokja says nothing, and for a few minutes or hours, the only sounds in his room are the occasional dip-and-wrangle of the towel, Dokja’s steady breathing, and Joonghyuk’s pained, ragged breathing.

It’s so warm, annoyingly so. But whatever patches of skin are exposed to the air is also cold, and Yoo Joonghyuk knows that it would err on the side of too cold for the rest of his body. So he lies there, committing every centimetre of Dokja’s face to memory. Because despite his companion’s insistence, he truly does feel like he is dying. 

From a poisonous plague, perhaps. A feeling he is gravely intimate with. He knows that the train cabin won’t await him once this consumes his being, and he’d like to spend his remaining moments engraving every minute detail of this man deeper than his memories will allow, entwined within his heart and soul.

An airy chuckle breaks the silence, as Dokja plasters the wet rag to Joonghyuk’s face and stands to change the water in his pail. He does not know how his face contorts, but he knows it is a yearning plea to not go. “You look like a kicked puppy,” Dokja snickers, teasing as always, clearly not grasping how malignant he comes off in his untimely abandonment.

“Don’t worry, you’ve lived through worse,” he drawls, as if he finds it funny, the way he is leaving Yoo Joonghyuk behind. As if it is funny, how Yoo Joonghyuk can’t choke out that that was in the scenarios. He has lived through worse, but he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to do it again .

Kim Dokja does not return while his consciousness remains, and whatever state of purgatory he goes through is plagued by grief as he tries to sort through his memories for a happy one, to focus on at the final moment. But all he’s able to procure is the image of his companion leaving, back turned towards him, assuming that his heart will still beat by the time he returns.

For some reason, as if the universe has decided that his existence has not been damned enough, Yoo Joonghyuk wakes up once again—if only to wither in pain and have the barest of grasps on lucidity.

A cool hand is on his bicep, shaking him awake, and the moment his heavy eyelids twitch in disturbance, a warm spoon is against his lips.

“Say ahh,” Dokja instructs, like chiding a misbehaving child when Joonghyuk’s lips stay firmly shut. He's well aware of what it is, from how the unpleasant taste makes its way through the seam of his mouth. There is a reason why Kim Dokja is banned from his kitchen.

With a click of his tongue, the latter grasps Joonghyuk’s chin with his free hand and pries his mouth open with too much ease. The spoon slips between his dry, cracked lips and Yoo Joonghyuk is subject to the misery of Dokja’s soup for the third time in his life, made worse with all the cells in his body pleading for mercy or for it to end .

“Don’t be such a baby,” Dokja’s mouth twists into an offended look. “This saved your life before, you know.” he admonishes, as if Yoo Joonghyuk does not remember the awful chunks of a chopped up, slimy tentacle in his mouth, with a horrendously sour-salty broth permeating onto every taste bud on his tongue.

It had saved his life, but if given the option, he would have chosen death both then and now. He knows that, if he had the strength, his body would shudder through a grimace as he’s made to swallow the offensive thing.

There are two memories he loathes to remember; the times that Kim Dokja had fed him bile-esque food for his recovery, and a tentacled outer god ripping apart and gnawing at his stories as if he were food. Both of those memories have combined into one, two too many times for his liking, and he’s forced to lay and take it because he cannot even cough it back up .

Pure misery is smeared across his face when Dokja presses a hand to his forehead and frowns, still finding him too hot, and cruelly peels off his blanket.

He is being tortured to death, surely. The archangels of Eden had told him that his sins were insurmountable, too much to condense into his body. Perhaps this was retribution for all the mistakes he’d made, the tragedies he’s caused.

Dokja snickers at him, crossing one knee over the other in his chair as he sets his bowl down on the nightstand, reaching for the rag and pail at his feet. “You'll be fine, you big baby.” he chastises as he wrings the towelette out, voice amused but warm. Fond.

It does…something, to Yoo Joonghyuk’s dying heart. Not joy or warmth, it doesn’t even skip a beat. Maybe woeful resignation, to his fate. It makes him feel more tired as his companion places the wet cloth on his forehead again. His eyes feel so dry.

An offending spoonful of broth parks at his lips again and he wants to scowl.

He knows it, better than Kim Dokja. Knows himself better than Kim Dokja, because the next day he feels even worse—or at least, he assumes it’s the next day, through bleary vision as Dokja, Hyunsung, and Jihye crowd around him, frowning at the thermometer. His supposed ‘fever’ had gotten worse, and he blames it all on the kraken stew of hell, Dokja’s terrible cooking, and the fates all combining his sincere wish into an uncomfortable, torturous demise.

The aroma of lemon candy—clinical and minty, free from the bowls at hospitals—surround him at some point, so does the sterile scent of hospitals itself. Underneath it, there’s a faint fragrance of lilies when a pair of hands daintily move across his face and under his neck, and he feels marginally more at peace recognising it as Lee Seolhwa. At least she would break the news, and then Kim Dokja will stop feeding him horrendous over-seasoned undercooked-yet-charred food against his will, letting him slowly rest in peace.

…unless he feels particularly dutiful to put his companion out of his misery sooner.

More sensations come and go, in no particular order.

At some point, he feels as if the sea breeze caresses his arm, despite being miles away from shore. Some emotionally out of touch whine about master, but you promised to cook at my funeral.  

A pair of sturdy, gentle hands move him to sit, and he isn’t sure whether his complaints make it out of his mouth—or if they’re even cohesive, when the shirt on his back is peeled off and cold, wet towels plastered to his skin. As if he wasn’t shivering already . Was his forehead not enough? Why strip away his last semblance of warmth?

Two small, rough hands clasp one of his, telling him something he can’t understand. Has he forgotten how to speak? The erosion must be grinding at him. He hadn’t known it was applicable to former regressors, but a part of him knows that he knows whoever is speaking to him, even if he can’t make out what. That it’s someone dear to him. A vague shape forms in his poor head, he thinks he makes out twin-tails, a name is almost on the tip of his tongue. 

He falls flat asleep.

The next time he comes to, he’s marginally more aware, and starlight seeps in through the windows. Kim Dokja remains by his bedside, as if he’d never left. As if he’d never leave. Companions in life and death , he tries to taste the words on his unmoving tongue as he peers at his companion, slouched in the chair, neck bent at a bad angle. His phone is on his lap, connected to its charger, and he has one leg propped up on Joonghyuk’s bed.

He takes the rare moment of lucidity to let his eyes rake over the disaster that’s become of his room. Bowls of food stay stacked on one another at his nightstand, presumably containing the meals his other companions had eaten while by his side. It would be touching, if not for the hazardous way it’s stacked with the remnants sloppily dripping down the sides. He feels his nose wrinkle.

Numerous towels are hung up by the open window to dry, and his desk is littered with varying medical supplies. Ointments, drinks, too many to name. The clothes he thought he was wearing are half-in, half-out of his laundry hamper, and he’s barely able to tilt his chin down to notice that they’d changed his clothes for him. Drier, without sweat and varying, minty balms sticking to his skin.

Reverting his eyes back to his companion once he’s done analysing the disarray of his space, he notices the more prominent dark circles, heavier eye bags, expression pinched in discomfort of where Dokja’s sitting. He doesn’t like that. He wants to reach over and tug his companion to lay beside him and rest fully. He wants his companion bracketed between his arms, if only so that he can drift off and feel content.

The phone in Dokja’s lap rudely disrupts his sleep with a blaring alarm, jostling him almost out of the chair. 

“Shit,” he gasps dryly, eyes shooting open as he flails and catches his phone by the charging cord before it can topple and crash onto the floor. He yawns and rubs his eyes, switching it off and reaching for the thermometer when he notices Yoo Joonghyuk staring at him.

He smiles tiredly, “G’morning,” he yawns, aiming the thermometer at Joonghyuk’s forehead. It beeps softly and Dokja brings it closer to him, squinting to read the digits. He frowns. “Dammit, how’s it still not down?” 

Reaching over to pull Joonghyuk’s arms off of his chest and to his sides to sit him up, Dokja pauses as he yawns out another, “C’mon. Let’s eat since you’re awake.”

Now, Yoo Joonghyuk is able to move his limbs the barest amount, and uses it to clasp his hands over the other’s, staring intently. Dokja’s now half leaning over him, and he can almost count the individual specks of stardust on his skin. He swallows, throat burning, something going wrong in his chest. “Kim Dokja,” he says, voice cracking like dry earth. The first thing he’s been able to say since this whole ordeal began. His companion’s name is sweet on his tongue, bitter and painful in his throat.

Dokja is calm as ever, humming and brushing the hair out of his eyes. “Yoo Joonghyuk.” he says in return, not understanding. Never understanding.

A sense of urgency washes over Joonghyuk, clutching at Dokja’s hand with all his strength. They tremble from the force as if this would be his last chance. “Dokja,” he says again, and the man in question sighs wistfully, already beginning to withdraw from his grasp.

He holds, as tight as he can. “Don’t go.” 

Not even death would separate them, he’s aware. They would still be companions. It just doesn’t feel enough.

Dokja’s gaze softens momentarily before a look similar to realisation dawns across the planes of his face, slowly like the rising sun. He quickly deflects it and tries to weasel his way out of Joonghyuk’s grasp. “Hey—lemme go—you should eat —”

(He could, if he truly wanted to; far too easily. Yoo Joonghyuk does not even have the strength to lift his head up.)

(Perhaps it’s guilt that keeps him there. an unnecessary thing, laden with apologies that aren’t his to make.)

(Or perhaps, this is as much as Kim Dokja will give in. Because he, too, does not want to let go.)

Yoo Joonghyuk no longer retains the strength in his tongue, his jaw, to move into shapes and form the words he wants to say. But he gazes intently, sincerely, into Dokja’s abyssal eyes, and maybe that is enough. Dokja looks pained, at his heart beared. 

Is it so burdensome to accept the feelings of another?

Kim Dokja’s hand slips from his grasp with a thick swallow, and he is left alone in a cold room until the other returns with microwaved soup.

It's warm and spicy, gliding down easily. Dokja props him up on some pillows, and nervously holds his hand at his insistence, bowl precariously balanced on the bend of his knees. Joonghyuk does not take his eyes off of him for even a minute, chewing slowly at the rice and slices of carrots.

He recognizes the cooking as Yoo Sangah’s; it’s relatively light and simple. Not quite delicious to his own tastes, but comparatively better than the vile biohazards Kim Dokja produces. He feeds Yoo Joonghyuk in silence, and Yoo Joonghyuk feels the gradual clamminess of Dokja’s palms against his own. He holds it tighter, as if to soothe the other. He receives a small sigh in return.

“Kim Dokja.” he says again, voice scruffed and pained through the syllables, forcefully grit out. His eyelids burn, but he remembers the words he’s meant to say. “My companion,” he says, mouthing the words. More stumble out, things he’s always meant to say—things that Dokja was never around for.

He holds Dokja’s hand, tugging it upwards to rest against his chest, just above his heart that still beats. The fingers of Dokja’s free hand tighten against the side of the bowl. 

“Starlight.” he says, because he’s spent hours, days, months, years recounting the stars in the sky in search of this man. Because there’s an irreplaceable lustre to him, midnight blue and gentle, like the very moonlight lightly shining on them, unmistakable for anyone else.

“Fool.” he says again, softening and fond, at the expression he gets in return. A fool, for always assuming the worst in others. A fool for always disregarding how he’s capable of making someone feel.

“Y—“ he doesn’t get to say, because Dokja opens his mouth and sends him a resigned, sorrowful look, smoothing a palm over his burning forehead.

“You’re fevering.” Dokja cuts him off softly, brushing strands of Joonghyuk’s sweaty hair back. This isn’t you. You don’t talk this way. You’re sick and spouting nonsense. It all goes unsaid, a firm, unshakeable belief.

Yoo Joonghyuk feels disgruntled. He's fevering and saying words he would not normally say, yes.

But that would not make his words any less sincere.

Kim Dokja may be a liar, to everyone around him, to himself , but Yoo Joonghyuk is not.

He catches sight of the crease forming between Joonghyuk’s brows, and leans forward to thumb it away. “Just get some rest and focus on feeling better.” he says, unusually quiet. Mellowed down from the almost-confession as if it’d been a knife at his throat.

At Joonghyuk’s expression, perhaps––because Kim Dokja is the type of person to lie for his convenience, to make someone feel better in that moment; promises not upheld and slipping through his fingers like fine dust––he adds,

“If you still want to spout nonsense, do it when you’re fully recovered.”

He is dying. He is not going to recover. A part of him wants to die out of spite, so that Kim Dokja will stop pushing things for later and accept them as they are. Another part of him wants to recover out of spite, if only to cage the incorrigible, slippery rat in his arms and force him to acknowledge it all.

Kim Dokja avoids him, after that. Not entirely, because he will remain at Yoo Joonghyuk’s side unyieldingly, but only when Yoo Joonghyuk does not know it. As if he wants to hide in the shadows and be unseen, but still can’t stay away entirely.

Yoo Joonghyuk knows this because he’d memorised how Dokja is in his environments. The phone chargers hang off of the nightstand, and his blanket is always sloppily pulled up under his chin. He forgets to close the windows, and leaves his own jackets and sweaters on the chair and floor for someone to trip over.

He takes the food bowls with him and leaves a bottle of water at his side, trash can too close to the bed so that the edges of his blanket dip into it.

He forgets and leaves the tissue box on the far end of the room, forgets to turn off the bathroom lights before he leaves.

But there’s a warmth with him not found anywhere else. As he holds Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand tenderly, quietly, in the moments where he thinks Yoo Joonghyuk is not awake.

There’s a distinct smell of laundry, fresh from the dryer. Old books, too, even if Kim Dokja has not stepped near paperbacks in ages, because he complains about not being able to read them in the dark. Some residue of the 4th wall.

He leaves behind an aroma of the instant hot chocolate that he sips in the quiet of the night because he’s cold and too stubborn to bring a blanket with him.

Mia looks at him from the foot of his bed, where she’d been banished to; not allowed to get any closer lest she gets sick as well. He frowns at her sneaky attempts and she frowns back.

“Ahjussi gets to sit next to you.'' She narrows her eyes accusationaly, and Hyunsung casts him a nervous look. A smile splits Sooyoung’s face, and Joonghyuk’s temples suddenly worsen in their ache. He sniffles miserably at the oncoming migraine.

“That’s because that bastard is lovesick,” Sooyoung answers, leaning against his window and snapping her candy between her teeth. Joonghyuk sends her a weak glare to mind her language around children. Especially around his sister. He would like to say he does not care what she says around Gilyoung and Yoosung.

(But he does.)

Unfortunately, Yoo Mia had spent most of her time with Han Sooyoung, during her brother’s disappearance, and formed a bond. It definitely does not make him sulk.

His sister’s eyes light up. “I knew it! See , I even told oppa that—“

Her comment gets quickly cut off as Joonghyuk sneezes so hard into his tissue that the building almost shakes. Hyunsung pats his back comfortingly and hands him more tissues. Yoo Mia does not care about her poor older brother who took her in at infancy and dedicated his life to raising her properly, and continues.

“He gets happy when talking about that ahjussi.” She nods confidently, chin in her hands like she’s analysing one of her slice of life cartoons.

Hyunsung adds with his own nod, “Dokja-ssi also cares a lot about Joonghyuk-ssi.”

To Yoo Joonghyuk’s horror, both Sooyoung and Mia simultaneously speak, “but he’s a coward.”

They look at each other in brief surprise, before nodding solemnly. Han Sooyoung is a terrible influence on children. First, she leaves her laptop unguarded for Gilyoung and Jihye to meddle with her novel, now she’s tainting his sister.

Mia must mistake his sorrow’s direction, because she looks at him thoughtfully and asks, “Does it make you sad that ahjussi doesn’t visit when you’re awake?”

Perhaps. Maybe. But he is angered more than anything. Upset. He is not sulking, as he crushes the plastic water bottle in his hands that Hyunsung has to marginally wrestle out of his grasp before it explodes.

He doesn’t say anything, but that in itself says everything. They don’t ask him again.

Lee Seolhwa looks at him, unimpressed.

“No.” Joonghyuk grunts out before he has to cough into his bicep again, fists clenching from the force of it.

“We have modern medicine for a reason.” she flatly states, uncapping the bottle in her hands and pouring it into the little measuring cup on the top. 

Yoo Joonghyuk is adamant on not drinking the cough syrup, insisting that his ginger concoctions and steamed pears with peppercorn, honey, and more ginger would sustain him. Maybe in the first murim, within the rural areas of the city. But he is in the industrial complex, and her hospital is right downstairs . Forgive her for feeling insulted. 

Sure, traditional methods worked, in some cases better than modern ones; lacking side effects. But this is not that case. Besides, she’s held the title of goddess of medicine for decades and he should act like it. She holds out the small cup of cough syrup to the disgruntled man, who looks more like a drenched, hissy cat pulled out of the sewers during a storm.

He’s staring at the cherry coloured syrup as if it was Dokja’s cooking, of course Seolhwa is going to feel insulted after spending hours in her laboratories perfecting it into looking and tasting appealing for her picky patients. She waves her hand, pulling out her best card, “The longer you put this off, the longer it will take for you to see Dokja-ssi.”

She has to fight off an expression that’s equal parts wry and amused when Joonghyuk’s face flickers with consideration immediately at the mention of his companions name. 

(It’s always a funny feat to witness, how the stone-faced man goes through every emotion existent at the briefest mention of the other, immediately softened and malleable like clay.)

Seolhwa nudges her hand again, and he actually takes it this time after a moment of hesitation.

He grimaces and makes expressions like he’s being strangled, but he drinks it nonetheless. 

(Because he is a pining idiot. And for some reason, the other idiot is adamant on being out of his sight.)

(And the entire company knows it is a menial matter they’ve both made into an unconquerable mountain.)

She sighs when he hands the small cup back to her and immediately begins to complain about how sweet it is.

“Are you sure this isn’t for children?”

“It might as well be, with how you’re behaving.”

Yoo Joonghyuk does recover, slowly, to his chagrin––and he will not admit that his stubborn belief about dying was dramatic. He may still be dying. He feels like it, just that it has gotten slower, receded to whence it came. Prolonged. He can stand and walk a few steps, at the consequence of knocking out right after. Going to the bathroom is an awful experience, in this state. Lee Hyunsung never says a word for the sake of his pride. 

Jihye tries to make something sweet for him, he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be, but she claims that he makes it for her often. It is charred and unrecognisable, because she swapped out flour for milk powder, because she hadn’t seen it in the pantry. Because she mistook salt for sugar. Because she substituted citric acid for baking soda. 

It almost ends him on the spot, when he breaks off a piece of the unknown dish and puts it in his mouth out of appreciation and fondness for his protégé. 

His disciple was so embarrassed she avoided him for two days before showing up again like nothing happened to help him cut his nails.

Yoosung peaks her head through his door, once, and waves at him. His room is off-limits to the younger children after Mia got sick from staying at the foot of his bed. He hears Gilyoung’s struggled get better soon, sooty bastard, so hyung stops being sad from Sangah, who gives him a knowing, threatening smile.

Get your shit together.

Not directed just at him, but Kim Dokja too. Because apparently everything about Kim Dokja must trace back to Yoo Joonghyuk, and everything about Yoo Joonghyuk must trace back to Kim Dokja.

(The way they always do.)

Jung Heewon drops by with ginger tea, winking and offering to douse it with brandy—in exchange for borrowing his gaming setup. He accepts the offer. Why not. He sleeps like a log that evening and wakes up feeling refreshed, albeit in the middle of the night.

It's rare, moments like these. Maybe the second time he’s caught Kim Dokja sleeping in that awful wooden chair, snoring. But he is better than before, so he’s able to sit up with nothing more than some effort and a wince.

He takes Dokja’s phone from his lap and places it on the nightstand with a crinkle of his nose. It’s a possible fire hazard to keep a charging device on top of cloth. What an utter fool. It won’t run away if he lets it go for a second.

Adjusting his position, Yoo Joonghyuk leans over to gently push a cushion—the one lying on his other bedside chair, uncontaminated with whatever sickness he has—under Dokja’s neck for proper support. So that his head won’t loll to the side and leave him sore in the morning.

Even that much leaves him winded, in this state, breathing sharply through his nose. He uncaps his water bottle and takes a swig, frowning when he realises it’s gotten cold. Kim Dokja stays unmoving, unaware, like the temperature isn’t an issue to him. But he gets cold faster than Yoo Joonghyuk, and a glance at his exposed arms covered in goosebumps from the chill lets Joonghyuk know all that he needs to.

He's aware, that Kim Dokja is accustomed to many things that disturb him. Knows the reason why, too. But he does not enjoy it. Nor will he allow it.

So he looks around his room, at the chair, then at the floor before recognizing the discarded cardigan and leaning over to pick it up despite all the muscles in his body protesting. His back aches, his arms hurt. But his companion is cold.

A quick flap to rid any dust or debris it could’ve picked up from the floor, and he leans over to cover Kim Dokja’s torso with the knit jacket he’d likely shrugged off on a night he deemed too hot and forgot to pick up. If he were not sick, he would have pulled Dokja to his side, tucked him under his chin and pulled the covers up over them.

(Because they’ve done it before, on nights they can’t sleep.)

(Because feeling Dokja’s face pressed into the crook of his neck, arms around his torso gives Joonghyuk the most fulfilling rest. Feeling Dokja’s chest against his beating heart, with his palms pressed against Dokja’s back, legs tangled, gives Joonghyuk the most fulfilling rest.)

(Kim Dokja just refuses to admit how much peace he’s capable of giving.)

Yoo Joonghyuk does not lean over to touch him, to cradle the side of his pale face in the cup of his hand. He does not murmur his name, even into the quiet of the night. He does nothing, despite how deeply he wants to. He is content, for the moment, just to watch and take in the changes of his companions face. Dokja’s cheeks look more sunken in, surely having reverted back to his unhealthy eating habits once Joonghyuk was no longer around to nag at him to eat a proper balanced meal.

He looks tired, dreadfully so. Who wouldn’t be, if they spent every night fretting over someone, waiting for a positive change in their illness, spending every waking moment trying to find a way to make it better? 

On top of that, he must be anticipating whatever answer he’ll get from Yoo Joonghyuk at his behest once he recovers. Whether everything he’d said was a fever dream, in the spur of the moment, gone with the wind and out of his memories—or if he’d meant it all.

He does. Undoubtedly.

(But a fool would delude himself into believing that it was a momentary lapse in judgement, torturing himself into wanting it not to be, despite stubbornly accepting no other answer. A paradox in himself.)

Dokja’s hand slips off of his lap to hang at his side, and Joonghyuk reaches forward to put his hand back. He has shoulder pains otherwise, when he wakes up. Joonghyuk does not let go. Not immediately, at least. There’s a feeling in his chest, that makes it hard to breathe. Makes him want to hold Dokja’s hand longer, selfishly.

So he does, tiredly. Holds it over Dokja’s lap, so that his shoulder won’t ache, and just basks in the comfort of it all, despite the nauseating feeling of being sick. Despite the ache in his chest. Dokja’s body temperature is always on the colder side, as a result of not being particularly active and pumping with energy. Today, it feels nice.

On other days, Yoo Joonghyuk would chastise him about taking better care of his body, grumbling as he puts together something for Dokja to snack on as he works, or drag him out for a jog in the early morning sun, or replace his energy drinks with fresh juice. 

He will do all those again, once he can stand without his knees wobbling and speak without his throat hurting. He will nag at Dokja for not taking proper care of himself while taking care of Yoo Joonghyuk, and he will nag at Dokja for being a stupid fool.

Yoo Joonghyuk shows that he wants Kim Dokja by his side until the end of time, and Kim Dokja answers by avoiding him in front of his eyes and showing up when Yoo Joonghyuk can’t see. How rude.

Another day passes, but he can talk better now. And then another, and he feels more energised, scarfing down a hearty, meaty meal. He’s about to boast his recovery and corner Dokja to continue their little talk, opening the door to his room, when—

Several blankets cocooned in the middle of Dokja’s bed greet him, and Joonghyuk warily makes his way inside the stuffy place, already aware of the situation. He sighs, pulling back the outer layers until he can see a familiar mop of greasy, dark hair. Bloodshot eyes glare at him weakly and Dokja tries to tug the blankets back over his head.

It's unsuccessful, because Yoo Joonghyuk strips them off of the bed entirely, rolling his sleeves up. He reaches to peel away more blankets, revealing Dokja’s sickly green-hued, fever-flushed face. “Bastard,” he grumbles, shivering and trying to pull whatever’s left to wrap around him.

Joonghyuk frowns, and sends them both into an impromptu tug of war. One that ends quickly, because Dokja could rarely beat him to begin with, and ends up rendered absolutely powerless in this state. 

“You've been looking after me,” Joonghyuk starts, unimpressed, and Dokja shrivels up further into the last blanket he’s been allowed to keep. “While neglecting your own health?” 

He gets nothing more than a dignified sniffle.

“ Kim Dokja. ”

“Wasn’ on purpose,” Dokja mumbles petulantly around his phlegm-clogged throat, curling up into a small ball of misery.

“You were at my bedside the entire time.” Joonghyuk states, not accuses. Because it is a fact; while everyone else would occasionally drop by, Kim Dokja practically lived in his room. Absorbing his sickness like a sponge. While not taking proper measures to ensure his own body remains healthy.

The guilty man says nothing, pretending to be asleep. Yoo Joonghyuk leaves.

––and returns half an hour later, with a steaming bowl of congee in chicken broth. Kim Dokja looks horrified, like it’s some impractical joke that Yoo Joonghyuk is stubbornly adamant on spoon feeding him. What about his pride? He can still feed himself! It's just a cold! He’s in much better shape than Joonghyuk was!

“Say ah,” Yoo Joonghyuk instructs, with his deadpan tone and frown. It's so incredulous Dokja wants to laugh and cry.

Instead, he reaches over to take the spoon from the other, because it’s embarrassing when he can do it himself. Joonghyuk was not in that state, largely immobile from his fever. These are totally different circumstances! All he gets is a deeper frown in return, with Joonghyuk moving both the bowl and the spoon away from him.

“I can feed myself.” Dokja wheezily insists, turning his head to cough into his hands.

The only response he gets is the soup spoon moving to his mouth again as Yoo Joonghyuk shakes his head. “Save your energy. Now, say ‘ahh’ .” he tries again.

It would be genuinely hilarious if it were anyone else getting this treatment. Especially if it was someone like Han Sooyoung, who would hate it. Kim Dokja just feels mortified. “Joonghyuk-ah, don’t say that. That’s embarrassing.” He does it to be funny and patronising, Joonghyuk does it and sounds like a mother hen, like a diligent, doting housewife. Very different deliveries.

Yoo Joonghyuk retreats the spoon to the bowl, and diverges the topic. “Then, would you rather continue our conversation?”

Kim Dokja is going to dig his grave and lie in it, now. He should’ve played dead when he had the chance. Should’ve kept his mouth shut altogether. Joonghyuk takes the opportunity to stir the congee and shove a spoonful into Dokja’s agape mouth.

He also seems to take the silence as a yes, and starts talking while Dokja’s mouth is stuffed.

“You are under the assumption that my feelings are a figment of your imagination.” Joonghyuk starts, pausing to carefully place a piece of chicken onto the spoon.

Dokja chews his––admittedly, delicious ––food quickly and opens his mouth to protest, but gets another spoonful of the congee pushed into his mouth as if in protest. Joonghyuk’s eyes flicker back to him, and he bluntly states, “You are wrong.”

It’s almost sulkily that he continues. “You say I'm a horrible liar, so you must know that I'm telling the truth.” 

Another spoonful, the moment his companion tries to open his mouth and speak, undoubtedly on a mission to steer the conversation away from this or a valiant attempt to lie and get away with it. Rough bastard, Dokja thinks while chewing quickly, glaring to deliver his feelings about being shut up like this. What if he gagged and choked?

“Otherwise, you would have started laughing in my face.”

(Well, he can’t exactly argue with that. Yoo Joonghyuk has a penchant for freezing up and looking constipated every time he’s called out on his bluff, and the dramatic expression leaves Dokja wheezing.)

(He’s wheezing for an entirely different reason, now, choking on his heart.)

“That—“ Dokja coughs out.

“You told me I could speak ‘nonsense’ when I recovered.” Joonghyuk cuts him off, handing him a tissue to cough into. His shoulders slump, a little, cracking from his usually composed visage. He looks forlorn. “Why…” he starts slowly, quietly, as he stirs some more chilli oil into the congee, not yet lifting up the spoon to Dokja’s mouth as if self-conscious. “...do you have trouble accepting the way you make me feel?”

The one time he wants the other to speak, and Dokja remains silent. Accepting the lack of an answer, he brings the spoon up, and Dokja accepts it. If only because he feels bad.

“Is it guilt?” Yoo Joonghyuk asks, waiting patiently for an answer.

Dokja keeps his eyes downcast as he mumbles out, “…you didn’t know it would come to this.”

On the contrary, he was perfectly aware. He was the one who had asked for it, all the way back when he’d first accepted his sponsor’s offer. The self-proclaimed offender sits in front of him pathetically like a drenched mouse with mussed, unwashed hair and a snotty nose.

(Yoo Joonghyuk would not trade him for the world.)

He swallows, throat feeling dry, and shakes his head. “No, I knew.” half the bowl is empty, now, but it feels like they’ve gotten nowhere. “I just forgot, somewhere along the way.” 

Dokja looks up at him as if to say that’s exactly why! That's what I'm saying! So Yoo Joonghyuk debunks whatever incorrect theory he has. “I knew I would forget, too.” 

It’d come back when Han Sooyoung slapped his head cruelly, and after evaluating all the memories he’d unlocked, over and over again on sleepless nights where he’d pondered over his ◼️◼️, turning over the ring his skill materialised into in his palms, he came to the same conclusion every time; he would do it again. The curiosity of the 60-something Yoo Joonghyuk in the forgotten 0th turn was insatiable, and all that the Demon King of Salvation, the Oldest Dream, did, was help him at his insistence. At his own ignorance of all the tragedies that’d await. It’s little to nothing short of Yoo Joonghyuk’s own fault and misplaced anger.

The last piece of chicken is placed on the spoon, and Joonghyuk scoops up a slice of fermented radish with it. “But that doesn’t change anything.” he says, as if to finalise his point; no more arguments would be entertained or even considered. They are both stupid fools, but Kim Dokja is needlessly carrying a portion too big of it and refusing to share. As if they are entirely separate, and not deeply intertwined in existence.

“I wanted to be by your side then,” he says, one hand moving to tilt Dokja’s face up by the underside of his chin to continue feeding him. Dokja looks crushed, miserable, lips pressing together in rejection of the congee. Joonghyuk sends him a disapproving look.

“And I want to be by your side even now.” Joonghyuk says, with all the sincerity and yearning he can muster. He gazes right into Dokja’s eyes as he says it, as if gently mapping out every part of him to commit to memory. It feels deeply invasive, and Dokja wants to throw up. He is sickly and hasn’t showered in two days. He hasn’t even washed his face. Oh man, he probably has crusty eye boogers stuck to his greasy cheeks.

With a sigh, Joonghyuk recedes back, placing the almost empty bowl of congee on the bookshelf. He reaches for the glass of water he’d brought with him, and still continues.

How does he still have words to say? He never speaks like this! He has 1-to-3 word responses, always !

“You want my happiness,” Joonghyuk asses quietly, murmuring and staring at his folded hands as if he’s… nervous ? “and you think it’s somewhere else, that it lies with someone else.” he says and yeah, true . Because he’d been a happily married man! He could have lived a fulfilling life with a wife and children, there was no need to throw it out the way he did! The orphanage folks loved him!

“Because it does .” Dokja urges, once he’s gulped down the hot water. “Because it did. ” he emphasises, head spinning like he’s going insane trying to reason with a lunatic.

Joonghyuk looks up at him, tired, exasperated. “Who are you, to tell me how I should feel?”

Dammit. Now he feels bad. 

Wrath and anger, he can handle; they’re used to frustratedly tumbling around and shouting their grievances until the adrenaline melts it off, and they’re left as tattered messes on the floor, weapons scattered. Quietness and actual sorrow…is not their forte. It always cuts deeper than the last, splitting them further apart. He doesn’t know how to handle that, doesn't want to handle it.

Dokja blinks flusteredly, and stammers, heart plummeting. “That’s not what I’m trying to—“

“Who are you, to dictate how I live?” Joonghyuk presses again, and, oh.

Oh .

A nauseating wave of calmness blankets Dokja, then, realisation hitting him. Right, Yoo Joonghyuk’s life was not his to meddle with and model to fit what he wants. Yoo Joonghyuk is not a character , and he’s devoid of anything that ties him to be.

(He’s devoid of anything that ties him to the Oldest Dream.)

(His will is his, and his alone. No amount of subconscious yearning can change that.)

Something strange washes over Dokja. His feelings, which had felt too-loud and all-consuming, fall blank. Everything goes quiet. He hears nothing besides Joonghyuk’s breathing and the whizz of the air conditioner he hasn’t cleaned in months. His hands feel cold and jittery.

He lets out a breath, and slumps, as if a string keeping him up had been cut. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” He doesn’t look up, but sees Joonghyuk cross his legs, arms folded. 

It’s with a softer, gentler tone almost veering on hesitant , that Yoo Joonghyuk asks, “Will you listen to me now?”

Still trying to coax him out of his blockage of feelings. What a––

With a nod, Dokja fiddles with his fingers at some sort of feeling in his stomach building back up. He can easily envision a wennyman-looking witch hunched over the cauldron that is his insides, stirring it around. He feels so nervous, so giddy , but so sick.

“I want to make you breakfast in the morning and force you to sleep at a reasonable hour.” 

What the hell? It snaps Dokja out of his thoughts. They’re all things Yoo Joonghyuk already does on a daily basis. 

“I want to drop the children off at school with you and spend hours at the farmers market to make you try an organic tomato and see that it isn’t so bad when it’s not full of fertilisers and pesticides.” 

They do the first one already, but he really will throttle his beloved companion before he gets an entire wedge of raw tomato in his mouth. His beloved companion, whose ears are beginning to turn red, and has to clear his throat before continuing.

“I've wanted to be by your side, far longer than I wanted to see the end of the scenarios. Far longer than I knew was possible.” and he means it, having chased a vague feeling in his chest for eons in search of a star. “It never mattered, whether I could be happier elsewhere or with someone else. I wanted to be with you . And…I couldn't be truly happy, without you.”

“You…cause me stress, make me aggravated and uneased,” Yoo Joonghyuk frowns as he explains it, and Kim Dokja wryly smiles at how the annoyance factor’s managed to slip into what’s supposed to be a very romantic confession. “But…you also give me peace.”

A short silence falls on them, but it’s not delicate, not fragile. It’s…grounding, almost.

“I like when you hold me in your arms. I sleep best when I hear your heartbeat. I feel happy when you like my food,” Yoo Joonghyuk lists them off like a preschooler learning to form sentences by listing his likes and dislikes. A gradually reddening, embarrassed preschooler, who doesn’t know how to find the right words. “It feels like something’s missing when you’re not there.”

The awkward, sincere romantic atmosphere is quickly shattered when Kim Dokja starts hacking his lungs out after suppressing them for too long in case it would ruin the moment. Joonghyuk’s expression quickly reverts back into his standard scowl as he stands to pat him on the back, handing him water. 

Dokja can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s joy. Or incredulousness. Or hysteria. He doesn’t know. “Those are so—“ he coughs into his elbow. “—mundane?”

(He doesn’t need to ask if Yoo Joonghyuk is mistaking his feelings for something else.)

(They both know he isn’t.)

Yoo Joonghyuk tilts his head, looking confused. “What's wrong with that?” he asks, holding Dokja’s hands. What a sneak. Is he looking forward to getting sick again, and passing it around like a game of catch?

Smiling, Dokja shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing,” he assures. “It’s just—it sounds like old people stuff.”

(And perhaps they’re both tired of high-tension, lonely, action packed days. Looking for something softer, more boring.)

Blinking, Joonghyuk just bluntly states with all the sincerity he can, “I want to grow old with you.” He gently squeezes his beloved’s hands for emphasis.

And that sends Dokja into another coughing fit, but only because he’d reached over to drink some more water. Diligently, Joonghyuk pats his back through it, and he wheezes out a flustered, “Stop saying things like we’ve been married for years.”

Yoo Joonghyuk has the gall to look even more confused. “We aren’t?”

He’s going to die at this rate.

“When did we ever get married, you bastard?” He manages to hiss out past the sting of his sore throat.

Joonghyuk seems to droop . “We’ve been doing things together the entire time…” he mumbles out dejectedly.

Kim Dokja affirms that his feelings are very much hysterical, “That is not the same thing!––” His body cuts himself off to go into a coughing fit, protesting him ever opening his mouth to speak. His companion immediately rubs his back to soothe him, other hand holding his warm water for him if he needs it, trying to indicate he should take it easy with talking, but he refuses to until he gets his point across.


“You only just confessed to me days ago! Who gets married first and confesses later!? There wasn’t even a ceremony or officiant! How have you made it this far with that head of yours ––”

Yoo Joonghyuk drones out his words for his own sanity, rolling his eyes. He takes a mental note for later: 

Kim Dokja wants an official wedding ceremony.