Chapter Text
The morning had been all right for Kim Dokja.
He’d said good morning to the kids. Brokered peace between Shin Yoosung and Lee Gilyoung using copious head pats. Walked to the subway and arrived at work five minutes early. Chatted with Yoo Sangah before settling down. It had been the usual menial tasks, and he completed them not too quick, but not too slow either.
Lunchtime had been the usual too. Hiding in the corner of the break room, reading web novels. Arguing back and forth with Han Sooyoung over text over one contentious point or other ("This plot won’t work, it’s too cliché—" "—what would you know about clichés, you bastard?! You thought the first novel I wrote was a masterpiece when in reality it was absolute dogshit—") before setting his phone on silent and ignoring her bombardment of text messages. Especially when the topic of his diet came up, Have you been eating regularly, you dumbass, I know you’re there reading this, don’t just ignore me I will break every bone in your skinny little body and leave you as pulverized fish bait in the Pacific Ocean—
So he’d swiped away from the messages app and returned to reading instead.
The afternoon had also started fine. He continued to work, surreptitiously ducking his head beneath his monitor with the project manager came around while purposely making loud and fast typing noises, hoping to escape Yoo Joonghyuk’s attention. It had worked apparently, because his shoes had stopped for a while behind Kim Dokja’s desk—the longest minute of Kim Dokja’s life—before proceeding to go their merry way. Kim Dokja had breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t that he hated Yoo Joonghyuk. He didn’t know the man well, on account of it only being a couple of months since his job offer, but the silent atmosphere that surrounds the project manager was… chilling. To say the least.
All in all, the day is going swimmingly—that is to say, completely average. Just how Kim Dokja likes it. But when three o’clock hit, the fatigue hit him with a vengeance. He rubs his eyes and peers at his monitor, but the numbers and characters are not making sense.
The part of his mind that sounds eerily like Han Sooyoung starts nagging, What did I tell you, should have listened, I’m always right, to which he groans and bangs his forehead against his keyboard to shut out the noise. The keys met his skin with resounding clacks, like the sound of a thousand raindrops pelting the sidewalk. It helped to block out the noise. Somewhat.
"Kim Dokja-ssi? Are you okay?" His neighbour says tentatively, and Kim Dokja snaps to attention, lifts his face and straightens his posture, praying to some god on high that there wasn’t the imprint of keys on his forehead. He smiles mildly, as though nothing is wrong. Because nothing is wrong. If he repeats it enough times, it’ll come true. That’s how he’s always functioned, and isn’t he doing well enough?
"I’m okay," he replies brightly. As bright as he can feel when his field of vision dimming, black spots dancing across his coworker’s face like random ink blots.
His coworker doesn’t look convinced. "If you say so… Maybe you should talk to the manager about getting off early."
"It’s fine," he reassures Yoon Da-eun, and she nods. Still not entirely assured, but everyone around here knew to mind their own business. Good thing too, because the thought of having to have any type of interaction with Yoo Joonghyuk is enough to send chills down his back. Even now, he has to crane his neck to make sure Yoo Joonghyuk isn’t standing creepily behind the glass window of his office, surveying the office as though he were some king overlooking his territory. Nope, all clear. No tall, menacing project manager looking. Must be at his desk instead, typing furiously at the speed of light.
Kim Dokja hadn’t been joking when he told Han Sooyoung that Yoo Joonghyuk probably typed at 300 wpm. But Han Sooyoung had only cackled and slapped Kim Dokja’s back so hard he winced. She never did take him seriously enough. Not that Kim Dokja took her seriously, either. Which was usually a great idea, but now…
Kim Dokja cracks his neck and sighs. He looks at the ceiling, hoping the pressure in his skull would go away, but it only intensifies to a severe throb. The white incandescent lightbulbs throb like some wacky disco lights in a night club, the thought strange because he never goes clubbing. It isn’t his thing.
And now his mouth is starting to taste weird too. Slightly sweet, like drinking cold tap water on a hot summer day. His whole body feels flushed, weak. Kim Dokja feels like he’s melting, flopped on his chair like a sack of meat. He glances weakly at his computer—bad idea, because the bombardment of information is too much, automatically making his headache ten times worse. He focuses on the photo frame beneath his monitor instead, and it’s Shin Sooyoung and Lee Gilyoung, with him in the middle. A rarity, to see them both in smiling at the same point in time. A giraffe poking its head up behind them, chewing on some leaves. It had been a good day, when this photo was taken. The sunlight, dazzling illumination over the kids’ faces.
They’d be disappointed to see him in this state, he thinks, smiling ruefully.
…So maybe Han Sooyoung is right, he allows. Maybe it’s time to acknowledge that he’s weak and needs help.
Isn’t she always? that nagging voice returns.
"Just because she’s right this time doesn’t mean she’ll always be right," Kim Dokja argues. Even if she’d been right the last time too. And the time before. And—
"Dokja-ssi..." Oh, Yoon Da-eun is peering over again, a vague concern on her face. "Who are you talking to?"
"Nothing, nothing," he says, waving it off. Wrong thing to say, because his coworker’s face pinches as she nods and sits back down, as though she’d tasted a particularly sour lemon. Or maybe it’s just that she thinks he’s going insane, starting to talk to empty air. Kim Dokja resists the urge to put his face in hands and groan.
He knows he can’t going like this. But he just…
Pushing himself up from his chair—the world spins, axis suddenly tilted in the sudden motion—he reaches for his phone. His reflection in the black screen is cross-eyed and loopy, and no wonder his coworker’s expression had been concerned and more than a little freaked out. The phone, when he turns it on with his clammy hands, is a jumble of colours, edges of shapes blurred and mashed together like melted rainbow taffy. It’s more habit than vision that has him tapping through his caller’s list, going straight for the singular number he has on speed dial.
As he holds the phone to his ears, bracing himself for the inevitable verbal abuse, he hobbles toward the bathroom. His legs are numb, pinpricks of pain climbing up his calves.
Yeah, definitely a bad idea, to wait so long before calling Han Sooyoung. Who isn’t picking up, much to his annoyance. Did she pass out from pulling another all-nighter to write the next update? He pinches his nose. He told her so many times to stop doing it, but to his frustration, she never listens. And why was the bathroom so damn far away?
The phone speaker flatlines, going to the usual voicemail greeting, Hey, it’s Han Sooyoung. If you’re a friend, leave a message at the tone or whatever. If you’re a scam caller, trip on a rake and eat shit—
Kim Dokja stops in the hallway, next to the water cooler, and slams a finger on the red button to hang up before frantically tapping to make another call. He really, really needs her to pick up right now, or else he’s going to pass out. And he does not need that, especially at a job he’d only started a few months ago, under a project manager who looked him he’d peel the skin off of anyone that breathed at him wrong.
His hand on the wall to steady his wobbling body, Kim Dokja breathes a sigh of relief as the dial ringtone finally cuts off. "Who’s this," Han Sooyoung slurs through the speakers, husky voice crackling like pop candy.
"Kim Dokja."
Han Sooyoung groans. "This can’t wait? I was sleeping, you bastard—"
"Han Sooyoung," he urges. "Can you come pick me up from work?"
At the sound of his voice, Han Sooyoung immediately goes into "what do I have to do to fix dumbass Dokja’s mistakes today," and says curtly, "How soon?"
"Like…" He says weakly, "Right now?"
"…Can you stand by yourself?"
"…Barely."
A string of curses from the speaker. Kim Dokja winces and stretches his arm out to put the phone at a distance, where he can still hear her yelling obscenities, threatening extremely creative methods of bodily harm. It’s a good thing the bathroom is empty, because someone might call the police otherwise. After the noise dies down to a bearable intensity, he brings it closer to his ear again. "So… how long before you can get here?" he asks.
Han Sooyoung sighs. "Twenty minutes," she says.
Kim Dokja pauses. The traffic in front of the building was no joke. "That’s… really quick. Dangerously quick."
A grunt. "Taking a shortcut."
"Han Yoosoung," he warns. "Don’t be careless."
"Argh, shut up, you fool! I’ll be careful," Han Sooyoung huffs. "Just go to the bathroom and wait for me."
"Doing that right now," he says, looking down intently at the ground as he continues his perilous journey to the men’s bathroom. Trying to focus and gather what’s remaining of his energy to make sure he doesn’t trip over his feet.
"Cool. Don’t die," is all Han Sooyoung says before she cuts off the call.
Kim Dokja pockets his phone and stumbles through the bathroom door, biting his tongue as he makes for the furthest stall from the entrance. Thankfully, the bathroom lights are a dimmer yellow compared to the glaring white of the hallway, soothing the throbbing of his temples. Only somewhat though, because he still feels like he’s about to throw up. His throat closes up as Kim Dokja fumbles for the latch of the stall, and he licks his teeth, gums aching.
Nothing better to do now, except wait. He sits down on the toilet, and puts his head in his hands, massaging his temples. It sucks. It sucks that he can’t do anything about the situation, not even read novels to distract himself from the turmoil of his body revolting against him, veering out of his usual control.
It’s a mistake. His life is like that, a series of mistakes. One after the other, a sad little trail in the sand, a list of transactions that have never gone in his favour. And this is why, he thinks, it’s useless to try.
Time passes. It could have been a minute. It could have been a second. It could have been an eternity, this persistent pinging pain in his stomach. A stubborn heat in his chest, like heartburn. Kim Dokja curls his arms over his knees, lightheaded, but holding on. He stays like that for a while, waiting for the slam of the door to announce Han Sooyoung’s angry voice.
And the door does open. But it’s not a slam. Just a quiet little creak. Kim Dokja holds his breath. This is why it was a good idea, holding out. The worst that could happen is if someone random sees his passed out body on the bathroom floor before Han Sooyoung has a chance to come and collect him.
A couple of seconds pass, and someone is taking steps that echo in the quiet bathroom like an ominous death toll. Kim Dokja’s eyes trail to the gap between the floor and the door of his stall. To his horror—and it really does feel like a horrorr movie, how much dread he feels—there’s a pair of shoes, familiar leather from how often Kim Dokja watches for it behind his monitor.
And it’s at this point that what’s left of Kim Dokja’s perfectly average day goes to the absolute gutters. Figured, with his luck. The worst person that could have possibly come, came.
"Is that you, Kim Dokja?" Yoo Joonghyuk says. His voice is low, insistent. "Are you all right? Yoon Da-eun came in and told me you weren’t feeling well."
Kim Dokja scowls and mutters under his breath, "Snitch."
"Kim Dokja?"
"Yes, that’s me, Dokja, Kim Dokja," he babbles, and immediately wants to slap himself.
"You’ve been gone a while from your desk. What are you doing here?"
"…Having a bowel movement?" Kim Dokja says weakly. There’s a man in the bathroom, using the toilet instead of the urinal. What the hell does Yoo Joonghyuk think Kim Dokja is doing? Folding paper origami?
And worst of all, why the hell wasn’t he leaving? Kim Dokja switches on his phone, and it’s been… all of five minutes since he last called Han Sooyoung. Hurry up already, you little gremlin, he begs in his mind.
The shoes behind the door of his stall shifts. "…Is it a medical condition?" Yoo Joonghyuk says. Amazing, how his voice doesn’t even waver despite the utter absurdity of the situation. "There are pills for these sorts of situations in the medicinal cabinet. I could grab them for you."
Kim Dokja has to take a few moment to understand, trying to decipher the meaning behind Yoo Joonghyuk’s careful words. He thinks I’m constipated. He’s offering to grab laxatives for me. Kim Dokja squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to groan. He can’t believe he’s having this conversation with his boss. In the damn bathroom. About literal shit.
"If you do not understand, then I’ll be blunt." Without missing a beat, Yoo Joonghyuk asks, "Are you suffering from constipation?"
"No!" Kim Dokja says immediately. "Nothing like that!" Then, thinking that his tone was too irreverent, he adds on stiffly, "Though I appreciate the thought. Sir."
"It’s perfectly normal," Yoo Joonghyuk says, voice monotone, as if he’s reciting from some handbook, "for employees to encounter this problem. Our jobs are of the sedentary nature, and lack of exercise can exacerbate the issue—"
"—I don’t have this issue, believe me, sir—"
"—and this isn’t my first time encountering this issue with an employee," he continues, as though Kim Dokja hadn’t said anything at all. "Laxatives will help you. They’re quite medically effective. I consulted with a healthcare professional before purchasing the ones in the cabinet, and Han Myung-oh himself can attest to its efficacy—"
Yoo Joonghyuk suddenly pauses. Then he says darkly, "You will not speak of this to anyone."
Kim Dokja cringes. He can never look Han Myung-oh in the eye again. "Of course not," he says quickly. "But sir, I’m not having this issue."
"…If you say so," Yoo Joonghyuk intones, and oh god, he doesn’t believe Kim Dokja one bit, does he.
"I-I’m fine, sir," Kim Dokja says awkwardly. "Really." God, this situation is so uncomfortable. He’s curled up on top of a toilet, about to pass out while trying to converse with his project manager through a stall in the men’s bathroom. "Gonna get back to it when I’m done here. Won’t be long now. I’ll, uh, see you later."
Internally, he cringes. Why did he say that? He might as well have just said, I’m busy trying to take a shit, Yoo Joonghyuk. Get lost.
But despite that, Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t even move an inch. Kim Dokja stares at his shoes and wants to slam his head against the walls. Or strangle Yoo Joonghyuk. Or both. With his condition though, he can’t even beat up a squirrel, let alone a man who’s built like a freight train. He takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to stay conscious. "…Sir?" he says finally. "Why are you still here?"
"Yoon Da-eun told me you looked pale. On the verge of fainting. I’m worried you will do exactly that." Then, as if to catch Kim Dokja in his lie, he accuses, "You said it won’t take long, didn’t you?"
Just for that, Kim Dokja resolves himself to stealing her pudding from the communal fridge for the next two weeks. "I mean… You really don’t have to," he says.
"Your breathing sounds weak. Despite your attempts at hiding it, you’re heaving for breath," Yoo Joonghyuk says flatly. "I’m waiting for you because I do not believe that you should be alone right now, Kim Dokja. I’m not interested in having one of my team members pass out at work. Nor am I negligent enough to allow it to happen without medical intervention."
The devotion to ensuring his employees’ health is truly admirable. A better man than Kim Dokja would weep, at how much Yoo Joonghyuk cares. But it’s been the better half of twenty minutes since he’d started talking to Yoo Joonghyuk, and all he wants is for Han Sooyoung to barge in and yell at him like she normally does before rolling up her sleeves to deal with the situation. His heart feels like it’s hammering at his throat, rapid and insistent.
"I’m certified in giving CPR and first-aid," Yoo Joonghyuk says. "Should you require resuscitation, I should be the most qualified in our department to give it."
Kim Dokja groans. Does Yoo Joonghyuk think he’s about to have a heart attack? He’s only twenty-eight, and sure, he doesn’t have the best exercise routine or the best diet, but he’s still young and relatively healthy, damn it.
"Don’t worry," Yoo Joonghyuk says, completely misinterpreting Kim Dokja’s groan of despair. "To have a broken rib is better than to have a corpse." He pauses, as though wanting to reassure Kim Dokja, "I’ll do my best to keep your bones intact."
What’s wrong with this man, and why is he so persistent. Kim Dokja wants to cry.
And there’s still eight minutes before Han Sooyoung arrives. The more seconds of silence that passes, the more Kim Dokja thinks that this isn’t a bathroom for an exhausted employee to shit in peace, this is Yoo Joonghyuk’s torture chamber.
Enough. He can meet Han Sooyoung outside of the bathroom. Hanging his head, Kim Dokja pushes himself up on his trembling legs and says, "I’ve misled you, project manager. The reason why I’m here isn’t to use the bathroom. It’s because I’m feeling lightheaded. Just a little."
"…I see," Yoo Joonghyuk says, and when Kim Dokja pushes open the bathroom stall, he’s standing in front of the sink, gazing at Kim Dokja with an unknown, uncertain emotion. Wearing his usual pressed black shirt, arms crossed, a frown on his face like Kim Dokja somehow messed up. Again. "You’re exhibiting signs of shock," he says, eyes disapproving. "What happened?"
"It’s not a big deal, sir," Kim Dokja says. He schools his face into a reassuring smile. One glance at the mirror, though, and it’s more like he’s bitten into a rotten peach. The lights above had seemed like a reprieve from the white of the outside hallway, but now it stings his eyes. "It happens, sometimes. Just a health condition."
But just as he’s about to push past Yoo Joonghyuk for the sink, a hand snatches onto his wrist. "Kim Dokja," Yoo Joonghyuk says, and why does he keep saying his name like that?
Mouth dry, Kim Dokja looks back. At Yoo Joonghyuk’s dark eyes, at his deepening frown. Feels the hand circled around his wrist, hot as a brand, and how the world is spinning violently because, it’s all too much. It’s too much, fighting against the black creeping into his vision.
So, like that, Kim Dokja’s eyes roll back. His legs give out. He collapses.
But there’s none of the expected pain from slamming his face on the cold, hard bathroom tiles. Instead, it’s just… warm. Soft skin, sharp collarbone. The smell of clean laundry, laced with something else, like the crisp breeze of a forest in autumn. Kim Dokja tries not to huff in the scent.
Distantly, he hears a grunt. A flexed hand at his waist. Someone calling his name. Yoo Joonghyuk must have caught him, and now Kim Dokja’s face is pressed awkwardly against the man’s neck.
And Kim Dokja can feel it: the vibration of Yoo Joonghyuk’s throat as he speaks, the radiating warmth of naked skin, the quickening pulse of vulnerable arteries as they swell with blood.
Kim Dokja moans. His throat burns. He opens his lips, teeth aching, saliva pooling, instincts hissing. And he wishes—so desperately to tell Yoo Joonghyuk to leave, to get away from him, but his body refuses. The only thing Kim Dokja can do is latch his mouth around that soft, tender skin, and—
Bite.